 
Ravenstone

Book 1 of the Ravenstone Chronicles

By Louise Franklin

Also by Louise Franklin  
Raven's Shadow, Book 2, The Ravenstone Chronicles

Published by Louise Franklin

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014, Louise Franklin

Cover design by Vanessa Maynard

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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*****

To my little sister, Giesela,  
who has no notion of loving people by halves.

*****

"When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance."

― _Oscar Wilde_

*****

Table of Contents

1

2

3

4

Acknowledgements

# 1

She had prepared herself as best she could, but to murder her father was not an act for which any amount of preparation would ever be sufficient.

She knew why he had summoned her to the drawing room, but still she winced when he said the words that would set in motion her terrible deed.

"You shall marry Sir Edward Fairchild."

"I cannot," Georgiana Wyndham said evenly, her voice calm and well modulated. Her mother would have thought the tone most appropriate.

Sir William Wyndham rose from his chair. "What fresh lunacy is this?"

"You cannot force me."

Sir William stood before her, keen to press his advantage of height and force her to look up at him. Instead, she kept her gaze on her gloved hands, neatly folded on her lap. She saw only his polished, Hessian boots.

"Do not deceive yourself. I most certainly can, and will."

She remained silent. She would have preferred a dramatic gesture like storming out and slamming the door behind her, but her wheelchair with its wooden frame and large wheels did not allow for such theater.

"I would rather leave this house than marry," she said and cringed at her father's laughter.

Determined not to give into the fear, she lifted her chin and turned to gaze out the window. It was raining, a slow steady rain, drops of water running down the windowpane. Beyond, the garden was dark. She used to love spending hours in it as a child, lost in her own imaginary world. There she had sailed the seas, challenged brigands, and fought duels. There she had been invincible. Now, its darkness taunted her with her own defeat.

"He is without funds," she argued.

"That stands to reason. Why else would he have you?" her father replied. She smiled at his cruelty. If she didn't smile she was going to cry and she'd be damned if she would give away her dignity. It was the only thing left to her now.

"He arrives in a fortnight," he said, moving toward the fire. "You shall not obstruct me in this."

She knew it was hopeless to imagine that he would respect her wish. She was not allowed decisions. She was a female in a male world. Her place was to accept the choices made for her.

She studied him, trying to understand why he felt compelled to marry her off now. As the son of a baronet, he had married well. Her mother's dowry had been sufficient for him to make some lucrative investments, and create a fortune that made him first amongst his peers.

For all his wealth, he dressed simply, a pair of light pantaloons and a black coat. His cravat was tied in the latest fashion but it was his only concession to vanity. His black hair had not thinned or gone gray, which gave him the appearance of a much younger man.

He stood next to the fireplace watching her with an expression she had learned at an early age meant he was contemplating some new cruelty. The first time she had seen this, she was seven and had been only vaguely aware of him as the man who was her father. She had seen him for short periods of time before being hurried away by a servant. That particular night her parents were hosting a ball, and she had escaped the nursery to watch the dancing. Hiding among the plants on a balcony, she watched women in their silks and satins swirl across the room, trailing men like laughter, the music hypnotizing.

Her mother stood below drinking a glass of champagne, beautiful in a blue silk gown she had had made especially for that night. She was watching someone across the room. Her father stood next to the doors to the garden. Beside him was a young girl, his hand on her elbow as he led her outside. He glanced back into the room, and then Georgiana saw him smile like that for the first time. She had not understood what his behavior had meant then, but she never forgot his expression as he looked back at her mother. It had frightened her then, as it frightened her now.

"You do realize, dear Papa, that I am not likely to do as you wish."

She had never been able to resist her need to defy him.

His smile faded as he walked toward her. Her heart raced as he put his hands on either side of her chair, his face inches from hers. She held his gaze, trying to hide how fast she was breathing. She willed herself to take slow even breaths.

"You are quite foolish, my dear daughter, to impose on my good nature for you have become an encumbrance to me. I have secured you a marriage, as is my duty. It was particularly hard," he said inching even closer, "faced with a useless cripple with no grace to speak of and barely a pretty face to recommend her."

With one hand, he reached forward and removed the pins that held her chestnut hair in place. He brushed his hands gently through her hair before twisting one hand and grabbing hold tightly. Her eyes filled with tears as she tried to pull free. Excited by her defiance, he pressed his mouth to hers. She bit hard, tasting blood, and he pulled away with a scowl. He removed a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the trickle of blood from his lip, watching her all the while. She held his gaze, refusing to give into the fear that made her hands tremble.

The slap came fast and hard. Her chair fell over with the blow but she caught herself before her face hit the floor. The kick to her stomach was worse, and she curled in agony, gasping in pain.

