BE MY BRIDE

Three Novellas: Sweeter Than Candy, A Place by the Fire, The June Bride Conspiracy

Regina Scott

________

Sweeter Than Candy

Chapter One

Panting, Daniel Lewiston heaved himself up the last two steps to the Kinsle terrace and collapsed onto the stone bench in delighted exhaustion. Voices, young and strident, echoed his name across the emerald lawn and set the swans to fluttering in the placid lake below. His best friend Jonathan Kinsle glanced up from his week-old copy of The London Times. “I trust you’re enjoying this debacle?”

Despite the fact he could barely catch a breath, Daniel grinned. “Immensely,” he managed. He grabbed the crystal glass of lemonade Jonathan’s manservant had poured for him earlier and gulped the tart liquid down. That seemed to help the spasms in his chest. He really ought to see about getting more exercise if a brisk game of ball could so wind him. Refusing to allow his state to ruin a perfect summer’s day, he leaned back against the terrace balustrade and tried to pretend he didn’t notice the two small figures stealthily approaching the steps. “You should join us.”

Jonathan reached out a languid hand to pick up his own china tea cup and quirked a blond brow. “Heaven forbid. I wouldn’t dream of spoiling your fun, old man. Duck.”

Daniel bent over as a blue cloth ball sailed past the spot his head had been moments before. Someone cried out in vexation below, only to be quickly shushed. Daniel bent lower to retrieve the ball, wincing as his stomach protested the compression.

Exercise more often and eat less, he amended the thought.

“You might find you enjoy it,” he chided his friend as he straightened. “These nephews of yours are simply ingenious.” He lobbed the ball over the top of the bushes and heard a quite satisfactory yelp of dismay.

“Entirely too ingenious,” Jonathan muttered as the bushes shook with obvious plans for revenge. He flicked a displaced leaf from the otherwise immaculate sleeve of his dark blue coat. “Seriously, Danny boy, if you hadn’t taken such a shine to them, I don’t know how we would have managed these last three weeks with Cynthia in London.”

Daniel ran a hand back through his already tousled brown hair and shifted his weight along the bench to the right. He heard the protest from the seat of his dun-colored trousers and felt the back of the bush snag on his own blue coat, which was far from immaculate. More exercise, less food, and a new tailor.

“It was no great burden,” he assured Jonathan. “I haven’t had this much fun in years. In fact, I can’t remember when I ever had this much fun.” He shot to the left, and the ball neatly missed him again. Feeling a bit more satisfied with his performance, he bent to retrieve it.

Jonathan chuckled. “Yes, you were the most pitied boy in the neighborhood, growing up with all those sisters and a mother who was determined to protect you against any calamity, especially ones that were any fun.”

Daniel smiled as he rolled the soft cloth back and forth in his large hands. “She was rather over protective, God rest her soul.”

“Thank God, Cynthia has more sense,” Jonathan said with a sigh. “Although there are times I see the similarities between your mother and my sister. She seems to have kept the boys close, but I suppose that’s natural in a big city like Bristol and so near the docks. Can’t have been a very savory environment, if you take my meaning. It’s a shame our parents weren’t more willing to forgive Cynthia for her elopement. We might have been able to teach them some manners.”

Daniel shook his head at the reproof. “They’re no worse than you were at that age, Johnny.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon? I may have been an active child, but I don’t recall chasing our neighbor about the back lawn.”

“That’s because your neighbors consisted of four fatherless girls and a boy who wasn’t even allowed to leave home for school.” Keeping an eye out for his would-be attackers, he leaned closer to his friend. “Although I understand from young John that Cynthia may be marrying again. I realize she most likely wants a father for them, but isn’t that a little soon? Their father has been dead less than six months.”

Jonathan shrugged, crossing long legs without so much as creasing his fawn-colored trousers. “What would you have her do? He left them next to nothing, and she knows I’ll be hard pressed to keep them. If this business with the Admiralty comes to naught I’m not sure how we’ll get along unless she remarries. Mind you, I hadn’t heard her mention any gentleman in particular, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Cynthia may be past her prime, but she’s not bad looking.”

“Spoken like a true brother,” Daniel teased. “Your sister was always a diamond of the first water, and I can’t imagine a few years has changed that.”

“A few hard years, old man,” Jonathan replied, voice as tart as the lemonade. “Nathan Jacobs may have been a devoted husband and father whenever he happened to return from the sea, but he wasn’t a very good provider if I’m any judge of things. You might want to aim for that mulberry.”

Daniel rose casually, then twisted to hurl the ball into the bushes at the bottom of the terrace. A chorus of complaints rose in its wake. He gazed thoughtfully down at the quaking vegetation. “Let’s talk no more about this with present company, eh, Johnny? He was their father, after all.”

Jonathan shook his head and reached once again for his tea. “Never could stand to hear an unkind word said about anyone, could you, Danny boy? You even speak highly of Enoch McCreedy, and everyone knows what a tartar he is. This tendency will come back to bite you one day, you see if it doesn’t. There are scoundrels in this world that deserve to be recognized.”

“And there are three little boys who deserve to have a bit of fun,” Daniel countered, a frown creasing his brow. “Although, at the moment, I can only locate two of them.”

Inside the manor, the third boy crept stealthily up to the terrace doors. He was so intent on secrecy that he didn’t hear the front door open or the manservant murmur a welcome. He plucked the dusty gauze curtains aside and reached for the tarnished gilt handle.

Cynthia Kinsle Jacobs was shrugging out of her pelisse in the entry hall, bone weary of traveling and dejected by her failure. She caught a movement in the pier glass above the nearby hall table. She blinked, and the picture came into focus. “John Wesley Jacobs,” she barked from long practice, “what are you doing?”

The ball was instantly out of sight around his back as he turned to smile at her, his slender face as pale as the worn curtains behind him. She ought to be cross with him for making mischief in Jonathan’s house, but it was difficult when she’d missed him and his brothers so much the last three weeks. She kept envisioning them as they had been since moving from Bristol: pale, quiet, listless, more like three little statues than the active boys she had raised. She supposed that rather than being cross she ought to be thankful that he was playing again. But instead she found herself looking over her shoulder for her brother.

Jonathan was the least indulgent of uncles. She supposed it was her fault for not trying to reconcile with her family sooner. He had been no more ready to be an uncle when she had shown up on his doorstep a month ago than she had been at becoming a mother at seventeen. She had had nearly nine years to get used to the idea; Jonathan had had less than six weeks. He was obviously trying to do his duty and just as obviously finding that duty entirely too trying. He had grown used to the quiet solitude of the house since their parents had passed on, and three little boys were three children too many.

If only the Admiralty had been able to tell her what had happened to Nathan’s effects! She had been counting on some money coming to light so that she might be able to continue to live with her sons alone. Now that was impossible. They had no choice but to remain here, and any misbehavior by her sons would only make that situation more difficult.

And John was clearly up to something. Even if she hadn’t just caught him in the act of some mischief, she’d known he was guilty. He looked entirely too much like his father had after breaking his promise and admitting he was shipping out for the fifth time. She’d often thought the only thing missing from her husband’s wide-blue-eyed look of innocence was a halo over his curly blond hair. At least he had that now. That and three sons who looked just like him. She forced the thought to the back of her mind and focused on John.

“Oh, hello, Mother,” he nodded politely, edging away from the terrace door. “You’re back a bit early.”

“Too early for you, I’m sure,” Cynthia replied, schooling her face to firmness. “Shouldn’t I have to go upstairs to find you at this time of day, sir? What have you done with your Uncle Jonathan?”

John’s blue eyes opened even wider, but he didn’t stop moving away from the terrace door, threading his way around the three dark chairs and settee the room possessed. “Why, nothing. He’s about somewhere.”

With a swirl of her black widow’s gown, Cynthia stepped to cut off his escape through the open door of the sitting room. “And will I find James and Adam in that same somewhere?”

“I believe they’re out on the terrace.” John pointed with his free hand, his shoulder shaking only a trifle as he balanced the ball with the other hand. “Perhaps you should go check on them.”

And he was as creative as his father about getting out of scrapes as well. She lay a hand on his shoulder and propelled him back across the thick carpet toward the terrace door. “Let’s go see them together, shall we? Unless, of course, you’d like to explain what you’re doing in the sitting room with a ball in your hand?”

Her son sighed, deflating in defeat. “Oh, very well. If you must know, we were having a game with Mr. Daniel.”

“Mr. Daniel?” Cynthia frowned, absently smoothing her dark blond hair back into the coil at the nape of her neck.

“You must have met him, Mother,” John insisted. “Uncle Jonathan said he’s known you since you were born.”

Cynthia blinked, thoughts momentarily arrested as time seemed to slip backward. She sank onto the settee. “Not Daniel Lewiston?”

John nodded. “Yes, that’s him. I knew you knew him. Uncle Jonathan said you were going to marry him before you met Father.”

Cynthia shook her head with a twinge of melancholy. That was one subject she had thought long settled and one person she had thought never to meet again. But she should have realized she’d meet him if they continued living here.

“Your uncle says entirely too much,” she said. At her son’s frown, she felt compelled to explain. “Your grandmother and grandfather wanted me to marry him, John, but please believe me when I say that Daniel Lewiston and I would never have suited.”

To her dismay, she saw her son regarding her with narrowed eyes as if he very much doubted the truth of her last statement. She couldn’t imagine why, but she felt a blush heating her cheek. “Now, John, this is none of your affair. All you need know is that the only man I’ve ever loved was your father.”

“Of course,” John nodded complacently. “But now that Father’s dead, you have to marry again, Uncle Jonathan . . .”

“Said so,” Cynthia finished for him, deciding to say a few words herself when next she saw her dear devoted brother. “I’ve heard entirely too much on that score from your uncle, the vicar, and every matron in London, so don’t you start on me too.”

He crossed his arms over a narrow chest and affixed her with a stern gaze. “Surely you must see reason, Mother. Uncle Jonathan has no use for us. And he says we do not have enough money to live on our own.”

She met the forthright gaze with difficulty. How dare Jonathan tell her son such things! For all that they were true, it was too heavy a burden for an eight-year-old boy. From an early age, John had been a help to her when Nathan was gone, going with her to the nicer parts of town to carry the socks and clothing she mended to augment Nathan’s pay and later caring for his younger brothers while she made the rounds herself. Lately, however, she had noticed that he seemed intent on taking control of more and more situations, bossing his brothers incessantly and trying to do the same for her. It was as if he no longer trusted the adults around him.

“We’ll do all right, John,” she told him, praying God would understand the need for her lie. “I don’t want you to worry about such things. Haven’t I always taken care of you?”

“You are an admirable mother,” he replied, small chin so high she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the mature words. “But I’m the man of the family now that Father’s gone. And it is my duty to take care of you.”

Pride swelled along with a lurking desperation. “That is very brave of you, John,” she murmured.

He bowed his head in noble acknowledgment and strolled toward the door. Just as he reached it she remembered he still held the ball. “John,” she began, rising.

The terrace doors burst open, flooding the room with light. Cynthia jumped in surprise. Then, heart pounding in her throat, she fell back from the huge dark shape that stumbled toward her. One of the chairs toppled over with a crash, and she reached out instinctively to protect John. Surely some sort of a madman had blundered into the house! She could hear Adam and James shouting and peered closer but all she could make out in the bright sunlight was a misshapen form that seemed to have three heads.

“Ah ha!” the largest of the heads yelled at her oldest son. “Now I have you!”

“No, you don’t!” John contradicted, pulling away from her to dash into the entry hall and clatter up the stairs. The creature made to follow him and as it ambled past her, she finally brought it into focus. A tall man, heavy, disheveled, and thoroughly out of breath, with Adam riding one shoulder and James the other. She was so surprised that they were past her before she could stop them.

“James, Adam!” she commanded, gathering her wits. The behemoth slid to a stop at the foot of the stairs, one hand clutching the carved newel post. His massive shoulders straightened as if he knew he was in trouble as well. Not a madman, then. She couldn’t imagine who would be so bold as to dash about with her sons on his shoulders, but the game clearly had to stop before Jonathan caught them. Two heads swung back with wide blue eyes in an uncanny mimic of her late husband. She offered them her sternest gaze, ready to scold both her sons and the man who carried them. “Is this how you behave in your uncle’s house?” she demanded.

Seven-year-old James looked thoughtful, reminding her more of Jonathan than her Nathan. Four-year-old Adam wiggled on his perch, further wrinkling his black short pants.

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” rumbled the gentleman in a voice that was familiar, although deeper than she seemed to remember it. He turned carefully so as not to upset the boys, and Cynthia realized it was Daniel Lewiston.

He was much changed since the last time she had seen him, then a young man of eighteen whom she had found impossible to understand. His mahogany brown hair was shorter although that only made the waves more noticeable. His eyes seemed darker, but then the gray had always reflected his emotions. She wondered what he was feeling now -- embarrassment if the crooked smile on his large, full-lipped mouth was any indication. However, probably the biggest change was the state of his usually tidy clothing. Now there wasn’t a patch that wasn’t snagged, smeared, or rumpled. But then, her sons in the best days seemed to have that affect on people.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lewiston,” she said with a smile, concerns fading. Surely Jonathan would know Daniel was playing with the boys. Daniel had obviously had a hand in helping her children recover their usual high spirits, although whether that was a blessing or a curse just now she wasn’t sure. “It’s good of you to take the blame for these antics, but I very much doubt you had to hold my sons’ feet to the fire to get them to agree to this game.”

Daniel found it harder to smile back. Cynthia Kinsle had always been able to send a shiver up his spine. It wasn’t so much that she was beautiful, although that might have intimidated others. Her hair, soft and rich as the honey of its color, those thick-lashed eyes as dark as violets, and her slender figure would have made her the toast of the ton, if she had ever come out as expected. She’d certainly broken every heart in the neighborhood before eloping with a handsome naval officer of dubious family. His mother and hers had mourned, so sure were they that she and Daniel would make a match. He had never had such delusions. Cynthia was clever and spirited, and she delighted in making fun of a certain gangly youth. Just standing near her made him feel maladroit. They would never have suited.

But there was something different about her now, standing there with the sunlight making her widow’s weeds look nearly purple. Perhaps it was the dark circles under her eyes or the way her long fingers plucked at the dress, a dress that reminded him of why he was playing with the boys in the first place. “You’d be surprised how much coaxing it took to get them to have a little fun,” he replied. Adam wiggled again, and he reached up and set the little fellow on his feet, with James beside him.

“No,” she said quietly, “I would not be surprised in the slightest. Unfortunately, Mr. Lewiston, my sons do not have the luxury of having fun whenever it so pleases them. James, Adam, go find John and take yourselves upstairs to your room. I’ll join you shortly.”

Daniel offered them a smile, but they hung their heads and shuffled upstairs. He supposed they were in for a scold, and he turned to Cynthia to explain again that any misconduct was entirely his own fault. The unshed tears in her violet eyes stopped him.

“Are you all right?” he felt compelled to ask.

Cynthia refused to let him see her cry. She was tired from the journey and suddenly sick of being the one to stop the games and never the one to play them. Most likely he hadn’t meant to criticize how she was raising her sons, but the words stung just the same. Like it or not, they were no longer on their own. They would have to live according to Jonathan’s rules. “I assure you, Mr. Lewiston,” she managed, “I’m quite all right. Thank you for taking time to play with the boys. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” he bowed her out, telling himself he ought to be relieved. But if anything, he was more troubled than he had been in days and he wasn’t surprised to find, as he turned to the terrace, that clouds had moved in to spoil his perfect summer day.

Chapter Two

In the library doorway, Daniel’s butler cleared his throat with a phlegmmy rattle. “They’re here again, sir.”

Daniel glanced up from his perusal of the plans for the new school he was building for the village. “’They,’ Evenson?”

“The young Masters Jacobs, sir.” Daniel could see that his man was trying to keep the impassive demeanor his position required, but his graying hair looked wilder than usual and there seemed to be a tick working on his firm jaw. Nevertheless, the library seemed suddenly brighter. Daniel arose eagerly, shrugging into his old tweed coat. “Splendid. Where have you put them?”

“I hesitated to put them in the withdrawing room without anyone there to watch them,” Evenson replied. “Especially after the incident with your great aunt’s vase.”

Daniel made a face remembering their game the day before. While it was easier for him to have them visit here where he had no fear of disrupting Jonathan, the house was definitely taking a beating. “Were you able to find enough of the pieces to get it back together? The Countess dotes on it so . . .”.

“Your great aunt will never know the difference,” Evenson assured him, “so long as she doesn’t pick it up.”

“Very good, Evenson.” He paused in the doorway to listen, glancing up and down the darkly paneled hall, but his fortress of a mansion was as quiet and still as usual. He glanced back at his man with a frown. “So, where did you put them?”

From down the corridor came a deafening crash of metal on hard wood. Daniel was dashing toward the sound with Evenson at his heels before the first echoes started reverberating to the arched ceiling.

Three pairs of wide blue eyes met his in front of the door at the end of the hall. Daniel rolled his own eyes before turning to Evenson. “The Armory?”

Evenson cleared his throat again. “Yes, well, I thought it would keep their interest, and it was my understanding that everything was nailed down.”

“And so it was,” James said calmly, looking slightly less pale than the other two. “All except him.”

Daniel looked to where he pointed. What had been an ornamental suit of armor just inside the doorway was now a haphazard jumble of dented metal. “Ho, what happened to Sir Cedric?”

“Adam did it,” John declared.

Adam gasped and immediately burst into tears. “I . . . did . . . not!” he wailed, setting the echoes jarring through the house once again.

“Easy now,” Daniel said as calmly as he could, his glance taking in all three of them. James was biting his lower lip in exactly the same way Jonathan had used to do when he was about to get caught for some misdeed. Adam was sniffling pathetically, his baby face a-wash in self-pity. John was studying the wall of swords on his right with remarkable intensity. It was impossible to tell who had caused the disturbance, but then, Daniel reflected, it probably didn’t matter.

“No harm done,” he assured them. “I’m sure we can put Sir Cedric back together again. In fact, wasn’t there some rhyme to that effect?”

“’All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again,’” James quoted helpfully.

“Nonsense,” Daniel declared in their skeptical faces. “Who needs a lot of soldiers anyway? What say we have a go at it, just the four of us?”

Adam nodded, brightening over hiccupped sobs. James looked pleased at the idea. John narrowed his eyes. “Can’t we just leave it for the servants?”

Daniel put an arm around his shoulder and guided him farther into the room. “Never leave your mistakes for another man to fix, John. Besides, I’d wager the three of you know far better what a proper knight should look like than our friend Mr. Evenson here.”

“Assuredly, sir,” Evenson obligingly agreed.

“There, you see? We’ll work here for a bit, and when we’re done Mr. Evenson will have tea and cakes waiting in the withdrawing room.”

Luckily, Sir Cedric was far easier than the infamous Humpty Dumpty to put back together again. The wooden frame on which the various pieces of armor had been hung had merely been tipped over. Once righted, the boys were able to identify the pieces and hang them back into place, with much merriment as gauntlets were mixed with stockings and the breast plate with the helmet. By the time they retired to the withdrawing room, they were in a much happier mood.

“This surely is a fine, big, house,” John commented as they sat munching on the cakes Evenson had brought them, their voices echoing in the large, drafty room. “Of course, it isn’t quite as fine as Colonel Hathaway’s, is it, James?”

James frowned. “Colonel Hathaway?” He jumped suddenly, and Daniel had the distinct impression that John had pinched him under cover of the tea tray. “I . . . I’m not sure who you mean, John.”

Daniel smiled at the boy’s attempt to tell the truth and still support his brother.

“You remember Colonel Hathaway,” John insisted. “Mother’s beau?”

Daniel found he had little interest in hearing about Cynthia’s latest conquest, and he cleared his throat in a warning to change the subject.

“Mother has a bunch of bows,” Adam piped up.

“That’s right, Adam,” John encouraged, casting a sidelong look at Daniel but ignoring the obvious hint. “And her favorite is the Colonel.”

Adam frowned, but John pushed another cake onto his plate, and he turned his attention to attacking it eagerly.

Probably another charming military man, Daniel thought, but the bitterness of the thought surprised him.

“In fact,” John declared boldly, “Colonel Hathaway is probably going to be our new father.”

The last bite of cake was suddenly hard for Daniel to chew. James choked on his own piece. Adam’s blue eyes widened.

“He is,” John insisted, somewhat belligerently, Daniel thought. “I heard Uncle Jonathan say Mother had to marry. He doesn’t have the blunt to keep us all, isn’t that so, Mr. Daniel?”

“I’m sure your uncle can care for you as long as needed,” Daniel assured him, although he knew how strapped Jonathan must be with four extra mouths to feed. The smaller Kinsle estate had never been prosperous, and what little had been left Jonathan had poured into his library on inheriting. He had hardly expected that his sister, who hadn’t been home in nearly ten years, to suddenly appear with three nephews he hadn’t known he possessed.

“I don’t recall whether I like Colonel Hathaway,” James remarked thoughtfully.

“Oh, he’s all right,” John said with a shrug. “I daresay he’ll be gone as much as Father was. And even when he is in the country, he’ll be out at his club. We won’t see him much.”

“Mother won’t like that,” Adam said with a pout.

“Mother doesn’t have a choice,” John informed him. “She has to marry whoever asks her. Uncle Jonathan said so.”

The conversation was definitely unsuitable for young gentleman, and Daniel wasn’t entirely sure it was suitable for his own hearing. But he wasn’t their father, and the best he could do was rattle the dishes on the tea tray to focus their attentions elsewhere.

“Poor Mother,” James said with a sigh, ignoring him.

“Poor us,” John amended. “Father may not have been home much, but at least he loved us. We won’t be so lucky this time.”

Adam’s bottom lip trembled, but he sucked it in manfully as he slid down from the leather chair to the Aubusson carpet. “Colonel Hathaway might love us.” When John scowled at him, he stuck out his chin. “He might! We’re lovable, aren’t we, Mr. Daniel?”

Something constricted in the vicinity of Daniel’s heart. “You are indeed, my lad, all three of you.”

“If you were our father I daresay you wouldn’t leave us for some silly club,” James asserted with a sniff.

“All fathers need time to themselves,” Daniel tried to explain to them. “But I’m sure whoever is lucky enough to be your new father will want to spend time with you.”

Adam had wandered closer to him and now climbed happily into his lap. “Why can’t you be our father, Mr. Daniel?”

He should have seen it coming. The spark in John’s eyes told him the conversation had been manipulated in just this direction. James and Adam were waiting eagerly for his answer. He’d have to pick his words carefully if he were to keep from depressing them further.

“Any man would be proud to be the father of three such fine, smart, boys,” he assured them.

It was obviously not enough. Adam frowned. “Then why don’t you ask Mother?”

Daniel kept a determined smile on his face. “Well, your mother and I have known each other since we were children, Adam, but we’ve never been particularly attached to each other.”

“But she’s awfully pretty,” Adam argued.

“And she has a pleasant disposition,” James asserted.

“And she can bake better cakes than this,” John muttered, setting the confection firmly on his gold-rimmed plate.

Daniel glanced around at their earnest faces. The idea was too far-fetched to go any farther. “Well, gentlemen, I’m quite flattered by this regard, but I assure you your mother wouldn’t have me.”

“Don’t see why not,” James replied. “You’re a much better choice than this Colonel Hathaway fellow. And you like us.”

Daniel ran his hand back through his hair. Why couldn’t he seem to get them off this subject? Was some part of him actually entertaining the notion that he could court and win a beauty like Cynthia Kinsle? She’d laugh him out of the house. “Truly my lads,” he insisted. “Your mother and I would never suit.”

John’s frown was more of a pout. “Why do you both keep saying that? Mother’s the mother and you’d be the father. You just need to explain that to her.”

“It’s hardly that simple, John. Surely your mother would expect a gentleman to court her properly.” He realized he wasn’t convincing anyone in the room, including himself, and hurriedly added, “I wouldn’t even know what to say to her.”

John was quick to reply, reinforcing Daniel’s opinion that the boy was masterminding this affair. “You need to visit her at Uncle Jonathan’s. Talk about things ladies find interesting, like clothes.”

Daniel kept a straight face although the thought of discussing the merits of silk over kerseymere with Cynthia was laughable in the extreme. “Clothes, eh? Somehow I don’t think . . .”.

“Or gardening,” John insisted as if sensing reluctance. “You can talk about your gardens.” He nudged his brother. “Couldn’t he, James?”

James, always solemn, nodded. “Yes, that should suffice.”

The grin broke free as he tried to imagine Cynthia rhapsodizing over rosebuds. “Your mother likes gardens, does she?”

“And you should bring her presents,” John encouraged him. “Everyone likes presents. A package of pins, perhaps, or a tea strainer.”

“Really?” He tried to look appreciative of the well-meant advice, but his mouth hurt from holding back the laughter.

“And candy,” chimed in Adam. “There’s nothing sweeter than candy.” He sighed longingly, and Daniel, seeing the obvious hint, reached obligingly for the nearby crystal candy dish, allowing a chuckle to escape. As they helped themselves all around, he was relieved to hear them return to their usual conversation of whose turn it was to pick the game and how they might elude their uncle the next day.

As he listened to them, a part of him kept toying with the idea of courting Cynthia, but he shook his head. He had courted a number of young ladies over the years, but none had stirred his heart enough to offer. He had decided the love spoken of by the poets was obviously beyond him. Yet, a companion would be pleasant, and certainly he was beginning to realize what a hole would be left in his life when Cynthia eventually remarried and the boys moved away. But did he care for them enough to risk a life with the redoubtable Cynthia as his wife?

He kept the boys busy the rest of the afternoon with a “tiger” hunt through the grounds. It wasn’t until he had called for his carriage to take them home that John broached the subject again.

“So, Mr. Daniel, when shall we tell Mother that you’re going to call?”

There they were again, three faces raised entreatingly to his. He wondered how any parent ever found the strength to say no. But say no he must before this madness went any further. He was about to do so, with as much force as necessary, when he noticed the tension in John’s face. His blue eyes were over bright, and there was a decided tremor in his lower lip, not unlike the way Adam looked before he cried. He’d never seen the boy want anything so much, and he found he couldn’t be the one to deny him.

“Perhaps I can find time in the next few days,” he heard himself say. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for your mother and I to get reacquainted.”

Chapter Three

Cynthia watched her sons working at their copy books, the sunlight from the high windows in the schoolroom making halos on their golden heads. The creak of her rocker kept up a steady rhythm. She blinked to keep herself from falling asleep.

“Done,” her middle son declared, and she rose, putting aside the sock she had been mending, to look over his work. The neat letters marched across the page in orderly rows.

“Very nice work, James,” she said with a smile, giving his narrow shoulder a gentle squeeze. Of all her sons, he least reminded her of Nathan. James’ temperament more closely resembled her brother’s -- meticulous, thoughtful, and self-contained. She did not have to worry when she set James some task; she knew it would be completed to her own and his satisfaction.

Next to him, John hunched over his own work and quickened his pace, but not before she caught sight of the ungainly scrawl. She shook her head. If James was the cautious one, John was more likely to throw caution to the wind in some scheme he wanted to enact. He was entirely too much like his father, a fact that endeared him to her as well as worried her.

“This isn’t a race, John,” she cautioned. “Take your time, and do it properly. James, you may read while we wait for John and Adam to finish.”

Adam sighed gustily and bent back over the copy book, pudgy fingers straining on the pencil. He was still young for this work, she felt, but if there was anything Adam hated, it was being treated like a baby. He wanted to study everything his brothers studied, do everything his brothers did, be everywhere his brothers were. The current bane of his existence was that he still wore short pants. She had been saving for material to make him long pants, but so far it had been much easier to cut off the tattered legs of pants his brothers had outgrown and refit them to his chubby body.

Someone coughed politely in the schoolroom door. Turning, she saw her brother standing there, narrow face closed as usual.

“Good afternoon, Jonathan,” she said, straightening. “What brings you up to see us?”

“You have a gentleman caller,” he replied, moving into the room with his manservant behind him. “If you would be so good as to come with me? Tims can watch the boys.”

Surprised, she nodded and smiled encouragement to the boys. As she followed him back into the corridor, she wondered who could possibly be calling on her. It couldn’t be news about Nathan. How many times had she tensed to a sudden knock at the door thinking this was the day they would tell her he had been killed? When it had finally happened it had almost been a relief. But surely the only other reason a man would call on her would be regarding Nathan’s effects. Had the Admiralty learned something new?

She hastened her steps, but she hadn’t made it to the stairs when a hiss pulled her up short. Jonathan didn’t seem to notice, continuing on. Looking back, Cynthia saw John hurrying after them, her hair brush in one hand.

“Here.” He shoved it at her. “You’ll want to look your best.”

Frowning, she accepted the implement. “Thank you, John. You followed me just to give me this?”

He looked away, shuffling his feet. “Well, I thought you needed it.”

Cynthia had a sudden vision of him putting some creature in her bun as she was bent over James’ work. She reached up to touch her hair. Nothing seemed to be moving. “John,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing, “is there something I should know?”

He backed out of reach. “No. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, I suppose,” she replied, attempting to hand him the brush. “But if I am hideously embarrassed at this meeting, young man, you will answer for it this evening.”

He swallowed. “Just be nice, Mother. Please?”

She frowned again, but he was already turning to hurry back toward the schoolroom. She slipped the brush into the pocket of her gown for retrieval later (and use on the seat of a certain young man’s britches if her suspicions proved true) and continued downstairs.

She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the sight that met her eyes. Daniel Lewiston was pacing her brother’s austere sitting room. His clothes, a dark blue superfine coat and matching trousers with a lighter blue waistcoat, were immaculate. What was more out of character, however, was that his meaty hands clutched an obscenely large box with lettering identifying it as coming from a famous Wells confectioner. It was obviously sweets and could only be a present for the boys, one he wasn’t sure she’d let them accept. She decided to put him at his ease.

“Mr. Lewiston, how nice of you to call,” she greet him with a smile.

He started, then managed a smile as well. “Mrs. Jacobs. Very good of you to receive me.”

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it,” Jonathan quipped, seating himself in one of the fine white-lacquered chairs near the windows overlooking the terrace.

Cynthia quelled his amusement with a frown and took a seat on one of the closer chairs to give Daniel the excuse to sit as well. He glanced at the chair across the room near Jonathan, then sighed and chose the one closest to her instead. Offering her a weak smile, he pushed the candy box toward her in much the same way John had just pushed the brush.

“I . . . I thought you might like these.”

“Me?” She stared at the box in surprise. “I thought they were for the boys.”

Next to her, Daniel felt himself blushing. Blushing of all things! By God, was he such a coward? He straightened himself and set the box into her lap. “No, Mrs. Jacobs,” he replied firmly, “I assure you they are for you.” When she continued to stare at the box, he couldn’t help adding, “Of course, you may share them with the boys if you desire.”

Cynthia glanced up at him in confusion. The intent look he gave her back offered no clues. “Thank you,” she replied for lack of anything better to say.

Satisfied, Daniel sat back in the chair. She continued to divide her attention between the box of candy and his face, and he realized the silence was stretching. He wracked his brain for something to say.

“They’re very good chocolates,” he tried. Look at me, reduced to prattling! “If you like chocolates, of course.”

“Actually, I prefer stick candy,” Cynthia replied. “I’ve always had a sweet tooth for rock.” What an inane conversation! Whatever is his purpose?

Daniel nodded. “A wise choice. Doesn’t get your fingers nearly as dirty. Not that you’d ever dirty your fingers, of course.”

Cynthia felt a laugh bubbling up. Luckily, Jonathan responded for her.

“You’d be surprised how dirty her fingers get taking care of those boys, Daniel.”

He managed another weak smile at the jest. Cynthia frowned her brother back into silence. The quiet stretched once more. She was obviously waiting for him to say something. Daniel squared his shoulders.

“The boys tell me you like to garden.”

Cynthia blinked. “Garden? Mr. Lewiston, I haven’t been near anything resembling a garden in ten years. Certainly nothing like the rose gardens your mother used to tend. Do you still have them?”

There was something decidedly wistful about her tone of voice. He supposed she couldn’t have seen many gardens at that, not if she’d been living near the Bristol docks as Jonathan had intimated. “Yes, the gardens are still there, although I admit I don’t spend much time in them. I’m not all that keen on roses.”

She smiled. “Oh, but who couldn’t like roses? I always thought your mother was so fortunate: all those bushes, all those colors and shades. There must have been enough blooms to brighten every room in the house.”

So, she did like gardens. It was a pleasant surprise. No one had been able to do justice to the roses since his mother had passed on. His sister Clementine had scolded him about their sad state on her last visit. Perhaps if he married Cynthia . . . . He cleared his throat and attempted to change the subject. “Actually, I far prefer the maze.”

She hadn’t thought of the Lewiston maze in years. She could feel herself brightening just remembering the fun they had had there. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear you kept that as well! After all the times we lost you in there, I’d have thought you’d want to tear the thing to the ground.”

He smiled, sharing the memory. “You five were scamps, no doubt about it. But for all Jonathan and I shouted and chased you about, it was a great deal of fun. To tell you the truth, I miss it.”

Cynthia frowned, but he seemed sincere. “You cannot mean it. Your sisters and I were awful to you. I don’t know how you put up with us.”

He looked away. “I suppose one is willing to put up with a great deal when one is lonely.”

She started, and although he still refused to meet her gaze she found she had to believe him this time as well.

“Well,” Jonathan put in, “I’m sure our Cynthia has outgrown all that.”

Looking at her in the black widow’s weeds, Daniel could almost believe him. “Then that’s a pity.”

She felt herself blushing under his steady regard and lowered her eyes. He seemed to understand how she had been feeling lately, that there seemed so little to enjoy in her life outside the boys. A rose garden to tend or a maze to wander through would have been most welcome.

“But surely you came here to discuss something more than gardens, old fellow,” Jonathan prompted.

Daniel frowned at him. He knew he wasn’t making tremendous headway, but Jonathan’s prodding would not help. Perhaps he’d said enough for one day. He rose. “No. I just wanted to bring your sister the candy.”

“I don’t understand,” Cynthia replied, returning his frown.

He smiled at her. “No, I didn’t think you would. Good day, Mrs. Jacobs, Jonathan.”

She rose, and Jonathan rose with her. Together they saw him to the door. “Yes, well, thank you for the candy, Mr. Lewiston,” Cynthia told him, relieved that the confusing visit was at an end. “I will be sure to share it with the boys.”

“Yes, you do that,” he said with a nod as Jonathan opened the door. “Tell the boys I look forward to their next visit.”

Her brow cleared. That was it. The candy was a bribe to keep the boys coming to visit. She supposed she had been a bit forceful the first time she had seen him again. “I’ll let them know. Good day.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, he sighed in relief.

He really should have known better. He shook his head as he climbed into his waiting carriage. Cynthia no more saw a suitor in him now than she had when they were both in their youth. He was a fool to let three little boys convince him he could succeed in winning her. Even desperate as she was, she could do far better.

And she was desperate, he could see that clearly. He didn’t usually notice clothing, but it was hard to miss the fact that the boys were quickly either outgrowing or wearing out every stitch of the black mourning clothes, which he was beginning to believe was all they had. And Cynthia’s mourning dress, for all its careful hemming, had obviously been made for someone larger and taller than she was. He could remember a day when she would not have allowed herself to wear the same frock twice in a month. Yet he had seen the same dress both times he had visited.

But that doesn’t mean she’s willing to take you, my boy, he chided himself. Our Cynthia can whistle up a prince. Small chance she’ll settle for a frog.

Chapter Four

The boys were good as gold for the rest of the afternoon, and, as if that wasn’t enough to make Cynthia suspicious of their motives, they asked to go to bed early that night. She was not completely surprised then to find that, when she retired sometime later, three rather large lumps had appeared under the coverings on her bed.

The temptation to tease her sons was strong, but she forced herself to stride to the bed and thump on the largest of the three shapes. “John, James, Adam, come out of there at once.”

The lumps wiggled, and John’s head appeared from under the covers, James and Adam shortly behind him. Cynthia put her hands on her hips.

“What am I to do with you? Why aren’t you in bed?”

John straightened and affixed her with a stern eye. “We had important matters to discuss with you.”

James nodded seriously. Adam hiccupped.

Cynthia sank onto the bed beside them. They seldom felt the need to confront her like this, so it must be important. “I see. Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong,” James started.

“Yes, wrong,” John interrupted insistently. “Mother, we have decided that we need a father.”

Cynthia glanced around at the serious faces. “You had a father. He died.” The words came out colder than she had intended, and to cover it up she reached for Adam and pulled him onto her lap. “Why do you want another one so soon?”

“Has it been so soon?” James asked thoughtfully. “I remember Father, but it seems as if he’s been gone a very long time.”

Cynthia gathered him closer too. “I know, James. He was out at sea so often, I’m sure it seems as if he’s been gone much longer. But it has been barely six months. I’m still wearing mourning.” She plucked at the hideous black dress.

“It does not signify,” John insisted. “We would like a new father. You have to marry him.”

“I see,” she said, trying not to brindle at his authoritative tone. However, she couldn’t help adding, “And have you picked out the gentleman and chapel as well?”

It was the wrong choice. “Yes, we have,” John replied. “You will marry Mr. Daniel in the Wenwood Church.” He quailed before her frown. “Please?”

“Yes, Mother, please?” Adam chimed in, baby face turned entreatingly to hers and making it impossible to scold John. She took a deep breath and smiled at the three of them.

“I’m very glad you like Mr. Lewiston so much, my sweets, but I assure you, we would not suit.”

“Why not?” John demanded, crossing arms over a puffed out chest. “He’s very good to us.”

“He gives us cakes,” Adam piped up, “and candy.” He sighed gustily. “There’s nothing sweeter than candy.”

“He has the most wonderful house,” James put in. “With a very large library full of books, almost as many as Uncle Jonathan.”

“He has a large estate, a French chef, and thirty thousand pounds per annum,” John summarized. “And I heard he thinks you’re a diamond of the first water.”

Cynthia suddenly had the image of Daniel’s visit that morning. Good heavens, had he been attempting to court her? The very idea so agitated her that she set Adam off her lap and got up to pace the room.

“You must be mistaken, John,” she tried. “Daniel Lewiston may be pleasant to you, and he certainly has been pleasant to me, but he cannot be interested in making me his wife. The last he knew of me, I was a rather giddy young girl. In fact, I hate to tell you this, but his younger sisters and I tormented him to no end. We used to play the most shameful tricks on him.”

John bounced to the foot of the bed and watched her with wide eyes. “Like what?”

Cynthia was almost afraid to confess how shallow she had been, but if it would convince them that she and Daniel could not make a match of it, then it was worth a try. “Well, we used to tell him tea was later than it was so that when he arrived his mother would scold him for being late. We must have played that trick on him at least a dozen times, and he never seemed to catch on. And once Daphnia, his closest sister, actually bribed the footman to put a snake in his bed.” She shuddered even now at the thought of waking to find oneself beside a slithering serpent. “But I think the worst thing we ever did was sneak into his room while he was sleeping, steal all his clothes, and hide them in the maze. He was the most pitiful sight, bumbling through the branches in his nightshirt.”

“Why didn’t he have the servants go fetch them?” John asked with a frown.

Cynthia cocked her head in wonder. “You know, I never considered that. We never had all that many servants here, but the Lewistons seemed to have dozens. He could have called upon any number of footmen or gardeners or stable hands. Odd that he chose to do it himself.” She remembered his comment that morning about doing anything to keep loneliness at bay and suddenly realized why he had never told his mother of their pranks. She didn’t have time to consider it further for John had obviously decided he had had enough of reminiscences.

“I still don’t see,” he pouted, “why you cannot marry.”

She was tired, but she had to try not to let him exasperate her. “John, this truly is none of your affair. If I remarry, I would like to decide on the husband, thank you very much.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Jonathan asked from the doorway. Cynthia frowned at him, but if he noticed, he didn’t let it deter him.

“This isn’t a proper conversation for children,” she replied with a sniff.

He leaned against the door jam and crossed one slippered foot over the other. “I quite agree. If the infantry will please decamp?”

Adam started to protest, but John hushed him, herding his brothers before him to the door. She would have sworn he winked at Jonathan in passing.

“You don’t honestly think they’ll return to bed without help, do you?” she asked.

“Most likely not, but you can check on them after you answer my question. I just caught the end of that conversation, but I take it you still have the same objections to Daniel Lewiston as a suitor as you did when you were a girl.”

Remembering a similar conversation with her parents ten years ago, she blushed. “I was afraid Mother and Father would force me to marry him. I said awful things as I recall.”

“You said he was fat and stupid and nothing would induce you to so much as dance with him, let alone marry him.”

She thought of the kind man who had rekindled her sons’ joy in life and cringed. “That was badly done. He was patient when we were children, and he seems even kinder now. In truth, Jonathan, I think I’ve always admired him for that. But if I remarry I want more than kindness. I would want a good provider, someone who would take care of all of us.” She forced herself to put Nathan’s handsome face from her mind. “Someone who would stay around this time, who wouldn’t leave for adventure or fame. Someone who’d love us and want to be with us more than anything else. Someone who’d bring little presents . . .”

“Like candy,” Jonathan put in.

She had a sudden vision of an impossibly large box of candy and felt her blush deepening. “I warn you, Jonathan,” she told him sternly, “do not throw him at me again. I’m quite capable of choosing a second husband, if I decide to remarry.”

Jonathan straightened to go. “Of course you are, my dear. But you’ll forgive me for believing that you couldn’t do better than Daniel Lewiston for a husband. I hope you’ll give it some thought.”

Whether it was Jonathan’s suggestion or otherwise, she found herself thinking about the issue a great deal over the next couple of days. She saw Daniel Lewiston at church services in Wenwood, but he didn’t seem to pay her any particular notice. She decided that her fears over Daniel’s visit had been wrong. Daniel obviously just enjoyed watching her sons play, and he wanted to keep himself in her good graces, no more than that.

She supposed it was logical. After his father had died, his mother had been so fearful of loosing him, she had almost locked him in the house. Besides occasional visits by Jonathan and the tormenting by her and his sisters, he had had no interactions with other children. His mother had even had tutors at the house rather than send him away to school as was usual with other sons. Small wonder he was enjoying her sons’ childhood when he had had none of his own. Still, it was a little disappointing to think that she had so effectively depressed any feelings he might have had for her all those years ago that he had no interest in courting her now.

She was pleased, however, to see that her sons seemed to be settling in at her old home. They smiled and nodded to the other families at services as if they had lived there all their lives, and John went so far as to spend some time visiting with several of the elderly widows of the village as the congregation was filing out. Like his father, he got along well with everyone, and she was glad to see he was putting his gift to good use.

She was forced to reconsider her luck at settling in when that very afternoon saw the beginning of a string of rather interesting callers. First it was the Widower Trent, a large, red-faced man who she remembered owned a considerable farm on the other side of Wenwood. His intentions were obvious from his leering grins, but it was his suggestion that the boys would be best put to work on his farm, saving him a great deal in laborer’s wages, that prompted her to have Jonathan show him out.

The second caller arrived Monday afternoon, his footman helping him across the threshold and assisting him to perch on one of the chairs in the sitting room. Mr. Lassiter, it seemed, had not been able to find a girl to suit him in all his seventy-five years, but rumor that her husband had left her wealthy had encouraged him to call. She saw him to the door herself.

The third caller arrived Wednesday morning, straightening his cravat and trying to hide a cut on his chin where someone, presumably himself, had been attempting to shave the beard he had yet to grow. Young Mr. Pittley stammeringly explained that young women made him nervous therefore he wanted an older woman to wed because she would be able to teach him the finer points of life and would not mind when he then took younger mistresses. He left of his own accord when she began laughing hysterically.

“I never knew Wenwood boasted such a crop of idiots,” she confessed to Jonathan that evening. “One would almost think there were no decent marriageable men for miles.”

Jonathan shrugged, putting his feet up before the fire. “I don’t suppose there are. With Squire Pentercast and his brother married, that only leaves Tom Harvey, but he seems to have his eye on Mary Delacourt, lucky dog. I thought she’d prefer Daniel to him, but Daniel seems to have abandoned the field. It simply points out that your choices are limited, my dear. If you decide to remarry, you can’t afford to be choosy.”

The idea had no appeal, but she decided not to think about it. Word had obviously gotten out that she was too top-lofty, for her sudden popularity disappeared almost overnight. She tried to focus her energies on her sons, overseeing their schooling, looking through trunks in the attic for older clothes or material that might be made into clothing for them, and making sure Jonathan’s cook prepared dishes the way they liked. From time to time, she allowed them to go over to the Lewiston estate to visit, but as they almost always came back ready to take up the fight for Daniel to be their father, she was loath to let them go very often. She was therefore surprised to find them missing entirely when she returned one afternoon from an outing to Wenwood in search of buttons for a new coat for John.

She found Tims dozing in the rocker, the schoolroom otherwise deserted. The two of them had searched the house and then the grounds with mounting concern. Jonathan was unable to shed any light on the matter. He insisted that they must have gone to visit Daniel, but she kept visualizing the nearby River Went with three bodies washed up on the bank. Determined to set her mind at ease, she demanded the carriage brought around and set off for the Lewiston estate.

Chapter Five

Gravel biting through the knees of his pantaloons and the palms of his gloves, Daniel peered around the corner of the maze. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he hurriedly checked behind him and before him once more, his breath coming in deep rasps. The path before him stretched empty to the exit. He listened but heard only the faint sound of the summer breeze rustling through the close-cropped laurel. Heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet and raced toward freedom. Behind him, he heard shouts of pursuit and doubled his speed.

“Halt, or I’ll shoot!” John yelled, leaping into his path. Daniel skidded to a stop. James and Adam leaped onto his back, and he went down laughing under the weight. As soon as all three of them were on top of him, he wrestled James and John to his chest and tickled them unmercifully while Adam whooped in delight.

“Mercy, mercy!” James giggled.

“I give up!” John shouted, squirming.

Daniel released them, and they crawled off him, collapsing on the path laughing. As their merriment faded, he heard the sound of carriage wheels on gravel and knew they were in for it.

John sat up, eyes wide. “Mother!”

Adam sobered immediately, and James rolled to his feet. “Are you sure? How did she know where to find us?”

They looked so worried that he rose and wrapped his arms about the three of them. He was surprised that he seemed to feel as guilty as they looked, though he wasn’t sure what any of them had to feel guilty about. He supposed his feelings came from remembering how his own mother had reacted when he came in with dirty or torn clothes. But was having a little fun really such a heinous crime?

Knowing they couldn’t very well avoid their own mother, he shepherded the boys toward the exit and across the small stretch of lawn to the edge of the drive. The Kinsle carriage did indeed stand within the arch by the front entryway, with Evenson and one of the footmen hurrying out to greet the arrival.

Cynthia was just alighting on the footman’s arm as Daniel led the boys forward. Her slender body in the black dress was tensed, and as they drew near he could see that her lovely lips were set in a tight line, her finely etched brows drawn together in a frown. The stern look did not ease as she caught sight of the boys, and beside him he felt John hesitate.

“Mrs. Jacobs,” he managed with a bow over the boys’ heads, “a pleasure.”

“That I do not believe,” Cynthia told him, her voice as stern as her face. It was obvious the boys were safe and well, although she couldn’t remember when she’d seen so much dust on their clothes. Even Daniel’s tweed jacket and dark pantaloons were caked with the stuff, and he seemed to have a twig of laurel sticking out from behind one ear. Still, it was hard to forgive them for scaring her half out of her wits. And it was even more difficult to forgive Daniel for continuing to encourage them in these escapades. She had to make them understand.

“Boys” she said firmly, “you cannot run away like this. Anything could have happened to you, and no one would have been any wiser. I realize you enjoy coming to visit Mr. Lewiston, but I can assure you this incident will not repeat itself. Say your farewells and get in the coach at once.”

Adam’s lower lip was trembling again, James was biting his lip, and John was pale and still. “Goodbye, Mr. Daniel,” he muttered for them all.

Daniel very much wanted to tell her that they were no trouble, that surely they were allowed to have some fun, but somehow he sensed she would not thank him for interfering. Perhaps if he could speak with her without the children present his comments would be seen as less of an intrusion.

“That was well done, John,” he said, looking up to meet Cynthia’s frown. “But I think we would be very rag mannered to have your mother come all this way without offering her some refreshment.”

“I don’t need anything . . .,” Cynthia started, but he purposely turned to the hovering Evenson to forestall her.

“Evenson, do we have any more of those delightful cakes we had the other day?”

Evenson opened his mouth, but John was shaking his head violently no. “I . . . I believe they are all gone, sir, but I’m sure Monsieur Henri can find something else suitable for the lady.”

“Excellent.” Daniel offered Cynthia his arm. “Shall we?”

She bit her lip (did all the Kinsle’s have that habit, he wondered) and glanced around at the three upturned faces. He added his pleading look to theirs.

I suppose there’s no harm in it, Cynthia thought with a sigh. “That would be very nice, Mr. Lewiston. Please lead the way.”

Daniel tried to ignore John’s look of triumph as they walked into the house. He escorted them all down the long, twisting hall to the withdrawing room and murmured pleasantries while Evenson arranged for tea. It arrived a short while later along with a game of nine pins, which Evenson erected in the corner, nodding to Daniel to entertain the lady. Somehow Daniel felt Evenson had gotten the easier end of the deal.

Cynthia sipped her tea slowly, glancing about the room. It did not seem to have changed much from what she remembered. In fact, it was almost as if the room had been abandoned on the day she had eloped, so thick was the dust on nearly every surface, from the walnut credenzas on either side of the marble fireplace to the grouping of sofa and chairs in the center of the room to the farther corners of the polished wood floor. The corner the boys were playing in at least seemed to have been dusted, but she wondered if perhaps it had been by the seats of their britches. She took another sip of her tea, listening to the polished oak pins clatter to the base amidst the rise and fall of children’s voices. Across from her, Daniel offered her the smile she remembered when she and his sisters had pulled a prank on him. She felt instantly contrite and lowered her cup to the silver tea tray.

“I’m so sorry the boys keep intruding on you, Daniel. It’s just that there’s so little to do at Kinsle House right now and . . .”.

He held up a hand. “Please, Mrs. Jacobs, you mustn’t apologize. I asked you in to explain that I enjoy being with the boys. Please don’t keey them away on my account.”

Cynthia stared at him, but his round face was earnest, his gray eyes sparkling, and his smile rather endearing. “You, you actually like them?”

His smile deepened. “Of course I like them. They’re intelligent, fun-loving, adventurous little jack-n-apes. I’ve always wanted brothers. I guess I’ll have to settle for nephews, and surrogate ones at that.”

Cynthia felt something thaw inside her. “You don’t know how good it makes me feel to hear someone praise them. They really are darling boys. If only Jonathan realized that.”

“Jonathan and Colonel Hathaway,” Daniel muttered, although he reached for his tea so quickly she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.

Daniel took a sip of the tea to steady himself. He had been calling himself a coward for several days since his half-hearted attempt at courting her. Evenson reported that several of the eligible Wenwood bachelors had already been calling, making his chances even smaller. But each time he sent the boys home, he wondered if it would be for the last time. Each time they left, the house seemed larger and more empty. And he was beginning to realize that the boys needed him as much as he needed them. There weren’t many men who would understand how it felt to be raised only by a mother. For all their sakes, he had to try again to get Cynthia to see him as a suitor.

A cheer went up from the bowlers, and Cynthia smiled at their enthusiasm. It took her only a second to realize that Daniel was sharing her smile. He really does like them, she thought, warmed more by his caring than by anything that had happened since Nathan’s death. Daniel seemed to have noticed her regard, for he paled and cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Jacobs,” he began.

Cynthia couldn’t stand his nerves. She had obviously been overly stern in her dealings with him, and guilt smote her anew. “Daniel, please, you’ve known me since I was born. We grew up together. I was a dreadful child, always helping your sisters tease you, but I hope you can see I’ve grown beyond all that. You can call me by my first name. In fact, I wish someone would. It would be nice to remember I have a name other than ‘Mother.’”

Her speech only served to make him more nervous. She was being far too kind when he had expected resistance. It somehow made things more difficult. He adjusted his cravat self-consciously and swallowed again. Perhaps it was best to just get it out in the open. “Very well, Cynthia then. I understand that you may be thinking of remarrying?”

Cynthia took a deep breath to keep from screaming in vexation. Not him too! All her good intentions disappeared. “That, Daniel, is hardly your concern.”

Now, that was the Cynthia he expected. And she was entirely right. “Not normally, no,” he agreed with her. She looked so fierce that he was forced to take another fortifying sip of tea. Even she had to notice that his hand shook as he set down the cup. How could he be so craven?

“Dash it all,” he exclaimed and was rewarded by a look of surprise. “I never could do anything right around you. Cynthia, if you must remarry, would it pain you too terribly to consider me as a candidate?”

She stared at him. This could not be happening. Daniel Lewiston, proposing? He could not be in love with her, not after having known her as the giddiest girl in the neighborhood. And it had been a very long time since she had thought of seriously considering anyone as a husband but Nathan. She shook her head and looked at him more closely.

For the first time she didn’t see an overgrown version of the boy she had known; she saw a man. She could feel her own tea cup start to tremble and set it hastily down. Then she noticed that he looked no more delighted with the matter. Sweat was beading on his brow, causing his dark hair to curl on his forehead. His gray eyes were stormy with emotion, but she’d have termed it fear rather than love. “You don’t really want to marry me, do you, Daniel?” she asked softly.

He inhaled slowly, focusing on her face. For a moment when a light shone in her eyes he had been surprised to find that he very much wanted to marry her. But the moment had passed, and he reminded himself that he was doing this for the boys.

“I didn’t think I particularly wanted to marry anyone, at least not right now,” he replied truthfully. “But I’ve never been happier than the last two months since your boys arrived. I’d hate to lose them to someone who didn’t even care about them. Not that you’d marry that sort, but sometimes widows don’t have the luxury of choosing. I just wanted you to know that if you must marry, I’d be proud to be the boys’ father.”

Tears welled behind Cynthia’s eyes, and she looked hastily away from him. “Thank you, Daniel. I don’t think you can know what that means to me. It’s very kind of you.”

“Kind, but not wanted,” he murmured. She couldn’t meet his gaze. “Cynthia, are you already in love with someone?”

She shook her head, blinking the tears away. “No, no, of course not. I don’t want to get married any more than you do.” She glanced up in time to see him start.

“Then why . . .” he began, but his brow cleared suddenly. “John was right. Jonathan can’t keep you.”

Embarrassed, Cynthia held out her hand in entreaty. “Please don’t let anyone know. Nathan tried to take care of us. He always brought enough money home from his trips to see us through a year or two. He was hoping this last trip would put him in a position to share in some prize money. It also put him in more danger. When he was killed in battle, I was sure he’d put something aside for us in his belongings, but the Admiralty swears there was nothing. Jonathan will do what he can for us, I’m sure. It’s just that three growing boys . . .”

Daniel nodded in understanding. “Then we should marry.”

“Well, I like that,” Cynthia exclaimed, drawing back in surprise. “Don’t I have something to say in this matter?”

He had the good sense to look abashed. “I’m sorry if I seem to be making decisions for you, but can’t you see our marriage would be for the best? This place is huge, I’ve got plenty of blunt with nothing useful to spend it on, and truth be told I think I’ve always been lonely. Don’t you see – we both get what we need.”

It was quite logical. She could see that. Jonathan and his sisters would be delighted with the match – in fact, one of the reasons she had teased him so unmercifully when they were younger was that their parents kept insisting he would one day offer for her. Sometimes she thought she had just been building up an excuse as to why he wouldn’t offer. But now he had offered, and if she accepted him, the boys would have a father, one who would dote on their every act, and a steady, reliable source of income. It was perfect for the boys and for Daniel. But would it be perfect for her?

She smiled politely at him. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about, Mr. Lewiston.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Lewiston? I was just plain Daniel at the start of this conversation. Have I been demoted for my audacity?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “I’m sorry, Daniel. It’s just that this is a very serious decision. I need time to think.”

“Take all the time you like,” he replied, returning her smile. Another cheer went up from the bowlers. “Just so long as you allow them to visit while you think.”

Chapter Six

For the next week, she thought. She thought on long walks through the Kinsle/Lewiston fields while the boys were studying with Tims. She thought while she sat up rocking Adam to sleep. She especially thought every time the boys disappeared for Daniel’s house. The logic of his proposal seemed flawless. The benefits to him and the boys were numerous. The benefits to her were not inconsiderable.

Daniel had made it plain that he would take an active part in raising the boys. While she could not gainsay Nathan’s love for their sons, his voyages, which usually kept him away from them for eighteen months or longer, made it impossible for him to help raise them. A part of her couldn’t wait to share the burden. And a very selfish part of her couldn’t wait to live in a house with servants at her beck and call. She could not say she would be sorry to never darn another sock, never plead with the authorities for money, never cook her own dinner from food that was barely fit to eat in any circumstance. She could have fine clothes again, someone to fix her hair, a rose garden! And the boys would have the schooling that befitted gentlemen.

And what would she have to give up to provide this life of luxury for herself and her sons? Every time she reached that point in the argument she found herself shivering. Nathan may not have been home much, but the eleven months in total they had spent together had given her a pretty good idea of what daily life was supposed to be like between husband and wife. She had run away with Nathan because she was madly in love. She could not make the same claim about Daniel, for all that she admired his character. Could she be intimate with a man for whom she held no romantic feelings? And if she found that prospect daunting, did that give her the right to deprive her children of such an opportunity?

As far as she could see, the only way to settle the matter was to explain her concerns to Daniel. Her courage failed her twice before she forced herself to accompany the boys on one of their visits to the Lewiston estate. Evenson answered their knock and escorted them with proper solemnity through the house to the back garden, where, he explained, Daniel was overseeing the replanting of a hedge that had been damaged in a spring storm. She tried not to let the deference shown her and the boys influence her determination to get answers to her questions, but when Daniel was so obviously glad to see them and quite willing to listen to her, she found it even more difficult to begin.

“Now then,” he said with a smile when he had led her to a secluded stone bench away from the gardeners but within earshot of the scampering boys, “what can I do for you?”

She could smell the aroma of the nearby rose gardens, which ought to have been a good omen, but she felt as nervous as he had looked the day he had proposed. “I’ve given a great deal of consideration to your proposal,” she told him. “And there are several issues we must discuss before I can give you my answer.”

Daniel wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or pleased that she was taking him seriously at last. He changed his smile to a solemn look. “Of course. Please continue.”

She took a deep breath and plunged in. “First, I realize that you proposed this marriage for my sons’ welfare. I think you should understand that this is a long-term proposition. They will need to be sent to school, to be assured a place in the world. They would be assured a much greater place if you were to adopt them. I do not think their father would have objected.” It was a great deal to ask, and she knew it. But it would show her whether his intentions toward her sons were sincere.

“I would be honored to have them become Lewistons,” Daniel replied warmly, relieved that the issue was so easily resolved. “With your permission, I’ll have the papers drawn up before we are married, and we can sign them on our wedding day. I will also have my will changed for your review, leaving everything to them.”

“Oh, my!” She gasped at the enormity of his gesture. “Daniel, I wouldn’t dream. . .”

“I would,” he replied. “They’ll be my sons after all.”

“Yes, I suppose they would.” She sat for a moment stunned.

Somehow, he didn’t think that was all there was to it. “Was there anything else?” he prompted.

Cynthia blinked. “Yes, but it is much more difficult to discuss.”

He leaned back on the bench. The day was warm and sunny, he could hear birds singing in the trees of the garden, and he was moments away from becoming a father. “I am at your disposal.”

She rose and paced, making him feel a little less sanguine about the subject she was going to bring up. She seemed to realize how nervous she looked, for she forced herself to be seated beside him on the bench. “I think you know that I ran away with Nathan Jacobs because I adored him. You and I have a different relationship. I like to think we are . . . friends?”

He nodded. “Certainly. And partners for the boys’ well being.”

“Yes.” She tried to take strength from his calm demeanor, but her palms were sweating in her gloves. “I hope you will understand, then, that I am somewhat reluctant to resume a wifely role?” She looked at him pleadingly.

So, he’d make an excellent father even though she couldn’t bear the thought of him as a husband. That was really the heart of the matter. He couldn’t compete with the dashing Nathan Jacobs when the man was alive, and he couldn’t compete with him now that Jacobs was dead. Yet, if she could be so forthright about her feelings, so could he.

“You’ve had more experience being a wife than I have being a husband,” he replied. “But isn’t marriage supposed to be about more than simply caring for children?”

He hadn’t meant it as a criticism of her first marriage, but she obviously took it so. “Nathan and I shared a bond that went far beyond our children,” she told him haughtily. “Did you expect me to immediately form such a bond with the first eligible bachelor who proposed?”

He refrained from pointing out how quickly she seemed to have formed the bond with Nathan, leaving family and friends behind for nearly ten years. “Of course not. But if you put constraints on our marriage, will you keep that bond from ever forming?”

She got up and walked to the edge of the hedge. This was not how she wanted this conversation to go. She had loved Nathan, would always love Nathan. For all that Daniel was gentler, more forthright, and much more dependable, he had not captured her heart. “I’m sorry, Daniel,” she murmured. “But I’m simply not ready to be so intimate.”

She had not said it, but he seemed to hear the word “yet” echoing after her declaration. He could also hear the boys calling in the greenery and tried to remind himself again that he was doing this for their sakes, after all. He had no right to assume that Cynthia would be his reward. But if she were here, with him, would he have a chance at winning her heart? The desire to do so was suddenly overwhelming.

“I understand completely,” he lied, doing his best to keep his usual smile in place. “Please, Cynthia, let me assure you that I did not make that proposal to put you into a compromising situation. If you wish our marriage to be platonic, I will honor your request. But you must not ask me to give up hope that one day you will change your mind.”

She wasn’t sure why that frightened her, but it did. She glanced back at him. He was smiling warmly, and the sunlight glinted off the rich mahogany of his hair. He looked even more innocent than her sons. But if he was plotting mischief, it would be more dangerous to her than anything her sons tried. If Daniel succeeded, she would lose her heart again. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready.

She heard John call to James and Adam and forced her fears aside. Daniel was being more than generous in agreeing to all her terms. What did she have to complain about?

“Very well, then, Daniel,” she replied with a bright smile. “I accept your proposal. I will marry you.”

* * * *

They were married two weeks later in the church in Wenwood, Daniel having procured a license from the local bishop. A pleased Jonathan hosted a wedding breakfast at Kinsle House, then Cynthia, the boys, and their assorted belongings were packed into the carriage and trundled down the drive, around the bend, and up the road to the Lewiston estate.

The boys ran laughing into the hall when they arrived, voices echoing to the hammered beams a full story above their heads. Daniel knew they had already begun to see the house as home, but he still detected a change in their attitudes, as if they had suddenly been set free in a new world. They wanted to explore and touch and demand an explanation for everything from the Tompion marquetry clock in the library to the gilt-framed Lawrence painting of his Great Aunt Chloe upstairs in the portrait gallery. In following them from room to room, he had to admit he had never realized what a fascinating house he had.

Cynthia found it difficult to share her sons’ joy in their new home. The lofty Gothic ceilings with their open carved beams, the dark wood that seemed to panel each room, and the thick-limbed many-knobbed furniture with the scarlet upholstery seemed oppressive to her. Odd that she had never noticed it as a child, but then most of her memories of being in the house with Daniel’s sisters were pleasant.

Now the dust she had first noticed in the withdrawing room was everywhere, and the thought of cleaning it from so many rooms depressed her further, until the footmen began marching past with her belongings and she remembered she would not have to lift a finger if she didn’t want to. She trailed behind the procession up the massive central stairway, gazing at the rich-hued tapestries, Oriental vases, and Greek statues that lined the long halls, until Evenson stopped her at the doorway to a large bedchamber.

“Your room, Mrs. Lewiston,” he intoned.

The name sounded surprisingly lovely on his lips, and she smiled as she stepped past him. Then her smile froze on her face. Staring at her in the center of the chamber was a huge box bed whose burgundy and gold hangings reached to brush the high ceiling. Twin dressing tables stood on either side of it, the elaborate carvings of twisting dragons on their fronts matching the headboard of the giant bed. The size and complexity of each piece of furniture was overwhelming enough, but what upset her far more was the tortoise-shell comb and brush set on one of the dressers, with all the accouterments a gentleman might need to shave and dress in the morning. A young woman in a black dress and white apron was setting Cynthia’s brushes and belongings on the other table.

“This,” Cynthia said in icy tones, “is not my bedchamber.”

Daniel was chasing Adam down the corridor that held the family bedchambers when he was pulled up short by Cynthia’s voice. It wasn’t so much that it was any louder than usual; if anything it sounded oddly stilled.

“I assure you that there has been a mistake,” she was telling Evenson, who stood erect and proper just inside the door to the master bedchamber. “This cannot possibly be my room.”

“Hey, ho,” he called, moving to his butler’s side. “Is something amiss?”

One look at her confirmed his suspicions. Under the pale pink rose buds on the rim of the fetching straw bonnet she had worn to their wedding, her chin was as firm as Adam’s when he was determined to have his way. Even the lady-like flounce of her pink silk wedding gown failed to hide the fact that her dainty foot was tapping in her agitation.

Evenson cleared his throat. “Madam does not find the bedchamber to her liking.”

“Oh?” Daniel glanced around the large chamber. He didn’t immediately see anything that might trouble her in the heavy polished walnut furniture or burgundy bed linens; but then he’d seen it every day since he had been eight. “If it’s the decor that bothers you, Cynthia, we can easily have it redone. I suppose it is a bit on the manly side.”

She was alternating between blushing and paling, and he knew something must be seriously wrong.

“Evenson,” he remarked casually, “go see what the boys have found to amuse themselves with so quietly, would you?”

Evenson bowed with obvious relief. “With pleasure, sir.”

As his man hurried off down the hall, Daniel stepped to Cynthia’s side. “Now, then, suppose you tell me what’s troubling you.”

She glared up at him, anger rising as she felt a tear trickle down one cheek. How could he stand there and pretend the only thing troubling her was the color of the bed linens? She had once thought him lack-witted, but now she wondered whether he was a lecher as well. “You promised!” she hissed.

Daniel blinked. “Promised?”

She stepped back from him, livid. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t remember. To think I trusted you. Call the carriage at once. The boys and I are leaving.”

“Cynthia!” He caught her hands in his, and she pulled them quickly out. “I don’t understand. If you don’t like this chamber, you have only to pick another. Gads, there must be at least twenty in this monstrosity.”

Arrested, she stared at him. “Choose another?”

“Yes, please, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

She stepped a little closer, peering up into his face but saw only earnest concern. He stood as still as possible, wondering what on earth had happened to make her so skittish. “Where are you sleeping?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“I asked Evenson to move my things down the corridor closer to the nursery stairs,” he told her honestly. “I thought you’d need the bigger room. But if you don’t like it . . .”

She expelled her breath slowly and forced her fists, which were balled at her sides, to open. “No, no, this chamber is fine. I’m sorry I made a fuss. You see, this is obviously the master’s bedchamber, and I noticed your things on the dresser and that made me think . . .”

“That I was installing you in my bedchamber,” Daniel finished, understanding at last. “I’m sorry I’m such a slow top. I should have explained it to you. In fact, I probably should have let you make the arrangements. It strikes me now that perhaps you’d rather the boys slept on this floor, near us.”

She picked at the lace on the sleeve of her gown, afraid to ask him for even such a small favor after making such a silly mistake. “Would you mind?”

“Not in the slightest. As I said, we’ve plenty of space. I daresay John at least is of an age at which he’d like his own.”

“My own room!” John gasped in the doorway.

Daniel smiled at his face. Despite the look of astonishment, it was cheerier now than anytime he could remember. It pleased him to think he might have had some hand in that. “Your very own, if you’d like it.”

“I’ll say!” John declared. “Hear that, you two?” he called to his brothers who were hurrying up the corridor with Evenson puffing at their heels. “I’m to have my own room!”

“I want my own room too!” Adam demanded.

James looked thoughtful. “I don’t think I should like to sleep alone just yet. Especially in a strange house.”

“It’s not a strange house,” Adam said with a pout. “It’s our home, isn’t it, Mr. Daniel?”

“It certainly is, my good man,” Daniel told him, scooping him up and depositing him on his shoulders. He caught Evenson grimacing at the gesture and grinned. “There are at least eight bedchambers along this corridor. You may have your pick of the lot, with your mother’s approval, of course.”

Cynthia nodded, and John and James dashed off in opposite directions, whooping in delight. Daniel felt Adam wiggling.

“Hurry up, Mr. Daniel. We don’t want them getting the best rooms!”

Evenson cleared his throat. “Might I be excused, sir? If you’re going to be making alternative living arrangements, I really should let the staff know.”

Daniel shooed him out of the way, heading out into the corridor while Adam cried out impossible directions. It felt a little odd being pointed by a child hanging onto his ears, but Adam wasn’t a heavy burden and they were quickly in the midst of the search.

It took over an hour for them to inspect each of the chambers in the family wing and decide on a likely grouping. John picked a corner chamber with a turret window overlooking the west fields. After some consideration, James and Adam decided they would share the larger chamber next door for the time being, as it had a connecting door to a chamber that could be used as a playroom.

With some relief, Cynthia settled on the chamber opposite theirs and next to John’s. The single large south-facing window let in plenty of light, and, when she looked out, she could see the rose gardens below. The yellow and green bed hangings and upholstery on the chairs and stool near the white stone fireplace made the chamber seem much cheerier than the master bedchamber. The only problem was that Daniel chose the chamber next door.

He caught her eyeing the connecting door with obvious misgivings. As the boys discussed where they would put their few belongings, he drew her aside, hoping to calm her fears once and for all.

“Interesting architecture, don’t you think?” he nodded toward the offending door.

She managed a polite smile. “I suppose it was to allow visiting couples to reach each other more easily.”

“Undoubtedly. But the Lewistons of the past were a practical lot. Just in case the couples weren’t all that interested, the door can be locked from either side.” He reached up over the door jamb and took down the brass key that was kept there. “Here. You keep the key. If you ever need me, just use it.”

She paled again, and for a moment he thought he had gone too far.

“You are too good to us, Daniel,” she murmured, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I promise you, I’ll repay you somehow.”

Adam dashed up suddenly, hugging Daniel around the legs. “This is the best day yet, Mr. Daniel. We have our own rooms, and we get to be with you always.”

Daniel felt the now familiar constriction near his heart. He glanced from Adam’s beaming face to Cynthia’s watery smile. “Believe me, my dear, you already have

Chapter Seven

Cynthia’s watery mood barely lasted through the first course of an early dinner. It seemed impossible to believe that after nearly ten years of exile, she was finally to have the pampered, comfortable life for which she had been raised. The very thought made her feel a bit like a traitor to Nathan’s memory, but the sight of veal on her plate somehow pushed the guilt away with the memory. If she had to trade love for a mess of porridge, at least it was to be very good porridge.

Of course, that’s what she had assumed. It was well known that the Lewiston estate boasted a real French chef, and she had naturally supposed that the food would be beyond anything she had ever tasted. One mouthful made her reach for the damask napkin in dismay. Farther up the long table, which could easily have seated thirty, she saw that Adam was attempting to push the overcooked peas around his plate with his utensils and only succeeding in mashing them further. Across from him, James was chewing the cheddared potatoes, although with difficulty, and near Daniel, John had pushed the Yorkshire pudding away in disgust. Only Daniel at the head of the table was calmly eating as if nothing untoward was happening.

“Is this normal fare?” she called up from the foot of the long table, where her place had been set.

Daniel swallowed and nodded. “Seems to be Henri’s favorite dinner. I believe we have it on a regular basis.”

“Every Wednesday, sir,” Evenson supplied from his station at the side table, although Cynthia thought even he looked disgusted by the fact.

“Every Wednesday?” John cried. James swallowed, then reached quickly for water to drown the lump. Adam smashed the last pea triumphantly.

Daniel glanced around at the obviously displeased faces around him. “Don’t you care for it?”

Cynthia’s frown turned the boys’ eyes back to their plates. “I’m sure it’s quite adequate, Daniel. The boys and I have learned to make do with far less. However, I admit I’m curious. Do you like it?”

Daniel glanced down at the gray lump that was the veal. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never actually thought about it. Dinner and any other meal was just something to get through.”

Cynthia felt a sudden stab of pity. She could picture him rattling about this great house, conducting his estate duties alone, eating alone, reading himself to sleep alone, and waking up alone to do it all over again. She might not be able to keep him company at night, but she could certainly make sure that his home was clean and his food edible.

“I think it’s safe to say we can do something about this,” she said, smiling at everyone. “Evenson, I shall want a word with Mr. Henri this afternoon.”

Evenson cringed. “Of course, madam. However, I think you should know that Monsieur Henri takes a nap everyday from three to six, and then of course he’s busy with the supper preparations, so perhaps I might suggest . . .”.

“Three o’clock,” Cynthia said sweetly, but the boys had the good sense to lower their eyes once again. “In the library.”

Evenson swallowed and bowed himself out.

* * * *

She didn’t wait until three. Once she saw that the boys were safely engaged in a protracted tour of the picture gallery with Daniel and one of the more trustworthy-looking footmen, she changed from the soft pink wedding gown Jonathan had magnanimously purchased for her into her mourning gown. She had hoped never to don the thing again, but it was guaranteed to look serious, and she needed to look as serious as possible for this interview. She supposed she ought to meet all the servants at some point or at least discuss arrangements with Evenson. For now, she would have to settle for handling “Monsieur Henri.”

She hadn’t reached the ground-floor landing before she heard the shouting. The fact that it was in French and filled with a considerable number of words her mother had never taught her only caused her chin to raise a few more inches higher. She followed the noise down the back stairs and swept into the kitchen. The scullery maids, who were huddled by the door, scattered. Evenson withdrew to a discreet distance, and the two assistant cooks who had been attempting to restrain the portly chef dropped his arms and bowed to her. She smiled, then stepped forward, holding out her hand.

“Monsieur Henri, I came as soon as I could.”

She knew the other servants were exchanging glances of puzzlement. Her appeasing attitude stopped the Frenchman in mid-tirade. She continued before he could recover. “My dear sir, you cannot know how delighted I am to be so fortunate to have an artiste of your caliber on my staff. Je suis enchante!”

She knew her French, though rusty, was near perfect. The little man’s head came up, and a look of delight spread across his pasty face. “I assure you, madame, the honor is all mine.”

“Oh, but you are too kind. A man of your skill, here, is nothing short of miraculous.” With the other servants wide-eyed about her, she stepped closer and lowered her voice, continuing in French. “I realize, of course, that my husband must have been a sad trial to you. His palate, alas, is not very refined, non? But I assure you, I will be a much more discerning judge.”

The Frenchman swallowed, catching the steel behind her velvet words as she had hoped he would. “I will attempt to please, of course.”

“I know you will. I will expect recommendations from you each Monday morning for every meal in the week to follow. We will meet in the library precisely at eight. I ask that you consider we are feeding three young boys with unschooled palates as well as two adults. Given that this is Wednesday, I will waive the recommendations for this week. I hope you will use this time to show me exactly how skilled you are.”

“Oui, madame,” Henri muttered, breaking into a sweat.

“Excellent. And Henri, if you ever serve my husband the slop you provided for dinner today, it will be the last day you serve my husband. Do I make myself clear?”

“Oui, madame,” he managed in a choked whisper.

Cynthia beamed at everyone around her and switched back to English. “It was delightful to meet you, Monsieur. I know our home will be better for having you here.” She nodded to the others and swept out of the room.

Once back in her new bedchamber, she sank down on the embroidered stool near the empty fireplace and broke into delighted laughter. The look on Monsieur Henri’s face had been priceless, but the shocked look on Evenson’s usually impassive face had been even better. That should teach the man to treat her Daniel with anything less than respect!

She choked on her laughter. Her Daniel? What was she thinking? For that matter, what was she doing meddling in his affairs? She was acting as giddy as the child she had once been. Daniel Lewiston had been master of this house for years. What right had she to walk in her first day and order his staff around? True, the cook had been shirking his duties, but was it her place to correct him? She was mistress of this house under the flimsiest of pretenses. By this evening, she had no doubt every servant as well as most of her neighbors would know that the Master and Mistress of Lewiston House kept separate rooms. While this wasn’t unheard of among the gentry, it still made her feel guilty that she somehow wasn’t repaying his kindness. She supposed she would simply have to get used to the idea that the best thing she could do for Daniel Lewiston was to ensure that he had a well-run household.

With this thought in mind, she approached Daniel in the withdrawing room that evening after a much improved supper. James was reading aloud a book he had found in Daniel’s “excellent” library to a rapt Adam, and John was sitting on the hardwood floor with knees to chest staring dreamily into the fire. She sat down next to Daniel on the nearby sofa and lowered her voice so as not to disturb her sons.

“Thank you for being so good to us,” she murmured, gathering courage from the smile he gave her back. “I have been thinking about our lives here, and I wondered if you’d mind if I made a few changes?”

His smile deepened. “If they’re anything like the change you made in Monsieur Henri, I’d be delighted. That was the best food I think I’ve ever had.”

She blushed. “Your chef and I simply reached an understanding. I don’t know if I’ll have such luck elsewhere.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Daniel encouraged her. “What else do you wish to change?”

“Well, for one thing, would you mind if we sat a little closer at the dining table?”

He chuckled. “It is a bit of a shout when we try to converse. I’ll tell Evenson to set all five places near the head. What else?”

“Do you think the boys might have a tutor?” she ventured.

Daniel nodded. “Certainly. Although I wondered about Mr. Wellfordhouse’s classes at the vicarage. They’d have a chance to meet other children that way. The class is small now, but it will grow once we have the school built.”

Cynthia was surprised to find how easy it was to talk to him about matters. Whenever she’d raised such issues to Nathan, he had laughingly scolded her for worrying too much. “I think the vicarage school would be wonderful,” she agreed. “There are some things, however, the good Reverend won’t be able to teach them, such as horsemanship.”

“We used to have an excellent stable,” Daniel replied thoughtfully. “I rode every morning for years, but I somehow lost interest after my sister Cerise married. I suppose it was just one more thing to do alone. I’d be delighted to take the boys riding whenever you’d like. And you too, of course.”

“You’ll have to get us riding outfits, then,” Cynthia replied with a laugh. “There isn’t much call for horsemanship on the Bristol docks.”

“Done.” He grinned. “We’ll have a tailor and seamstress in from Wells tomorrow.”

But even when the tailor and seamstress had measured them and scurried off to make riding outfits and several other items Daniel commissioned, riding proved to be difficult. Daniel took the boys and Cynthia down to the stables to inspect the horses; however, Cynthia was disappointed to find the animals old and entirely too docile for all but Adam. Seeing her disapproval, Daniel suggested they purchase suitable mounts. Cynthia brightened, until he called for the carriage to take them to visit Enoch McCreedy.

Mr. McCreedy was well known about Wenwood for two things: fine horses and a foul temper. Even when he was a young man of twenty her father had refused to deal with him, and she could only assume that Jonathan had followed suit. She remembered her mother sweeping her skirts aside to keep from touching him as they passed in the village. He had leered at her and spat on her shoes. It took a strong person to deal with Enoch McCreedy and come out the better for it. She wasn’t sure Daniel had that strength.

She managed to convince him to leave the boys at home with Evenson and the footman to watch them (soothing the boys with the idea that the exact color of their horses would then be a surprise). She kept him busy during the ride across the village by asking him questions about his sisters – when they had married, how they were getting on, how many children they had by now. She nodded and chatted, but all the while her mind was elsewhere.