She heard him walk away, then return, and she tensed for the next blow. Instead, he hunched down next to her and took a swallow of his brandy. He watched her, savoring the moment.

"You keep forgetting the most fundamental truth, my sweet. You were born into this world a female and as such, you are property to do with as I wish. You are at the mercy of men and their whims. Better to embrace your lot with the sweet docile nature of womankind than to struggle." He poured the rest of the brandy over her head and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Georgiana turned onto her back and lay on the floor, watching the fire. She could hear voices in the hallway and footsteps. The door opened and she sighed at the smell of rose perfume and the soft flutter of silk skirts moving across the floor.

"Upon my honor, Georgiana, why do you provoke him so?" Lady Wyndham asked.

Her mother's question no longer resonated as it once had. So worn with repetition, she gave the inquiry the same consideration she would if her mother had asked the time. She recognized the accusation for the folly it was, a woman's attempt to exert control where none existed.

"Can you help me up please, Mother?"

Her mother righted her wheel chair and opened the door. A footman entered to pick the young mistress up and place her back in her chair.

"How clumsy you are, dear," her mother said for the servant's benefit.

It was a well-practiced routine and everybody knew his lines. His face expressionless, the servant politely asked if there was anything else required. Then he exited with haste.

"Why must you always be so lacking in delicacy?"

This was Georgiana's cue to apologize and promise that she would try harder next time. Her mother would then play the comforting parent, giving advice about the proper way for a young lady to comport herself, about duty and good breeding. It always ended the same way. Her mother would smile, pat her daughter's hand, and then return to her rooms. There she would stay for days sleeping until the physician came to bleed her. After which, she would be restored to good health and would resume her rounds of appointments. The recurring charade sickened Georgiana.

"Why do you let him take such liberties with me?" Georgiana asked. "You are my mother. You are to protect me."

Lady Wyndham blinked as if confused. She turned away from Georgiana as if looking for a stage manager to correct the scene that was derailing. She stepped toward the door, but Georgiana rolled her chair in her path. Her mother recoiled as if pushed.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"I need your help, Mother," she said slowly.

"I will send for Nurse."

"No, Mother, please, I beg of you. He means to marry me off now that I am no longer of use to him."

"You have gone quite mad."

"Please, Mother," she begged. "You know what he will do to them."

"You are indiscreet, Georgiana."

"Indiscreet, Mother?" she said, tears welling up despite her best efforts. "I am not indiscreet but in distress, and I fear for those I love. I have long held my silence in the name of propriety but he is a monster, Mama. He cannot continue.

"You are an abomination. You repel me with your accusations and I shall tolerate them no more. You are demeaning both your father and me with these lies. I daresay your need for the dramatic has taken on grand proportions. You must comport yourself as befitting a young lady, for you are to be married soon. An excellent match your papa has managed to purchase for you, and I thank you to retain a good opinion of him. Now I am for bed. I wish you a good night." She moved quickly around Georgiana, making sure to stay out of reach, and exited the room as if the devil himself were following her.

Georgiana listened to the fire, the flames warming the cold room while the clock ticked slowly. She had known exactly what this night would bring, and she had not been wrong. She was alone, but she was used to it now. Good fortune had allowed her to prepare for it. He would have to die.

She touched her side tentatively and winced at the pain, but kept probing. He had not broken any bones this time.

Footsteps on the marble floor announced Nurse Gibson's approach. Georgiana wiped away her tears and straightened her back to greet the nurse.

"Dear me, miss, what is that smell? Have you taken to drink?"

She didn't answer. Nurse Gibson was well-meaning but Georgiana tired of the pretense.

"Never mind," Nurse said and stepped behind the chair. She wheeled her out of the room toward the stairs where a footman waited to carry her upstairs. In her room, he placed her on the settee and exited to retrieve the chair.

"Congratulations, miss, on your coming engagement," Nurse said as she helped her undress.

"I shall not marry," she said holding up her arms, wondering how long the servants had known. Her dress slid from her body and she waited as Nurse put it aside. Her stays pinched and she sighed in relief as they were undone.

"Won't marry Sir Edward Fairchild? But he has a title, miss."

"So he has."

"He is still quite young and it's quite a wonder he—" Nurse stopped suddenly.

"– a wonder he would consent to marry a crippled hag like myself?" she asked, smiling.

"Oh no, miss, I meant no disrespect, but the situation does seem so very good. He is a widower, and he already has an heir. All madam has to do is be agreeable. To be sure it is a wonder he is to remarry."

"Being agreeable is not one of my strengths, and he marries again because he has lost his inheritance at cards and it seems he has a great need of money."