What skill did she possess that might allow her to help Daniel? She had learned to bow and scrape to the servants of the merchants in Bristol so that she might earn a living darning socks and mending clothes. She seemed to remember how to behave with arrogance befitting gentry if her handling of Monsieur Henri was any indication. But would either approach allow her to help a kind man like Daniel purchase horses from a tyrant like Enoch McCreedy?

Daniel was more than happy to recount tales of his many nieces (all his sisters having had daughters so far), but he knew by the way Cynthia’s eyes kept darting to the window that her thoughts weren’t entirely on what he was saying. He supposed she’d heard stories about Enoch. The man certainly had figured largely in local lore. Daniel had met him a few years ago at a horse auction and struck up a conversation. He had been the only one to stay when the man began cussing and spouting bile, amazed by how easily Enoch vilified anyone who crossed his path. It was obvious to him that the man was as alone as he was, and, once he had shown Enoch he wasn’t to be turned aside so easily, they had struck up an odd friendship. He had little doubt the man could sell him some prime blood, but he wasn’t sure how Cynthia would react to Enoch’s personality.

“Perhaps you should wait in the carriage,” Daniel tried when they arrived at the farmstead. “It’s a bit dusty, and I wouldn’t want you to ruin your gown.”

As she had chosen to wear the black dress again, she could hardly agree with him. “I’m not afraid of a bit of dust. I would like to help you select the horses for the boys, if you don’t mind.”

He could hardly gainsay her. Glancing out the carriage window, he saw that several horses were already out in a paddock some distance away from the main stable. “All right, then. Suppose you go with Jeffers over to have a look at the mounts, and I’ll see if I can’t scare up Enoch.”

It wasn’t exactly what she had had in mind, but she couldn’t find a reason to argue. With great misgivings, she allowed the footman to lead her over to the fenced area where she could survey the horses.

Daniel let her go with equal misgivings, then hurried into the dark stable to find his friend. Enoch was exactly where Daniel had thought he’d find him, back in one of the stalls, checking on one of the stallions he used for stud service. The tall, thin, craggy man glanced up as Daniel neared, running a hand back through black hair that was graying at the temples and narrowing sharp blue eyes.

“Didn’t think to see you so soon,” he muttered, setting down the stallion’s hoof and patting the brute as he exited the stall. “Married folks usually have better things to do.”

“Nice to see you again too, Enoch,” Daniel said, grinning at him.

He stumped along the aisle, and Daniel fell in beside him. “I suppose she made you come.”

“We need horses. Where else would we go?”

He spat into the straw at his feet. “I heard she was a tartar. You were lucky when you were a lad – she ran away on you before you had to offer. Should have learned your lesson then.”

Daniel couldn’t imagine why, but for once Enoch’s words stung. He tried to ignore it and focus on what he had come for. “So, what would you recommend for three boys and a lady?”

They were out in the sun now, and Enoch waved toward the paddock. “Looks like she already made the decision.”

Cynthia saw them coming. The man beside Daniel was taut as a halyard and as hard as a whet stone. She’d dealt with his kind many times in the Admiralty. Arrogance was the only approach they understood. She drew herself up to her full height for the oncoming battle. Unfortunately that only put her eyes on a level with Enoch’s collarbone. She craned her neck to meet his gaze as Daniel introduced them.

Enoch spit at the ground near inches from her feet. She refused to move. “Well, which horses do you want?”

Even though she had been expecting it, his insolence annoyed her. “I’m sure my husband knows what we need for our stables.”

“Your stables, eh?” He quirked a bushy eyebrow. “Last time I checked, they were Mr. Lewiston’s stables.”

She started to protest, but Daniel slipped an arm about her waist and she froze in surprise. “Now, Enoch, you know how things are with newlyweds. We do everything together. And right now we’d both very much like your advice on horses.”

Cynthia sucked in her breath, but whether it was a result of Daniel actually treating this creature politely or how warm his arm felt all the way through her black gown, she wasn’t certain. “I’m sure you’re quite capable of determining which horses we should purchase, Daniel,” she murmured as firmly as she could.

“He wouldn’t know good horse flesh if it sat on him,” Enoch grumbled. “Any more than he knows a good woman when he sees one.”

Daniel shook his head. It was obviously not one of Enoch’s better days. The only thing he could do was take Cynthia home before matters worsened. “Never mind, Enoch. I think we’ve seen enough for one day. Cynthia, let’s go home.”

Cynthia trembled in suppressed rage. How dare the man speak that way about Daniel? How dare he imply that she was less than a good wife to him? “You’re quite right, dear,” she replied, head high, as she turned away from the paddock.

Enoch chortled. “Give it up, missy. You just like to let him think he’s running things. Everyone knows who wears the pants in your house. The only shame is, Daniel doesn’t get to see what goes into them.”

Cynthia turned bright red.

There was nothing for it. Daniel turned and slugged Enoch right in the jaw.

Pain shot through his hand, and he hopped back out of reach before Enoch could return the swing. The older man’s head had rocked back with the blow, but he didn’t stumble. He rubbed his jaw and winced. “Well then, I guess we all know how things stand. The three ponies, I think for the younger ones, and the bay mare for the lady. No charge. They’re my wedding present to you. I’ll have one of the boys bring them round tomorrow morning. Good day to you both.” He knuckled his forelock in Cynthia’s direction and turned back to the stables.

Daniel stared after at him, hand smarting and thoroughly confused. He realized Cynthia was staring at him, eyes wide, all color fled, and he could only hope she didn’t think him as great a beast as Enoch.

“Oh, Daniel,” she cried, throwing herself into his arms. “That was magnificent!”

She was so close he could smell the scent of roses in her hair. Her body next to his was soft and curvy and seemed to fit against him in all the right places. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to force himself to push her gently away before she could see how she was affecting him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he managed, wincing at the pain in his right hand. “But would you mind returning with me to the carriage? I’m not feeling particularly well.”

Cynthia found she wasn’t feeling particularly well either. The feel of Daniel’s arms about her had been surprisingly good, and the summer day had suddenly felt much cooler when he had set her back from him. She tried to reach out to him, but he turned quickly before she could touch him. Self-conscious, she let her hand fall to her side and followed him back to the waiting carriage. Yet, she could not help marveling again at what she had seen. Daniel Lewiston, knight errant. It was a side of him she had never suspected existed. Could she have misjudged her husband after all?

Chapter Eight

Daniel’s defense of Cynthia’s good name was not the last of the surprises in store for her. She soon found that she didn’t know her new husband well, if she had ever known him at all. Growing up, she had assumed his timidity and awkwardness around her was part of his personality, that he approached everyone that way. Certainly nothing up until his gallantry at the stables had led her to believe otherwise. But a number of events over the next few weeks made her realize that there was a great deal more to Daniel than she had ever thought possible.

The first event was the arrival of the horses from Enoch McCreedy. True to his word, he had sent study ponies for Adam, James, and John, and a darling spirited mare for her. In earlier days she would have thought the idea of Daniel riding the brute of a stallion Enoch sent as a surprise for him preposterous, but Daniel had no trouble mounting and galloping about the estate with evident glee. Soon she and the boys were cantering alongside him on a daily basis, the boys proud in their matching black trousers and jackets, and Adam proudest of all in his long pants. And she had to admit, as she admired the way the sky blue wool riding jacket and skirt flattered her figure and coloring, that Daniel’s taste in clothing was bang up to the mark as well.

The second event was a visit by several of the village matrons, including Squire Pentercast’s wife Genevieve and her sister Allison, to congratulate her on her marriage and welcome her formally to Wenwood. Since she had run away to be married to Nathan, and neither his family nor her own had ever approved of the match, she had never had such a visit in her life. She wasn’t at all sure what to say or do, but Daniel welcomed the women to the house, chatted with them about their own families as if he’d known them for years, which of course he probably had, and in general let it be known that he was utterly enchanted with his new bride so that the ladies left singing her praises without her having so much as to remember to pour the tea.

If she had thought Daniel was impressive at home, she was equally surprised to find him adept at social gatherings as well. Allison had ordered Daniel to bring Cynthia to the next assembly at Barnsley Grange, but Cynthia had hardly taken that seriously. She hadn’t danced in years, and she certainly didn’t want to subject Daniel to something he might find uncomfortable. Besides, outside her pink wedding dress, all her dresses were much too dark and of poor material to make a good showing even at a country dance.

She was therefore surprised to return from a ride with Daniel and the boys to find a rather large box sitting on her bed.

“Oh, a present!” Adam squealed, having followed her into the room before continuing to his own to change. He clambered up onto the bed and bounced on his knees, setting the box to rocking. “Open it, open it!”

James and John crowded in the doorway. John frowned. “A present for Mother?”

Daniel put his arms across their shoulders and bent to speak in their ears. “Certainly. After all the toys we’ve bought, not to mention the new horses, don’t you think she deserved something all for herself?”

Cynthia frowned at him, then at the box. “Well, I don’t think I deserve it. What have you done, Daniel?”

His gray eyes twinkled with blue. “Open it.”

Grimacing, she reached down and shook off the lid. Whatever was inside was wrapped in yards of white tissue. She glanced back up at him. He grinned at her.

“Open it, Mother!” Adam urged, bouncing again in his excitement.

She shook her head in exasperation and began unpeeling the wrapping. As the tissue began to open, she caught sight of rose satin, as soft as the petals of a flower. Eagerness seized her, and she practically tore the last of the paper off. In her hands lay the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.

All of it was made of the delicate rose satin, with darker rose ribbon in triple rows around the high waist and full skirt. The rounded neck and small puffed sleeves were edged with intricate embroidery of white roses on emerald leaves. In the center of each rose was a small pearl. Similar roses seemed to climb from the ribbon at the hem to blossom under the gathered bosom.

“Oh,” John grunted dismissingly, “it’s just a dumb dress.”

“Very nice, Mother.” James nodded dutifully before John pulled him across the corridor toward the well-furnished play room. Adam reached out and patted the soft material.

“It’s very pretty, Mother. You’ll look just like the roses in Mr. Daniel’s garden.”

Cynthia smiled at him, feeling her eyes moisten. “That’s right, Adam.”

He crawled down from the bed and skipped off across the corridor. Watching him, Cynthia glanced up to find Daniel watching her.

“I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, oddly embarrassed. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“Good,” Daniel replired. “Then you’ll have no trouble accompanying me to the assembly this Wednesday.”

“No, I suppose I won’t.” She couldn’t help laughing at the thought.

And she had worn it to the assembly, with a nosegay of rosebuds at her wrist and roses entwined in the braid in her hair. And Daniel had danced every dance with her, and she’d felt more beautiful than even the night she’d met Nathan. In fact, Nathan had never seemed farther away, and for once the thought didn’t terrify her.

Daniel couldn’t help noticing the change in her. All his efforts to bring them closer were beginning to work. She was laughing again, not the teasing laughter he remembered as a young man but a joyful sound that did something to his heart to hear it. He ordered a dozen more dresses, each in a different style and all in shades of violet and blue and pink that complimented her fair coloring. Whether it was the dresses or laughter he didn’t know, but he was pleased to see the dark circles disappear from around her eyes.

He was also pleased and a little surprised to find that virtually none of his own clothes were fitting. Between the improvement in Monsieur Henri’s cooking and the exercise he was getting with the boys, he had lost a good fifty pounds. When he put on the new clothes he ordered for himself, he had to admit that he cut a rather dashing figure. Perhaps Cynthia hadn’t married herself such a frog after all.

There was one thing more he felt he must try to change, however, and that was Cynthia’s inability to play with the boys. While he would cheerfully wrestle and dash about the house with them, Cynthia always watched from a distance. She watched with an indulgent smile on her face, that was true, but she refused to join them.

At first he wondered whether she was hampered by her new gowns, but she didn’t seem more likely to enter their games when she wore the hideous black dress, which was rarely now. More likely, he decided, she had had to be both mother and father for so long that she was unable to unbend to be herself even long enough to play a game of hide and seek. It seemed to him a symbol of their relationship – while it was pleasant, the joy was missing. If he could get her to unbend in one area, perhaps the other would follow.

His opportunity came one afternoon when he had been playing a boisterous game of touch and run with the boys through the hedges of the maze. He had stopped to catch his breath near one of the entrances when he heard Cynthia calling to the boys to come in for tea. James and Adam dutifully appeared from behind various shrubs. A half-hearted scuffle behind him could only be John. He held out one arm to stop them and put a finger to his lips.

“Let’s see if we can’t get your mother to play for a bit,” he whispered. All three of them brightened, and they scampered off into hiding. Daniel sauntered out of the maze right into Cynthia’s path.

“Hello, my dear. Did I hear you calling?”

Cynthia smiled at him over the basket of roses in her arms. She had to admit that even with his new clothes powdered with dust and thoroughly rumpled, he was looking rather handsome. She’d never realized in fact how handsome he really was. His jaw was firm, his profile strong, shoulders were impressive, and his legs long and powerful. The strength of her possessive feelings surprised her, and she had to look away with a blush that rivaled the color of the blooms in her arms. “Yes, well, I’ve finished with the roses for the day, and I thought it must be time for tea.”

“Well,” Daniel said with a grin, “if you really want tea, you’ll have to come fetch us.” He tapped her gently on the arm. “You’ve been touched.”

She blinked, and Daniel pelted off into the maze, his husky laughter floating behind him.

“Daniel, this is ridiculous,” she called, peering into the bushes in first one direction and then the other. Really, couldn’t the man be serious? The path stretched empty in all directions. “Boys, come out immediately.”

“Boys,” Daniel’s voice countered from somewhere on her right. “You will do nothing of the kind until your mother touches one of us.”

Somewhere to her left someone giggled. Adam, she thought, eyes narrowing. “Very well, then, have it your way.” She set the basket on one of the stone benches that dotted the maze and tiptoed toward the sound. Carefully she peered over the top of the bushes. There was no one there. Frustrated, she sank back onto her feet.

“Nah nah nah,” John teased from her right. She whipped about in time to see him disappearing around a turn in the maze. She lifted her skirts and dashed after him.

For the next few minutes it was pure anarchy in the maze. Children raced around corners and dove into bushes. Daniel actually leapt over one of the lower hedges to avoid her touch. Determined, she pursued him deeper into the maze, his laughter always just ahead of her. Adam escaped by crawling under a stone bench. James ran away so quickly he lost a shoe, and she only paused long enough to scoop it up and slip it in the pocket of her gown. John had the uncanny knack of letting her get within a finger’s breadth before sprinting past her and disappearing again. Her hair came undone from its pins, she trod on the flounce of her gown, and she had never had such a wonderful time in all her life.

She was about to get the jump on John at last when she caught sight of Daniel heading for the center of the maze. Letting her son escape, she edged along the hedge and peered around the corner. Facing away from her, Daniel was bent over the stone bench at the center of the maze to catch his breath, one foot up on the bench. She tiptoed up behind him and placed both hands on his broad back. “I have you!” she shrieked triumphantly.

Daniel grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his embrace. She was so surprised that she could only gasp out an “oh” and with her mouth in such a perfect position, he kissed her.

It was a quick peck, nothing more. But it caused the strangest sensations in her stomach, and all she could do was stare at him. He had the oddest expression on his own face, his gray eyes suddenly dark, and she had the distinct impression that his breathlessness had nothing to do with the game.

“Cynthia,” he managed. “Say something, please.”

She blinked. “Thank you?”

He laughed shakily. “Thank you? Is that for the game or the kiss?”

“Both?” She felt shy suddenly and dropped her gaze. The feel of his arms around her was wonderfully comforting, and she found she had no desire to move. What she did have a desire for, however, was another kiss, and the thought was enough to shock her into silence.

Daniel had no idea how things had gotten to this pass. Here he stood with Cynthia in his arms in the middle of the garden of all places, the feel of her mouth under his still fresh in his mind. Fresh, it was overpowering. He found himself staring at those lips, warm, dusted with moisture like dew on the petals of a rose. All he’d have to do was lower his head once again and  . . . .

“Aw, she caught him!” Adam cried from the hedge. “Do we have to go to tea now?”

Daniel forced himself to let go of her. Cynthia smoothed down her skirts and stood a little straighter. He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Her effort was completely in vain with her hair wild about her shoulders and dust caking the hem of her skirt.

“That’s only fair, Adam,” she told her son with a smile. “I did catch Daniel, and he promised we’d go in when I caught one of you.”

“Oh, all right.” Adam sighed. Within minutes, they had rounded up James and John and were headed back to the house with Daniel in the lead. Cynthia picked up her basket and trailed behind. She told herself she was quite glad she had managed to get them to return to the house, but suddenly she had lost all interest in tea, and she couldn’t wait to get some time to herself to think.

Chapter Nine

She didn’t get time to herself until after the boys had retired. Daniel seemed disappointed that she didn’t choose to stay up and play chess or billiards with him as had been their wont of late, but today’s kiss in the maze had thoroughly unnerved her and she found it impossible to be alone with him until she knew why.

After she had departed, Daniel sat staring into the fire, thoughts unfocused, or rather refusing to focus on a particular incident. He nodded at Evenson who came in to check the windows and doors before going to bed. “Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?”

“Can you explain women to me, Evenson?” Daniel asked.

Evenson sighed. “If I could do that, sir, I would no longer be your butle;, I’d be the richest man in England.”

“In the world,” Daniel amended.

“Just so, sir. Good night.”

Daniel nodded again as he left. He continued to sit in front of the fire, watching the red coals dimming one by one to black. Around him the room grew still and cool. He had spent many such nights before Cynthia and the boys had come into his life, but the memories were far from pleasant. His life was richer and better with them in it. He had thought he was content with his lot. But after the kiss this afternoon, he knew he could never be.

He had fallen in love with Cynthia.

He shook his head. How could he have been such a fool? He had wanted to win her heart, but somehow he had never considered that he might lose his own. He’d thought the poets mad, but now he knew they were no madder than he was. The frog was hopelessly in love with the beautiful, clever, wonderful mother of his sons. If she had felt for Nathan half of what he was feeling for her, he suddenly understood how she could run away and leave everything behind.

Most likely it had been creeping up on him all summer long, only he had just noticed it this afternoon when she had run up behind him. He really hadn’t been intending to kiss her, but with her mouth so delectably close he hadn’t had much choice. And the taste of her and the feel of her had been so sweet. He closed his eyes just thinking about it. God, how could he ever be in the same room with her again without wanting to hold her that way once more?

He leaned back on his elbows. He couldn’t face her without saying something, that much was clear. But what was he to say? “My dear Cynthia, I know I made a bargain when I married you, but I’ve changed my mind. I want ours to be true marriage. You will report to my bed this evening.” He shook his head. That would hardly do. Yet he balked at the idea of simply telling her he loved her. Surely she would just smile politely and tell him to go to blazes.

“They’re all right about you, my lad,” he said with a sigh. “How much of a man can you be if you can’t even tell the woman you love that you love her?”

Upstairs the woman he loved was having a similar conversation with herself. It was equally plain to her that she had fallen in love with Daniel, although she couldn’t remember when it had happened. She looked at herself in the mirror of the dressing table and a slow smile spread across her face. In love! She had never thought to feel this way again. A blush was spreading with the smile. She was in love with her darling, gentle, sweet-natured husband. But was he in love with her?

The smile and blush faded as quickly as they had come. True, he had kissed her, and he seemed to have been as affected by it as she had. And she had realized some time since that his awkwardness around her was a sign that her presence meant more to him than he wanted it to. But did that truly mean that his heart was engaged? Men did not necessarily love where they lusted, she had heard. Should she trust him with her heart when she did not know his?

But how could she face him without blurting out her feelings? And what was she to say? “Daniel, I know I asked you for a marriage of convenience but would you mind if I shared your bed?” The blush returned in full force. She would sound like a veritable wanton!

And yet she had to do something. They had been rather cozy together this summer, but everything was changed with the kiss. She could try to ignore it, but she feared it would only fester. The best thing for all would be to tell him the truth, that she was hopelessly in love with him and wanted to make theirs a true marriage. Knowing her Daniel, if he felt otherwise, he would be very gentle about telling her so.

She resolved to speak to him as soon as the boys were off to the vicarage school that next morning, then spent so sleepless a night worrying about his answer that she arrived at the breakfast table late and feeling haggard. She took some comfort in the fact that Daniel did not look as if he had slept well either. There were bags under his stormy gray eyes, and his hand stirring the honey into his tea shook on the spoon. The boys did not seem to have noticed the difference; they sat eating and laughing as they usually did.

“We are going to the pond to fish this morning,” John announced, cramming a piece of toast in his mouth and speaking around the wad. “Wanna come Mr. Daniel?”

Daniel managed a smile. “I’d love to, but isn’t Mr. Wellfordhouse expecting you at the vicarage?”

John avoided his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure he’d understand if we took a day off.”

“Fishing!” Adam exclaimed, waving the spoon from his porridge in the air. “I’m gonna catch a whale!”

Cynthia smiled at him and motioned him to put the spoon down, which he did with a contrite look.

“I do not believe Mr. Daniel’s pond carries whales,” James interjected. “Sturgeon would be the best one could hope for, I would imagine.”

“Minnows more likely,” Cynthia told him. “But I quite agree with Daniel. Fishing will have to wait. You need to go to school.”

John set down his spoon and frowned at her. “Mother, there is more to life than school. Isn’t that so, Mr. Daniel?”

“A great deal more, John,” Daniel replied. “However, you won’t be in much of a position to enjoy it if you don’t have a decent education. I know the pond is calling, but it will be here tomorrow and the day after that. Today you need to go to school.”

John glanced between the two of them. “Is something wrong?”

Cynthia could feel a blush heating her cheek and hastily looked away from the knowing blue eyes. “No, John.”

“Everything is fine, John,” Daniel agreed, although his voice sounded a little shaky to Cynthia. “And I’d be delighted to take you to the pond this afternoon when you return from the vicarage.”

John slumped in his chair and poked at his porridge. “Oh, very well.”

Daniel nodded. “I’ll look forward to it, then. I hope you understand about the vicarage school, John. You more than any of the others need to be attending, because it will prepare you to go to Eton.”

“Eton!” Cynthia gasped. “Oh, Daniel, how wonderful!”

He beamed at her. “It’s the least I could do.”

“What’s eatin’?” Adam demanded. “I want to go too.”

“And so you shall, my lad,” Daniel said. “First John, then James, then you. And after that Oxford or Cambridge if you like.”

John was frowning again. “I don’t know those places. Are they near Barnsley?”

“No, they’re much farther than that,” Daniel explained. “They’re fine schools, John, where you’ll meet lots of fellows just like you. Your Uncle Jonathan attended Eton. So did the Duke of Wellington. I always wished I could. These are places you’ll be proud to say you were graduated from.”

John paled and rose from his chair. “You’re sending me away?”

“Daniel is sending you to school, love,” Cynthia tried soothing, reaching out a hand. John shrugged it away. “John, it’s more than I’d ever hoped for you.”

“You want me gone too?” John cried. James stared at them all, and Adam trembled in his chair.

“John,” Daniel said firmly, hoping to make the boy see reason before the whole lot of them started crying, “no one wants you gone.”

“Perhaps this isn’t the time to talk about this,” Cynthia put in, seeing her oldest son shake with suppressed emotion.

“Why, because you don’t want me to talk?” John demanded.

The boy was obviously beyond logic. “John,” Daniel said quietly. “I think that’s enough.”

John turned on him, eyes wild, and Daniel had to fight not to flinch away from the betrayal staring back at him. “I know why you’re doing this!” the boy shouted at him, blinking away hot tears. “You want to spend more time with her! You like her better than you like us! Well, she wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t told her to. I did everything! I told the ladies in the village she wanted a husband so those awful men would call. I got you to go over there when you didn’t even want to. I got her to marry you. She doesn’t even like you. She thinks you’re fat and stupid!”

“John!” Cynthia gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

The constriction by his heart that the boys’ concerns usually caused was gone, and Daniel felt only pain inside him. He had been right all along. It didn’t matter how princely he behaved or how lordly he looked. To Cynthia, he would always be a frog. It would have been easy to give up and go back to his quiet life before they had arrived, a life with small chance of hurt and even smaller chance of love. He straightened under John’s glare. He refused to give up on them.

He rose and went to kneel beside the boy to put himself at John’s eye level. John’s small chin stuck out, and his fists were balled at his sides. His thin chest heaved as he gulped back sobs. “John,” Daniel said carefully, “this isn’t about my feelings for your mother. My idea of you going away to school is entirely about my love for you. When I married your mother, I gladly took on the responsibility of raising you and your brothers. I take that responsibility very seriously. It is my duty to help you grow up to be a gentleman you’ll be proud of. A good education is a requirement for such a gentleman.”

“But why must I go away?” John sniffed, dashing the tears away with the back of his hand. “Why can’t I stay here and get an education?”

Daniel could feel all three boys waiting for his answer. He tried not to look at Cynthia. “You can get a good start at an education with Reverend Wellfordhouse,” he explained. “Perhaps that will be all you want or need. But very likely you’ll want to go on to learn more, whether at Eton or Harrow or some other good school. We have over a year before we must make that decision. And rest assured, we will consult you on the matter. Now, do you think you can apologize to your mother for your behavior and get yourselves off to school?”

The boy nodded, sniffing away the last of his tears. He threw himself into Cynthia’s arms for a hug. Adam and James scooted out of their seats, eyes wide, and followed John from the room. Like it or not, Daniel knew that left him to face Cynthia.

“I think perhaps I’d better see that they make it to school,” he murmured, hurrying after them and hating himself for being so craven. He promised himself he would come back that afternoon, as soon as he could figure out a way to start rebuilding their relationship.

Cynthia watched him slink from the room and sank back against her chair in defeat.

Chapter Ten

Sometime later Cynthia stopped her pacing about the library and peered out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of the returning Daniel. After her sleepless night and John’s outburst that morning, her nerves were on edge, and she wanted only to get her declaration over and done with. Especially after John’s damning statement, she couldn’t let Daniel think she so despised him.

But Daniel didn’t come home that morning. Nor did he arrive in time for dinner, although she had a distraught Monsieur Henri delay the meal twice. In fact, she did not see him again until she had descended for supper and found him and the three boys boasting about their fishing of that afternoon. By then she was ready to scream.

For once Daniel was content to avoid Cynthia. While the boys were at school, he had found a way to tell Cynthia he loved her. He waited anxiously through supper, but she made no mention of the package he had left on her mantle, and he realized with a sinking heart that she hadn’t found it yet. He let the boys stay up later than usual, hoping that she would retire to her room, but she seemed intent on confronting him. At last he took the boys up to bed and slipped into his own chamber. He managed to change into nightclothes, but he found it impossible to sleep and perched on his bed, listening for her footfall in the corridor.

Cynthia couldn’t understand Daniel’s attitude. He had to know she wanted to talk to him, yet he let the boys stay up later than usual and insisted on taking them up to bed himself. She paced the withdrawing room, waiting for his return, and was just about to go up after him when Evenson came through on his rounds to close up the house. He was plainly surprised to see her, but made to bow himself out.

“Evenson,” she demanded, “where is my husband?”

“I believe Mr. Lewiston retired for bed some time ago, madam,” Evenson replied. “Shall I wake him for you?”

“No,” Cynthia said with a sigh, feeling every bit as dejected as John had that morning. “I might as well retire too, then. Good night, Evenson.”

She didn’t wait to hear him respond.

Upstairs, she dismissed the young lady Daniel had hired to serve as lady’s maid and began taking down her hair herself. She had combed out her tresses and put on her white cambric nightgown before she saw the box on the fireplace mantle.

“And don’t think a present will get you out of discussing this, my man,” she muttered to herself as she took down the box and carried it to the bed. Still, Daniel’s presents had always been wonderful, and she hurriedly pulled the lid off the oblong box. Inside lay a half dozen white sticks of candy, each thicker than her thumb.

She shook her head. “Where on earth did he find rock here in Wenwood?” she wondered aloud. That had been one of her few joys in living in Bristol, the rock candy made by the town’s leading confectionery. She vaguely remembered telling Daniel something about it when he had first called. Grabbing one of the sticks, she took a long lick and let the sweet taste roll down her throat. Hope filled her with each swallow. Perhaps there was a chance for them if he was still willing to buy her such a present. She had taken perhaps three such licks when she noticed that the end of the stick had red marks on it. Looking closer, she saw that the marks formed letters, letters that read, “I love you.”

She stared at the stick for another second before climbing to her feet. The candy trembled in her grip. She started for the door to her chamber, then stopped, turning toward the door that connected her chamber with Daniel’s. Heart pounding, she moved toward the door and reached up over the jam for the brass key. She transferred the candy to her left hand and, sticky fingered, unlocked the door with her right. The lock protested with a loud screech. He would know she was coming.

The rest of her was shaking with her hand as she pushed the door open. Daniel was standing at the side of his bed, green-satin dressing gown obviously thrown on in haste, hair tousled. “Cynthia, is anything wrong?”

Wordlessly, she held out the candy to him, lettering first.

“Oh.” He smiled sheepishly. “You found it. You had said you liked it best. I hope you don’t mind.”

Cynthia swallowed, feeling the lingering taste of the sweet on the back of her tongue. “Do you know what it says?”

He nodded, standing a little taller. “Yes. I asked the candy maker to put in the words. The candy is special, you know. No matter how long you lick it, the words will still show. And it will say ‘I love you’ until the very end, just as I will.”

The stick fell to the ground as Cynthia cast herself into his arms. Daniel hugged her close, finding her mouth once again so near to his. She tasted of the candy, and more.

And that night they both learned that Adam was wrong. There was indeed something in life far sweeter than candy.

_____________

A Place by the Fire

Chapter One

Miss Eleanor Pritchett, teacher of literature at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies, slid into place along the wall of the head mistress’ office, tucking her light brown hair up into the black cap all the teachers wore. She had never liked the shapeless black bombazine uniform of the school staff, but now she was thankful for the way it hid the fact that her slender chest was heaving after her dash from the second story. As it was, Eleanor arrived just in time to hear Miss Martingale’s nasal voice proclaim, “What is this creature?”

So it was true. Dottie had been caught with the kitten. Eleanor knew she should have dissuaded the farmer who brought the eggs from giving the tiny bundle of fur to the girl, but the gleam in Dottie’s dark eyes had been too precious to waste. Wincing at the thought of the consequences of that act, Eleanor slipped a little farther along the back wall until she bumped into the quivering form of the school’s new art teacher. A quick look at Miss Lurkin’s pale, narrow face confirmed Eleanor’s suspicions about who had had the misfortune of finding the kitten and the lack of foresight to keep from mentioning it to Miss Martingale.

From her new position, Eleanor could see around the two high-backed leather chairs that stood in front of the massive, claw-foot walnut desk. Dottie stood between chairs and desk, her black mourning gown of fine silk making her look thinner and more fragile than usual. Behind the desk, Miss Martingale’s considerable bulk was trembling with ill-suppressed indignation, one gloved hand holding aloft a small, squirming black kitten, who hissed with equal indignation.

“I believe you have been taught to answer when spoken to by your elders,” Miss Martingale said sharply. “But I shall repeat myself just this once. What is this creature?”

Dottie raised her head to meet the outraged head mistress’ gaze, and Eleanor had to stifle a shout of triumph. For once determination blazed from those chocolate eyes. Since returning to the school three months ago, the girl had never looked more like a daughter of a peer than at that moment. All this furor would be worth it if it brought the child out of the unresponsive cocoon she had built around herself since her parents had been killed in a boating accident in Naples.

Miss Lurkin obviously didn’t have the stomach for the tension that coiled through the room. “It’s a cat,” she burst out, then, as Miss Martingale’s cold blue glare turned her way, she shrank into herself. “That is,” she ventured timidly, “I believe it is a cat. Is it not?”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. Nothing incensed Miss Martingale more than idiocy, expect perhaps outright rebellion.

“To be sure,” Miss Martingale sneered. “It is a cat.” The wrinkle of her long nose and the line on her thin lips made it obvious what she thought of cats. The kitten spit at her.

“To be precise,” Eleanor felt compelled to put in kindly, “it’s a kitten. And a rather tiny one at that.”

The icy gaze swept over her, and she dutifully lowered her own. As an employee of the Barnsley School, she owed Miss Martingale her loyalty. Having been the recipient of one of the woman’s few bouts of kindness, she owed her far more. She would be forever grateful that the taciturn head mistress had agreed to take in an orphaned twelve-year-old whose soldier father had died without even leaving enough to pay for her schooling. She was even more grateful that an allowance from the school’s patrons, the Darbys, had allowed that child to learn and ply a trade for nearly fifteen years. And all Miss Martingale and the Darbys had asked in return was complete and total submission.

Until the seven-year-old Lady Dorothea Darby had returned to the Barnsley School, Eleanor had been more than willing to do anything Miss Martingale asked. Since then, she had had more than one infraction. In fact, the last week she had had to try to be on her best behavior to ward off Miss Martingale’s suspicions. Still, it certainly wasn’t Dottie’s fault. Eleanor knew she saw too much of herself in the girl’s sadness at being orphaned. She had done everything in her power to ease the child’s pain, sneaking sweet meats from the kitchens, taking Dottie on walks about the fields near the school on her day off, and staying with the girl when she had nightmares. It was only for a time, Eleanor had assured herself and any of the other teachers who noticed. It wasn’t something worthy of Miss Martingale’s attention. If they all just kept quiet, Dottie would be herself again in no time.

And the plan was working. Dottie would never have been able to stand before Miss Martingale’s fury three months ago. Now she stood so tall that Eleanor’s heart swelled with pride. If only she could get Miss Martingale to see how the girl had blossomed, and not see the act as full-scale defiance!

“Thank you for that clarification, Miss Pritchett,” the head mistress said. “However, the size of the creature is immaterial. We have a policy at this school that forbids the keeping of pets, including cats, of any size. I am sure you are familiar with that rule, Miss Pritchett.”

Eleanor fixed a smile on her face and kept her tone pleasant. “Of course, Miss Martingale. Dottie would never seek to break one of the school rules, would you, dear? You weren’t actually keeping the kitten, I’m sure. You were just showing the other children and were going to return it to Farmer Hale in a day or so.”

Even though Eleanor was sure Dottie remembered the agreement they had made, she smiled encouragement when the girl glanced quickly back at her, biting her lip. Beside Eleanor, Miss Lurkin bit her own lip. Miss Martingale frowned.

Dottie turned to face the headmistress again. “No,” she said with a sigh. “I wasn’t going to give him back. I want to keep Jingles.”

Eleanor nearly groaned aloud. The request was impossible. Dottie could only be disappointed, and Miss Martingale could only be made angrier. She wracked her brain for a way out of the mess.

Miss Martingale’s eyes flashed fire. “Then you admit, Lady Dorothea Darby, to purposely breaking the rules of this school?”

Eleanor held her breath. The delicate black head rose a little higher. “Yes, Miss Martingale, I do so admit.”

Eleanor exhaled and closed her eyes. They were done for. She had no idea how strict a punishment Miss Martingale would exact for outright disobedience, but it would be stinging. Miss Martingale had an infallible belief in the structure of life. Everything and everyone had a place, a role to play. Keeping that place was an honorable pursuit. Anything else condemned one to the fires of hell.

Eleanor opened her eyes in time to see Miss Martingale thrust the kitten at Dottie, who clutched him to her. Jingles fur was raised, his ears were laid back, and his yellow eyes glared. The white, bell-shaped patch of fur at his throat, which had earned him his name, stood out, as did the pale oval of Dottie’s determined face. Eleanor remembered suggesting that the girl name him Alexander the Great, for from the first he had made it clear he intended to explore and conquer the world. Now, like Dottie’s courage, his tiger’s heart could only get them in deeper trouble. Eleanor wanted nothing so much as to scoop them both up in her arms and take them out of the room before doom could fall.

“I’m sorry to have to do this,” Miss Martingale intoned with martyr-like patience. “The Earl of Wenworth and the Darby family have always been very generous to this school: donating the school grounds out of the Wenworth estate, inviting the staff for an annual tea, encouraging the students in their studies.” She fixed Eleanor with a baleful glance. “Miss Pritchett has benefited from such generosity a number of times.”

Eleanor felt the color rushing to her cheeks. She did not need Miss Martingale’s reminder of how much the Darbys had done for her. She would never forget the summer they had asked her to help the second son, Justinian, study. It was she who had learned, how it felt to love and how to remember her place.

Dottie pulled the kitten closer and bowed her head. “My grandmother says the Darbys are known for their kindness. If my father was alive, he’d let me keep Jingles.”

Eleanor’s heart went out to the girl. She gazed at Miss Martingale imploringly. “It is a very little kitten, Miss Martingale. Perhaps, since Dottie is still in mourning. . . .”

Miss Martingale slapped her hand down on the desk. Everyone else in the room jumped. Jingles started hissing again. “The rules must be obeyed, by all students, at all times. Anything less is anarchy, and I will not condone anarchy. This kitten is obviously a symptom of a much larger rebellion, a rebellion that appears to have infected you as well, Miss Pritchett. You have left me with no choice but to take the creature out and drown it.”

Eleanor gasped. “Miss Martingale, no!”

“No!” Dottie cried, stumbling back out of reach. “No, I won’t let you!”

Miss Martingale sniffed. “Lady Dorothea, you appear to have been spoiled terribly. We do you no service by allowing you to continue this way.”

Eleanor felt a pang of guilt. If Dottie was spoiled, there was only one person to blame. She took a deep breath. Perhaps there was a small chance they might get out of this unscathed. And it all depended on how much fifteen years of loyal, unstinting service meant to Miss Martingale. “Please don’t blame Dottie, Miss Martingale. She is only being belligerent to shield someone else. The kitten doesn’t belong to her. It’s mine.”

Miss Lurkin collapsed against the wall. Dottie turned to stare at her wide-eyed. Jingles growled.

“I see,” Miss Martingale replied. “Yes, that does make a difference. You may go, for now, Lady Dorothea. We will speak again later. Please release that creature into Miss Pritchett’s care.”

Solemnly, Dottie handed over Jingles. Her dark brows were knit in concern, but Eleanor smiled encouragement at the girl’s trusting gesture. Dottie dropped a less-than-respectful curtsey to Miss Martingale and slipped toward the door. Jingles twitched in annoyance in Eleanor’s grip.

“As for you, Miss Pritchett,” Miss Martingale intoned, “you may collect your things. You are dismissed.”

Eleanor stared at her, feeling as if her stomach had dropped to the soles of her feet. The kitten sank its claws into the bombazine in protest to being held so tightly, but she barely noticed. “What?” she managed in a whisper.

“You know very well how I feel about disloyalty. You have either brazenly ignored the rules of this school and the safety of its residents, or you have shamelessly cozened the girl against my expressed wishes. You had an earlier infraction involving the Darbys, one I chose to overlook against my better judgment because the late earl himself pleaded your cause. You do not have him to hide behind this time. You are dismissed. The matter is closed. Mrs. Williams will have the pay due you through today ready by the time you are packed. Good bye.”

“But,” Eleanor started. Miss Martingale turned her broad back on her. Eleanor looked toward Miss Lurkin in appeal, but the art teacher refused to meet her gaze. Jingles nipped her hand. Absently, she disengaged him and settled him more gently in her arms. She wandered to the door in a daze.

Dottie was waiting for her in the drafty corridor. She flung her arms around Eleanor’s waist and hugged her tight. Jingles mewed in protest at the additional pressure.

“Oh, Miss Eleanor,” Dottie wailed, “I’m so sorry! I heard what she said! What will you do?”

Eleanor reached around the kitten to stroke the girl’s trembling black curls. She should be furious with the child’s willful display, she was sure, but somehow she couldn’t be angry with the heart-felt sobs. “It’s all right, Dottie,” she lied. “I’ll be fine. You mustn’t worry.”

Dottie let go of her, sniffing back tears. “But where will you go?”

“I’ll find another post, I suppose,” Eleanor replied with far more assurance than she felt. Her mind whirled at the thought of leaving Barnsley. She’d lived in the school since her widowed father had brought her there at six years of age. She had never been farther away than the village of Wenwood, some eight miles over the fields. She knew the city of Wells was reported to be about thirty miles in the opposite direction. Perhaps that was where she should go. There must be several girls’ schools there, or someone who needed a governess or nanny.

It struck her suddenly that worse than her own situation was Dottie’s. The head mistress would be sure to withdraw all privileges, and none of the other teachers would dare give Dottie the attention she needed. The child was once more alone at the school. And this time there was nothing Eleanor could do about it.

“Do other schools accept kittens?” Dottie asked hopefully.

Eleanor glanced down at the black kitten who wriggled in her arms. Jingles glared up at her in high dudgeon. Smiling at his utter ferocity, she bent to let him free on the hardwood floor. He scampered away, losing his footing with every other step on the polished wood, until he fetched up against the far wall. There he sat, as if he had intended to arrive at that position all along, and began licking his paw. The king was graciously allowing his subjects a moment to converse in private before attending to his needs. She should be suitably grateful.

The antics of the eight-week-old kitten, the runt of the litter Farmer Hale had called him, had never failed to raise Eleanor’s spirits. Now her smile faded into despair. How was she to find a position with no recommendation, limited funds, and a small black kitten?

As if she had followed Eleanor’s thoughts, Dottie spoke up. “You must take him to my Uncle Justinian. He’ll know what to do.”

Eleanor started. Face Justinian again? She wasn’t sure she had the strength. She had carefully avoided the public sitting room whenever he called on Dottie. Even ten years later, she had not forgotten the shy, gentle young man with whom she had fallen in love. The earl his father had made it clear when he had sent her back to the school in shame that she had no right to tell his son good-day. She could hardly go now and ask him something as important as what to do about her future. It had been all she could do to convince the late earl to keep from having her turned out then and there for her brazen behavior. A penniless nobody, daring to love a Darby? Perish the thought!

“Somehow I don’t think your uncle can help me, Dottie,” she replied as gently as she could.

“Uncle Justinian helps everyone,” Dottie corrected her. “He might even have a post for you himself.”

“Your uncle is still a bachelor, I believe,” Eleanor tried tactfully. “He’ll hardly have use for a governess or a nanny.”

“Take Jingles to him,” Dottie insisted. “He’ll know what to do.”

Perhaps he might at that, Eleanor thought suddenly. At the very least, the staff of Wenworth Place might be prevailed upon to keep the kitten for Dottie, leaving Eleanor with one less impediment to finding another post. She could go to the kitchen door. She wouldn’t even have to see Justinian. And perhaps she could mention to Mr. Faringil, if he was still the butler, that Dottie might need a different school after her confrontation with the volatile head mistress. Perhaps she could even convince him to ask Justinian to bring the girl home. It would certainly ease her mind knowing that Dottie and the kitten were well cared for.

She bent and hugged the girl. “All right, dear. I’ll take the kitten to your uncle. Don’t worry. Everything will come out fine.”

Chapter Two

Justinian Darby, the recently declared ninth Earl of Wenworth, stared at the stack of papers his steward had brought him and sighed. He couldn’t help glancing at the credenza next to the doors to the patio. Raindrops reflected in the cover of a small leather-wrapped portfolio. With the work before him, it would be days if not weeks before he could touch his writing again. He ran his hands back through his hair and bowed his head. How had his brother managed all this and still found time to gallivant all over the Continent? The answer lay before him: his brother had sadly neglected the estates and now Justinian was left to pick up the pieces.

It was hard to be angry with a man who had died in his prime with his devoted wife beside him. He missed Adam and Helena terribly. But the truth of the matter was that Adam had had the training and personality to be a great earl had he chosen to be. And Justinian had the disciplined mind and introspective personality to be exactly what he had planned to be, a scholar. It was duty that found him over a hundred miles from his beloved Oxford, wrestling with matters of enclosures and harvests rather than the lofty realms of literature and philosophy.

Everywhere he looked he found more problems awaiting his attention. His younger brother, Alexander, had refused to resign his commission after the war, staying on in France while their mother despaired of seeing him again. His youngest brother, Jareth, had set himself on the path of a wastrel and just as firmly refused to be pried from the pleasure dens of London. Neither had even returned home for Adam’s funeral. He could count on them only to provide additional headaches.

His niece Dorothea seemed unsettled in the Barnsley School, although he understood from his mother that the girl had been happy there before her parents died. The seven times he had visited over the last three months, he had noted only minor improvements, all of which could be attributed to the child’s fondness for her literature teacher. The head mistress had been adamant that it was inappropriate for him to thank Dottie’s “Miss Eleanor,” as the woman was only doing her job. However, even with her thoughtful efforts, Dottie still appeared tired and depressed to him. She had never spent much time with her parents, yet she seemed to be missing them more than he did.

Upstairs, his mother was nearly an invalid and relied on him for all companionship. He had attempted to get her to hire someone, but she told him in no uncertain terms that she vastly preferred the company of family to that of strangers, however kind or well trained. Dr. Praxton, the local physician, assured him she was healthy enough to rise from the bed if she chose, yet she refused, and nothing Justinian had said or done since becoming earl had persuaded her otherwise.

From the few reports he had uncovered in the little-used library, the estate was also in dire straights. The levees on the River Wen, which flowed along the southern boundary, were crumbling. Unless he devised a plan to shore them up, his crops would be ruined and all his tenants would be flooded from their homes next spring. Of course, that might be a blessing, as these latest reports showed that the houses were in ill repair and barely habitable. His logic told him there was simply too many tasks for one man. A smaller part of him urged him to flee for the halls of Oxford and never look back.

Someone moved silently into his peripheral vision. He did not have to look up to guess it was Faringil, his butler. He stifled another sigh, trying once again to find an ounce of patience for the man. Faringil had the dignity and bearing of the butler to a great earldom. His thick hair, now a snowy white, was always pomaded in place. His posture was erect, his gaze serene. When he looked down his bent nose and set his thin lips together, the other servants scurried to do his bidding.

However, Justinian had only recently noticed how utterly deferential the man could be. Faringil entered a room as if he tiptoed toward a death bed, gliding to a spot just to one corner of his master and waiting patiently to be noticed. He paused respectfully before speaking and waited to be granted permission to continue. Both habits only served to further Justinian’s frustrations.

“Yes?” Justinian dutifully asked.

“Sorry to disturb you, my lord.”

Justinian waited. The butler waited as well. Justinian grit his teeth and took a deep breath. “What is it, Faringil?”

“There is a woman at the door,” the butler replied calmly. “She claims to be from the Barnsley School.”

A sense of foreboding struck Justinian, and he rose, dreading his butler’s next words. “Has something happened to Dottie?”

“I do not believe so, my lord,” Faringil replied with measured calm, and Justinian felt himself relax. The butler’s next statement only served to make him tense again. “However, the woman appears to be ill and isn’t very coherent.”

Justinian frowned. If it were merely another request for donations, he would have had Faringil refer the woman to his steward. However, if Faringil wasn’t certain the woman wasn’t here about Dottie, he should probably handle the matter himself. “I’ll see her, then. Is she in the sitting room?”

Faringil wrinkled his nose, making him look a bit like a rabbit. “Certainly not, my lord. I would not bring an ill person into the house, not with her ladyship’s delicate constitution.”

“My mother is safely in her room, a story above us,” Justinian replied. “Somehow I doubt any infection could pass through the floor to reach her.”

“Yes, my lord, of course,” Faringil said, but Justinian knew the butler was placating him. Annoyed more than he should be, he allowed the man to lead him back through the corridors to the kitchen, where the woman waited.

Eleanor huddled miserably on the oak bench that stood in the many-windowed breezeway between the back coaching yard and the kitchen. For the fourth time since setting out from the Barnsley School she wondered what had possessed her to agree to take the kitten this far. True, it was only five miles across the fields from the school to the house’s rear door, but she somehow hadn’t reckoned on the rain. She also hadn’t reckoned on the sodden state of the fields or the fact that she had to walk the whole way with all her possessions in a carpet bag Miss Lurkin had been persuaded to part with and carrying a black kitten who only wanted to escape. He had actually slipped through her grip twice, forcing her to drop the bag and prevent him from conquering the muddy grain. As a result, she was soaked, filthy, and thoroughly tired.

Mr. Faringil had not recognized her, which she supposed was something for which to be grateful. Unfortunately, the man had also been unable to comprehend what she was asking and had gone off to seek assistance. To make matters worse, she seemed to have developed a sudden case of the sniffles.

Jingles poked his head out of her cloak, where she had put him for safe-keeping, and rubbed his wet head against her chin. She sneezed six times in rapid succession. For once, she succeeded in startling the little tyrant, sending the kitten cowering back under her cloak. Unfortunately, the sneezes did her no more good, leaving her feeling bleary eyed and exhausted.

Something moved in her peripheral vision, and she grabbed her bosom to make sure Jingles hadn’t gotten farther than her waist. She was certain kitten claws could do no damage to the flagstone floor at her feet, but she wasn’t going to take any chances that Lord Wenworth might take the kitten in dislike. She felt the comforting wiggle in her lap and patted him through her sodden cloak.

Someone cleared a throat. Looking up, she saw that Mr. Faringil had returned with a tall gentleman. Even though her eyes refused to focus, her heart told her who it was.  Clutching the kitten to her, she rose and dropped an unsteady curtsey. Her only hope was that he might not recognize her any more than the butler had.

Justinian stared at the apparition before him. From the light brown hair escaping her limp straw bonnet to the hem of her serviceable brown cloak, she was dripping wet. Her half boots and the bottom quarter of the cloak were caked with mud and leaves, and dead grass flecked her slender figure to her waist. Although she kept her head bowed as she rose from her curtsey, he could hear her sniffing and had no doubt that her eyes would be as red as the pert nose he had glimpsed.

Eleanor could not resist a quick glance up at him, blinking her eyes to focus them. She had always thought Justinian Darby handsome. Ten years had hardened the youthful face into clean lines of maturity. But the heroic aspects that had attracted her in the first place were still there. He had shared her love of literature, and she remembered thinking that he embodied so many of the traits common to the heroes of old. His hair was as tawny and thick as Samson’s must have been. His brow was a wide and as thoughtful as surely King Arthur’s had been, and his eyes were a gray as deep and sharp as those she would imagine belonged to Merlin. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his legs long enough to resemble any god in the Greek pantheon. At the moment, all of him was clothed in the immaculate black of mourning.

“Lord Wenworth,” she said breathlessly and had the misfortune to start sneezing again, seven times in a row.

When she sniffed her way to silence once again, she found the butler staring at her in alarm and Justinian frowning. Whether it was concern or annoyance, she couldn’t tell.

Justinian was certain he knew the woman before him. It did not seem possible, for the young lady he had known ten years ago would surely have married and left the school by now. In fact, he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he would never see her again. He tried once more to get a better look at her, but she proved adept at avoiding his gaze.

“Faringil,” he said, “will you introduce the young lady?”

Faringil shook himself and collected his bearing. “Of course, my lord. Justinian Darby, ninth Earl of Wenworth, may I present Miss Aledor Brigid.”

Eleanor winced. No doubt that was exactly what she sounded like with this infernal sniffing. Still, it was probably better if she did not correct him.

To her surprise, Justinian bowed deeply, and she was afraid he knew the truth. “Miss Brigid,” he said in a voice that was as deep and comforting as she remembered, “an honor to make your acquaintance. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Miss Eleanor, isn’t it? You are my niece’s literature teacher.”

Eleanor nodded, swallowing around the scratch in her throat. “Yes, that’s right.” She told herself she should be glad he didn’t recognize her and ordered the part of her that was hurt to be silent.

Justinian also ignored that part of him that fell with disappointment that it was not his Norrie after all. The last thing he needed right now was a romantic entanglement. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from my niece.” He smiled politely. “What can I do for the school today?”

Inside her cloak, Jingles squirmed, reminding her of why she was here. She pulled him gingerly into the light. Faringil recoiled as if she had pulled out a bludgeon. She opened her mouth to explain, and her nose exploded again. The rapid succession of sneezes doubled her, and with a surge of panic, she realized the kitten was dropping from her grip. She snatched at him, but two large, long-fingered hands came between her and the little animal. By the time she could recover, Justinian was staring down at the black ball of matted fur that crouched in his open hands, hissing in annoyance.

“It’s a kitten,” she offered.

The kitten returned Justinian’s stare with unblinking yellow eyes. He stopped hissing and cocked his head. Justinian had the strange sensation that his soul was being examined and felt an absurd surge of relief when the kitten nodded approval.

Eleanor felt a similar relief. “He likes you,” she noted. “I’m so glad. Dottie was hoping you might be willing to keep him for her. There is a policy against pets at the school.” There, she’d made it sound like a logical turn of events rather than the tragedy it had nearly turned out to be.

The kitten rose with the obvious intention of exploring the palms of Justinian’s hands, and he turned to offer the little animal to Faringil. The butler took a step back, blinking, then seemed to recall his duty. With a sigh, he accepted the kitten, holding it at arms length so that its muddy back feet dangled. Jingles’ ears went back.

Justinian frowned at his butler before turning to Eleanor. “Of course we’ll keep the kitten for Dottie,” he replied. “Please assure my niece that . . .” he paused with upraised brow.

“Jingles,” Eleanor offered helpfully.

“Jingles will be well taken care of and waiting for her when she comes home at the end of the month for Christmas.”

Eleanor’s smile froze. She’d love to be able to tell Dottie exactly that, but she wasn’t very likely to be allowed inside the door of the school again in the near future. Besides, if he went to visit soon, perhaps Dottie would confess how unhappy she was and he would be moved to take action. “Thank you,” she replied. “But perhaps you could tell her yourself? I know she would love to see you.”

The noble brow clouded, and Eleanor knew she had gone too far. No Darby ever accepted suggestions from anyone outside their exalted social circle. She had thought she’d learned that lesson on her first visit to Wenworth Place.

Justinian grit his teeth to keep from offering a sharp rejoinder. How dare the woman imply that he was neglecting his niece! She clearly had no idea of the work he was forced to do. It wasn’t as if he had time to visit even once a week. The kitten hissing in Faringil’s grip suddenly seemed like one more burden.

“Christmas will be here soon enough, Miss Brigid,” he replied coldly. “Now, if you’re quite finished, I must see to other matters.”

His tone left no question in Eleanor’s mind that those matters were far more important than a small black kitten and a wet, impertinent school teacher. She hurriedly dropped another curtsey as he turned away. Be thankful he took the kitten, she told herself firmly. You have no right to expect more. Remember your place.

Justinian paused, catching sight of a bedraggled carpet bag sitting in a puddle of water near the door. Had the woman walked all this way with the kitten in the bag? “Faringil?”

“My lord?” This time the butler’s step forward was quick enough even though he had to juggle the kitten in his grip.

“Have the carriage brought around to return Miss Brigid to the school.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Eleanor put in before the butler could promise to comply. As two pairs of inquisitive eyes turned in her direction, she struggled to think of some logical reason why she wouldn’t be returning. “I’m not going back to the school,” she hedged. “I’m . . . I’m returning home . . . to York . . . on holiday. Yes, for Christmas.” She felt the guilt of the lie as much as she felt the tickle in her nose, but she couldn’t bear to have Justinian know she had been disgracefully dismissed.

He glanced out the multipane windows, noting how the day was rapidly darkening. “It is late. You’ll never make Wenwood before nightfall. Faringil?”

“My lord?” The answer was not quite so swift. The butler had made the mistake of pulling the kitten closer and was now engaged in a battle over the possession of the top button of his waistcoat. The kitten’s claws were firmly imbedded in the patterned satin on either side of the gleaming metal button and his tiny teeth nipped at the Darby crest. What the king wanted, he generally got.

Justinian frowned at the display, although he was terribly tempted to laugh. “Have a room made up for Miss Brigid.”

“My lord, I wouldn’t dream of imposing,” Eleanor began. She hadn’t stopped to think about where she’d sleep that night, but nothing short of a winter snowstorm would have compelled her to stay at Wenworth Place alone with him. Even if he didn’t remember her, her memories were still potent.

“Nor would I dream of turning a lady out into a winter’s night,” Justinian countered. Sensing her reluctance, he forced himself to continue more gently. “Have no fear for your reputation. My mother lives here as well. Besides, I will not be able to entertain you. I have pressing matters I must attend to, as I mentioned. If I do not see you again, have a pleasant journey tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor managed, deciding to be relieved by the kind gesture. If she didn’t have to see him again, perhaps it might be all right to stay the night. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go.

Justinian bowed and turned from her curtsey. However, grateful Miss Brigid might be, the fact of the matter was that she had handed him another problem, at least for the night. And he felt another premonition that she would be far more difficult to deal with than an aristocratic young kitten named Jingles.

Chapter Three

Morning would prove Justinian correct. He hadn’t even started on the blasted pile of papers when Faringil slipped into the room to stand rigidly behind him. It seemed that Miss Brigid was more ill than anyone had suspected, and Faringil was clearly concerned that she had brought some dire disease upon them that would decimate the entire area. Justinian had dispatched a footman for Dr. Praxton, who had arrived in due course.

Justinian considered going up to see the woman himself, but thought she somehow wouldn’t appreciate a visit by the lord of the manor if she wasn’t feeling well. It was a rather cowardly excuse, but he kept thinking that if he could just get through a third of the papers that morning, he might be able to sneak away that afternoon and write. Jareth had sent him one of the recently published novels from London, which read like so much drivel that he itched to try his hand at something finer. Not that he’d ever go so far as to admit to anyone but his scapegrace youngest brother that he was writing a novel in the manner of Walter Scott. A Darby didn’t parade anything so common as artistic abilities in public. No, he crafted his stories in the library’s quiet, assuring himself that the work had literary merit. Hoping to finish soon enough to write, he plunged into the report on the state of the levees.

Unfortunately, after only three pages, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, warning him that he was not alone.

“Yes?” Justinian clipped, hoping the tone of his voice would let Faringil know that the interruption was unwanted.

“Pardon me, my lord.”

“What is it?” Justinian demanded.

“Dr. Praxton would like to speak with you.”

“Then send him in,” Justinian replied. He lowered his eyes, scanning the page to find where he left off. Faringil did not move. “Well?” Justinian snapped.

“He’s with Miss Brigid, my lord. He would like you to come there.”

Justinian rolled his eyes but rose to follow the man from the room.

He was not a little chagrined to find that Faringil had placed the kindly school teacher in the servants quarters at the top of the house. Dr. Praxton stood waiting for him before the door. The doctor was a small, slender man, with an unruly shock of thick gray hair he never seemed troubled to comb. His eyes were close set and nearly black. Justinian had heard that some of the local women thought him shifty eyed, considering him to resemble a rat. He had always found the man professional in his dealings and intelligent in his conversation. Now Dr. Praxton nodded in greeting.

“Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” he said in explanation, reaching for the door handle. “I thought you would want to see this.”

Justinian felt another premonition of dread. He shook his head. He had to get over these feelings that everything was going to turn out badly. Miss Brigid hardly seemed the type to have brought a gallon of port with her in her carpet bag, although her lying inebriated certainly would have been enough for the servants to suspect she was deathly ill and for Dr. Praxton to want his attention.

“What is the difficulty?” he asked, hoping to be prepared for whatever lay beyond the door.

“Hold your nose, please,” the man replied, “and I’ll show you.”

Justinian frowned at him. “Hold my nose?”

Faringil obligingly shook out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and handed it to Justinian. “Your nose, my lord.”

Still frowning, Justinian accepted the white lawn square and held it against his nostrils. Doing the same, Dr. Praxton opened the narrow door, and they all peered in.

Justinian could have sworn the very air in the room swam with the noxious odor that reached him even through the handkerchief. Ammonia, the scholarly part of his brain asserted. Cat piddle, the more practical part of him corrected. What had possessed Faringil to shut the poor woman up with the kitten? It had been over twenty hours since he had seen Miss Eleanor. If she had been ill and too weak to rise, she could hardly have cared for a cat. Now, thanks to Faringil’s sensitivity, or lack thereof, the woman must be nearly dead.

Eleanor lay on the narrow bed in the small room, eyes closed against a pounding headache. The last thing she remembered was feeding Jingles the remains of the dinner she had had little interest in eating, changing hurriedly into her pink flannel nightgown in the chilly room, and burrowing beneath the counterpane with the kitten beside her. Just before falling asleep, she had thought of Justinian again, remembering his appreciative smiles years ago when she had answered a question he could not. Their minds had seemed so attuned then. That was obviously no longer the case. She had started to regret that she’d agreed to stay then promptly scolded herself for her lack of humility. She was considerably warmer and more comfortable than if she’d had to sleep in a barn, and the little room was no smaller than the one she’d lived in all her life at Barnsley. She had fallen asleep telling herself to remember her place.

Waking up, however, had proven far more difficult. Instead of getting better, she felt much worse. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut, and her tongue was thick in her dry mouth. Twice now she had felt as if someone was watching her, but both times she had found herself alone when she had managed to raise her head. Now she felt the same sensation and tried once more to look. Her body seemed willing enough, but her chest felt as if there were an anvil on it.

Glancing down, she met Jingle’s gaze. The kitten yawned, showing sharp white teeth, and stretched, kneading the counterpane over her chest with its tiny claws. He minced toward her, and she began to sneeze. After the eighth time, she managed to bring herself under control. The kitten was nowhere to be found. But her chest still felt constricted.

“You see the problem, Lord Wenworth,” someone said in the distance. “It’s small wonder the woman is ill.”

Lord Wenworth? Her heart plummeted at the very thought of Justinian seeing her like this. She had some pride, after all. She turned on her side and drew the bed covers over her head, hoping they would all go away and leave her alone.

Justinian fought down his frustration. Did none of the estate staff have a brain? Must he do everything? However much he had adored school, he had always wondered why his father had sent him away so often. Now he knew – with such a staff, the poor man could hardly have slept, let alone spent time with a child!

“Faringil,” he snapped, and didn’t wait for the man to answer. “Fetch a footman and have him carry Miss Brigid to the family wing.”

Faringil turned as white as his hair. “But, my lord, the disease! The countess!”

“I wager there isn’t a thing wrong with the woman that a clean room and good food won’t fix,” Dr. Praxton put in.

Faringil seemed to relax on such reassurances. “Very good, then. If you will be so kind as to wait for an hour or so while the maids make up the room and get a fire lit. And I will have to reassure the rest of the staff that the woman isn’t infectious.”

Justinian glared at him, and Faringil quailed. “If none of the many footmen I’ve seen wandering about this place is brave enough to rescue an ill woman, I will carry Miss Brigid to the family wing myself.”

“My lord, no!” Faringil gasped.

“Mr. Faringil, yes,” Justinian assured him. “And unless you’d like to see me fetch coal and fluff bed linens as well, you will have a footman and chamber maid meet me in the room. I expect it to be ready by the time I arrive, which will be in precisely five minutes if I am not mistaken. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lord. Completely clear.” Faringil hurried down the corridor to comply.

“Thank you, my lord,” Dr. Praxton said, watching the butler. “I couldn’t seem to get through to him. I know the Darby household has always been large on protocol, but if you really wouldn’t mind . . .”

“Let’s get this over with,” Justinian replied. He took a deep breath of the fresh air in the corridor and plunged into the room. Keeping away from the puddles and piles that edged the wall of the little room, he made his way to Eleanor’s bed and bent near her. She was huddled under the covers, with only the top of her disheveled hair showing. Gingerly, he pulled back the bed clothes. Her face was red and blotchy; her breath came in sharp wheezing gasps. Alarmed, he bent closer.

Eleanor felt someone pull away the counterpane and forced open her eyes. Justinian’s face swam into focus before her. “Oh, no,” she moaned. Her voice came out more like the croak of a frog. She struggled to rise again, anything to escape his concerned gaze, and Justinian slid an arm under her shoulders and another under her thighs.

“Good morning, Miss Brigid,” he said in what he hoped was a calm, reasonable voice. “You seem to have gotten worse because of our hospitality. I’m trying to rectify that. Dr. Praxton is here. He’s a physician.”

She should have been alarmed to find that they all thought her so ill that she needed a physician. But Justinian’s voice was as warm and as comforting as rose hip tea with honey, or hot chocolate on a cold morning. “I know Dr. Praxton,” she replied. “He’s visited the school.” The words sounded a little clearer now that she was partially upright. His reassuring smile told her he had understood her.

“Excellent. I’m just going to move you to another room where you’ll be more comfortable. You won’t mind if I pick you up?”

Mind? Her head spun at the very thought, and she was certain it wasn’t her mysterious illness. She felt his muscles tense under her, and then she was rising. A moment more and she was up against his chest. Her face flushed with heat, but somehow she didn’t think she had a fever. How many nights had she dreamed of what it would be like to be held in his arms? Between them lay nothing but the sleeve of his coat and the worn flannel of her nightgown. If she wasn’t already too ill to walk, she would have gone weak at the knees.

Justinian wondered that he didn’t flush himself under her steady regard. There were two bright spots of pink on her high cheekbones, and the color was rapidly spreading down her long, elegant neck below the collar of her nightgown. This was the first time he’d really gotten a good look at her, and even with her face swollen, he felt again that he should know her. Trying to remember when he had met her before, he kept a reassuring smile on his face as he maneuvered his way out of the room. When they reached the narrow stairs, however, and he had to hitch her closer to start down, her chest brushed his and he was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how tightly he held her. Only one woman had ever made him feel so self-conscious. He stumbled and caught himself immediately.

“Narrow stairway,” he mumbled in excuse. Could it be? He shot a quick glance at her face again. Ten years and the illness could not completely erase the girl he had known. As red-rimmed as her eyes were, he would know that blue anywhere, so deep it was nearly violet. He still dreamed of those eyes, and the smile that lit them when he had the courage to flirt with her. But if it was really Norrie Pritchett he held, why was she pretending to be someone else? The possibilities troubled him. He was quite glad when they reached the main corridor on the second floor and a maid guided him to a room not far from his mother’s.

The fire was just starting to glow in the grate as he lay Eleanor on the clean flannel sheets. She trembled as he pulled away, as if suddenly chilled. A maid hurried forward to tuck her under the bed covers. Justinian drew back.

Disappointment shot through her. “Thank you,” she called.

Dr. Praxton clapped Justinian on the shoulder. “And I thank you too, my lord. I’ll let you know my diagnosis before I go.”

Dismissed, Justinian nodded and wandered from the room. He should confront her, demand an explanation, he supposed. He’d certainly wanted one ten years ago.

“She can’t have just returned to the school,” Justinian remembered protesting. “We had an understanding.”

His father had put a hand on his shoulder. “My dear boy, one cannot form an understanding with someone like Miss Pritchett. She most likely won’t remember you beyond tomorrow.”

Justinian had shrugged off the touch. “I don’t believe you.” Even in his memory the words sounded like those of a petulant four-year-old denied his favorite candy. “She has more character than that.”

“Justinian,” his father had sighed, “you have been among your books too long. A young lady bills and coos with every charming young man who comes along. I daresay she ran off when she realized you were taking her far too seriously. You’ve worn your heart on your sleeve; even your mother has remarked on it. The poor girl was likely frightened out of her wits by your obsessive devotions.”

He had recoiled, stung. He had never had the courage to do more than press her hand fervently and recite the most passionate of love poems. Surely this would not have been enough to scare his brave Norrie. Yet there were times when her blue-violet eyes were troubled when she looked at him, and his words would fire her cheek in a blush. “If what you say is true,” he had mused aloud, “then I have done her a disservice. I should at least apologize.”

“You will only embarrass the girl further,” his father had assured him. “You are young, Justinian. Your heart will mend. Return to your work at the university. That is far more important than this momentary infatuation with Miss Pritchett.”

Remembering now, he closed his eyes and shook his head. He’d been young all right, far too young to realize what a mistake he was making. He had graduated, then gone on to additional studies, then teaching. One month had piled onto the next and before he knew it, ten years had passed. Looking back, he knew them for the empty years they had been.

But had anything changed? Would she be any more receptive to his suit now? Ill as she was, now was obviously not the time to ask. He should return to his papers, but the idea was depressing. Even his precious novel didn’t suit him at the moment. Instead, he found himself at his mother’s door.

The countess looked up as he entered. Small and fine-boned, she made him feel like a gawking giant of late. She lay down the book she had been reading and smiled at him, patting the satin covers beside her. “Justinian, how delightful. Have a seat and tell me how you go on.”

He bent and kissed her cheek but found himself too restless to sit. “Good morning, Mother. I’m doing well. How are you?”

She frowned at him. “My liver is peevish, and I have indigestion. You never ask about those things. It isn’t like you to discuss banalities. What’s wrong?”

He smiled at her. “You read me too well.” Even though she did, he could hardly confide his suspicions about their guest. It would only trouble his mother. He resorted instead to something that might be of more interest to her. “Dottie has adopted a kitten, which the school sent home to us. Unfortunately, the messenger who brought it appears to have come down ill.”

“Poor man,” his mother murmured. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“I hope so as well. But it isn’t a gentleman. It’s one of the teachers.” He could not bring himself to name her.

“Not Dottie’s Miss Eleanor?” his mother asked hopefully. “I have so wanted to meet her after your stories of your visits to Dottie.”

Justinian sat at last beside his mother. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “the very same. But meeting her is out of the question until we know that she is well. All I need is for you to come down ill too.”

His mother cocked her head. “You’re taking on too much again, Justinian. No one has asked you to single-handedly save England, you know.”

He rose. “No, just an estate that covers a considerable portion as well as the livelihood of everyone who dwells on it. And now a small black kitten too.”

“A kitten is hardly a chore, my love,” her mother said with a smile, gaze thoughtful. “All a kitten needs to be happy is a place by the fire. And perhaps a nice ball of string. Ask my Mary for one if you’d like. And bring her to meet me when you can.”

He didn’t have to ask to know she wasn’t referring to her abigail. Perhaps that might be a solution after all. His mother studied people as he studied literature. If she confirmed that the woman really was Norrie Pritchett, then he might have the courage to question their guest. If not, it was one less thing he would have to trouble himself about.

He offered her a smile. “Very well, Mother. When the redoubtable Miss Eleanor is better, you will get a chance to meet her.” And, he added silently, the sooner the better for all concerned.

Chapter Four

Justinian waited until the following morning to inquire after his guest. The day was the longest of his life. Dr. Praxton has assured him that Miss Eleanor had inflamed mucous membranes that were making her breathing difficult; however, he felt it was neither croup nor pleurisy. He prescribed cold compresses on the face and chest and laudanum to help her sleep. Mary, his mother’s abigail, had been pressed into service. Faringil had reported before retiring that Miss Eleanor appeared to be sleeping easier. And Justinian made sure that the kitten was properly cared for before it went to sleep in a basket in the corner of their guest’s room.

He knew if he were a better host he would take a greater part in all these matters, but he couldn’t bring himself to interfere again unless absolutely necessary. He told himself it was because of the papers piling higher every day on the great mahogany desk but he suspected there was another reason. Holding Miss Eleanor in his arms, even sick as she was, had made him painfully aware that he was celibate. He hadn’t looked for female companionship at Oxford. But then, he had never entirely gotten over Norrie.

Now that he was the title holder, he knew it was his duty to marry and continue the line. He would have to choose a woman of impeccable breeding and understanding, such as Dottie’s mother had been. She would have to know how to manage a great house, how to deal with a strong-willed dowager like his mother, and how to host parties for everyone from the tenants to the family to members of Parliament. She would also need to know how to raise children, Dottie and their own. She would surely be one of England’s finest. Nothing less would do for a Darby. However, no matter how hard he tried, whenever he thought of the woman he’d marry, she looked exactly like Norrie Pritchett.

She had come from the school to help him study when he had been sent home mid-term his second year at Oxford with a bad case of pleurisy. Fearful of losing his position as one of the top scholars, he had been only too glad for someone to quiz him on various subjects. Unfortunately, the first woman who had been sent from the Barnsley School had found his course of study incomprehensible. The second was so awed to be in the Great House that she barely spoke above a whisper and jumped every time he questioned her.

“For all the donations we supply that school,” his father had grumbled, “the least they could do is send someone with brains and backbone.”

“You haven’t given them sufficient motivation in this case, my dear,” his mother had countered. “You must give them incentive to send their best, not just those who would improve their social standing. Give all the older students a test, with the most difficult questions Justinian can contrive. Whoever scores the highest shall spend each summer day at Wenworth Place.”

“Capital idea!” his father had proclaimed. Justinian had dashed off one hundred or so fairly challenging questions covering literature, history, science, and the arts, and his father had presided over the test himself.

The winner, an apprentice teacher named Norrie, had arrived on their doorstep of Wenworth Place two days later. Her gaze at the ivy-hung walls of the Great House was no less awed than her predecessor’s, but she soon proved herself an able scholar. In fact, he found himself impressed that she had learned so much with no more training beyond the Barnsley School for Young Ladies.

“And what do you think young ladies learn?” she had replied when he voiced this thought aloud. “We may not be privileged to attend Eton or Harrow, but we are perfectly capable of learning any subject a boy can learn. Besides, what else have I to do but read and learn? Sometimes I think it is a blessing that the nights are so long and I have nothing better to do than read.”

“It is a blessing,” he remembered agreeing with envy, for then the only thing in life that seemed to matter was his studies. “You aren’t expected to entertain hunting guests or dash off to London to attend someone’s debut.”

“We all have our crosses to bear, Mr. Darby,” she had replied with a twinkle in her expressive eyes. “I expect yours was to have been born wealthy. Only think how lucky you were to have been born the second son. If you had been born the eldest you’d have to spend all your time having fun.”

He had laughed with her then, though the words haunted him now. The duty pressed upon him was anything but enjoyable. By mid-day, he knew he had to learn the truth about the woman upstairs or go mad. Mary answered his cautious tap. He entered to find the school teacher sitting up against the elaborately carved headboard, quilt drawn up to her chest, teasing the kitten with a piece of red ribbon.

“Good morning, my lord,” Eleanor replied to his greeting.  She hunched a little lower in the bed and bowed her head, hoping that just enough of the illness remained that he still wouldn’t recognize her. If only she could have avoided another meeting. He had, after all, repeatedly claimed to be needed on urgent matters. An ill school teacher hardly ranked high enough to distract a Darby. Another day might give her the strength to walk to Wenwood, where she hoped to find someone who might be going on to Wells. If only he would leave her alone until then!

Justinian eyed her. Now that the illness had passed, her voice was gentle and rather melodious, he noted, deeper than he remembered Norrie’s being. He peered closer. Even with her head bowed, he could see that the swelling and redness were gone from around her eyes and nose as well. In fact, her skin glowed with health restored. He seated himself on the chair Mary had recently vacated beside the bed and cocked his head, trying to get her to meet his gaze.

Jingles must have caught Justinian’s movement, for he leapt to his feet and stalked across the coverlet to investigate. Eleanor quickly dangled the ribbon in front of him to keep him from jumping onto the earl’s lap. She cast a look of appeal at the silver-haired abigail, but little round Mary had busied herself at the wash basin and didn’t seem to notice her.

“You look much better this morning,” Justinian remarked, hoping to get her to raise her eyes. He realized as soon as he said it that it was rather tactless. His mother would have rapped his knuckles for such a statement, and Helena would have stared at him through the lens of her quizzing glass until he dropped his gaze.

Eleanor only nodded, sinking lower until the covers were under her armpits and her head nearly rested on her chest. “Yes, whatever was bothering me seems to have disappeared in the night, just as Dr. Praxton predicted. I’m very relieved it wasn’t infectious after all, as Mr. Faringil suspected. I would never forgive myself if I made you all ill.”

The illness he felt had nothing to do with her sickness and everything to do with the lady herself. “It does indeed seem to be a passing thing,” he replied with assurance. “I take it none of the students at the school were ill.”

At the mention of the school, she started. If she was forced to endure his company, at the very least she could mention Dottie’s predicament. She would have to carefully this time, remembering her place and how the Darbys considered things. She pulled Jingles to her and began petting him to hide the trembling of her hands. “You have been very kind, my lord. I wonder, could you spare another moment?”

“Certainly,” Justinian replied far more pleasantly than he felt. He could not understand why she continually refused to face him. If she was Norrie, surely she knew him well enough to meet his gaze. The unwarranted sensitivity was nearly as annoying as Faringil’s deference. But perhaps she was about to explain. “Is something troubling you?” he prompted hopefully.

Eleanor smoothed her hands over Jingles’ fur. The kitten deigned to suffer her touch. Justinian was regarding her so fixedly, she could see out of the corner of her eye, that she wasn’t certain how to start. She forced herself to remember the tableau in the head mistress’ office. “I am nearly recovered, as you noted,” she replied. “But I am very concerned about Dottie, that is your niece, Lady Dorothea.”

“I’ll visit her soon,” Justinian promised, wanting only to get on to more urgent matters. “I am well aware that I am neglecting her.”

“Neglecting her?” Eleanor blinked in confusion. “Certainly you are not neglecting her! Dottie receives more visits from you in a month than many of the girls receive in a year! You are obviously the most loving of uncles.”

Justinian felt as if he were going to blush and shifted in his seat in embarrassment. “Thank you,” he murmured, unsure of what else to say in the face of her unexpected praise.

“Your behavior does not concern me in the least,” Eleanor assured him. “It’s Dottie’s. The loss of her mother and father is too fresh for her to return to school. She cannot concentrate on her studies. She needs reassurances. I’m sure that’s why she became obsessed with Jingles.”

Justinian glanced down at the kitten, who stretched out and relaxed in pleasure under Eleanor’s petting. If Norrie paid him such attentions he’d probably react in exactly the same manner. The thought unnerved him, and he hurriedly rose.

“Is she unhappy then?” he asked, pacing the room and willing his mind to focus on the newest problem that had been handed him and not on the way Eleanor’s long-fingered hands slid across the shiny black fur.

“Dreadfully so,” Eleanor confided, watching him. She was a little surprised by how strongly he reacted to her words. When his father had sent her away, and he had never pursued her or sent a word of encouragement, she had convinced herself that he was not a person of strong feelings after all. Either he had changed or she had been wrong. Both possibilities sent a chill through her. She shook herself and plunged on. “I think she would be much happier here with her family for a time. I don’t wish to be impertinent, but would you consider bringing her home sooner than Christmas?”

It was a reasonable suggestion. Any other time he would have applauded her good sense. However, at the moment, Jingles had rolled onto his back, and Eleanor was tickling his stomach in ways that made Justinian flush. “No impertinence,” he all but panted, backing toward the door. “But it can’t be done. No one to care for her.”

Eleanor looked up in wonder that the usually eloquent Justinian Darby was all but stammering. His tawny hair curled about his damp forehead, and he was swallowing almost convulsively as he attempted to meet her gaze. All thoughts of modesty fled. Eleanor scrambled from the bed, thrusting Jingles at a startled Mary.

“My lord, are you ill?” Her own concerns forgotten, she hurried to his side and raised a hand to his forehead. She could not have brought a disease upon him! She would never forgive herself!

Justinian backed away from her in horror, bumping up against the solid panel of the door. The flannel nightgown draped her body effectively, but his memory conjured up the feel of her curves against his chest.

“I’m fine,” he yelped, ducking to avoid her touch.

She blinked, surprised, and hesitated. His voice seemed unusually husky to her, and his face was certainly reddening. The symptoms were very like her own illness. Could Dr. Praxton have been wrong about the nature of the disease? Determined, she plastered her hand to his sweaty brow.

Justinian groaned at the cool touch. Her nearness, her sweet concern, and his body’s reaction convinced him who he faced. “Norrie, please! I assure you, I’m fine. Return to the bed.”

Eleanor stared at him. She could feel the blood draining from her face, and suddenly the room seemed to dim. Justinian’s alarmed face receded rapidly as her knees buckled. He caught her easily and swung her up into his arms. For the second time in two days, she found herself pressed against his chest.