"Now, tis a shame indeed, but so you can help each other then. Marry him so you can leave here," she whispered. "You can escape _him_ , miss."

"And what of Jane and Margaret?" she asked in a whisper.

Her nurse looked at her mistress with pity, and Georgiana hated that more than anything else. She didn't need anyone's pity.

Nurse lifted her from the settee and into the bath and Georgiana winced in pain.

"Oh dear, I'll get my basket, shall I?"

She shook her head. "Just help me wash my hair."

"It won't take but a minute."

"No," she said, her voice harsh as her self-control dissolved into the hot bath water. She could feel the tears threatening to spill over again. "Could you just leave me for a minute, please?"

Nurse raised an eyebrow, but obeyed. Georgiana knew the dismissal rankled, but she had no generosity left to give if she was to pull herself together. Nurse Gibson was kind to her but kept her distance. Hers was a well-paid job she could not afford to lose. Georgiana could count on her nursing skills but other favors, like locking the bedroom door, had never been part of her duties.

Georgiana let the warm water soothe her aching muscles, and felt herself slowly relaxing. Her legs under the water were pale, the red scars that ran down both sides, a vivid contrast. She closed her eyes and wiped the tears that were running down her cheeks. She had to do something.

The fear that lived inside her dissolved into panic easily these days. She lay in the water, feeling it cool, trying not to think about what lay ahead. A knock on the door signaled Nurse Gibson's return, and Georgiana inhaled deeply.

Soon she lay under the bed covers, drinking tea and listening to the fire. The room with its intricate plastered ceiling, French paintings, and velvet curtains spoke of money and elegance. She had to allow that her father had good taste. A life of privilege was what she had, and she ought to feel fortunate to be born to such grandeur. Yet she did not.

Laughter floated down the hall outside her room, followed by small footsteps, and she smiled. Her door flew open and two little girls raced across the room and jumped on her bed.

"Georgy, Georgy, look what we found in the library. It's Robinson Crusoe."

"Can we read it? Please say yes."

The two faces looked at her expectantly, and she smiled at them.

They snuggled up one on each side. Georgiana dismissed the nursemaid who agreed to return later, and with a curtsy departed. Their room was a safe warm cocoon. She kissed Jane on her head, then Margaret.

"What did you girls do today?"

"We found Muppets in the attic," Jane said.

"Puppets, not Muppets," Margaret said, giggling.

"Yes, puppets, will you help us fix them? There is a witch and princesses and another one who looks angry."

"We can fix them tomorrow."

"Even the angry one?"

"Especially the angry one," she said smiling. "You girls smell delicious, like strawberries."

"We are not stawberries," Jane giggled.

"Not stawberries," she mimicked and tickled her.

"No," Jane said and wiggled away, jabbing her with an elbow. Georgiana grimaced at the pain of her bruised ribs. It was an unwanted intrusion.

Margaret touched her arm, looking worried.

"It is nothing." Georgiana smiled and tucked the child back under her arm. "Let's read."

It was her favorite part of the day. The girls sat quietly listening to the story as the fire burned down to the embers. An hour later, they were both asleep and Georgiana lay listening to them breathe. She could scarcely believe they were already four years old.

She gently pulled them closer, watching them as they slept, wishing she could sleep so soundly for even one night. She hadn't slept well since the day they were born. Her need to protect them drove her even in her sleep, and now she was to marry. How was she to protect them if she left her father's house?

A soft knock on the door announced the return of her maid, Betty, and a footman. They carried the sleeping girls gently back to their room next door. She listened to the sounds coming through the wall, waiting for the sound of the key turning to lock their door. A moment later, Betty returned to hand her a key. Georgiana threaded a silk ribbon through the key, and then hung it around her neck.

Betty gave a quick curtsy then left, shutting the door behind her.

Georgiana stared at the closed door a moment, then closing the book, she set it aside and waited. She dared not close her eyes for fear of falling asleep. She listened carefully to the noises of the house, waiting for them to settle down. She heard the housekeeper walking by on her last round, scolding a maid for forgetting to empty a chamber pot. Then one of the upper footmen passed in the opposite direction.

It was past midnight when she finally sat up slowly, and pulled the covers from her legs. She stared at the scars running down her legs. They would be a constant reminder of that day when Doctor Foster had confirmed to the family she would never walk again.

She pointed her toes and smiled, still unable to believe it possible. She had discovered a return of sensation a year ago, when she had had been woken by a cramp in her foot. For two years, she had had no sensation in her legs at all. The sudden return of feeling was a gift, even if that feeling was marred by pain.

She did a few stretches, then she moved to the side of the bed, and placing her feet on the floor, she stood up. After the first few months, she was able to walk slowly across the room, strengthening her muscles until she was able to walk with barely