“It is you, isn’t it?” he murmured.

Knowing it impossible not to meet his gaze, Eleanor nodded. She wavered between misery and embarrassment. “Yes, I used to be known as Norrie Pritchett. The head mistress thought my full name, Eleanor, was more fitting for a teacher. I promise you, I won’t faint. Would you please set me down?”

“Need I remind you that you have been ill?” he replied, relishing the feel of her so close. He remembered how noble he’d felt at twenty to refrain from doing more than pressing her hand fervently. What an idiot he’d been. Life was entirely too short to forego such pleasure. He pulled her closer and tried to smile reassuringly when her eyes widened in obvious alarm. They both knew that in another minute, he would kiss her.

“Put that down,” Mary commanded, and Justinian started. Then he realized she addressed Jingles, who had picked up a piece of fuzz off the counterpane and was attempting to swallow it, nearly crossing his eyes in the process. Eleanor was blushing in his arms. All he needed was servant’s gossip to frighten her away again before they could get reacquainted. Reluctantly, he crossed the room and set her on the bed.

Eleanor lost no time scrambling beneath the covers and snatching Jingles to her, burying her burning face in his soft fur. The tell-tale tickle began in her nose even before Mary bustled forward to tuck the bed clothes more tightly about her. The look she cast Eleanor out of the corner of her eyes made Eleanor redden even more. They will all think I forgotten my place, she thought with shame.

A thousand questions crowded Justinian’s tongue, but none found its way forward. It seemed insipid to ask her whether she was all right when he could see she was greatly distressed by his recognition. He didn’t have the heart to press her with more important questions. “We must speak,” he started and saw her turn from red to white. “About Dottie and about other matters. But I’ll come back when you’re recovered.”

As he strode toward the door, Eleanor thought that he would have a very long wait. She had never recovered from his regard the first time. What made him think this time would be any different?

Chapter Five

Eleanor Pritchett was running away again. She didn’t seem to have any other option. She was entirely recovered from her mysterious illness. The only time even a remnant of it returned was when she held Jingles too close to her face. Then she was sure to sneeze several times in quick succession, and she could feel her eyes tearing. It seemed that the illness was directly related to the little kitten, although that explanation did not account for Justinian’s strange symptoms the day before. He had hardly been holding Jingles at the time. Still, she could be reasonably assured that, as she was leaving the kitten behind, the disease would trouble her no more.

And she must leave. Justinian had indicated that he wanted to talk, but she could think of nothing they could say to each other that she had not told herself a dozen times over. She knew her place. His father had taught it to her, and Miss Martingale had made sure she never forgot the lesson. If she had been an unthinkable mate for a second son, she would never be suitable for the earl. She could never have his love; she would not have his pity. Ten years ago she had slipped away and hidden herself at the Barnsley School. She had been a girl of seventeen then. Now she was a woman of twenty-seven, and the prospect of running away held even less solace, especially when this time she had nowhere to run.

As she dressed in her black bombazine and traveling cloak, now cleaned and pressed, Jingles sat by the fire, licking his fur and eyeing her between flecks of his little pink tongue. For all his nonchalance, she had a feeling he might miss her. Certainly no one else in the household had made much effort to care for him. She had hoped Mr. Faringil would attempt to settle Jingles into his new home. Unfortunately, the butler seemed only too happy to leave the care and feeding to her. She had managed to convince Mary to bring water and kitchen scraps for the kitten and to let him in and out and watch him when he needed to relieve himself. But it was clear to Eleanor that the abigail did so under duress. If only Dottie would come home sooner! Then Eleanor would not have any qualms about leaving Wenworth Place behind.

Before the Tompion clock on the mantle struck eight, she set out. Determined to find someone to take charge of the kitten, she let him scamper about her feet as she started down the corridor. Doors like her own dotted the silk-hung walls on either side in both directions. When she had visited the estate all those years ago, she had never had occasion to rise above the ground floor, so she scarcely knew her way. Farther to her right, she thought she saw a wider archway that must be the main stairway. Clucking to Jingles, she started in that direction.

Part way there, a door opened, and Mary backed into the corridor, a tray of empty serving dishes in her arms. Eleanor paused to keep from bumping into the abigail. Before she could cry out, Jingles stalked around Mary’s legs and into the room beyond. The king was intent on inspecting his holdings. Mary was equally intent on balancing the tray; she obviously did not see the kitten. Before Eleanor could speak, the abigail trotted in the opposite direction, oblivious to her presence.

Eleanor bit her lip. Someone had been in the room or Mary wouldn’t be cleaning afterwards. But was it the breakfast room or a bedchamber, and if the latter, whose? She hardly wanted to meet up with Justinian in his nightshirt. Just the thought made her blush. But if the room was empty, ought she to leave Jingles alone? They might not find him for days in this huge house!

From inside the room came a thud and a startled mew. No human voice responded. Encouraged, Eleanor opened the door and peered inside.

The room was a bedchamber, considerably larger than the one in which she had stayed. In the center stood a walnut box bed with yellow and gold hangings. A fire blazed in the grate of the walnut-framed fireplace, and the gold velvet drapes were closed against the dawn of a winter day. Nowhere under the long curved legs of the dark dressing table, armoire, or wash stand could Eleanor spy a small black kitten.

“Jingles,” Eleanor hissed, unable to see beyond the hangings of the bed to determine if anyone was still in it. For all she knew, Mary had merely been cleaning away a breakfast long eaten. She tiptoed a little farther into the room. “Jingles? Here, kitty, kitty.”

“He’s here,” a voice called. Eleanor swallowed, not sure whether to be relieved that the voice was not Justinian’s or concerned that the room was indeed inhabited. She peered around the hangings to see a tiny elderly woman nearly lost amongst a mountain of white-lace-covered pillows piled up against the headboard. Her skin was as pure as fine bone china, crinkling around the sharp blue eyes and soft pink mouth. In fact, her eyes and mouth were the only spots of color from the white lawn cap trimmed with lace and dripping ribbon to the white coverlet that was pulled up to her chest. The only color, that was, except the very black kitten who was trying to cross the white counterpane. Every time he minced across the uneven surface, the woman gently seized his hind foot and drew him back. Outraged, he dug his claws into the fine material and pulled it back with him. Eleanor couldn’t help but smile.

“You must be Miss Eleanor,” the woman murmured. “I am Eulalie Darby, Countess Wenworth.”

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat, but she managed a curtsey. “Your ladyship, an honor to meet you.”

The countess quirked a white brow. “An honor is it? That is yet to be seen.” She nodded to where Jingles was once more attempting to reach the foot of the bed. “Is this my granddaughter’s kitten?”

“Yes, your ladyship,” Eleanor replied, reaching to catch the kitten. “I’m sorry Jingles disturbed you. I was just looking for someone to take custody of him.”

Deprived of his freedom, Jingles squirmed in her grip. Lady Wenworth held out her frail arms. “You needn’t take him away. I’m sure I can find something to entertain him.”

Eleanor wasn’t sure that was the best choice. If the kitten somehow was transmitting the illness, it would hardly do to infect someone as frail as the Countess. She hesitated, and a vaguely familiar light came to the Countess’ eyes.

“I am not accustomed to having to repeat myself,” Lady Wenworth murmured, the steel evident behind her gentle tone. “Give me the kitten.”

Swallowing, Eleanor complied. Jingles stared up at the countess before deigning to rest in her arms.

“Very good,” Lady Wenworth said. “Now, sit, Miss Eleanor. I should like to get to know you better.”

Surely the woman could see she was dressed for travel.  Eleanor hesitated again, but, as the blue eyes narrowed, she hurriedly sank onto the hard-backed chair beside the bed. She certainly didn’t want to give the woman apoplexy. On the other hand, it was apparent that Justinian hadn’t mentioned her connection with a certain Norrie Pritchett, whom the last earl had accused of fortune hunting, and Eleanor didn’t want to refresh her ladyship’s memory. An invalid even then, the woman had only met her a few times. Still, it seemed the better part of wisdom to escape as soon as she could.

She tried to remember Miss Partridge’s classes on etiquette at the school. Beyond forms of address and curtseys, she didn’t think topics of conversations suitable for dowager countesses had been covered. She vaguely remembered that fashion, weather, and health were considered safe gambits. Unfortunately, she knew nothing about the latest fashions, and it seemed rather impertinent to discuss matters of health with an invalid. “Lovely weather for December,” she said with a pleasant smile.

The countess regarded her sternly, although her blue-veined hands were gentle on Jingle’s fur. “Stop that at once. I was positive from Justinian’s description that you would make better conversation than that.”

“Sorry,” Eleanor murmured, abashed. “What is it you would like me to converse about?”

Eulalie waved a hand airily at everything and nothing. “Whatever you like. So long as it is original and witty.”

Eleanor felt as if her mind had suddenly frozen. She had never been called upon to discuss anything with anyone other than the staff and children. Certainly, no one had ever demanded that she be witty. She gazed at the countess, whose look was turning surly again, and suddenly she recognized the resemblance. “I see where Dottie gets her determination,” Eleanor said. “She’s just as likely to put me in a difficult position when she makes up her mind to have something.”

The countess laughed, a surprisingly hearty sound for one so frail. “And what do you do when she does?”

Eleanor returned her smile. “I have a choice of scolding her or hugging her. So far, the latter has worked rather well.”

“Very well then, I submit.” The countess threw open her arms, sending a startled Jingles dashing to the end of the bed, where he eyed them both unforgivingly.

Eleanor stared at her a moment in disbelief, but there was no mistaking her gesture or the curious moisture behind those blue eyes. If the countess had been one of Eleanor’s charges, she would have said the woman was lonely. Her heart went out to Lady Wenworth, and she hugged her tiny body close.

After a moment, the countess released her, eyes overbright. Eleanor felt tears in her own eyes as well.

“How lovely,” Lady Wenworth said with a sigh. “We must have more of those while you’re here.”

Eleanor glanced down at her traveling cloak. “I’m terribly sorry, your ladyship, but I shan’t be here long. I was just on my way, actually.”

Eulalie frowned. Something about the intensity of those knitted brows reminded Eleanor of the lady’s son as well. “That will never do. We’ve hardly had time to get acquainted. No, you must stay, at least through Christmas.”

The thought was so alarming that Eleanor had to press her lips together to keep from vehemently protesting. The countess was not what she had expected, but that didn’t mean she would ever be welcome here. She could not let a moment’s pleasantness cause her to forget her place. Collecting herself, she straightened. “I’m sorry, your ladyship, but I simply can’t.”

“Pish tosh,” Eulalie replied. “You can’t, or you won’t? If that school is the problem, I shall simply write and tell them your presence is needed here at the estate.”

Eleanor managed a polite smile. She had been in that position once before. It had not ended well. “But it isn’t needed. We both know that, Lady Wenworth. There is no possible reason for me to stay on. I would only feel as if I were taking advantage of your hospitality.”

The countess’ eyes narrowed again. “I’m not offering you hospitality, girl. I’m ordering you to stay and visit. That should assuage your sensibilities. Didn’t your mother teach you to defer to your betters?”

Eleanor felt herself grow cold. She could hear the echo of Lord Wenworth’s words: Do not strive to mimic your betters, girl. Your place is at our feet, never at our sides.

“I know what is expected of me, Lady Wenworth,” she murmured, clenching her gloved fists. “But sadly, I have a tendency to speak my mind. You would not find me a pleasant companion for long, I fear. I might tell you that you are quite impossible.”

Eulalie grinned at her. “Only my husband ever had the courage to say such to me, mores the pity.” She reached out and squeezed Eleanor’s hand. Eleanor raised her head, surprised by the kindness of the touch. “Please stay, dear. Justinian doesn’t have time for me, and Mary hasn’t the courage to stand up to me. Even when Dottie is home . . .” She trailed off and clapped her hands. “That’s it! Of course. Dottie must come home for Christmas. Justinian mentioned you recommended she come home sooner. You can tell the school you stayed on to get things ready for her.”

Much as she knew she must leave, but she felt the pull of the countess’ offer. How sweet it would be to make a home for Dottie, a place where the girl could find happiness again. Still, she could not risk seeing Justinian. “I’m sorry, your ladyship, but I don’t see that that’s necessary.”

The countess waved her hand airily as she had done before. “Children need routines, schedules. At the very least, no one has lived in the nursery on a regular basis for years. Someone has to see that it is fit for my granddaughter. And it shouldn’t be too taxing, so you would have time to visit me. What do you say, my dear?”

She had to say no. She couldn’t be in the same house as Justinian for the three weeks remaining before Christmas and hope to avoid him. They would meet, repeatedly. As a sort of governess and companion, she would be in an impossible position, she could see, neither peer nor servant. She should leave before her heart could be bruised any further. She should walk out of the house and never see Jingles, Dottie, Lady Wenworth, or Justinian Darby ever again. What did she owe any of them?

“Lady Wenworth,” she heard herself say, “I would be delighted to stay. Consider me your Christmas helper.”

Chapter Six

From the frown on his mother’s face as he sat at her bedside, Justinian knew he was not reacting as she had expected to the news that Miss Eleanor would be gracing them with her presence through the Christmas season. “You asked her to stay!” he all but yelped.

His mother eyed him with such intensity that he wondered whether his remark had been taken as annoyance or joy. The truth of the matter was, he wasn’t sure himself.

“Really, Justinian,” she said, nose in the air. “You simply must stop acting the part of martyr. Miss Eleanor will hardly get in your way. She will spend most of her time getting things ready for Dottie and the rest of the time here with me. You won’t have to lift a finger. On the contrary, you might even find her helpful. I would imagine that as a teacher she writes with a fine hand, and she must know something about summing. I daresay she can’t be as bright as that girl we had up from the school that summer for you, but she might be able to help you with your estate work.”

Justinian had a sudden vision of Norrie seated at the mahogany desk, the winter sun making a halo of her light brown hair, dust motes glittering around her. He swallowed. “No, thank you, Mother. I prefer to work alone.”

His mother shook her head. “And will you dig your own grave as well? It isn’t a sin to need assistance, Justinian. You weren’t so prickly when you were younger. I think you actually enjoyed having that young lady as a tutor.”

Was she reminding him of what Norrie had meant to him? She needn’t have tried so hard. He had never forgotten. He peered closer at the guileless blue eyes, the dimple that was still evident in the wrinkles beside her mouth. His mother had ever been the master manipulator. What was her game this time? She obviously did not recognize the woman or she would be teasing him about it now. Or were these reminders her way of showing that she had recognized Norrie?

“Perhaps you should tell me exactly what you and Miss Eleanor discussed,” he said, watching her. “If some agreement has been made, I should understand it better.”

She waved an elegant hand. “Oh, fah, we have nothing so formal as an agreement. She is pleasant company. Haven’t you been harping at me to find a companion? I liked her and persuaded her to stay.” She frowned again, gaze sharpening. “And it took some persuading. Have you taken her in dislike, Justinian? Did you say something to make that poor girl feel unwelcome?”

Despite himself, he flinched. Was he so obvious in his attentions once again that she should feel the need to flee? Why could he not be more civil in her presence? “All the teachers at the school know they can count on the Darbys for assistance,” he hedged. “I’m sure Miss Eleanor is no exception.”

“Yes, well,” his mother said, obviously dissatisfied, “she seemed in a tearing hurry to leave. It was all I could do to convince her to stay until Christmas. Has she family, do you know? Have I intruded on pressing business of some sort?”

Now Justinian frowned. “She has no family, of that I’m certain.” He remembered her comment the first day about leaving for a holiday in York. What gammon! Norrie Pritchett was an orphan. She had no family outside the Barnsley School. His frown deepened as he wondered why she had felt compelled to lie. Worse, why would she want to keep him from mentioning her presence to the school? He had no time to puzzle further, however, for he caught his mother leaning forward, for all the world like a hound who’d caught the scent, and forced a pleasant smile on his face. “Most likely you merely put her in a difficult position with the school,” he offered. “I’ll send word you’ve appropriated her. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

His mother tossed her head. “Of course they won’t mind. We are Darbys.”

“Of course,” he said with a chuckle, rising to go and bending to kiss her cheek.

“You should also know that I asked her to dine with me every meal she’s here,” the countess said as he straightened. She eyed him for a moment, then smiled brightly. “You may join us if you’d like.”

The last thing he wanted was to spend a cozy meal with his mother and the woman of his dreams. “Thank you, but no, Mother. I have matters that I must see to.”

She sighed, lowering her gaze and plucking at the bedcovers. “Oh, very well. Leave an old woman to her own devices. Small wonder I’m reduced to picking up strays when my own sons can’t find time for me.”

Justinian felt a stab of guilt. “Mother, you know I’m not trying to avoid you. Besides, there isn’t room here for three.” He blew her another kiss, but she refused to look up. Annoyed, he shook his head and turned to go. As he opened the bedchamber door, he found himself nose to topknot with Norrie.

She dropped a deep curtsey, treating him to the view of the crown of her golden-brown head. As she rose, he saw that she was completely recovered from her malady. The line of her cheek was smooth and soft, and her lashes wreathed her eyes in gold as she demurely lowered her gaze. He wanted nothing so much as to tip her chin up with his finger and press his lips to hers. Instead, he returned her curtsey with a nod.

“Miss Eleanor. My mother tells me you will be staying with us a while longer.”

Was that regret or pleasure she heard in his voice? Eleanor glanced up quickly, but he was smiling politely. It seemed to her the smile was forced, and her answering smile must have been all but gentle. “Just until things are set to rights for Dottie’s return, my lord. I have other things I must see to.”

“Oh?” the countess prompted from her bed. “Justinian and I were just discussing that, dear. What other things are troubling you? Perhaps we could help.”

Just thinking of her empty future made Eleanor pale, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know how the Darbys would react to the plight of a servant. Besides, the countess couldn’t do anything about it, and she could not ask Justinian. “It’s nothing so very pressing, your ladyship,” she replied, lowering her eyes once more and hurrying past him to the countess’ bedside. “It can easily wait until after Christmas.”

“There, you see,” his mother said, patting the coverlet beside her for Eleanor to sit. “Everything has been arranged quite nicely. Nothing about this should disturb you, Justinian. You may go.”

Nothing to disturb me indeed, he thought as he offered his mother and Eleanor a bow and quit the room at last. Only a house guest in the one woman he’d ever loved but who seemed afraid of his presence, the impending return of his niece with potentially no one to care for her after Christmas, and a small, black kitten named Jingles. By Christmas, he predicted, he would be quite disturbed indeed!

* * * *

Justinian was not the only one disturbed by the turn of events. Eleanor soon regretted her impulsive decision to remain. While Justinian did not press her as she had feared, she still could not seem to avoid him, no matter that the Great House was huge. He came to wish his mother good morning and inquire after her health while they breakfasted each morning. Mr. Faringil brought him up with annoying frequency to answer a question or inspect her work in the nursery and school room, to the point that she jumped whenever she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. He was a shadow on the terrace outside the library while she took Jingles out to play in the gardens behind the manor. She found him listening to her read Shakespeare to the countess in the evenings. And she saw him when the countess sent her on some errand to the ground floor, each time she passed the open door to the library.

The door was not often open, but when it was, she found she could not keep her gaze from straying to the figure behind the desk. Sometimes his brow would be knit, and he’d be studying the papers before him with such intensity that she wondered if he were not grappling with the fate of the Empire. Other times he would be leaning back and staring at the ceiling as if invoking heaven’s assistance. The times that wrung her heart, however, were when his leonine head was cradled in his hands and his broad shoulders were slumped over the desk as if the burden he bore were simply too great.

And she could see that he did bear a burden. However much she had once teased him about the difficulties of being born to the manor, she could now see that that gift came with a heavy price. Nothing happened on the estate without Justinian’s consultation and advice. The steward brought a steady stream of issues and concerns from the tenants; Mr. Faringil seemed unable to manage the household without appealing to Justinian for each decision; and even the cook requested his preferences for dinner as if she were cooking for the Prince Regent and not an elderly woman, an overtired earl, and an impoverished ex-school teacher. He seemed to have no time to himself and little appreciation for his efforts. She only wished she could find some way to help.

Unfortunately, with visiting the countess, keeping the kitten out of trouble, and finishing her work in the nursery, her days were also busy. After inspecting the nursery and schoolroom, she worked with the countess to identify furniture and linen that could be used to refurbish and brighten the little-used rooms. Using paper, pen, and ink Mr. Faringil provided her from his lordship’s library, she drafted a schedule for Dottie that included time to study, to play, and to exercise in the gardens or on horseback. She had to make the schedule twice as the first time Jingles jumped onto it in mid-scribble and proudly smeared the ink into small, paw-shaped patches.

Although she delighted in spending her evenings reading books from the Darbys’ excellent library, each afternoon while the countess napped she borrowed the several-day-old Times from Mr. Faringil and scanned the ads for positions. She saw any number for governors and nannies and two for teachers at girls schools in London. Somehow, she found a reason not to respond to most of them. The one time she did sit down to compose a letter, Jingles jumped onto her lap and reached up for the paper and she put the quill and ink away for fear of another mishap.

She knew she could not keep hiding away from her future, or her past, but for now, only the present was even tenable.

As for Justinian, he was finding the present to be completely untenable. It seemed to him that he was constantly on the verge of breaking into two people. One impertinent fellow wanted to drag Norrie Pritchett off to a secluded corner of the manor, kiss her nearly senseless, and demand to know why she had reappeared in his life if she wasn’t willing to acknowledge his existence.

The more scholarly fellow who had been forced to be an earl raised an eyebrow at such brutish behavior, reminding the impetuous fellow that he had frightened her away in the first place with far more gentle actions than that. The scholar cautioned prudence; all good things came to those who waited. Justinian wanted to follow the latter advice, but he found his good intentions ruined every time he happened upon Eleanor.

Luckily, the habitual coolness with which she greeted him only convinced him that he should not speak; however, it did not keep him from remembering. Now there were new memories overlaid on the old: the loving attention she devoted to setting up Dottie’s apartments and schedule, the sparkle in her beautiful eyes when she showed them the newly refurbished schoolroom, the sound of her laughter at some quip of his mother’s, the soft hush of long skirts passing his door and the absurd longing to hear them pause. She distracted him from his routine, she distracted him from his work, she distracted him from his writing. He did not have an answer for how to stop her bitter-sweet distractions and wasn’t entirely sure he wanted one. His very ambivalence only served to trouble him further.

He was trying once again to determine the appropriate course of action one night about a fortnight before Christmas when he found his supper, which he had been wont to take alone in the library at the desk, very much disturbed. It started innocently enough. He was just spooning up a mouthful of chicken broth when a distinct thump sounded overhead. He frowned at the frescoed ceiling but soon returned to his reading. The second noise occurred as he was starting his ragout of beef; that sound was definitely more of a thud. His salmon tart was taken to the tune of repetitive drumming that made him wonder whether he had been invaded by the Scottish army. The feet running back and forth during his lamb brisket made him sure of it. Before the blueberry trifle Mrs. Childs had promised him arrived, he was taking the stairs two at a time to find out what was going on.

His mother didn’t even look contrite when he appeared in her doorway. Both Mary and Norrie dropped a curtsey, and it was not lost on him that both had red faces and appeared winded. Indeed, Norrie’s slender chest was heaving, and she was biting her full lower lip as if she was afraid she was going to burst out laughing at any second. The laughter sought escape through her twinkling eyes instead.

“Good evening, Justinian,” his mother heralded. “So good of you to join us. We were about to ring for dessert. Will you have some?”

He took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Mother. Is everything all right up here?”

The countess raised a finely etched white brow. “All right? Certainly. We are all fine, aren’t we, Eleanor?”

Eleanor thought she would explode if she didn’t let the laughter out. Until this evening, she had been successful in keeping the lordly little cat from exploring the countess’ bedchamber. For some odd reason, the countess had demanded that he remain through dinner, and Eleanor had hardly eaten a bite before he had begun stalking about. His reactions to different pieces of furniture and belongings at the floor level had been funny enough, but when he jumped up on the dressing table and scowled at himself in the mirror, the countess had whooped delight. Both Mary and Eleanor had repeatedly tried to distract him, but the calling, pulling, and petting had been to no avail. His highness Jingles was determined to play in the face powder and other interesting items. She had just spent the last few minutes in a wild chase about the room as the kitten bounded off furniture and scampered around the harried abigail’s legs. As Justinian’s gaze swept her direction, she sucked in a breath. Consequently, her voice came out entirely too high and tight. “Perfectly fine.”

“You hear that?” The countess smiled serenely. “We’re purrr-fectly fine.”

Eleanor choked and bowed her head, clutching her heaving sides.

Alarmed, Justinian took a step toward her. “Miss Eleanor, has your illness returned?”

Eleanor waved him away. “No, no, really. I’m quite all right. Please don’t let us disturb you.”

The countess cocked her head. “You know, Eleanor dear, I think Justinian may be right. You look quite done in. You should go to bed, immediately. Justinian, would you be so kind as to escort her?”

Eleanor froze, but Justinian frowned at his mother, who sighed gustily as if suddenly quite weary herself.

“I’m sure Miss Eleanor would rather have Mary,” he replied so quellingly that Eleanor felt herself pale.

“Out of the question,” his mother snapped, drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “She can’t be spared. Good night, Eleanor, dearest. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning. Don’t forget to take the kitten with you.”

Eleanor had no choice but to hug the countess good night as she had been wont to do. “Yes, your ladyship, thank you.” As she pulled away, she swore she saw the countess wink. Discomposed, she could only peer under the dressing table, where she had last seen the kitten. “Jingles? Here, kitty, kitty.”

“Allow me,” Justinian clipped, reaching up the bed hangings beside his mother and untangling the kitten’s claws from its precarious hold. Jingles blinked at him and had the audacity to yawn. Eleanor hurried forward to accept the little animal.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, burying her face in the kitten’s fur to hide her embarrassment. Unfortunately, that only set her nose to itching and they hadn’t even reached the door before she was sneezing again.

“Give him to me,” Justinian commanded as they started down the corridor. Face reddening, she complied.

“I’m very sorry we disturbed your work,” she told him, eyes following the scroll pattern in the Oriental carpet underfoot. “The countess does so enjoy Jingles’ antics. I had no idea our hilarity was carrying beyond the room.”

“It is of no significance,” Justinian assured her and was surprised to find that he meant it. “My mother needs something to take her mind off her problems.”

“Is she very ill, then?” Eleanor couldn’t help asking. For as long as she had been at the Barnsley School, the countess had been bedridden. It struck her now that she had never been told why. She supposed it was not a subject for a lowly school teacher.

Justinian answered her readily enough. “Dr. Praxton tells me there is nothing wrong with her outside the normal changes that come with age. My father married late. My mother was nearly forty-five when I was born. She will be seventy-five this year.”

“Sh,” Eleanor cautioned. “I don’t think she likes that fact to be well known. Besides, if she isn’t unwell, why does she remain in bed?”

Justinian sighed. “I wish I knew. But she seems happier now than anytime I can remember.” He glanced at her and decided to speak his mind. “You seem to have that affect on people.”

Eleanor blushed again and wished she had Jingles to hide it. She glanced quickly at the kitten, who lay cuddled against Justinian’s broad chest. Jingles’ yellow eyes were closed, and his cheek nuzzled against the black waistcoat, not far from Jusintian’s heart. She could imagine no finer place to rest. She swallowed and averted her gaze.

“Norrie.” He stopped in the corridor, and she had no choice but to stop beside him. “Norrie, we must talk. We cannot be expected to live in this house for the next fortnight as if we are nearly strangers.”

“But we are nearly strangers, my lord. It’s been nearly ten years. I’ve heard that you went on to be a great scholar, just as you had planned. And now you are being the earl, which I know you had not planned, nor even wished. Our lives were different then. The paths have only diverged even farther. You are no longer Justinian Darby, and I am no longer Norrie Pritchett. You are Lord Wenworth. And I am Miss Eleanor, the governess. That is how things are. It took me some time to truly understand this. Now, if you will please hand me Jingles, I will say good night.”

She was so calm and sure of herself that any nebulous ideas of professing undying devotion blew away like mist in the wind. Solemnly he handed her the kitten, who snuggled just as contentedly against her breast as he had against Justinian’s chest moments before. “Very well, Miss Eleanor, if that is how you feel. I guess we have nothing to discuss after all.”

Norrie couldn’t understand why her eyes blurred as he walked away. It must have been the illness returning after all.

Chapter Seven

Eleanor assured herself that it should have been easy to act nobly so close to the Christmas season, but she found it progressively difficult. She should have been relieved that Justinian did not mention their past relationship again but was not a little disappointed to find that he gave her a wide berth. She should feel pleased that by reminding him unselfishly of his greater duty, which was to marry someone far more important in the world than one insignificant school teacher, she had put a wall between them. That was what she had meant to do, and she had succeeded. Now she just had to finish her business and leave.

Christmas was still over a sennight away the day the snow began to fall. She had taken Jingles out to play in the gardens that edged the back of the house and was surprised to find how cold it had grown. They had only gone a little ways along the house from the kitchen when the first flakes descended, large and heavy. Jingles didn’t notice them at first. When he did, he proceeded to pounce upon them as interlopers to his kingdom, lifting his paws in approval to find nothing but a thoroughly vanquished puddle. As Eleanor’s own cloak was beginning to dampen, she soon scooped him up and hurried up the steps to the terrace to find the nearest entrance to the manor.

She knew the first door she came upon would lead into the library; she had seen Justinian standing outside it often enough. She almost continued on but a quick look through the open curtain on the double doors showed the chair behind the great desk as empty as the room beyond. She thankfully slipped inside, setting down Jingles long enough to shrug out of her damp cloak and wrap the wetness away from the papers and books. She glanced about the lamp-lit room again, reassuring herself that Justinian was indeed not in residence, although a warm fire glowed in the grate and papers were spread upon the desk. Unfortunately, in the brief moment she had surveyed the room, she had lost sight of Jingles.

She tiptoed farther into the room, peering under the legs of the various chairs and book tables but could not find the kitten. A dull thud behind her sent a chill through her. Whipping about, she found not Justinian but something far worse.

“Jingles, get down!” she cried, rushing back to the desk where the kitten was capering about on the open papers. Jingles ignored her, pushing the stack of crackling parchment ruthlessly to the floor as if annoyed it dared share the desk with him. Eleanor grabbed him up and held him firmly against her. “That is quite enough, my paper despot.” She glanced down at the parchment, and her heart sank. What was once nicely written prose was now muddy blobs of watery ink dotted with the unmistakable footprints of a kitten. Remembering how much Justinian’s work had always meant to him, she shuddered to think how he would react when he knew it was ruined.

“We must find a way to fix this,” she told Jingles, bending closer. The page that had been smeared, she saw, was nearly the last page of a rather long piece. Perhaps if she took it and some of the earlier pages, she might be able to recopy it on the parchment in her room, then replace it before Justinian knew it had gone missing. It was certainly worth a try. If he discovered it before she finished, she would simply explain the circumstances. She wouldn’t have to give him another task to undertake.

That night in her room, however, she was surprised to find not some weighty estate matter or a legal writ before her but the finale of what was surely a novel. The descriptions conjured pictures in her mind, she found herself liking the character who was obviously the hero, and she was so caught up in the scene of the hero confronting the villain that when she found she had not picked up the final pages, she nearly cried in disappointment. It was some of the most well-written prose she had ever read, and it had surely been written by Justinian Darby.

She sat back in her chair at the writing table in her room and pulled Jingles away from the precious pages. Justinian Darby, a novelist. She envied him, and she pitied him. As a renowned scholar, he would never have been respected for publishing anything so frivolous as an adventure story, which this obviously was. As the Earl of Wenworth, it was unthinkable. She doubted whether anyone but herself had ever so much as read a page. That was the greatest pity, for it was as good an any she had seen. How difficult it must be for him to find time to write it, and to hide it away.

Over the next two nights it was a labor of love to decipher and recopy the smeared sections. As she did so, her respect for the piece only grew. Surely there was some way he could publish it. He deserved the literary acclaim it would certainly receive. Lord Byron and Walter Scott published their works under their own names. Yet, they did not bear the proud name of Darby. Perhaps he could publish it anonymously as the woman was doing who had written Sense and Sensibility.

She pondered the matter so thoroughly that the countess caught her wool-gathering the next day. Eleanor jumped as Lady Wenworth rapped her knuckles sharply with her quizzing glass.

“And what is more important than my most entertaining story of the bruise on my toe?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.

Eleanor shook her head with a smile. “Oh, certainly nothing I might think of.”

The countess grinned. “That’s my girl. Seriously, my dear, is something troubling you? You have seemed rather pensive of late. You aren’t thinking of leaving us, are you?”

Eleanor managed to keep a pleasant smile in place. “I promised to stay until Christmas, did I not? But I regret, my lady, that my plans have not changed. Once Dottie is home and settled, I must move on.”

“That school cannot need you as much as I do,” the countess complained, pursing her lips into something very much resembling a pout. “This is most vexing. I’ve done everything I can think of and still you and Justinian do not seem to have come to an agreement.”

Eleanor swallowed. The woman could not mean what she thought. “An agreement?”

The countess was watching her, and there was no mistaking the shrewdness in those blue eyes. “Yes, an agreement. My son may sometimes be obtuse, but I’m sure he noticed that you bear a striking resemblance to Norrie Pritchett. I must admit, however, I find Eleanor much more elegant.”

“You know?” Eleanor whispered.

“Whatever other ailments I may have, I’m not blind, my dear.”

“But you couldn’t have met me above four times!” Eleanor protested.

“I believe it was five, and you are very memorable, dear. A mother usually remembers her son’s first love, if she is lucky enough to be privy to it.”

“He didn’t love me.” Eleanor shook her head, and she wondered suddenly who she was trying to convince.

“Oh, but I disagree. Justinian quite wore his heart on his sleeve, the poor lamb. Why else did you think my husband felt he must send you away?”

Eleanor hung her head. “He thought I had designs on the Darby fortune. I assure you, your ladyship, I didn’t then and I don’t now.”

“Ah.” The countess let the word hang in the air for a moment, then sighed. “Then you don’t love my son.”

Eleanor couldn’t lie about that. She kept her head down. “Your husband was very convincing. It isn’t appropriate for someone like me to love a Darby.”

“What exactly did he say to make you think that?”

She didn’t stop to wonder why the countess would ask. “He said a great many things. The one I remember most often is ‘the best you can hope for from my son is to bear his bastard.’ I didn’t stay to hear any more.”

“I should think not.” The countess’ blue-veined hand reached out and lay on top her clenched fingers. “My husband was very opinionated, my dear, and I’m ashamed to say that I condoned it. Goodness, I most likely encouraged it. I’m very opinionated myself, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Eleanor sniffed back tears and managed a smile. “I had rather gotten that impression.”

The countess’ smile was gentle. “And you are not opinionated enough, if you let yourself believe all that was told you. We Darbys are famed for our arrogance as well as our generosity. Thank God Justinian seems to have inherited only the generosity of spirit. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, my dear. You could still have him.”

Eleanor surged to her feet. “If you are suggesting as your husband did that my best hope is becoming Justinian’s par amour, the answer is no. Do not suggest that again, or Darby or no Darby, I shall pack my things and leave this house immediately.”

“Oh, honestly,” Lady Wenworth sighed, “you young people are entirely too volatile. I had to wait until I was at least sixty before throwing such ultimatums at my elders. I am suggesting nothing of the sort. You would make my son an excellent wife.”

Eleanor’s legs suddenly refused to bear her weight, and she sank back onto the chair. “His wife? Me?”

“Oh, you are so delightful. You shock so easily. I vow it’s simply too much fun. Yes, dear, his wife. I could plant the idea in his mind, if you’d like.”

“Yes, no! I mean you certainly are capable of doing so, but I wish you would not.”

The countess raised her eyebrows. “Whyever not? You have as much as admitted you love my son. You have all the qualities I would wish for in a daughter-in-law – you are devoted and caring and you aren’t afraid to speak your own mind. If I read my son correctly, it would take very little to sway him.”

“No,” Eleanor repeated, scarcely knowing what to think. “I cannot let him make such a mistake. He has his family name to consider, your family name.”

“Pish tosh. I was a Burns long before I was a Darby. The old line could do with some new blood.”

Eleanor shook her head. “Please do not tease me on this. If you care anything for me, you will let things stand the way they are.”

The countess’ eyes narrowed. “You should know by now that the only person I care for is myself. I do as I please around here.”

Eleanor rose again, shaking out her skirts and trying to hide the fact that her hands were trembling. “Then you do it without me. Persist in this line and I will leave tomorrow morning.”

The countess glared up at her, and Eleanor glared back. They stood locked, gaze to gaze, lips compressed, jaws firm. With a determined thud, Jingles over turned the countess’ face powder.

The countess lowered her gaze with a shrug. “Ungrateful kitten,” she muttered. “He has yet to learn the appropriate manners for a Great House.”

Eleanor went to scoop the Jingles out of the pink dust, which coated his fur from tail to nose and peppered the surface of the rosewood dresser. “Some are not born to the manor, my lady,” she replied, dusting him off. Jingles’ pink nose twitched, and he sneezed. “Some of us are content with only a place by the fire.”

“Yes, well, even those can learn to be of service.”

Eleanor bit her lip to keep from responding. From potential countess to serving girl in a few moments, she thought with a shake of her head.

“He needs your help, you know,” the countess continued doggedly.

Eleanor held the kitten up and turned him about. “Yes,” she agreed, “he is a bit dirty. I suppose I’ll have to wash him off.”

“Not the infernal cat, my son!”

She turned to find the countess sitting straight up in the bed, color high.

“I thought we just agreed,” she replied to the countess, “that there was nothing appropriate I could do for Lord Wenworth.”

“You have chosen to see yourself as beneath him. That makes you so in my eyes. Yet you might still be of use to me. He won’t listen to me. He is working himself to an early grave. What am I to do then, eh?”

Eleanor’s mind flashed to his bowed head and felt a chill. “Nonsense,” she replied firmly. “Your son is a brilliant scholar. He’ll find a way out of whatever is wrong.”

“A brilliant scholar he may be, but who’s to know? Do any of them care how brilliant he is?” She waved her hand, but the elegant movement was tight with anger. “His brothers, his steward, those dolts in Wenwood, the people on the estate? They hound him and hound him and never listen to his reasonable answers. A scholar, you say? He is a scholar because I wanted a scholar. Adam was always my husband’s son, and Alex and Jareth belong to no one, but Justinian, Justinian was all mine. I wanted a great philosopher, a poet, a genius. I’m afraid the old adage is true. One should be careful what one wishes for. Justinian is all those things, and as a result, he is a miserable earl.”

“He is a wonderful earl!” Eleanor protested. “He takes his duty seriously, which is more than I can say for the last few Earls of Wenwood.”

The countess raised an eyebrow, and Eleanor felt herself blushing, realizing she had just criticized the lady’s husband and elder son.

“You see, you do have some opinions,” the countess remarked. “Much as I admire your willingness to stand up for the boy, the truth of the matter is, if he is not a miserable earl, he is miserable because he is the earl. You could help him there, I think.”

“How?” Eleanor asked suspiciously, though in truth a part of her would have liked nothing better than to help Justinian.

“Christmas is nearly here. Distract him long enough to let him enjoy it.”

Eleanor gazed at her, a plan beginning to form. Could she truly give Justinian a happy Christmas? Could the school teacher find a gift worthy of giving a Darby? “I can try. But I’ll need your help as well.”

The countess gazed back just as suspiciously. “What must I do?”

“You can start by giving me the addresses of your other sons.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Never you mind. You wanted me to trust you enough to have you arrange my marriage to your son. You can learn to trust me for a simple Christmas. Besides, the addresses are the easy part. If I can contrive to have a Christmas eve celebration in honor of Dottie’s return, you must agree to dress and come down for dinner.”

Lady Wenworth collapsed back upon her pillows. “I haven’t dressed for dinner in over twenty years.”

Eleanor smiled. “Then it’s high time you started, don’t you think?” As if in agreement, Jingles sneezed.

Chapter Eight

Justinian found himself unaccountably depressed as Christmas drew near. He had yet to arrive at a workable solution on the levees, his mother seemed unusually agitated, and he had not had time to touch his novel outside of a short evening some days ago. All those things would have been enough to depress any gentleman, but he suspected that, in reality, the main problem was that Norrie had cut him off so abruptly. His attempts to renew their acquaintance had only served to push her farther away. She seemed to be sensitive to his least remark, so confronting her would hardly prove a remedy. It seemed perhaps his father had been right all along. Somehow, that thought was the most depressing of all.

Trying to ease his mind, he threw himself into his estate work, remaining closeted with the beleaguered steward from early in the morning until long after the sun had set. He was therefore surprised to find, when he left the library late one afternoon, that Faringil and three strapping footmen were busily draping evergreen boughs along the railing of the great stair. Glancing about, he found a similar swag festooning the doorways to the morning room, the withdrawing room, and the dining room. “Are we having some sort of celebration?” he asked with a frown.

Faringil motioned the footmen to keep working and stepped down to his side, dusting off his hands on the apron he wore tied about his waist. “I believe we may be doing so, my lord,” he replied.

Justinian waited, the no more answer was forthcoming. “Christmas?” he wagered a guess.

“Just so, my lord,” Faringil agreed.

“How many days away now?” Justinian asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Three days, my lord?” Faringil tried hopefully.

Justinian rolled his eyes. “Good God, man, it’s perfectly all right to have an opinion on something that is a matter of fact. Is it or is it not three days to Christmas?”

The footman paused in their work, throwing not-so-covert glances over their shoulders at the butler, who was reddening. “If his lordship thinks there are three days,” Faringil replied solemnly, “there are three days.”

“And if his lordship thinks it’s a balmy summer’s day?” Justinian countered, exasperated.

“Then,” Eleanor replied, exiting the parlor with an armload of holly, “his lordship will be noted as having taken leave of his senses, and life will continue.”

The footmen’s eyes widened in amazement. Faringil choked on whatever he was going to say, covering it with a discrete cough behind his hand. Justinian found himself grinning.

He swept her a bow. “Ah, the sweet voice of reason at last. I take it this is all your idea.”

Eleanor felt herself blushing. “Actually, your mother got me started. We thought we might decorate the house for Dottie. You will be going to get her the day after tomorrow, won’t you?”

Justinian nodded. “I will indeed. And by the looks of it, this will be a festive homecoming.”

“I hope so,” Eleanor said. “We’ve gathered greenery for all the rooms, and Mary and the other maids are making boughs for the mantles and doorways. Now, if I can just keep Jingles from helping with the decoration, all should be well.”

“How is your little charge?” he asked, noting the way the greenery brought out the color in her cheeks. Black was entirely wrong for her, he thought. I should ask the school to change its teachers’ uniforms to something less somber, pink perhaps. He blinked the absurd thought away.

“He is well,” Eleanor replied. She straightened, then continued resolutely. “That is, he is as well as I have been able to make him. I do hope, with Dottie coming home and me leaving right after Christmas, that someone will be given charge of him?”

“That’s right; you’re leaving.” Somehow that thought was the most important of any she’d voiced. The new year seemed to stretch on drearily.

Eleanor bowed her head. “That was my plan,” she replied, knowing that at least four pairs of ears were keenly listening to her response. “I have been given no reason to change it.”

He started, and she hoped perhaps he had understood. Before she could glance up to be certain, she spied a black tail disappearing into the dining room. “Oh, dear!”

“What?” Justinian snapped, clearly pulled out of another thought.

She dropped a quick curtsey. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must see to the kitten.” She hurried around the stair toward the dining room.

“Infernal animal,” Justinian muttered. Had he understood her correctly? Was she actually encouraging him to offer? He watched her disappear into the darkened room. Around him, the footmen quickly busied themselves with their work, moving farther up the stair with each turn of the boughs. Nonchalantly, Justinian crossed the entry and wandered down the corridor to the entrance to the dining room.

As his mother took her dinners in her room and he had been taking his in the library, the room hadn’t been used since his brother died. He was surprised to find the long oval table polished, with a silver epergne of greenery in the center. More boughs draped the silk-hung walls, and ivy wreathed the back of the sideboard. The silver chandelier glittered brightly in the light from the corridor, and he thought each of the hundred-some candles were new.

The room appeared to be empty. “Miss Eleanor?” he ventured, his voice echoing to the ceiling high above. “Norrie?”

There was a muted thud and a muffled cry. They sounded from very near the floor. Frowning, he bent and peered under the table. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” came the response from somewhere down the table. “I’ll be out directly.”

He strolled along the row of lyre-backed chairs, head cocked to scan under the table. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, completely. If you’d just be so kind as to go away.”

Justinian paused raising an eyebrow. “Go away? Why?”

As if in answer, Jingles strutted out from under the table. He stalked past Justinian and paused impressively in the doorway, eyeing him with apparent disfavor. Then he turned his back on Justinian and began washing himself.

Justinian turned his gaze to the table in time to see Norrie backing out from under it on all fours. He was ashamed to admit it was a rather fetching picture, but when she turned and saw him, he suddenly wished he had found some other way to occupy his time. Her lips were compressed, and her eyes snapped fire.

“I distinctly told you to go away,” she clipped out, stalking past him every bit as stiffly as the kitten had done.

“Ah, but you see, this is my house,” Justinian replied, hurrying to catch up with her.

“And that should be your kitten,” Eleanor countered, averting her gaze, hoping her embarrassment could be hidden beneath her anger. “I fail to see why I must continually take care of him.”

“Simply because you’re so very good at it,” Justinian answered truthfully. He touched her shoulder, stopping her, then managed to secure her hands in his own. “You take care of everyone near you. I must thank you for being so kind to my mother. She has been rather gruff of late. She tells me she shall miss you greatly.”

“I’ll miss her too,” Eleanor said with sigh. “But I must move on. You understand, don’t you?”

Suddenly, he didn’t understand at all. Still, he tried to remain congenial. “I don’t understand, actually, but as you have pointed out, we do seem to be different people these days. However, I have not forgotten my manners. I was trying to thank you, for doing this for my mother, and for Dottie.” He glanced about the room again, and his gaze lit on the bough that had been hung over the dining room door. The shape and make of the materials were unmistakable. He could feel the grin spreading. “And I must compliment Mary on her work as well. That is the finest kissing bough I have ever seen.”

Eleanor glanced up, horrified. The mistletoe and apples stood out in the dim light. She glanced wildly out the door, but the footmen and Mr. Faringil must be nearly at the top of the stair, for they were nowhere in sight. She was quite alone, with Justinian.

He could see she was frightened, but he could not seem to stop himself. If he was branded as being in love, perhaps it was time he started acting like it. “It would be a shame to waste such a lovely kissing bough,” he murmured, bending his head to hers.

His kiss was like nothing she had dreamed. No poem he had ever read to her, no story she had imagined captured the sweet fire of it. The love she had felt for him all those years welled up inside her, adding to the warmth of his embrace, making her press herself against him, returning his kiss with all her heart. She willed the moment never to end, prayed that he would feel what she felt at that moment, for if he did, surely he would never let her go again.

But he did let her go, drawing a shaky breath and gazing down at her with a warmth in his eyes that took away what little breath she had remaining. Norrie could only stare at him. His lips looked as warmed and swollen as hers felt.

“Norrie,” he started, voice husky. “Forgive me. I should never have . . . .”

Her heart nearly broke at his words. She held up a hand and sealed his mouth, feeling the sweet pressure of his lips against her fingers. “No, please, don’t. I don’t want to hear apologies. I’ve always wished I knew what it was like to kiss you. Thank you for granting that wish. You needn’t worry I’ll read too much into it. I know my place.”

“Your place!” The force of his words pushed her hand away. “After a kiss like that, your only place is with me.”

Eleanor paled, stepping away from him. How could he, after what they had shared? Was her love so cheap after all that all she was worthy of was to be his mistress? She bent and scooped up Jingles, thrusting the kitten into Justinian’s arms. “My place,” she said clearly, “is below stairs, with the other servants. At least they have some dignity. I pray you’ll leave me a little of it and not mention that subject again.”

Head high, she stalked from the room. Shaken and confused, Justinian could only peer after her, noting that before she even reached the door to the kitchen, Norrie Pritchett was running as if her life depended on it.

Chapter Nine

Justinian Darby prided himself on being a scholar, but he was the first to admit he knew very little about women. After his encounter with Norrie two days ago, he was prepared to admit he knew nothing. He had puzzled and puzzled over her reaction, but he could not understand it. The only conclusion he could reach was that she had mistaken his comments for an offer of a carte blanche, but that made little sense. He would hardly offer someone like Norrie the opportunity to be his mistress. In the first place, she was entirely too much of a lady to even think of doing anything so reprehensible, and, in the second place, surely she knew he would never dishonor her. Still, he had felt it only proper to honor her request and leave her alone, at least until he understood his own mind.

Now, after two days of pondering, he was no closer to understanding her, but he knew what he wanted. If there was any good thing that might come from his being made the earl, it was that he was now the one to make the decisions. And he had decided that the best thing he could possibly do with his life was to marry Norrie. Now, all he had to do was convince her of that fact.

He was feeling rather optimistic when he arrived at the Barnsley School just before lunch to retrieve Dottie for the Christmas holiday. Unfortunately, that was the last time he was to feel optimistic for quite some time. Miss Martingale, the head mistress, was her usual obsequious self, fawning over him from the moment he arrived. Her attitude set his teeth on edge. Given all the matters on his mind, he supposed it wasn’t surprising when he cut short her excessively long welcoming speech with a curt, “May I see my niece now?”

Miss Martingale blinked, snapping her mouth shut. She nodded to one of the other staff who had been assembled to receive him, and he offered the mousy little woman a grateful nod. As she scuttled from the room, he was thankful that Norrie had somehow managed not to be infected by the sheer subservient attitude that seemed to dominate the place. Perhaps she was right in having him remove Dottie permanently.

Thinking of Norrie made him remember that he should at least thank Miss Martingale for letting them appropriate her. “Miss Pritchett seems quite recovered from her illness,” he offered as they waited in what was becoming a rather chilly silence.

The large head mistress affixed him with a cold stare. “Indeed. I wish her well.”

“I’m not sure when we will be returning her to you,” Justinian continued. “My mother seems to have taken a fancy to her.” Not to mention the fancy I seem to have taken, he added silently. He wondered how the woman would react if he succeeded in getting Norrie to marry him. The scandal would be one of the few ever to enliven the Darby reputation, but he was certain his family name would survive.

Miss Martingale frowned, and he was sure any child seeing such a face would run screaming for the door. “Am I to understand, my lord, that you have taken that woman in?”

Something in her tone told him this conversation was going to unnerve him. “I must object to you referring to Miss Pritchett as ‘that woman,’” he replied. “But yes, she is staying with us. My mother asked that she remain until Christmas. I thought you had been informed. My apologies for detaining her from her duties. You must have been frantic.”

“As she was released from her duties in early December, I had no reason to care as to her whereabouts,” Miss Martingale declared. “I must say, I’m very sorry to see that she finally managed to ingratiate herself into your family, my lord. Your father warned me about her years ago, but I thought that he and I together had curbed her tendency to think beyond her station. Unfortunately, only recently I realized she was using Lady Dorothea to weasel her way into the Darby’s affections. Of course, I summarily sacked the wretched woman.”

Justinian stared at her. “Are you trying to tell me that Norrie Pritchett is a social climber, a fortune hunter?”

“I regret to say that I believe so, my lord. I tried to teach her otherwise, but I seem to have failed. I hope you know, Lord Wenworth, that I expect all my teachers, and my students as well, to know their places in life.”

Justinian flinched as she echoed the words Norrie had used only days before. “I can only say that you must be mistaken, Miss Martingale,” he replied. The coolness of his tone was not lost on the head mistress, who paled.

“Of course, my lord. You would know better than I.”

It was all Justinian could do not to close his eyes in frustration at the familiar reframe.

His spirits nearly recovered on the ride home with Dottie, who fairly bounced in her seat beside him in the sleigh. The snow that had started a week ago had continued off and on so that the fields lay under a blanket as white as the countess’ counterpane, with the Mendip Hills in the distance piled as high as her pillows.

“And Jingles is really waiting for me?” Dottie asked him for what was surely the fourth time since leaving the school.

Justinian smiled. “Yes, he is really waiting for you. Your Miss Eleanor has been taking very good care of him.” He paused, eyeing his niece. “Miss Eleanor is very good at taking care of people, isn’t she, Dottie?”

Dottie bit her lip, lowering her eyes, and Justinian’s fears increased. “Miss Martingale and Miss Lurkin say I was unkind to Miss Eleanor,” she murmured. “It isn’t right to make friends with people not of one’s class. It gives the wrong impression and encourages coaching.”

Justinian frowned. “I think the word you’re looking for is encroachment, Dottie. And Miss Martingale and Miss Lurkin are no doubt teaching you what they believe is right; however, you must form your own opinions on that matter.”

Dottie glanced up, a small light of hope in her eyes. “Then it’s all right if I just love Miss Eleanor anyway, even if she isn’t a Darby?”

Justinian’s smile returned, hearing his own hopes echoed in her words. “Yes, sweetling, it’s perfectly all right to love Miss Eleanor.”

“Oh, that’s famous!” Dottie exclaimed, her enthusiasm restored as quickly as it has been lost.

Justinian wished he could recover his good spirits so easily. After the conversation with the head mistress and his niece, it was apparent to him where Norrie got her notions about her place in the world. However, he could not subscribe to Miss Martingale’s, or his father’s if the tale were true, belief that Norrie was a fortune hunter. Everyone kept telling him that his emotions were obvious, yet she had not encouraged him in the least. In fact, she had gone out of her way to discourage him. Of course, if his initial conclusions were right, and she thought he was offering his love but not his position, she might only be holding out for a better offer.

His conviction was put to the test that very afternoon, however, for Faringil was waiting for him when he returned with Dottie. The homecoming was everything Eleanor had worked to make it. Dottie exclaimed over the decorations and ran through the renovated school room, touching this, holding that, and smiling at everyone. When he took her to see her grandmother, she threw her arms about Lady Wenworth and his mother’s eyes shone with tears of joy. Eleanor, however, was nowhere to be found. The idea that she would “keep her place” and not witness the happiness she had worked to bring about infuriated him, but before he could seek her out, Faringil was standing silently behind him. When Justinian frowned at him, he nearly bowed and beckoned. His frown deepening, Justinian followed him into the corridor.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the butler intoned in a whisper, glancing up and down the corridor.

“Yes?” Justinian asked, refusing to lower his own voice.

“I don’t like to interrupt Lady Dorothea’s homecoming, but I have been given some rather disturbing news.” He glanced up and down the corridor again, and Justinian had to hold himself back to keep from throttling the man.

“Well, then, out with it,” he commanded.

Faringil drew a sheet of paper from inside his black satin waistcoat and carefully unfolded it. “Betsy found this in the trash, my lord. She originally kept it to use the back side of the paper for writing a letter to her mother, but Mrs. Childs saw it and recognized the handwriting. Or should I say, the attempt at the handwriting.” He handed it to Justinian. “Someone appears to be trying to forge your name, my lord.”

Justinian stared at the parchment. The page was filled with nothing but his name, “Justinian Darby, Earl of Wenworth,” over and over again. The first few times bore little resemblance to the elegant script he had learned at Oxford, but gradually, something resembling his hand appeared. “Where did you find this?” he demanded.

“I regret to say, my lord, that it was under the writing table in Miss Eleanor’s room.”

Justinian felt a chill run through him. He thrust the paper back at Faringil. “There must be some logical explanation.”

Faringil bowed his head. “Of course, my lord. Just as you say.”

“Stop that this minute,” Justinian thundered. Faringil jumped and took a step back, eyes widening. “I refuse to have a man in my employ who cannot or will not think for himself. I am not infallible, for God’s sake! I am asking for your opinion, man. Have you lived so long under the Darby roof that you don’t know how to have a thought of your own?”

Faringil paled. “I would never presume, my lord, that is I have the deepest respect, that is . . .”

“In other words,” Justinian said, “the answer is yes. Small wonder I feel as if I’m the only one making decisions around here.” He eyed his man, who seemed to have been reduced to a quivering pile of Christmas pudding. “Stand up, Mr. Faringil. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. I will give the matter considerable thought, you can be sure. For now, say no more about it.”

The butler bowed, relief written in his every movement. “Of course, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” He hurried away from Justinian with steps easily twice as fast as his usual measured tread.

Justinian shook his head. He glanced down at the sheet of paper, which Faringil had refused to take, and saw that it was clenched in his hand. Relaxing his grip, he eased the sheet back to its full size. His name stared back at him. And something else.

Along the bottom of the paper lay the smudged track of a kitten.

Chapter Ten

Eleanor waited in the doorway of the dining room, clasping her hands to keep them from trembling. She didn’t need to look up to be reminded of the kissing bough over her head or of the scene that had taken place only days before. The kiss must not distract her, not tonight.

She glanced again about the room, from where the candles blazed in the glittering silver chandelier to the crystal bowl of frothy eggnog on the sideboard. The great table was draped in damask, with six places set near the head, the gilt-edged bone china and gold cutlery glimmering against the expanse of white. A strand of ivy entwined around the base of each crystal goblet, and in the center of the table lay an immense wreath of evergreens, holly, ivy, and dried red roses. Everything was ready for Christmas Eve dinner.

Dottie scampered down the stairs, resplendent in a red velvet dress with a satin bow hanging down her back. Lady Wenworth had decreed that the child could put off mourning, at least through the Christmas season. Dottie stopped before Eleanor and threw her arms around her.

“Happy Christmas, Miss Eleanor,” she proclaimed, pulling her down to plant a kiss on her cheek.

Eleanor hugged her and straightened. “Happy Christmas to you too, Dottie. Thank you for keeping your Uncle Justinian busy this afternoon. Your grandmother and I were also quite busy. Is everything ready in the withdrawing room?”

Dottie nodded, eyes sparkling. “Just as Grandmother and I talked about. Oh, Uncle Justinian won’t know what to make of it.”

“I certainly hope you’re right,” Eleanor replied, keeping her smile in place when she wanted to bite her lip in concern. What she was going to do tonight was the most daring thing she had ever done. If it succeeded, she would at last feel that she had done the Darbys a service. If it didn’t . . . despite herself, she shivered.

Dottie apparently didn’t notice, skipping to her place near the head of the table. “Where is everyone?” she complained. “I don’t want to wait.”

“Now you sound like a Darby,” Justinian said in the doorway. Eleanor took a hasty step back, and his welcoming smile seemed to dim. He bowed to her, and she curtsied, fingering the deep green velvet of the gown the countess had found for her. It had belonged to the countess’ mother, who apparently had had a build more similar to Eleanor’s. Accordingly, the waist was far too low and the skirt far too wide for current fashion. The light of appreciation in Justinian’s eyes as she rose from her curtsey made it the most beautiful dress in the world.

Justinian had spent the better part of the afternoon getting his niece settled. After visiting her grandmother, she had been surprising reluctant to let loose of him, confirming in his mind Norrie’s assertion that Dottie sorely missed her parents. Twice when her attentions were distracted by a new toy or dress he had attempted to locate Faringil to take charge of her, only to be unable to find the man anywhere. Seeing the dining room in all its glory told him how his butler had passed the afternoon. The only remaining puzzles were why six places had been set for himself, Dottie, and Eleanor, and why Eleanor had been writing his name. Once again, however, now was not the time to ask.

“When my mother suggested I dress for dinner, I had no idea I’d be having such lovely company,” he said, his nod taking in Dottie as well. Dottie beamed at him and waved toward the head of the table.

“Take your seat, Uncle Justinian,” she chirruped. “We’re all famished.”

He obligingly moved to do so, chuckling, but Eleanor remained at her spot. When he reached the head of the table and saw that she had not followed him, he frowned. Would the woman persist in keeping her place even on Christmas Eve? “You will be joining us for dinner, won’t you, Miss Eleanor?”

The question could well have been a command. Eleanor curtsied again. “Of course, my lord. As you wish.”

Justinian gazed at the ceiling. “Lord, give me patience.”

“You can’t say grace yet, Uncle Justinian,” Dottie piped up. “Grandmother isn’t here.”

He lowered his gaze to hers. “The countess doesn’t come down for dinner, Dottie,” he said with a gentleness that touched Eleanor’s heart. “You know that. Even though you’ve come home, you mustn’t think everything is going to change.”

“Christmas, my lord,” Eleanor heard herself say, “is a time of miracles. That’s what I’ve always been taught.”

He glanced down at her, pride in her warring with what he knew to be reality. “You’ve been taught a number of things that appear to be in error, Miss Eleanor. But we can discuss that later.”

Eleanor paled.

“Christmas, Justinian,” said the countess from the foot of the stairs, “is no time for one of your scholarly lectures.”

“Hurry, Grandmother!” Dottie urged. “You’ll miss all the fun.”

Justinian straightened, eyes widening in disbelief.

“Patience is a virtue, child,” the countess replied, leaning heavily on a gold-tipped ebony cane and Mary’s arm. “One you will probably not learn until you’re past my age, if you’re like most of the Darbys. Good evening, Eleanor. That dress is just as lovely on you as I thought it would be.” She offered her cheek for Eleanor, who kissed it gratefully, the wrinkled skin soft beneath her lips. The countess winked at her as she labored past, lace-dusted lavender silk gown rustling with each step.

Justinian hurried from the head of the table to take Mary’s place beside his mother. “Mother, are you sure you can do this?”

The countess thumped the tip of the cane very near the toe of his evening shoe. “Don’t ask ridiculous questions. If I was completely sure of everything before I did it, I wouldn’t do anything at all.” She nodded to Mary, who quietly withdrew. Justinian escorted the countess to her place at his right. From the door at the back of the room, Mr. Faringil and a footman silently materialized. Faringil himself held out the chair for the countess to sit.

Justinian turned to see Eleanor standing still in the doorway. He frowned at her, but her face was turned toward the great stair, smiling in welcome. His frown deepened at the sound of footsteps on the stair.

“And then I told Wellington he could jolly well do without me for just one Christmas,” Alexander Darby proclaimed, striding to the door in full dress regimentals. “Good evening, Miss Eleanor.” He offered her a sharp bow as Justinian stared.

“You’ve been in the military far too long, Alex,” Jareth Darby quipped, bumping his elder brother aside with the elbow of an immaculate black evening coat. “One does not bow when one catches a lovely lady under the mistletoe.”

Eleanor blushed as he politely pecked her cheek. The light in those gray eyes, so like his brother’s, told her he would prefer to do far more, but was being a gentleman for his family’s sake. “Happy Christmas, Miss Eleanor,” he murmured, then turned to the room. “Happy Christmas, all.”

“Happy Christmas, Uncle Jareth, Uncle Alex!” Dottie exclaimed. “Come sit by me!”

“As there is only one seat beside you, infant, that is architecturally impossible,” Jareth replied, strolling up the room. “And since Alex is far more comfortable with the infantry, I shall leave the honor to him.” He took the chair beside his mother’s, bending to kiss her cheek as well. “Bravo, old girl. You’re in fine looks. Makes me wish I wasn’t related.”

The countess rapped his knuckles where they rested on the back on her chair. “Jack-n-apes! You promised to behave tonight.”

He pulled back his hands, grinning. “And so I shall. A Darby always keeps a promise. Isn’t that so, Justinian?”

“Certainly,” Justinian managed, although he had not fully recovered from seeing them in the same room. What could have possibly induced his brothers to appear on Christmas Eve? His gaze seemed drawn down the table to where a lovely young woman stood under the mistletoe.

Eleanor watched his amazement with amusement and no little trepidation. The countess had confided that her sons had not been together for Christmas in over fifteen years. Eleanor was a little afraid how they might react to seeing each other again. She hadn’t thought they would agree to come in the first place. Yet everything seemed to be going well.

Alex made his way stiffly up the table, stepping to Dottie’s side and saluting. “Captain Dorothea, requesting permission to sit.”

“Permission granted,” Dottie replied with a solemn bow of her head. The giggle that escaped as he did so spoiled the effect.

“In polite society,” the countess said to no one in particular, “the host generally escorts a guest in to dinner.”

Justinian shook himself. Their guest deserved far more than his escort for what she had done this night. He came down the table toward her, watching her smile waver on her face, her hands clasping and unclasping. The only desire in his heart was to make her feel welcome in this house she had made into a home once again.

Eleanor watched Justinian as if from afar. All three of the brothers had inherited the thick golden Darby hair, the tall slender build, the planed features. While Jareth was a little rounder and far more dapper in his stylish cutaway coat and trousers, and Alex a little leaner and far more commanding in his uniform, they were in her eyes shadows compared to Justinian. He moved with the power and assurance of his position, his family, his own accomplishments. The light in his eyes made the black evening clothes seem all the more elegant. He bowed and offered her his arm.

“Uncle Justinian,” Dottie sang out, giggling. “Remember what Uncle Jareth said about ladies under mistletoe.”

Eleanor gasped, then shook her head at him, begging him with her eyes not to kiss her again, not in front of the countess and Dottie, Alexander and Jareth, Mr. Faringil and the footman. Justinian looked up as if he had just noticed the bough swinging overhead.

“I remember, Dottie.” Following his brother’s lead, he bent and placed a chaste kiss on Eleanor’s cheek, which she knew was turning as red as the velvet of Dottie’s dress. “Happy Christmas, Miss Eleanor,” he murmured.

The words seemed stuck in her throat, but she managed a watery smile as she accepted his arm and let him lead her to her place next to Alex.

It was as merry a meal as Eleanor had prayed it would be. The countess was in rare form, teasing all of them until even Justinian was laughing. Dottie’s enthusiasm was infectious. Jareth kept his quips kind, and Alex made an obvious effort to refrain from military cant. The food Eleanor and Mrs. Childs had decided upon was delicious, and Mr. Faringil went so far as to whisper, “Well done, Miss Eleanor” when the dessert, a steaming Christmas pudding, was served.

The countess rose as the last dish was cleared away, and Justinian and his brothers rose with her. “Do not tarry long over your port, dears,” she commanded them, moving slowly down the table with Dottie beside her. “We have need of you in the withdrawing room.”

As Eleanor rose to follow them, Justinian moved around the table to catch her arm. “Thank you,” he murmured, conscious of his brothers’ gaze on him. “What you did tonight makes me believe you are right about Christmas. It is indeed a time of miracles.”

Eleanor swallowed, blushing under the warmth of his regard. “We are not finished yet, my lord,” she replied, pulling gently away. “Please join us as soon as you can.”

“Every moment will seem an eternity,” Justinian promised, sending a flood of fresh color to her cheek.

He knew he should refuse the port Faringil hovered to pour for them and follow Eleanor from the room. But the dinner had caught him completely by surprise, and he needed time to collect himself. Accordingly, he sat back in his seat and let his man fill the goblets.

Jareth picked up his glass, rolling the stem between long fingers. “She’s a treasure, that one. I assume I should wish you happy, brother.”

“One should not assume, Mr. Darby,” Alexander countered, taking a quick shot of his port. “Miss Eleanor is undoubtedly charming, and she certainly won this battle, but has she got what it takes to win the war?”

“By war, I take it you mean the famed Darby consequence?” Justinian replied, voice laced with sarcasm. “I find it difficult to remember that we are so very high above her when in her presence.”

“Women have a way of clouding one’s logic,” Alex said with a nod. “Dangerous thing that, very dangerous.”

“For once we are in agreement,” Jareth put in. “However, as I leave the logic to you two, I say marry the chit. Either that or set her up in a nice flat in London.”

Justinian glared at him. “That is unthinkable. Surely after meeting her you would advise marriage.”

Jareth grinned. “For anyone but me, of course.”

“Do not listen to him, Justinian,” Alex countered with a scowl. “You cannot ask the cooking pot whether the lamb should go free. You are the earl now, and certain conventions must prevail, regardless of how you might feel. It’s a shame, old man, but there it is. No amount of Christmas miracle will change that.”

When Justinian did not answer him, he sighed and rose, motioning Jareth to do likewise. “We will leave you to think on it, brother. When it comes to that, we always did what you and Adam agreed on.”

Jareth could not pass up a parting comment. “At least, in most areas.” They quit the room, leaving him alone.

The room was suddenly silent, reminding him of how it had rang with joy only minutes before. Even his brothers’ council was a precious gift, one he would not have had without Eleanor’s work. In fact without Eleanor, he feared, this is what his life would return to, this wasteland of duty and silence. Whether she knew it or not, she had just swept away any doubts he might have had on her ability to play his countess.

What had he thought he needed? Someone to organize parties, entertain his mother, shepherd Dottie to adulthood. He saw now that those were superficial things, unimportant in his life. What he needed, what they all needed, was someone who truly cared, someone like Norrie.

Suddenly, it didn’t matter that his father had suspected she was after the family fortune. It didn’t matter that Alex thought she was still beneath them, or that Jareth thought she would make a good mistress. It didn’t matter that she had been sacked from the school for disobedience. It didn’t even matter that she had been writing his name over and over again for some purpose he couldn’t fathom. Everything told him that she was what he needed, what they all needed. This time, he would not let her get away so easily.

He rose and went to join his family in the withdrawing room.

Chapter Eleven

Eleanor laughed out loud as Alexander succeeded in capturing another handful of raisins from the steaming silver snap dragon bowl. Jareth pouted, greatly resembling the countess, while Dottie clapped her hands with glee. Bowing, her uncle surrendered the fruits to her enjoyment.

Justinian leaned against the mantle, watching them with amusement. He had never seen his family so happy. Even the jaded Jareth was chuckling as Dottie attempted to hand feed him the now quite squashed raisins. As Justinian shouted bravo to Eleanor’s final attempt to plunge her hand into the bowl of flame-tipped, brandy-soaked raisins, something nudged his foot. Glancing down, he found Jingles sitting on his feet as if surveying from a throne. He scooped the little fellow up into his arms. Jingles sniffed but, apparently deciding the view was better, settled himself against Justinian’s black watered-silk waistcoat.

“Oh, that was fun!” Dottie declared as the footmen extinguished the flames and carried away the bowl. “What shall we do next?”

“Bring in the Yule Log, of course,” the countess proclaimed from her seat on the sofa. “Eleanor, my love, be so kind as to show Justinian where we put it.”

Faringil stiffened, but Justinian knew he would say nothing against the countess. Alex and Jareth exchanged glances. It was hardly a Darby’s place to lug a damp log from the cellar or kitchen to the withdrawing room. Eleanor was paling as if she too realized the impropriety. He silently blessed his mother for interfering and giving him time alone with his Norrie. He swept Eleanor a bow in offer of his services, and she had no choice but to proceed him out the door.

He stopped her in the entry way, motioning her down the corridor to the library where they were unlikely to be disturbed.

“But my lord,” she protested, feebly he thought, “the log is in the breezeway.”

“And there is something far more important in the library,” he assured her, shutting the door behind her. She jumped at the sound and scurried toward the dwindling fire as if afraid to be near him. He took a step toward her and belatedly realized that he still held Jingles. Bending, he let the kitten free on the floor, going instead to light a lamp on the desk.

“You have already thanked me for tonight,” Eleanor started, hoping to forestall anything he might say so that they might escape the library before he saw the letter laying on the desk. It was her final gift to him, and she didn’t want him to see it before Christmas Day. “Let us fetch the log and return to your family.”

“I would not have a family tonight but for you,” Justinian countered, moving slowly closer. He didn’t want to frighten her, but the need to hold her was almost overpowering. “Norrie, I cannot stand having you near but unable to touch you.”

She closed her eyes to block the view of his anguished face. “Don’t. Please. I cannot be what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want. I’ve heard all the arguments about propriety and place. None of them matter. Marry me, Norrie. Let me give you the place you deserve.”

Her eyes snapped open, heart leaping within her. “What . . . what did you say?”

He dropped to one knee and held out his hands to her. “Please, Miss Eleanor Pritchett, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

“Oh, Justinian!” She fell to her knees beside him and was immediately swept up in an embrace that was warmer than any place by the fire. When at last he released her, she could only lay her head against his chest with a sigh. Behind them came the unmistakable rustle of paper.

“Jingles!” she cried, clambering to her feet. Justinian rose just as hurriedly as she dashed to the desk. The unrepentant kitten was shoving about the papers, sending Justinian’s many reports sliding off to the floor and rumpling Eleanor’s precious letter nearly beyond recognition. She snatched up the startled kitten and thrust him at an equally surprised Justinian. Smoothing the letter, she found it was still readable and heaved a sigh of relief.

“What is it?” Justinian asked, looking over her shoulder as Jingles wriggled in his grip.

Eleanor swallowed, turning to him. “Your Christmas gift. I believe it is customary for servants and tenants to give a gift to the lord of the manor on Christmas.”

He frowned. “You are hardly a servant or tenant.”

“Well, I must admit I wasn’t completely convinced of that until a few days ago. I ran away from you once, Justinian, and I almost did so again. I was afraid I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“That is ridiculous,” he snapped, but she held out a hand to stop him.

“Yes, it is. But you mustn’t blame your father or the school. Your mother said it best, I think. She told me that I chose to see myself as beneath you, and so I was. It wasn’t until I found I could help the great Darbys that I realized that it was only my own fear that kept me from admitting how much I love you.”

“Norrie,” he started, but she thrust the letter at him before he could deter her with sweet words of love.

“Justinian Darby, you are a great novelist. The publisher at Simons and Harding in London agrees with me.”

He stared at the letter, then up at her face. It was the first time she had ever seen a Darby pale.

“You know about the novel?” he whispered.

“Jingles found it one afternoon, I’m afraid to say. I was only attempting to repair the damage to what I thought would be estate papers. I just read a few pages, my love, but it was wonderful. I knew you would never attempt to publish it as the Earl of Wenworth. But I made a few inquiries on your behalf, and it is possible to publish it anonymously. See for yourself.”

He accepted the paper as if she had handed him a rabid dog, but his eyes were drawn to the words. “’Brilliant’?” he read in astonishment. “’Excellent literary worth’? What exactly did you send them?”

Eleanor smiled kindly. “Only the last few pages and a letter signed Justinian Darby.”

“That’s why you were practicing my name.”

Her face fell. “You knew?”

“Not about this,” he assured her with a shake of his head. “Betsy found a piece of paper under your desk. I would guess that was your accomplice’s fault.” He reached up to disengage Jingles from his waistcoat, dropping the kitten back onto the desk where he promptly pounced on the papers once again, jumping after them when they slipped to the floor near the hearth.

“Your estate work!” Eleanor cried.

Justinian slid the letter into his waistcoat and drew her close. “May he enjoy it more than I did. Thank you, Norrie, once again. Are you intent on granting every one of my dreams?”

“Yes,” she replied firmly. “By asking me to marry you, you have granted me every one of mine. Can I not do the same for you?”

The light in his eyes was every bit as dangerous as the one in Jareth’s when she had stood under the mistletoe. “Be careful, my love. Remember, I’m a Darby. We tend to dream of a great deal more than a place by the fire.”

“My lord,” Eleanor murmured, breath catching in her throat, “I am your willing servant.”

“No,” he murmured before his lips captured hers once again, “you are my dearest love. And before Christmas is over, I intend to prove that to you, once and for all.”

And for a time, all that could be heard was the sound of a kitten purring in his place by the fire.

________________

The June Bride Conspiracy

Chapter One

Lady Abigail Lindby took one look at the selection of roses in the florist’s shop on New Bond Street and burst into tears for the third time that morning.

Joanna Lindby smiled indulgently, tucking a stray black hair back under her fashionable bonnet before reaching out to give her mother’s plump hands a squeeze.

“I’m to be married,” she explained to the deferent and dismayed florist, “in June.”

The florist, a tall man as thin and pale as the lilies in his shop window, understood immediately. “Many happy returns, my lady,” he warbled. “And may I say that roses are an excellent choice.”

“No, no,” Lady Lindby fussed, sniffing back her tears and shaking her head so vigorously that she set the ostrich plumes on her broad-brimmed bonnet to quivering. “Roses are so ordinary. Mrs. Winterhouse had them for her daughter Belinda, and the two of them never slept together.”

The florist blinked in obvious confusion.

“What she means,” Joanna put in quickly from long practice, “is that unless one puts as much planning into a wedding as a marriage, the husband and wife may not be as congenial toward each other as they ought.”

Now her mother blinked. “Isn’t that what I said? There is no need to belabor the issue, dear. Now, as I was saying, something more exotic. What do you think of India, young man?”

Joanna’s smile deepened. Her mother was notorious among the ton for her unique brand of conversation. Her round face and equally round frame, along with small, wide-set eyes and a rosebud mouth, combined to make people think she was dim. In reality, Lady Lindby was quite intelligent. She simply couldn’t stop the rapid flight of her thoughts long enough to put together coherent conversations. After years of practice, Joanna found it easy to guess what was on her mother’s mind. Now she managed to order several simple arrangements for the wedding breakfast from the befuddled florist and extracted her mother from the shop without further ado.

As they rejoined their already laden liveried footman and continued their walk up New Bond Street, they had to stop every few moments to accept additional congratulations from various acquaintances. The weather was chill for early May. Joanna hugged her blue satin pelisse to her and wished she’d thought to wear a shawl over the top as her mother had done with her own serpentine satin pelisse.

Yet as she was forced to smile and offer her thanks for each fervent wish for her happiness, she began to wonder whether it was the weather or her situation she found uncomfortable. Surely this uneasiness she felt was only the pre-wedding jitters of any bride. She nodded at Lady Wentworth’s advice on household management and promised Genevieve Munroe to visit as soon as possible. Her mother managed to call everyone by their correct names and remember to thank them for their kind thoughts. It should all have been very endearing, but by the time they reached the dressmaker’s several shops down, Joanna could feel her smile becoming strained.

“And how might we serve madam today?” the heavy-set dressmaker sang out, rushing forward in a cloud of lilac perfume.

“Yellow,” Lady Lindby pronounced. “Though not a bright shade. I would not want Joanna to blind the fellow before she got him home.”

“That is to say,” Joanna supplied hurriedly as the dressmaker frowned in confusion, “my mother would like a gown in an understated tone. I am to be married, in June.”

Of course more congratulations followed, but Joanna was glad when the woman led her to a velvet-upholstered seat before a mirrored dressing table.

“Cream is all the rage,” the dressmaker confided, removing Joanna’s bonnet, “but with your coloring, I’d try for something more dramatic.”

She draped a swatch of silver-white satin over the shoulders of Joanna’s pelisse. The color complimented her pale skin and brought out the shine in her thick black hair. Above the swatch, her dark eyes glowed warmly.

“I have just the lace for it,” the dressmaker continued. “In the finest Brussels rose pattern with silver embroidery. It will match that lovely diamond ring of yours. You’ll be more regal than a queen. He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

As her mother stepped forward to discuss design and fittings, Joanna glanced down at the heavy diamond engagement ring, twisting it about her finger. She’d been so happy when Allister had slipped it on her hand. Yet somehow in the days that had followed, clouds had crossed the sunshine of her delight. She was now certain that the design of her wedding dress would make little difference. Allister found it all too easy to take his eyes off her. She was afraid the wedding would not change that.

Walking back to their carriage with her mother, she scolded herself for her lack of confidence. She should be thankful. No one had ever expected her to make such a brilliant match. Oh, she had had suitors. Her dark coloring and elegant figure had guaranteed that she would be sought out. But that same composure, coupled with a shy nature, had deterred close connections. Her widowed mother had begged her to try harder, but she couldn’t seem to do so. Consequently, she had earned the reputation of being cold.

Yet she knew nothing could be farther from the truth. A passionate heart beat in her breast. She had simply waited for the right man with whom to share it.

Enter Allister Fenwick, Baron Trevithan. One could not ask for a more likely hero. His hair was as dark and thick as hers, and wavier, swept back from a square-jawed face. His deep-set eyes were chips of sapphire that warmed with his mood. His figure was trim; he prowled with the grace of an African predator. To top it all off, he was something of a mystery, having been on assignment to the War Office since graduating from Oxford ten years ago. That this dark and dangerous lord should show interest in her was beyond anything she could have imagined. Yet the first time she had danced with him she’d known he could unlock the door of her heart, and after a month of courting she had been willing to hand him the key. The day he had proposed had been the happiest day of her life.

Except . . .

He had yet to introduce her to any of his friends. While it seemed many people knew of him, few knew him. She could not help but wonder whether there was something amiss that so perfect a specimen of manhood would have so few intimates.

Except . . .

She could not seem to keep his interest when discussing wedding plans. A certain reticence on the part of the groom was to be expected; in her experience gentlemen seldom cared about the details of decoration and deportment the way a lady did. But she couldn’t help noticing that there were moments when she was talking to him about more serious subjects and his eyes would dim. If she questioned him he could answer readily enough, but she had the impression that his thoughts were elsewhere.

Except . . .

He hadn’t told her he loved her. She’d been so brazen as to ask him outright once, but his smile and wink in response had been only momentarily satisfying. Oh, it wasn’t that he was indifferent. He demonstrated a kind consideration whenever they were together. And certainly she had no complaint for his romantic abilities. He sent her flowers, he took her for long walks and held her hand, he waltzed with her more often than was strictly proper, and he stole kisses at flatteringly frequent intervals. In fact the touch of his lips to hers raised a tempest inside her that usually resulted in a swollen mouth, tousled hair, and a beaming smile. But not once had he seemed so affected.

As Joanna and her mother alighted from the carriage and climbed the stairs to the cheery red door of their small stone townhouse off Grosvenor Square, she sighed. Perhaps she had no confidence in his devotion because they had only known each other a short time. He had only courted her for three months before proposing after all. How could anyone feel comfortable after only three months? She’d lived in the trim three-story townhouse since her father had died eight years ago, and it still felt stiff and cold to her, for all that her mother had decorated it in shades of yellow and bought many fine paintings and porcelains to enhance it. If she took so long to welcome change, she could not expect Allister to change his bachelor ways so quickly. She had to remember that he had proposed – that was the important thing. While he may not love her as deeply as she loved him, they had time. She had every confidence that she would make him a good wife. Perhaps, with time and proximity, he would lose his heart more fully.

“So much to do,” her mother lamented as they entered the marble-tiled foyer. “We’ve only sent out the first batch of invitations. The family is already sending presents. My friends are clambering to know if they may throw parties for you. This wedding will be the death of me as long as I live.”

“I promise I’ll be right there to help, Mother,” Joanna assured her. Pausing by the half-moon hall table, she thumbed through the stack of cards and invitations that had arrived in their absence. One cream-colored note stood out from the others on the brass tray. It was addressed to her mother, and the sealing wax bore no signet.

“What could this be?” she asked her mother.

Lady Lindby handed her reticule and pelisse to the waiting elderly butler and crossed to her daughter’s side. Raising an eyebrow, she took the note and opened it. As her button brown eyes moved down the page, all color drained from her face. Joanna watched in alarm as her mother collapsed into the Hepplewhite chair beside the table.

“Mother!” she cried, kneeling in front of her. “Dames, get the smelling salts from my mother’s dressing table.

As the butler hurried away, her mother moaned. “Oh, my poor heart.” She stared off into the distance. Tears sparkled again, but Joanna knew they could not be from joy. Her mother focused on her with difficulty. “Oh, my poor Joanna!”

“Mother, what is it?” she begged, taking the nearest hand in her own. The short fingers were cold in her grip.

Her mother held out the note with her other hand. “I’m so sorry, dearest.”

“Allister?” Joanna gasped in realization. “Has something happened to Allister?” She snatched the letter from her mother’s trembling fingers, rising to scan it.

“Lady Lindby,” it read in a firm masculine hand, “it is with great distress and after many hours of consideration that I must rescind my offer for your daughter. I find I am simply not ready to embark on the sea of matrimony. I wish you luck in the future.” It was signed merely “Trevithan.”

Joanna felt cold to the center of her being. How could he? Had she been so uninteresting that she could be summarily dismissed? How dare he end their engagement with this disgustingly inadequate note? How could he send it to her mother, like some coward afraid to face her? How could he offer no reason, no excuse for putting them through such embarrassment, such pain? Did he think she was without sensibility, without feeling?

“Oh, my poor dear,” her mother moaned, gazing up at her with tears staining pale cheeks. “What will we do?”

“Do?” Joanna asked with a cold fury. “Do? Oh, I promise you, madam, we will do something. This is insufferable. Unthinkable.” She drew herself up to her full height and glared at her mother, the gaping footman, and the butler who had just returned with the smelling salts.

“I will be married,” she swore, “in June.”

Chapter Two

Allister Fenwick, Baron Trevithan, generally did not have second thoughts. He had lived too long in a world of split-second decisions. One made a choice with the best information available and either reaped the rewards or paid the consequences. Now that he had chosen to leave that world behind, it only remained to be seen which result it would be this time. He had every expectation and hope that with Joanna Lindby, he had found his reward at last.

“Then you’re certain I can’t entice you into coming back to the Service?” Davis asked.

Allister eyed his long-time friend and partner as they sat in the sparsely furnished flat Allister had rented in London. Despite ten years of intense work, Davis Laughton still looked like a newly graduated Oxford scholar in his simple brown coat and pantaloons. His round boyish face, soft brown hair, and large liquid brown eyes habitually caused the enemies of the Crown to underestimate him. Behind his innocent facade lurked a keen mind and a determined spirit. No doubt those traits had been what had induced Lord Hastings to recruit him along with Allister into His Majesty’s Secret Service immediately after they left college. For many years, neither had regretted it. The excitement and challenge had been more than enough to compensate for loss of family and friends.

Until recently.

“Sorry, old chap,” Allister said with true regret, crossing the legs of his chamois trousers. “It’s time to hang up the sword.”

“If you quote me the verse about plough shares I shall demand brandy,” Davis threatened. “In fact, I may demand a brandy anyway. Are you really intent on leaving me to go it alone?”

Allister grimaced. “They’ll give you a new partner. Lord Hastings already has several candidates.”

“Untried steeds,” Davis complained. “And I get the dubious pleasure of breaking them in.”

“We were young, once,” Allister reminded him. “We turned out all right.”

“Well, one of us did,” Davis joked. Then his dark eyes clouded. “Seriously, Trev, I’m going to miss you. Are you sure this Lindby chit is worth it?”

“She isn’t a chit,” he corrected his friend. “Joanna Lindby is a diamond of the first water. She is well-bred, well-educated, and well-respected. I am the most fortunate of men.”

Davis sighed. “I was afraid of that. I had a feeling you were smitten the first time you pointed her out across the room. You had a look in your eye I’d never seen before. I envy you.”

Allister felt himself squirm internally under the praise, though he was too well-trained to allow it to show in his demeanor. Joanna was everything he had claimed to Davis, and more, but he was acutely aware that his feelings did not do her justice.

He knew it was no fault of the lovely Joanna. Her midnight black tresses, thick and lustrous, framed an oval, high-cheek-boned face. Her skin was like alabaster, her eyes dark and soulful. Her figure was willowy and elegant, with just enough curves to set a fellow dreaming of what lay beneath the fashionable silk gowns she wore. She was modest and soft-spoken, intelligent and gracious. That this virtuous paragon should agree to his proposal was the best for which he could have hoped. The first time he had danced with her he’d known she was special, and after a month of courting he was certain she’d make the perfect wife. The day she had accepted his proposal had been the happiest day of his life.

Except . . .

He wasn’t sure how honest he was capable of being with her. He had spent the last ten years of his life pretending. He’d been a carter, a courtier, a coachman, and a Compte. He’d had to hide his thoughts, his opinions, his feelings. Could he now learn to share them openly as was required for a good marriage?

Except . . .

He wondered whether he could live the life other men of his class seemed to live. Could he settle down with no more excitement than watching prices on the Exchange and visiting Whites? Courting had held a certain charm; it was a bit like matching wits with the enemy. But once life moved to happily ever after, would he be satisfied with his lot?

Except . . .

He wondered what kind of husband he’d make. He had never had a proper relationship with a woman. Any other lady had been wooed either in the service of his country or to forget it. Both types had seemed rather pleased with his abilities; certainly he had never had any complaints. And by the way Joanna kissed him, full of innocent fire, no passion would be lacking from her side. Still, she was a proper young lady and what he felt for her was far superior to anything he had felt before. He wasn’t certain what he felt was love.

“Is it Daremier?” Davis asked quietly.

Allister started. “The Skull? Certainly not. Why would you ask?”

“Silly question,” Davis quipped. “Why would I ask about a master French spy who’s been a thorn in your side for years? I’m certain no one but me has noticed your retirement from the Service coincides with him besting you. Shall I warm the fire for you? Would you like the covers turned back for your afternoon nap?”

“The sarcasm is unamusing,” Allister informed him. “Need I remind you that I can still beat you with either sword or pistol?”

Davis’ eyes lighted, and he leaned forward eagerly. “No reminder necessary. You are the best. And you could prove that if you’d only come back to the Service.”

Allister shook his head but before he could refuse again, the temporary man-of-all-work he had hired coughed in the doorway. A tall man with a long face, he had struck Allister as the type who would do his work and ask no questions.

“Yes, Patterson?” he asked.

“There’s a lady to see you sir,” he intoned, keeping his eyes humbly downcast. Only the severe set to his wide mouth told of his disapproval at this state of affairs.

Davis hopped to his feet. “You old fraud, you! And I was worried you’d collapsed into propriety. Who is she, old chap? And does she have a friend?”

“I haven’t had a woman since I started courting Joanna,” Allister told him icily. He returned his gaze to his servant. “Does this lady have a name, Patterson?”

“A Miss Joanna Lindby,” the man replied with no more enthusiasm.

Allister leapt to his feet, pulse roaring in his ears. “Joanna? Something must be wrong.”

Davis stepped to his side and put a hand on his arm as if to keep him from running from the room. “Easy lad. She probably just wants to confirm the flowers for the wedding or some such frippery. Tell the lady to come in, my man.”

Allister managed a shaky laugh as Patterson hurried from the room. Why had he reacted that way? He’d been cooler two years ago when Lord Hastings had informed him that Davis had been shot. Besides, his friend was no doubt right. If something had happened to Joanna, it would have been her mother who would have contacted him, and probably by note. The fact that Joanna felt comfortable enough to approach him in residence should reassure him that they were becoming closer.

One look at her face had the opposite effect. She was flushed, her jaw set, and her eyes sparked fire.

He met her just inside the door. “Joanna, what is it?”

She raised a haughty eyebrow. “Didn’t you expect me to ask for an explanation?” she demanded. “Do you think so little of me?”

“What are you talking about?” He frowned. “An explanation for what?”

“Perhaps I should go,” Davis muttered, picking up his top hat from the side table between the two chairs.

“Forgive my manners,” Allister apologized to them both. “Miss Joanna Lindby, may I present my friend, Mr. Davis Laughton.”

Davis bowed. “Your servant, madam.”

Joanna glared at him, offering no more than a nod. “Good day, sir.”

His friend swallowed. “Yes, well, as I said. I should go.”

“Don’t leave on my account,” she clipped out. “This should only take a moment.” She faced Allister again, and he could only marvel at the fire in her. He had thought her passionate but had never suspected she could be so intense. He was not a little surprised to find it intrigued him.

“I only want to know why,” she said to him. “Why did you break off our engagement?”

Allister stared at her. “Break off our engagement? Why would you think I’d do a thing like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she sneered. “Perhaps because of this?” She flung a note at him, and he caught it against the chest of his white lawn shirt. Instinct told him not to take his eyes off her, but he had to know what had so incensed her. He scanned the contents of the note and felt his blood run cold.

“What is it?” Davis asked at his elbow.

“Here,” Allister said, thrusting it at him. “Read it.” As Davis glanced at the paper, Allister returned his gaze to his intended. “Joanna, I assure you, I didn’t send that note. I want nothing more than to be your husband.”

Her eyes probed his as if seeking the truth. He returned her gaze steadfastly. He’d made viscounts and villains believe him when needed. Surely now that he spoke the truth he would be even more convincing. Joanna held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

“I wish I could believe that,” she murmured.

Could she see inside him to his doubts of his adequacy? He had to convince them both. Allister caught her hands. “Believe it, for it is the truth,” he told her fervently. “I would never hurt you like this. If we had a disagreement, I’d like to think we could discuss it. I would never simply send a note dismissing you.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and he reached up a hand to stroke them away from her soft skin. She swallowed.

“Oh, Allister, I’m so glad. When I saw that horrid note, all I could think was that you didn’t care.”

He felt his jaw tighten as her pain pierced his heart. “That’s exactly what someone wanted you to think.”

“But why?” she asked with a frown. “Who’d want to hurt us?”

Allister exchanged glances with Davis. The grim set to his friend’s mouth told Allister Davis had similar thoughts. Despite the fact that he should be worried about the matter, he felt the familiar tingle of excitement that always came with a mystery.

“I have no idea,” he said to Joanna. “But I intend to find out.”

Chapter Three

Joanna should have felt nothing but relief. Allister still wanted to marry her. His murmured reassurances and protective caresses as he escorted her home in her carriage should have soothed her fears. When he took her in his arms and kissed away the last of her tears, she could only melt against him in bliss.

But something was wrong. Someone was trying to pull them apart. By the way he had exchanged looks with his friend, he knew more than he wanted to tell her. She had a feeling she was about to confront his supposedly dangerous past, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He was diplomacy itself, coming in to placate and reassure her mother, then inviting them both to the opera the next evening to make up for their difficult afternoon. As Joanna walked him to the door, he brought her hand to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss into her palm.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” he promised.

“Can you tell me what you suspect?” she pleaded. “I can’t think of anyone who would be so vindictive.”

“I’m sure it’s no one you know,” he replied.

“But you suspect it’s someone you know, don’t you?”

He did not accept her challenge. “I don’t want you to worry. I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this. It may take me some time, so don’t be concerned if you don’t see me before tomorrow.”

The fact that he seemed rather excited about the matter did nothing to reassure her.

She tried, however, to put the incident from her mind as she went about her wedding preparations the rest of the day. Her mother’s spirits were fully restored, and she threw herself back into the work. They had a number of critical decisions to make, chief among them who would act as her father since her own had been dead for many years. After a lengthy discussion, they decided to ask her Uncle Milton who had always been close. They then spent the evening addressing invitations from the lengthy list her mother had compiled. It was when they finished with her family and friends and prepared to do Allister’s that she felt the uneasiness return.

“He still hasn’t given me a list,” her mother complained. “Think, dearest. He must have told you someone to invite besides his cousins in Somerset. Was he found under a cabbage leaf?”

Joanna smiled. “Most likely not. However, he told me his parents are dead. I believe he has an uncle somewhere.”

“Well, I’m glad I’ve at least invited his cousins the Darbys,” her mother replied. “I remember him mentioning them. Was he directly related to the old earl or the new earl? Or is it the newer earl? That family changes its mind so quickly.”

“I’m not certain,” Joanna replied, realizing again how little she knew about her intended. “But we should add a Mr. Davis Laughton to the list. I met him today. He appears to be a particular friend of Allister’s.”

“Davis Laughton,” her mother mused. “Where have I heard that name?”

“Have you heard it?” Joanna asked eagerly.

Her mother shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so. Which does seem odd, for I know everyone, even if I can’t remember their names at a given moment.”

Joanna nodded. For all her mother’s eccentricities, she was well-liked among the ton. An interesting person was always welcome, and her mother had never lacked for acquaintances. If Davis Laughton had lived in London for any length of time, it would have been surprising that her mother had never heard of him.

“Perhaps he’s up from the country,” Joanna suggested.

“Yes, of course,” her mother agreed. “In which case you must ask him when he’s returning. What’s the postage to Africa?”

“Uncle Milton will be back from Africa before you need to send the invitation,” Joanna assured her, once again interpreting her mother’s remark. She promised her mother to check into the matter of Mr. Laughton’s address, although in truth she wasn’t certain she’d have an opportunity to talk to Mr. Laughton again. Allister generally didn’t make a party of their outings, seeming to prefer to keep her all to himself. She resolved to ask him about his friend when they went to the opera the next evening. And she would ask him about who else to invite as well.

* * * *

If Joanna had a difficult afternoon, Allister’s was far worse.

“That’s the lot of them, my friend,” Harold Petersborough, Marquis of Hastings, informed him as they sat in his spacious private suite at the War Office. “Every assassin, spy, or miscreant you ever went after is either in prison or dead, except one.”

“Daremier,” Allister spat.

“Daremier,” Lord Hastings agreed. “A slippery fellow, that one. We still haven’t learned how he manages to return to England undetected. One would think that face of his would give him away.”

Allister glanced down at Lord Hastings’ claw-footed desk, on which lay the charcoal sketch that was all most of his lordship’s operatives had to go on. He didn’t need it. He’d seen the face too often, right before losing it again. France’s top spy was called the Skull for good reason. Deep-set nearly black eyes looked out over prominent cheekbones and a hooked nose. Coupled with a bald pate and a cruel mouth, the face was one to give nightmares. It was also one easily disguised. That was one of the reasons Daremier was difficult to catch. The other was that he was cunningly ruthless. Nothing and no one stood in the way of his target. If the Skull had sent the note, Joanna was in danger.

“Do you think he’ll hurt her?” Allister asked with a mouth gone suddenly dry.

“Your bride-to-be?” Hastings returned, stroking his walrus mustache. “Doubtful. He generally hasn’t gone for revenge. The dastard’s too busy with his next operation.”

Allister glanced at his former supervisor. Hastings had been a senior agent at the time he had recruited Allister and Davis ten years ago. The offer had been made in this very office, as Allister stood on the same thick blue carpet, gazing across the heavy desk at the man behind it. Hastings had been trim and wiry then, an intense light burning behind his deep-set brown eyes. Now his thick short-cropped hair was a solid iron gray, as was his mustache. Lines etched his eyes and mobile mouth. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his energy. Hastings was efficient to a fault. Allister had never before had cause to question him. He felt a little guilty doing so now, but he had to know the worst of it.

“Do we know where Daremier is?” he pressed, unwilling to accept an easy solution to the problem of the note. He’d followed the Skull too long; there were too many grudges, on both sides. “Has he been sighted in England?”

“Not recently,” Hastings confirmed. “But that means nothing. We seldom know where the fellow is going to strike until he’s gone and struck.”

Allister’s eyes narrowed. “True. So, instead of trying to find him, why don’t we get him to come to us?”

“A trap?” Hastings shrugged in his well-fitted blue coat. “We’ve tried before. He wasn’t interested in those counterfeit battle plans we hid so well. Lady de Renard wouldn’t let us use the Sebastien diamonds.”

“Ah,” Allister said, “but we have something he wants far more than Wellington’s battle plans or the biggest diamonds in France.”

Hastings frowned. “What?”

Allister smiled tightly. “Me.”

Hastings’ frown deepened, and he eyed Allister thoughtfully. “You love her that much, do you?”

Allister paused. Only the previous day he had been thinking his love was not deep enough for a true marriage. Even now, he could not deny that his reasons for wanting to catch the French spy had just as much to do with their long history as his devotion to Joanna.

Hastings obviously took his silence for agreement. “He won’t spare you if you go in unarmed,” he warned. “We may catch him, but we’d certainly lose you. I can’t take that chance with your life. Let’s give the lads a few more days. We don’t even know he’s in England.”

“Someone sent that note,” Allister reminded him. “And I won’t rest until he’s uncovered and stopped.”

He was soon to know the truth of that statement. He had always been a light sleeper, a fact that had saved his life more than once. Yet, despite his sometimes dangerous circumstances, he had never had nightmares. Dreams, certainly, but nothing that made him wake up at all concerned. It was as if his mind knew, even asleep, that he had done the best he could.

That night was horrifying. In dream after dream he tried for something he could not attain. Once it was Davis who had fallen out the smuggler’s boat they used to cross to France. He watched, helpless, as his friend was swept away by an angry sea. Another time it was his father and mother, who had died of the influenza when he was in college. In the dream they stood behind bars and pleaded with him to release them. But the worst dream involved Joanna. In it, he saw the Skull holding her at knife-point and laughing as he plunged the dagger into her heart. The betrayal in her eyes haunted Allister even after he jerked awake, crying her name.

He barreled into the War Office the next day, ready to battle anyone who disagreed with his ideas about capturing the Skull. He was disappointed to find that Lord Hastings was out, and Davis was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, he poured over the reports of the last few encounters with Daremier, groaning aloud when he saw how easily the fellow evaded them. Why had he thought he could simply retire from all this? Even if he could have quelled the pounding of his pulse, he could not deny that Daremier had to be stopped.

If no one else would do it, it was up to him.

Chapter Four

As it turned out, Joanna didn’t have to worry about whether she would see Davis Laughton again. Dames announced him that afternoon as she and her mother were working on her trousseau in their sitting room. Her mother hastily bundled up the frilly lace underthings they had been stitching and hurried them from the sunny little room. That left Joanna with a few minutes alone with the man.

He bowed over her hand and seated himself on the edge of a nearby Chippendale, brown-coated elbows tight against the curving arms of the polished chair. She had not done more than glance at him when they had met in Allister’s flat. Now she considered him more carefully from her place on the primrose-patterned sofa, noting the youthful face and wiry body. He would be easy to take for a scholar or a young solicitor. But beneath the boyish exterior, she felt a confidence and tension that bespoke an older, more experienced man.

“Is everything all right with Allister?” she couldn’t help asking when he did no more than exchange pleasantries.

“Yes, he’s fine,” he assured her. “He asked me to stop by and check on you. I take it everything is fine here as well?”

So, that was his agenda. Allister was trying to determine whether she’d had any more contact with their mysterious note writer. “I have nothing to report,” she told him, smoothing down the skirts of her green-sprigged muslin gown.

He blinked as if surprised by her choice of words, then offered her a polite smile. “Lord Trevithan also wanted you to know that he may have to postpone your outing this evening.”

Disappointment shot through her, at both the situation and Allister. “I thought we had agreed that he would bring me bad news himself.”

He returned her gaze without squirming. “I did not say the event was canceled, only potentially postponed. I’m sure he didn’t see that as such terrible news.”

No, she thought, he probably didn’t. That is entirely the problem.

“Forgive my disappointment, Mr. Laughton,” she said aloud. “It is always sad to hear I shall be deprived of my betrothed’s company. Thank you for troubling yourself to deliver the message. As you are obviously a particular friend of Allister’s, I’m sure he would want me to invite you to the wedding. Where shall I have my mother address the invitation?”

His smile was pleasant, but it did not reach his eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself. Just give the invitation to Lord Trevithan, and I’m sure he’ll see that I receive it.”

A singular request, but she supposed it was reasonable, particularly if he were staying in a hotel with unreliable post service. “I’ll do that then,” she replied. “How is Allister today? I trust his search goes well?”

“Search, madam?” he asked innocently.

“For the writer of that note,” she explained, then she frowned. “That is what keeps Allister from my side, isn’t it?”

He pursed his lips, eyeing her. “May I speak frankly, Miss Lindby?”

“I wish someone would!” Joanna told him.

“Very well.” He inched forward in the chair and locked gazes with her. Joanna felt herself lean forward as well.

“I’m sure Lord Trevithan has told you that he works for the War Office. I work there as well. It can be a dangerous job, Miss Lindby, to us personally and, sadly, often to those we love. Lord Trevithan has made a number of enemies over the years. It is not surprising that one of them seeks to ruin his chance at happiness.”

Joanna swallowed. “Goodness! Is this person dangerous? Homicidal?”

He rose, and she rose with him. “One would certainly hope not. However, it is possible. Lord Trevithan will no doubt do everything in his power to protect you, but there is always the slightest of chances that he will fail. I thought you should be warned.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Joanna mumbled, mind churning. Dark and dangerous was one thing. Deadly was quite another. What had her impetuous heart gotten her into? Was she in danger? Was her mother in danger? Would Allister be harmed trying to protect them?

Her thoughts must have been written on her face, for Davis took a step closer, dark eyes glittering.

“Under the circumstances, Miss Lindby,” he said, “I think Lord Trevithan would understand if you wanted to call off the wedding.”

Call off the wedding?

She stared at him. Perhaps some would have said that was the wisest course. She did not consider herself a particularly brave person. Surely if she called off the wedding she would be safe. She would not be a target if she were not connected with Allister. And she would not have to worry about whether she could keep his attention throughout their marriage. But to call off the wedding when even a homicidal madman saw that Allister cared for her enough to be concerned? To forego the excitement of his kiss, the joy of his presence in her life?

She shook her head. “No, Mr. Laughton,” she replied firmly. “I will not call off the wedding. I will be married, in June.”

* * * *

Allister was almost afraid to see Joanna that night, yet he longed to hold her in his arms and prove to himself that she was all right. After changing into his evening black and taking a quick dinner, he walked the short distance to Mayfair to meet her and her mother.

As bright as a bluebird in her sapphire silk evening gown, Lady Lindby fluttered in to join him in the sitting room after the butler had admitted him.

“Oh, Lord Trevithan,” she panted. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.”

Allister was on his feet instantly, heart hammering. “What? Is it Joanna? What’s happened?”

She stopped abruptly, blinking. “Why, nothing. I merely wished to apologize that she isn’t ready. She seemed to be under the impression that you weren’t coming.”

“Was there another note?” he asked tightly.

“No, no,” she assured him. “Although your friend was by, Mr. Laughton. I understand I should give his invitation to you. What was the earl’s name?”

“Adam Darby,” he said absently, reseating himself on the sofa as she took a chair across from him. Some part of him was pleased he’d followed her train of thought, but the rest of him was appalled by his behavior. His reaction to her innocent announcement had been as irrational as it was unnecessary. Joanna was surely safe in her own home. And Davis had checked on her. He did not need to worry.

And yet he couldn’t seem to stop. When he held out the black velvet cloak to cover her bare shoulders above an amethyst silk gown, he thought how easy it would be for Daremier to strangle that graceful neck. Each time the carriage hit a rut, he tensed, wondering whether the axle had been tampered with and whether the carriage would suddenly pitch into the pavement. As they alighted at the theatre, he scanned the crowd for faces and saw an enemy in each smiling countenance. During intermission, the pop of a cork from a bottle of champagne sent him flying in front of Joanna to protect her from the gunshot. Her mother looked startled, and Joanna politely suggested that she go see some friends in the opposite box. As soon as Lady Lindby left, Joanna turned to him.

“Is everything all right, Allister?” she asked. “You seem quite tense this evening.”

She would have been an asset to the profession with that cool demeanor. Any other woman would surely be questioning his sanity.

“Forgive me,” he replied. “I have a great deal on my mind.”

“So I’ve noticed,” she said. “My mother still needs a list from you of those you’d like to invite to the wedding.”

He nodded, glad to have something normal to discuss. “Certainly. I’ll drop it by tomorrow.”

“Did you learn anything about that note?” she asked as if they discussed threats to her happiness every day.

So much for being able to avoid the subject. He managed a tight smile though he found himself unable to meet her eyes for fear of the disappointment he would see there in his failure. “No. And I begin to think it is driving me mad.”

Her hand covered his. “Don’t let it drive a wedge between us. Can’t you see it’s what the villain wants?”

He brought his thumb up and rubbed the back of her hand, feeling the strength in those supple fingers. “All I see is that I may have put you in danger. I can’t let that happen.” He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. He felt her shiver with pleasure.

“I see no reason to make a change in our lives for this,” she murmured. “The danger does not trouble me over much.”

Allister raised his head to meet her gaze, incredulous. “The danger doesn’t trouble you? How can that be?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps because it’s a part of who you are. I won’t deny that it is a bit discomposing, but I think I can manage. I may not understand what you did for the War Office, Allister, but I can see it had a strong hand in shaping your life. I can also see that you miss it.”

“You see a great deal,” he told her, trying to keep his tone light. After years of hiding his thoughts, it amazed him she could read him so easily. Perhaps it was time for him to retire after all.

“Yes, I think I do,” she replied. “Admit it, Allister. You miss the excitement of the chase.”

“I suppose I do,” he agreed. “My work has been central to my life for a long time. I will miss it, but I’m also tired of it. The days are long, Joanna, and the nights are empty. I think I will be content to sit at home and watch our children play at my feet.”

“Will you?” she asked, dark eyes gleaming in challenge. “That seems a vary narrow existence, my lord, for a man of your experiences.”

He could not argue with her on that score. Yet, feeling her beside him, he thought perhaps he could make it work.

“There is something to be said for narrow existences,” he told her. “They are predictable, safe. That is very appealing to me at the moment.”

“Yes,” she replied, returning her gaze to the stage as her mother rejoined them for the second act. “I can see how it might be appealing, for the moment.”

Chapter Five

Joanna paced her room that night, calling herself six times a fool. How could she have been so blind? She’d feared she wasn’t interesting enough for him. She had feared he didn’t love her. Now she knew the situation was far worse. It wasn’t so much he lacked in love but that he loved elsewhere. She had a rival, and she had no idea how to fight it.

She had heard of other women who had to fight for their husband’s attention. Race horses, gambling, pugilistic displays, any and all of those things had been known to turn a man’s head just as quickly as a lightskirt in front of Covent Garden. She had somehow thought that those wives were uninterested or unwilling to regain their places in their husbands’ affections. She never thought to see herself take second place. She wouldn’t do so now without a fight.

But how to fight? He claimed to want to settle down, but she was certain his desire for peace and tranquility would not outlast the moment. She was just as certain that she was not interesting enough or beautiful enough to keep a man like Allister away from his other passion for long. What other weapons did she have?

The arrival of the mysterious note had given her a few days grace before Allister discovered how truly uninteresting she was. The origin of the note clearly had him baffled. It was claiming his attention, and he was not unhappy about that. Yet she had complete confidence that he would eventually solve the mystery. Ten years of dangerous work would surely have given him the instincts and knowledge for self-preservation, at the least. It would also have honed his skills for solving problems like this one. He was on the hunt, and he would catch the culprit. Then she would be left with nothing but her staid little life to recommend her.

If only she could keep this level of excitement in their relationship. She had seen enough marriages to know that the ardor of courtship cooled quickly into a sedentary fondness in many cases. She had hoped that she and Allister might someday share a deeper bond. That hope was doomed unless she could find something that would entice him to stay with her.

She was still mulling over the matter the next day when Allister called. Elegant in his navy coat and fawn trousers, he brought her a nosegay of hothouse violets, brushing a kiss against her neck as he bent to give them to her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, both for the flowers and the touch that filled her with longing.

“Oh, how lovely,” her mother enthused. “My Joanna is fortunate in her choice of husbands.”

Joanna was certain her smile was as strained as Allister’s as he bowed over her mother’s hand. She set the flowers into the lap of her lavender silk walking dress and tried to focus her attention on them.

“I’m the fortunate one, Lady Lindby,” he assured her mother.

The flowers blurred out of focus as Joanna felt her stomach knot. Surely there was some part of him that believed that statement. If only she could bring that part into the forefront, permanently.

“Yes, we do have a number of wedding gifts,” her mother said in a characteristic non sequitor. “Since you’re here, perhaps we should open a few.”

“Madam, I am at your service,” Allister replied with another bow.

Joanna could not help but smile at his kindness as her mother hurried from the room in a rustle of primrose silk to fetch the packages.

“You are very good to humor her,” she told him as he stood waiting beside the sofa. She reached up and impulsively squeezed his hand. His warm gaze sent a ripple of heat through her.

“She’s a dear woman,” he replied. “Will she be all right when you come to live with me?”

Joanna swallowed the fear that that day would never come. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. She has many friends, and I’ll still visit frequently.” Another thought struck. “Won’t I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asked with a frown.

She let go of his hand. “I don’t know. I merely wondered whether we’d be staying in London. We’ve never discussed where we’d live. Will your work take us far afield?”

He sat then, beside her on the sofa, taking both her hands in his. “Joanna, I’ve retired. That note is the only reason I’m still working. I have a small estate in Somerset, near Wenwood Park. I assumed we’d go there for the summer and winter holidays and spend the rest of the time in London. But I’ll live wherever you’ll be happy. We can live on the moon for all I care.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she replied with a smile. Why was it that one look from those deep blue eyes could send the worries flying from her mind, and another brought them crowding back? Before she could say more, her mother bustled back in, followed by their maid, footman, and butler, each carrying an armload of packages.

Joanna and Allister spent the next hour and a half opening presents. She was amazed and delighted with the variety and thoughtfulness of the gifts sent by friends and family. Aunt Seralyn had sent an ormolu clock that had belonged to their grandmother. Cousin Charles sent an enameled box lined in velvet for her rings. Allister’s cousin Justinian Darby, who studied literature at Oxford, sent a book of poetry.

“Love poetry,” Allister said with a wicked grin. “Just the thing for cold winter nights.”

Joanna wanted to return his teases, but her heart quailed. So many lovely gifts, so many heart-felt sentiments for her future. Would she have to send them all back?

At last all that remained was a single white box, about four inches square.

“Oh, dear,” her mother said with a frown. “We seem to have misplaced the card.”

Joanna glanced at the pile of crumpled wrapping at their feet. “In all this mess, it’s not surprising. Let me open it, Mother. Perhaps we’ll know who sent it by the contents.”

Her mother held out the box to her, but Allister neatly intercepted it.

“No, allow me,” he insisted quietly.

Joanna frowned at him. “Is something wrong, Allister?”

His smile was once more strained, though she thought someone else might not notice the tension. “No, not at all,” he assured her. “I’d simply like to open this one. Would you mind?”

“No, of course not,” she replied. She sat back, and he pulled the box to him. But, instead of opening it, he stood and carried it to the window.

“Allister?” Joanna asked.

“I need a little more light,” he explained.

She exchanged glances with her mother. Lady Lindby shrugged indulgently, as if it were only to be expected for a prospective groom to act strangely. Joanna glanced back at Allister. He stood staring down at the box, brow wrinkled, as if he could see the contents simply by staring hard enough. He must have caught her puzzled frown, for he turned his back on her. The faintest of ripples in his well-tailored coat told her he had flung off the lid. He stiffened. Before she could ask what it was, he whirled.

“This is from one of my relatives,” he announced. “A personal gift. I’ll acknowledge it myself. Were there any others, Lady Lindby?”

“No, that’s the lot,” her mother replied with a sigh of relief. “Though I expect to see quite a few more before the big day.”

“I’d like to help open those as well,” Allister told her. “It’s very important to me to be part of these preparations.”

Her mother blinked at his firm tone. “Well, certainly. You are the groom.”

Something was wrong. Joanna could feel it. “Mother,” she interrupted, “may I have a few moments alone with Allister?”

Her mother rose gracefully. “Of course, dear. My mother arranged my wedding once. I remember how it feels. See you tomorrow, my lord.”

Allister bowed. “Good day, Lady Lindby.”

As soon as her mother was out of the room, Joanna rounded on him. “What happened, Allister?” she demanded. “What’s in that box?”

He glanced down at the relidded box as if surprised he still held it. “This? I told you, it is a personal gift from my family.”

“I certainly hope you lied better than that when you worked in the War Office,” Joanna informed him.

He raised an eyebrow. “My dear Joanna, whatever makes you think I’m lying?”

“Is it a game you want?” she demanded, fury rising at his unwillingness to be honest with her. “Very well, I can play this, I believe. I think you are lying, my lord, for several reasons. First, you didn’t care about who opened what until we reached that box. Second, you have precious few family members and we’ve already opened the presents from the Darbys, so that excuse doesn’t wash either. Third, I can feel the tension in you. Now, will you just confess so we can get on with this?”

He frowned. “I can see how you might have been misled. I wanted to open the package because I thought you might be tiring. And I have other family members outside the Darbys. I’ve told some of them about the wedding, so it isn’t surprising they might want to send a gift before receiving the invitation. And the only tension you feel is embarrassment that I continually forget to give your mother the names of those family members so she can send an official announcement. You should have more faith in me, Joanna.”

“No, Allister,” she replied, stung. “You should have more faith in me. I think it bodes little good for our marriage if you are hiding things from me.”

He was silent for a moment. “Am I not allowed to protect you?” he asked quietly.

“Where I cannot do so myself, certainly. But please do me the courtesy of letting me determine when that is needed.”

He nodded. “Very well.”

“Good,” she said, rising. She held out her hand. “Now, show me what’s in the box, Allister.”

Chapter Six

Allister held the box to his chest. His beautiful courageous, headstrong bride-to-be gazed up at him in challenge. Every fiber of his being cried out to protect her.

“I’d rather not,” he murmured.

She bristled.

“I’ll simply tell you,” he continued quickly. “It’s a dead bug.”

She blinked. “A dead bug?”

“Yes.” He watched for her reaction, expecting cries of alarm, demands for smelling salts. She merely frowned.

“I don’t understand. Why would someone send us a dead bug for our wedding?”

He shoved the box behind him. “I have no idea.”

“Incredibly poor taste,” she went on. “Quite tacky. One could almost take it as a bad omen. Oh!”

Her startled gaze met his, and he knew she had reached the same conclusion. He stepped to her side.

“Don’t let it upset you,” he cautioned. “Perhaps it’s simply poor taste, as you said.”

“Let me see it,” she demanded. “And we’ll see exactly how bad this taste is.”

“I’d rather not,” he repeated. “I’d like to take it to the War Office, see if anyone there can make sense of it.”

She paled. “You think it’s from the one who wrote the note?”

“Possibly,” he replied. “Let me handle this, Joanna. Just go about the wedding preparations as if nothing happened.” He offered her an encouraging smile, but her gaze when it met his was implacable.

“Nothing has happened,” she answered him. “I don’t like this business Allister, but I don’t intend to let it come between us.”

“That’s my girl,” he replied heartily.

* * * *

Allister only wished he felt so confident as he took a hack back to the War Office that afternoon. In truth, finding the insect in the box had unnerved him. That Daremier could get so close to Joanna undetected was unthinkable. There had to be something he could do to stop the villain.

To his surprise, Lord Hastings had other ideas.

“You’re not thinking clearly, my lad,” his superior maintained when Allister proposed flushing out the French spy again. “You’re entirely too involved.”

“When have you known me to lack in judgment?” Allister countered. “You all keep saying I’m the best man you have. For God’s sake, put me to work!”

Lord Hastings shook his head from where he sat behind the walnut desk. “You were the best man I had. Two things changed that. One – you retired. I know from experience that when a chap feels it’s time to quit the Service, he’s generally right. Two – you can’t see beyond Joanna Lindby’s pretty face. Sorry, Trevithan. Let the other fellows handle this one.”

“But they aren’t handling it,” Allister protested. He yanked the box from his pocket and threw it on the desk. “Look at that.”

Frowning, Hastings drew the box to him. He smoothed his palms down his bottle green coat, then carefully lifted the lid and peered in. His short nose wrinkled in obvious distaste.

“Nasty looking thing,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

“That was delivered to Joanna Lindby,” Allister told him, “as a wedding present.”

Hastings glanced up at him and back down at the insect. “I take it you see something evil in that?”

“Don’t you?” Allister demanded. “A bug with a jeweled pin through its back? Doesn’t that strike you as a rather menacing wedding present?”

“Strikes me as a damn queer wedding present,” the marquis replied. He leaned back in his chair and eyed Allister. “However, it also strikes me as just the sort of creepy joke the Skull would pull.”

“Exactly,” Allister proclaimed. “If he can bring this to Joanna’s house, she can’t be safe.”

Hastings stroked his mustache. “I could give her a bodyguard. Would that help?”

“Frankly, old man,” Allister replied with relief, “I’d be indebted to you.”

Hastings rose. “Good enough then. I’ll have someone at the house day and night. I take it you’ll clear that with Lady Lindby and your intended?”

Allister paused. “Must I? I’d prefer they didn’t know. I don’t want to worry them.”

“Dashed hard to protect someone who doesn’t know they need protecting,” Hastings complained. “What do you want the fellows to do, loiter in the street? Won’t that just tip off the Skull nicely?”

“You have a point,” Allister acknowledged. He thought for a moment. Joanna had been through enough already. He hated to see her locked into having a strange man follow her about. But perhaps it didn’t need to be a stranger. He met Hastings’ frown.

“I have it. Davis can be your man during the day, and I’ll watch at night.”

“I’ve already told you you’re disqualified,” Hastings replied. “Besides, I can’t imagine Lady Lindby liking having her future son-in-law staying the night. People will talk.”

Before Allister could counter, someone knocked at the door. Hastings barked a command to enter, and Allister stepped aside and turned. The thick walnut door opened to admit Davis. Seeing Allister in front of the desk, he hesitated, then he squared the shoulders of his brown coat and moved into the room.

“Lord Hastings,” he greeted with a bow. “Lord Trevithan. I didn’t intend to interrupt.”

“Quite timely, actually,” their employer replied. “Seems the Skull has contacted Joanna Lindby.”

“What!” Davis cried, rushing forward. “When? Where? Is she all right?”

Allister eyed his friend. After working with Davis for ten years, he knew his temper and responses well. Davis was cool under fire. Little rattled him. That he would so explode now could only mean something was up. Hastings must have wondered at the outburst as well, for he raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair again.

“Do you have something to contribute to this discussion, Mr. Laughton?” he asked.

Davis glanced between the two of them. He stood a little taller. “Yes, sir, I do. I was making my usual rounds in London, checking my sources . . .”.

“And how is that new opera dancer at the Garden?” Hastings inquired dryly.

Davis had obviously regained his composure for he did not so much as flinch. “Ready to do her duty for England, my lord. May I continue?”

“Certainly.” Hastings waved him on expansively.

“Thank you. As I was saying, I checked my sources to see whether any of them had heard about the Skull being in England.”

“And what did you learn?” Allister demanded.

Davis met his frustrated gaze. “Brace yourself, old man. He got in two days ago.”

Allister stiffened. Some part of him had hoped he was wrong, that he’d somehow inflated the events of the last two days all out of proportion. But it was true. The Skull was in London.

He waited for the shiver of anticipation to snake down his spine as it usually did when he had to match wits with the master spy. Instead, a heavy cold settled in his chest.

Joanna was in danger.

He could lose her.

“Did you hear me, Trev?” Davis probed. “I said you were right – The Skull is in London. We must stop him before he acts.”

“Bit late for that, I’m afraid,” Hastings put in. He poked the box across his desk with a thick finger. “Look at this, Laughton. Tell me what you make of it.”

Davis frowned, glancing into the box. Then he looked up first at his employer and then at Allister, eyes clouded in obvious confusion.

“It appears to be a scarab beetle,” he replied. “Late Egyptian period, if I remember correctly from my studies at Oxford. Lord Elgin has several in his collection, as does Eugennia Welch. Someone steal one?”

Allister stepped forward to peer into the box even as Lord Hastings bent nearer as well.

“Egyptian, you say?” the marquis asked with a frown.

“In your opinion, Davy,” Allister murmured, mind sifting through possibilities, “would someone give this as a wedding present?”

Davis shrugged. “Bit pricey and somewhat fussy, but I believe the creatures were considered good luck, so it is possible.” He stiffened. “Good God, are you saying someone sent this to Miss Lindby?”

Allister nodded. “It was in with the other wedding gifts. There was no tag.”

Davis pursed his lips. “And you think it was from the Skull?”

“It is rather like his usual tricks,” Hastings reminded him. “Remember the funeral wreath he sent to Lord Michman the day before he assassinated the fellow? Devilish sense of humor. But if the ugly thing is valuable, it does seem less likely. Still want to go through with your bodyguard idea, Trevithan?”

Allister shook his head. “No, my lord. Given Mr. Laughton’s report, I return to my earlier suggestion. We should try to capture the blackguard.”

“Let’s not start that again,” Hastings grumbled. “I will not use you as bait.”

“I agree,” Davis put in even as Allister opened his mouth to protest. “Sorry, old man, but if you’re right, I’m not sure you’d make such a good target. And I’d prefer to have you at my side.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Allister asked.

“I think we should use something flashier.”

“What would that be?” Hastings demanded.

“I suggest,” Davis said, widening the distance between himself and Allister, “that the best bait would be Joanna Lindby.”

Chapter Seven

Joanna puzzled about the strange gift the rest of the afternoon. She asked her mother about the matter, but Lady Lindby’s mind was already working on place settings for the wedding breakfast and her answers were even more confused than usual. In the end, Joanna could only go about her business and hope that Allister had been wrong.

She had planned on a quiet night home with her mother and was surprised when their butler announced Allister. She was even more surprised to find that Lord Hastings and Davis Laughton were with him. Despite the late hour, all three were still dressed in their day clothes, dark coats and lighter pantaloons.

“My, how lovely,” her mother proclaimed as they bowed in turn over her hand. “It’s very good to see you again, Mr. Laughton. You must miss the country. And Lord Hastings. When was the last time I saw you? Did he win that boxing match?”

For once, Joanna was at a loss to translate. As Davis frowned and Allister grinned, Lord Hastings bowed again. “Your servant, Lady Lindby. Yes, we haven’t seen each other since the day your late husband Jonathan joined me for the boxing match between Gentleman Jackson and Mendoza. That was a day. Very sharp of you to remember.”

Her mother beamed.

“To what do we owe the honor of this visit?” Joanna put in, hoping to bring the conversation back to something they all knew.

Davis and Allister exchanged glances. Hastings smiled at her mother. “Why, I’d heard you’d received some very interesting wedding gifts.” He met Joanna’s gaze, and she remembered the insect. “I wonder, Lady Lindby, would you be willing to show them to me? I’m sure we can trust these young people to entertain themselves.”

Her mother agreed and happily led him off to the dining room where they had piled the gifts on the sideboard. Davis went to close the door behind them.

“What is it?” Joanna hissed to Allister. “Has something happened?”

His jaw was hard, his eyes harder as he watched his friend return. “Mr. Laughton has a proposal for you. I don’t like it above half, but I promised I’d stand by your decision.”

She frowned as Davis seated himself.

“Mr. Laughton?” she asked, indicating that he should proceed.

“Miss Lindby,” he began, just as serious as Allister, “what I’m about to tell you must be kept in strictest confidence. You cannot speak of it to another living soul outside those in this room, including your mother and your minister. I must have your promise on that before I continue. Do you agree?”

She glanced at Allister who stared back at her unmoving. This was it. She was about to learn all. Excitement mingled headily with fear. She swallowed both down and sat straighter. “I agree,” she said firmly.

Allister closed his eyes as if in prayer, then reopened them. Davis nodded.

“Excellent,” he said. “Miss Lindby, I’m sure you’ll remember that I told you Lord Trevithan and I work for the War Office.”

Allister stiffened again, frowning at him, but Davis did not pause.

“England has been at war for some time, and good men are needed,” he said in careful explanation.

“I read the paper, Mr. Laughton,” she informed him. “I am not uneducated in civil affairs.”

“Of course,” he replied graciously, but somehow she did not think he believed her. “You will understand, then, that in any military endeavor, there is that effort that is reported in the papers and that effort that is done in silence.”

“The Secret Service,” she murmured.

He glanced at Allister who did not so much as nod in encouragement. She felt for him, but she had to know the truth.

“Yes, Miss Lindby, the Secret Service. Lord Trevithan has assisted the Service several times in the past, as have I and Lord Hastings.”

She somehow thought assistance was the least of Allister’s contributions, but she merely nodded as he continued.

“We have recently learned that a dangerous French agent known as the Skull may be in London. We believe he may be the one who has been threatening you.”

“I see,” Joanna replied. Despite her best effort, the fear was edging out the excitement. The tension in Allister was not her imagination. Were they sending him away or incarcerating him for his own safety?

“What do you want of me?” she asked with difficulty.

Davis glanced at Allister again, and she braced herself for the answer. Davis returned his dark gaze to her. “We’d like your help in catching him.”

Joanna blinked. “My help?”

Allister leaned forward at last, laying a hand protectively on her shoulder. She relished the touch and his strength, for she didn’t know how to respond.

“You don’t have to put yourself in danger, my dear,” he told her. “I told them this plan is unthinkable. A gently reared young lady is hardly the type to go against a master criminal.”

Joanna stiffened. She should have been buoyed by his support, but his assessment stung. Did he think her a coward or merely incapable?

“Certainly we will understand if you decline,” Davis put in, watching her. “I cannot underestimate the danger. It takes a strong person to stand up to a devil like the Skull.”

Joanna glanced between the two of them. Allister’s eyes were stormy with emotion. He clearly did not want her to agree. Yet if she disagreed, would she not in effect have turned her back on his past, implied that she rejected it and him as well? And while she felt no need to endear herself to Davis Laughton, she could hear the challenge in his words. It would take a woman of strength to accept the challenge. Could any lesser woman hope to keep the heart of a man like Allister Fenwick?

“I told you this was a ridiculous idea,” Allister said heatedly to his friend.

“Yes, well, it was worth a try,” Davis maintained. “Sorry to have troubled you, Miss Lindby. I’ll fetch his lordship and ---.”

“I’ll do it,” Joanna interrupted before her courage could flee.

“What?” Allister cried, releasing her to collapse against the back of the sofa.

Davis stared at her. “Miss Laughton, are you sure?”

“Yes, I am,” she said firmly, willing herself not to back down as Allister stared at her. “I want to help. Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Joanna, you can’t,” Allister declared. “It’s too dangerous!”

“May I remind you, Lord Trevithan,” Davis said before Joanna could respond, “that you agreed to abide by Miss Lindby’s decision?”

“Well, I jolly well never expected her to say yes!” Allister jumped to his feet and began to pace. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this could be, Joanna? No, of course you don’t. Hang it all, Joanna, this man could kill you!”

Joanna shivered, but she forced herself to rise as well. “If he’s that dangerous then he could kill you too. Do you think I like the idea of you in danger?”

He paused to eye her. “Probably no better than I like the idea of you in that situation.”

“Precisely,” she said, crossing to his side and peering up at him. “This man threatens us, threatens our future. Let me help you put a stop to it.”

He traced the outline of her cheek with one finger. “You’ve left me with little choice. God help me, Joanna, I want to see this villain caught. But if anything should happen to you . . .”

She caught his hand and pressed a kiss into his palm. “Nothing will happen,” she promised.

She thought for a moment he would continue to argue. Emotions danced across his face – anger, frustration, fear. But the one that touched her heart was the flash of pride, pride in her. He turned to eye his friend. “Very well, then. You have your answer Mr. Laughton. Let’s get this over with.”

* * * *

The next afternoon, Joanna found herself waiting in a closed carriage near a small pastry shop, just off St. James’s. Davis Laughton had somehow learned that the man known as the Skull had been seen buying bread there every afternoon for the last two days. They could only hope it was a pattern. She was to wait until he arrived, then go inside and make sure he knew who she was. She was then to find a way to leave and allow him to follow her. Davis, Allister, and Lord Hastings’ men would do the rest.

Allister sat beside her, one arm draped protectively about her shoulders. Ever since he’d come for her, she’d sensed the change in him. Before, intrigue flowed from him like smoke from a tallow candle. Now it was tension that coiled around him. She felt it ensnaring her as well. He was so certain she was endangering her life. Surely he knew more about these matters than she did. He’d lived in this kind of danger for ten years. What was she doing here?

He shifted in the seat so that he could see her face, and it was the most natural thing in the world for her to lean against him. His lips brushed hers in a gentle kiss, promising untold pleasures. If this was her last moment in life, she wanted to savor it. She ran her hands down the soft wool of his navy coat, feeling the muscles that lay beneath it. She breathed in, hoping to catch the scent of his cologne, something to help etch the moment in her mind. But she only smelled leather and damp wool and dry straw. Even Allister’s scent was a secret. She sighed.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he murmured.

She shook her head and leaned back, hoping he hadn’t felt her trembling. “No. I promised.”

From outside came a sharp whistle. Allister stiffened. “That’s the signal. Be careful, Joanna!”

She started for the door, and fear seized her. What if she were killed? What if Allister were killed? She couldn’t let this be their last moment before eternity. She whipped back and threw her arms about him, kissing him with all her heart. She felt his arms come around her, his cool lips warm beneath hers. A few moments ago he had kissed her gently. Now he took everything she offered. She gave herself up to the feelings of joy, delight, desire.

The shrill whistle repeated.

She broke away with difficulty. Allister caught her shoulders.

“To hell with the lot of them,” he growled. “We’ll run away – to Naples, to America. Don’t go, Joanna. If anything happens to you, I’ll never be whole again.”

She could feel tears starting and blinked them forcefully away. Her plan was working. He had admitted he cared for her. She could not damage that fragile care by turning back now.

“It will be all right,” she promised, praying to God that she spoke the truth. “Just remember: I love you.” She pulled out of his grip and stepped from the carriage.

Chapter Eight

Joanna waited nervously in line in the little pastry shop. Somewhere in front of her, beyond the women and gentlemen waiting their turn, was the Skull. Once away from the narrow front window, it was amazing how dark the wood-paneled room became. She could barely make out the chubby baker behind the chest-high row of glass-front display cases, and all she could see in front of her was the back of the fellow on whom he waited. She didn’t have to see the jellied pastries and cakes and pies that rested temptingly in the cases – the sweet smell of sugar and spices permeated the shop. To her left, a gangly apprentice helped a tall thin gentleman to a set of hot cross buns, steam still rising from them in a heady aroma. To her left a woman shifted a crying baby in her arms and pulled out a plump purse to pay another waiting apprentice.

From behind her came a giggle. Joanna did not have to turn to know it came from the woman from Lord Hastings’ staff who was posing as her maid. The apprentice on her left was reddening, and Joanna would have bet the woman was flirting with him. Allister had explained that this supposedly flirtatious nature was an act to provide an easy excuse for her to lag behind and let the spy reach Joanna. At the moment, Joanna would rather the woman was an Amazon of legend, here to protect her. Her fashionable rose-striped jacket seemed to tighten around her ribs with each second. Her feet seemed to grow heavier inside the primrose day dress.

“Smile,” the woman hissed behind her as they took another step toward the counter.

Now at last Joanna could see the man directly in front of the baker. A poke in her back told her this was their quarry. He accepted his package of sweet bread and turned toward them. Joanna pasted on a smile and willed herself to gaze at the villain.

He was not nearly as fearsome as she had expected. Indeed, she would never have suspected him for a spy or any other kind of criminal. The man before her was wizened in his rumpled brown coat and breeches, his head bent so that all she could see easily was the brim of his top hat. One hand trembled as he held the bread; the other clutched a book of poetry to his chest. He appeared no more dangerous than a minister out for an afternoon stroll or a college don skipping class. Joanna blinked, and disappointment shot through her. Was all this for nothing? Could they have been mistaken? Could this be a fool’s errand?

The woman nudged her in the back again. There was no more time for questions. She took a deep breath, then stumbled, fetching up against him. The loaf of bread slid from his hand to bounce once on the flour-speckled wooden floor.

“Oh, pardon me,” she gushed.

Black eyes gazed into hers, cold and fathomless. And absolutely without recognition. She blinked again, then smiled graciously, praying he could not hear the uneven cadence of her pulse.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said by way of explanation. “I’ve been out shopping all day, and I’m afraid I’m tired. May I buy you another loaf of bread?”

“That would be very kind,” he replied in a quiet, gentle, very English tone.

She nodded and motioned for her maid to step forward and do the deed. “Get this gentleman a loaf of bread, Maudie, and don’t forget those sweet rolls Lord Trevithan is so fond of.”

“Yes, mum,” the supposed maid replied scurrying around them. Joanna glanced at the man in time to see a look of speculation cross his dark gaze. Anticipation replaced the disappointment in her veins. This was almost like a game of chess, she saw suddenly. Move, counter move, position, counter position. Her father had taught her to play when she was very young, but she liked to think she had gained some mastery of the game. Perhaps this adventure would not be any different.

“I suppose I’m going to have to find a cook who makes these rolls once we are married,” she confided, smiling at him. “My fiancé Lord Trevithan can’t seem to get enough of them. Ah, here we are.”

The maid handed the man another loaf with a hurried curtsey, then turned back to Joanna. “And did you want to pick out the jellies for your wedding breakfast, mum?”

Joanna shook her head and laughed, fairly confident that only those who knew her well would hear how forced it sounded. “My word, where is my mind today? Thank you for reminding me, Maudie. Excuse me, sir.”

He bowed and turned to leave. Joanna stepped up to the counter with mixed emotions. Had she been too obvious? Why didn’t he make another move? Then she shook her head. His next move would be to attack her. Of course he could not do that in public. The woman with her baby was still being waited on by the young apprentice. The baker was waiting with a scowl to help her and Maudie. She had nothing to fear. She spoke confidently to the baker, asking after prices and how he managed deliveries. When he turned away to pick up another batch of pastries to show her, Maudie nudged her elbow.

“You’re doing great,” she whispered to Joanna, who felt as if her limbs were about to turn to apricot jelly. “Now we see whether he takes the bait. Tell me to pay for this, and you start for the door.”

She wanted more than anything to look back and see where the man had gone, but that would have given away the game. “That will be sufficient for now, sir,” she said to the baker. “Pay the man, Maudie. I’ll wait outside.”

Turning, she scanned the dim room. No where did she see the Skull, if that was who the little man really was. She still couldn’t help wondering whether it was all a mistake. Of course, that was probably the part of her that didn’t want to admit she was about to tempt a dangerous criminal to take her life. She made a show of flouncing to the door. When Maudie turned to nod to her, she swept out into the sunshine.

There she paused to blink in the sudden light. Ladies and dandies strolled past. On the street beyond, carriages and lorries vied for space. Street vendors trundled by, shouting the praises of their wares. It was all disgustingly normal. Joanna took a deep breath and forced her shoulders to relax.

“I believe I know your fiancé,” the Skull said quietly beside her.

She jumped, then smiled stiffly, hand to her chest to cover the wild beating of her heart. “Really?” she asked, hoping she did not sound as startled as she felt. “Then perhaps you’d like to accompany me. He is to meet me just down the street to help pick out linens for our new home. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

He smiled sadly. “No, my dear, I’m afraid he won’t.”

What happened next was a blur. Something silver flashed in his hand, and Joanna only had enough time to blink before she was struck from the side and flattened into the building. She braced her fall with her hands, feeling the brick bite through her kid-skin gloves even as a powerful male shape pressed against her back. Around her, cries echoed and footsteps thudded. It would all have been quite alarming if she hadn’t recognized the voice in her ear as Allister’s.

“Don’t move,” he cautioned. “They nearly have him in hand.”

“I wouldn’t dream of moving,” she replied, feeling his strong arms around her. Indeed, if the brick hadn’t been pressed nearly to her nose, she might have enjoyed the touch of his body to hers. She closed her eyes and let her pulse slow to a lazy beat. He released her just as slowly.

“Are you all right?” he demanded as she righted herself. He put his hands on her shoulders and peered into her eyes as if suspecting she had somehow damaged her soul. Funny how she’d never noticed how tender his gaze could be. She could easily lose herself in the depths of his eyes.

“I’ve never been better,” she murmured.

Davis dashed up beside them. “We got him, Trev!” he crowed. “In the act. It’s Newgate for certain, if not the rope.”

Joanna felt chilled suddenly as the reality hit home. Someone had tried to kill her. Yet the little man she had spoken to had disappeared, and the street once more looked normal, save for the curious stares of passersby. It was as if her near brush with death had never been.

Allister was scowling at his friend. “Enough, Davis. I’m taking Joanna home.”

Davis bowed, but he could not seem to contain his enthusiasm. “Yes, yes, of course,” he chattered as he straightened. “Nice job, Miss Lindby. We may call you for the trial.”

“You will not,” Allister informed him icily. “She is out of this, as of now. I’ll see you later at the Office.”

He hustled Joanna away before she could say anything.

Once they were in the carriage, heading for Mayfair, he once more enfolded her in his arms. “What a nightmare,” he said, cuddling her against his chest. “I’ll wager you’re glad it’s over.”

She hated to argue with him when she was in the most satisfactory position of his lap, but she couldn’t stay silent. She had gone through with the deed to prove her valor; negating it now would spoil everything.

“Actually, I rather enjoyed it,” she replied.

He pulled back to stare into her face. “Enjoyed it?”

She traced the paisley pattern on his waistcoat with her finger, suddenly embarrassed to admit it in the face of his surprise. “Yes, Allister, truly. I know that will seem strange to you, but there was a certain thrill knowing that I could best an infamous French spy, that every move and every word counted. It was very much like a game of chess.”

“Not so strange,” he murmured. “I’ve often thought of it as a game. That’s the only way to stay sane sometimes. But the excitement can be a drug, Joanna. You can become addicted or worse: You can come to take the danger for granted and lose your life in the process.”

She swallowed. “Well, neither of us has to worry about that. This is our last case.”

He was silent, and alarm rose in her. “Allister? This is our last case, is it not? We’ve caught your Skull. What more must be done?”

He pressed a kiss against her temple before answering. The sweet touch brought her no comfort. “I must go by the Office and interrogate him,” he said soothingly. “Once I know he acted alone, I can be satisfied.”

Somehow, Joanna was afraid neither of them would be satisfied.

* * * *

Once Joanna was safely home, Allister hastened to the War Office. Every time he replayed the scene outside the pastry shop, he grew cold inside. He’d seen the flash of the knife. She had nearly been killed, would have been killed had he not leaped to push her aside. As he strode down the marble halls to Lord Hastings’ office, his fists balled at his sides. The Skull would pay.

Davis glanced up from his questioning as Allister entered. Daremier sat calmly in a high-backed wooden chair, a burly soldier on either side, a bored expression on his cadaverous face. Lord Hastings stood nearby, mouth set in grim lines. Davis hurried to Allister’s side.

“You won’t like this,” he said without preamble.

“He had conspirators,” Allister guessed, feeling his body chill all over again.

“Worse,” Davis replied. “We can’t hold him. He is completely innocent.”

Chapter Nine

Allister stared at Davis. “Are you mad? Since when is threatening a woman with a knife innocent?”

Davis grimaced. “We thought we saw a knife, old chap. But we searched him thoroughly. He carried no weapon.”

“So he threw it away, stuck it in a wall, passed it to a friend,” Allister ranted. “Damn it, Davy, we can’t let him get away again!”

“I told you you wouldn’t like it,” Davis replied. “We have no evidence he was armed.”

“We all jolly well saw something flash in the light,” Allister countered.

“What we saw,” his friend said, “was apparently this.” He handed Allister a slender silver case. Allister took it, watching it flash obligingly in the lamp light. Flipping open the lid, he found simple calling cards, black ink on embossed linen. He pulled out several, only to find that each bore a different name. The top card had a small hand-drawn skull in the corner.

“Quite a catch,” Davis commented. “Several of the lads are chasing down those names. We know one belongs to a prominent eastside physician. Explains how the bugger slips in and out so easily. He has dual citizenship.”

“And this isn’t enough?” Allister demanded.

Davis shook his head. “Nothing illegal about using more than one name, Trev. And you know we have no witnesses to his earlier crimes – just supposition. In this case, apparently all he was going to do was give Joanna a calling card, the one with the skull on it. He says he merely wanted her to pass it on to you. The miscreant probably thought to shake you up a bit. Face it – the villain has us.”

“I want to talk to him,” Allister said.

Davis glanced over his shoulder to where Daremier sat with pursed lips. “Are you sure that’s wise? You are a bit involved in this case, as his lordship has pointed out.”

Allister didn’t repeat his request. He pushed past Davis to confront his enemy of so many years.

Daremier raised his head to meet his gaze. His black eyes sparkled with malevolent amusement; his thin lips curled in a sneer.

“Good afternoon, Baron Trevithan,” he said in perfect English. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Allister glared down at him. Every other time he’d gotten close to the villain he’d been calm, cool, ready for the deadly game they played. Now his anger boiled within him, clouding his mind, hampering his reasoning. Some part of him recognized the problem and cautioned retreat. The rest of him cried out for blood.

He put his hands on the arms of the chair and bent to put his face within six inches of the Skull’s.

“I want you,” he spat out, “to stay away from Joanna Lindby.”

Daremier didn’t even blink. “Your charming fiancée? Certainly, my lord. And may I wish you every happiness.”

“Don’t wish me anything,” Allister told him. “Don’t come near me, don’t even think about me. From now on, as far as you’re concerned, me and mine cease to exist.”

Daremier smiled. “I could only hope.”

Allister’s fists tightened on the arms of the chair. Lord Hastings stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s enough, Trevithan. Let us carry on from here.”

There was nothing left for him. He had no choice. The fact was totally unsatisfying. He forced himself to straighten. Daremier watched him.

“It would give me great pleasure to leave you with your doubts,” the Frenchman said. “But I’ve enjoyed our association over the years. It’s rare one meets a truly worthy gamesman. I offer you this gift to consider. If I am the spy you all think I am, why would I oppose your wedding? You obviously love this woman. Britain’s most talented secret agent, safely married and raising a family? Unable to continue his work? Surely your enemies would only breathe a sigh of relief.”

Allister stared at him, emotions warring. His instincts said the man was right, but how could he fully believe a spy who’d made a career of lying? Was there such a thing as honor among thieves?

“Come on, Trev,” Davis urged at his elbow. “I’ll walk you out.”

Allister turned on his heel and left.

In the corridor, Davis pulled him up short. “Did you hear the arrogance? You can’t let him get away with it, Trev! You can’t leave the Service now. We’ve got to stop him.”

Allister shook his head. “I’m done, Davy. This whole mess proves it. I’ve lost the knack.”

“Nonsense,” Davis argued. “You’re just frustrated. The answer isn’t to relax; it’s to go after the bugger.”

“My heart’s not in it,” Allister replied with a sigh. “I can’t run the risk of anything happening to Joanna.”

“It still could, you know,” Davis reminded him. “Daremier denies sending the note or the scarab. But someone sent them.”

Allister chilled. “You think he’s lying? Or is there someone else?” When Davis did not answer, he ran his hand back through his hair in despair. “Curse it all, Davy, I’m a mess. Look at me – I can’t think, I can’t act. All I know is, if I lose Joanna, I might as well lose my life.”

Davis regarded him fixedly, then he barked out a laugh. “Daremier is right. I don’t know what it is about you, my lad, but I can’t torture you either. I sent the note, Trev.”

Allister started. “What?”

“I sent the note,” Davis repeated, though he had the good sense to avoid Allister’s outraged glare. “I had a friend write it so you wouldn’t recognize the hand.”

“Why?” Allister demanded. “What could you possibly hope to gain by it?”

Davis shrugged. “I knew you admired the chit, but I couldn’t really believe it was love. I thought you were smarting over losing Daremier. I thought if you were presented with a mystery, you’d rise to the occasion. Instead, you just sank deeper. If this is love, old chap, it isn’t very inspiring.”

“On the contrary,” Allister told him, “I find it quite illuminating.” He cocked his head and eyed his partner. “I ought to plant you a facer, but instead I’ll thank you. I wasn’t sure whether I was running away either. Now I know. It’s love, Davy. She knows the truth about me, and she isn’t afraid of it. In fact, I wonder whether she wouldn’t make a better agent than I ever was. She’s sharp and sweet and passionate. I can’t imagine a life without her. The excitement, the adventure, none of this will be worth anything if it costs me Joanna. I’m done for, old man. I’m ready to live a normal life.”

Davis nodded. “So I gathered. Which is why I must remind you of the scarab. Someone sent it, old chap. I know I didn’t, and it looks as if Daremier didn’t either. You haven’t found our villain yet, Trev. You can’t quit.”

* * * *

Joanna wanted so badly to unburden herself to her mother, but she knew she could not do so without giving the game away. Her mother had no idea of her involvement with the Service. She had been careful to make everything appear normal, telling her mother she was going shopping with Allister for household items for their future home. But now that Allister had so much as admitted he was going to continue his dangerous work, she didn’t know what to do.

She had lost. She had tried to show she could be part of his world, but still he shut her out. She had thought she had made progress for a time. Certainly his declaration in the carriage had warmed her heart. Yet he was not willing to leave the excitement behind. She could not compete with the Service after all. The villain had been caught – she had no mystery left to make her attractive. She had fought the battle and lost, and she had no other strategy to help her win the war.

Her mother’s cheerful attitude did nothing to help. Lady Lindby bustled about the house finishing the wedding preparations, chattering happily all the while. Joanna stitched slowly on her lace nightgown, wondering whether she would ever get to wear it. Her glance fell on the diamond ring again, glinting in the candle light. It should be a symbol of their love. It was only a piece of stone, as cold as her heart. She was so lost in her misery that her mother had to speak twice before she realized she was being questioned.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “I guess I was wool gathering.”

“That’s to be expected, dear,” her mother replied with a smile. “Lord Trevithan is a handsome fellow. And so considerate.”

Joanna’s smile was tight. “Yes, he is. What did you want to ask me?”

“Oh, nothing. I simply wanted to let you know I sent an acknowledgment to Eugennia Welch.”

Joanna blinked. “Eugennia Welch?”

“Yes, dear. For that package. I must remember to tell Lord Trevithan that he was mistaken. The gift wasn’t from his family, it was from your friend Miss Welch. She had it shipped all the way from that Egyptian expedition she’s sponsoring. Can you imagine?”

“No,” Joanna managed. “I can’t.”

“I saw her companion, Miss Tindale, at the booksellers today when you were out. She asked after the package. I can’t understand how I could have gotten things so mixed up, but there you have it.”

“You’re sure?” Joanna pressed, mind whirling. “Mother, you’re positive? Eugennia Welch sent us a dead insect?”

“Goodness, was that what it was?” Her mother raised her eyebrows in obvious surprise. “I knew your friend was a bit odd, but a dead insect? Why would she have to ship to Egypt for that? If she wished to give you a dead insect, she could certainly have found an English one for less trouble.”

She continued on, but Joanna barely heard her. What did it mean? The insect had been an innocent gift, sent by an eccentric friend. What about the note? Was the Skull innocent after all? Was this a mystery she could use to her advantage?

Suddenly she froze. The devious direction of her thoughts appalled her. Was she truly willing to hold Allister by deceit, to keep him in a constant state of worry if that meant she kept him at her side? What had her doubts driven her to?

She had wondered why she had never met his friends. Now she knew he had been forced to rely on only a few intimates to stay alive. It was not that he was incapable of having friends, but that he had put his duty before the luxury. She had been afraid he would bore easily in their marriage and blamed him for that shortcoming. The problem was and always had been within her. She had to believe herself worthy of his love.

By the time Allister joined them that evening, she knew what she had to do. Allister had shown his true colors. It was time she showed hers. She would do something clever to show him she understood his life and to give him a chance to freely admit he loved her. If instead he rejected her, she would know this marriage was not meant to be.

It took little to get her mother to leave her alone with him. It took less to get him to talk about the Skull.

“I spoke with the villain,” he admitted when she asked. “The result is not satisfactory.”

Joanna swallowed. Though he did not seem pleased by the result, still she sensed a finality. He had come to a decision. “Then you will continue your work,” she said.

He nodded. “I have little choice. However, I want you to know that one mystery has been solved. It appears that the Skull did not send the note. I am satisfied that the person who sent it poses no danger.”

Joanna frowned at his insistence. “Then why do you persist?”

“That still leaves the gift,” he explained. “There appears to be some reason to suspect that it is from a hostile source.” He rose and went to stand opposite her. She tensed to hear his decision. He would tell her he meant to continue his work, that his duty would always come first.

When he spoke, the words were worse than she could have imagined. “Therefore,” he said, “I have no choice but to postpone our wedding.”

She had feared it was coming, but the verdict still stunned her. Her fingers tightened around each other in her lap, squeezing the diamond until it cut into her skin. He could be acting out of concern for her safety, or he could be acting out of a desire to end their connection. She almost told him the truth; that would have been easy. But if she did, she would never be certain of his love. She had to get him to see her for who she was, for what she offered. She had to follow through on her plan.

“I understand, Allister,” she said quietly, reaching into the pocket of her gown. “And I think you should see this.” She handed him a note. “It arrived this afternoon. The perpetrator asks you to meet at midnight tonight or our future happiness is in jeopardy.”

Chapter Ten

“This is it, then,” Davis hissed to Allister as they waited just outside the churchyard. “We’ve got men surrounding the place. Whoever is doing this won’t get away this time.”

“You’d better be right,” Allister murmured, watching the dark shadows among the moonlit gravestones. “I can’t take much more of this. You should have seen Joanna’s face when I told her we had to postpone the wedding. I couldn’t have hurt her more if I’d struck her.”

“Surely she understands the necessity,” Davis replied. “You are trying to save her life.”

“She understands,” Allister said. “She’s too intelligent not to understand. Too brave as well. She wanted to come with me tonight.”

Davis chuckled. “Pluck to the backbone, that one. You’ve found yourself a gem, Allister. Let’s see what we can do to make sure you keep her.”

“Hst.” The sharp sound brought them both to the alert. A moment later and a climbing boy darted into their hiding place in the alley.

“Look lively, me lords,” he proclaimed in an excited whisper. “Someone’s entered the churchyard from the High Street side. ‘Is lordship says go.”

Allister nodded, moving easily out of the alley toward the cemetery. How many times had he done this over the years, crossed the space knowing he might meet his doom? It could have been a dinner party for the Duke of Milan, the fall threshing in Normandy, a crowded tavern in Portsmouth. The place or occasion didn’t matter. In fact, they all tended to run together. Only this time was different.

This time was for Joanna.

He slipped through the wrought iron gate, giving it an extra push to make sure it squeaked loudly enough to be heard by the occupants, living and dead. He strolled casually through the tombstones and monuments, every sense alert. The faintest of breezes set the trees to rustling and caressed his cheek. A cat darted away from his approach. He could smell the musty odor of fresh-turned earth.

A cloaked figure waited for him in the shadow of the church’s cross. There was no answering rush in his blood. He felt only determination as he approached it. Tonight the game would end, one way or the other. He would not return from this churchyard without knowing Joanna was safe.

He stopped within five feet of the creature and bowed, keeping his eyes trained on the slender figure. His mind sorted through faces and physiques of his adversaries, trying to find a match.

“Good evening,” he said. “As you can see, I’ve come as you asked.”

“Are you alone?” the figure rasped out.

Allister frowned. He should know that voice. It surely belonged to a woman, though it was deepened and rough-edged. He decided not to lie, evading the question instead.

“Shall we get down to it?” he asked. “What do you want of me?”

His enemy paused, then raised gloved hands to lower the hood. Black hair glinted in the pale moonlight.

“Good evening, Allister,” Joanna murmured. “What I want is your love.”

She watched as Allister recoiled, face paling.

“Joanna! Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” He strode forward and pulled the hood back over her hair. “I told you not to come. We have to get out of here before the villain arrives.”

She pulled away from his outstretched arm, wanting only to feel it about her. “The villain has arrived, Allister. I wrote that note.”

He stared at her. “Impossible. I swear I’d know your hand.”

“Very well. I had the footman write it. And it cost me most of my pin money, and a promise in writing that he wouldn’t be sacked if you found out.”

“I don’t understand.” He frowned. “You knew I wanted to catch the miscreant who sent that insect. Why would you want to hinder that?”

“My friend Eugennia Welch sent that insect,” she informed him. “Mother talked to her companion this afternoon while we were catching the Skull.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “Why did you put me though all this?”

She peered closer. His color had returned; indeed, it had heightened. His blue eyes snapped fire, and his powerful body towered over her. “What exactly did I put you through, Allister? I was under the impression you enjoyed this sort of thing.”

“Enjoy it? Are you mad?” He ran a hand back through his hair. “I’ve been worried sick since the moment that first note appeared. I can’t concentrate; I certainly can’t track a criminal. For the first time in my life, I want out of the Service. This is no longer a game, Joanna. This is real. And it scares the life out of me.”

She felt tears threatening. “I’m sorry to have caused you pain, Allister. But part of me is glad you care enough to be pained.”

“Did you doubt that?” He watched her face and saw a pain mirroring his own cross her lovely features. “Yes, I can see you did. Forgive me, Joanna. I should have been more honest with my feelings. I’ve admired you from the first, but in truth, when I offered, I wasn’t in love.”

“I understand,” she said, choking on the last word. “Your work is very important to you, to the nation. I was a fool to think I could compete with that.”

He stepped closer and caught one of the tears that ran down her cheeks. “Yes, you were,” he murmured. “There is no comparison. Nothing, no one, could hold a candle to you, Joanna. I love you with all my heart.”

Her head jerked up, and her eyes searched his face for confirmation. What she saw filled her with joy. With a glad cry, she threw herself into his arms.

Allister kissed her deeply, glorying in the feel of her pressed against him. He could imagine no more finer thing than this – to hold the woman he loved in his embrace. Joanna put all of herself into the kiss, her joy unbounded as she felt her passion returned. His arms tightened around her, and his breath came as quickly as her own. Any doubts she might have had fled into the darkness. She could feel his love in every fiber of her being.

As if from far away, she heard movement among the tombstones. Allister raised his head. She could see the tender light once more shining from his eyes. His smile was just as sweet.

“Brace yourself, my dear,” he murmured. “We have company.” She stiffened as he raised his voice. “Hold your fire. I have the villain well in hand.”

Davis stepped into the moonlight. “I can see that, old fellow,” he quipped. “Interesting technique. I generally don’t think to kiss them into submission.”

Chuckles echoed around them, as if all the gravestones were laughing. Joanna reddened.

“I thought you were alone!” she accused.

His chuckle was for her alone. “I thought you were a villain. I promise never to be untruthful with you again, my love.”

Joanna hugged the words to her heart as Davis joined them.

“So, how effective is that technique?” he teased Allister.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Allister replied coolly. “It has a tendency to fail. You see, while I have captured Miss Lindby, she has captured my heart.”

“And what about your villain?” Davis demanded. “I suppose we have to come back another night for him.”

Allister and Joanna exchanged glances. Davis stiffened.

“Do you wish to tell him or shall I?” Allister asked.

In his arms, Joanna knew there was nothing she could not do. “I wrote the note, Mr. Laughton,” she admitted. “I should have thought Allister might ask the rest of you along. I’m sorry for the trouble. You see, at the time, I thought it was necessary.”

“I share the blame,” Allister put in before Davis could answer. “If I had been attending to my marriage instead of my duty, this would never have happened.”

“Then there was no conspiracy?” Davis sounded only the slightest disappointed. “You really will be leaving us?”

“Yes, Mr. Laughton,” Allister replied with no regrets whatsoever. “I’m pleased to say you will no longer have need for my services. I intend to spend the rest of my life keeping Lady Trevithan out of trouble.”

“That’s right,” Joanna agreed, giving him a squeeze. “And you’ll need to start immediately, because we shall be married.”

“In June,” Allister completed.

And they were.

Copyrights © 1999 and 2001 by Regina Lundgren

Originally published by Zebra: "Sweeter Than Candy" in A Match  for Mother (0821761854), "A Place by the Fire" in Mistletoe Kittens (0821763032) and "The June Bride Conspiracy" in His Blushing Bride (0821768158)

Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency

Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part,

by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any

other means without permission of the publisher. For more

information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San

Francisco, CA 94117-4228

http://www.RegencyReads.com

Electronic sales: ebooks@regencyreads.com

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are

fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is

coincidental.

Table of Contents

Title page

BE MY BRIDE

Three Novellas: Sweeter Than Candy, A Place by the Fire, The June Bride Conspiracy

Regina Scott

________

Sweeter Than Candy

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

_____________

A Place by the Fire

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

________________

The June Bride Conspiracy

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten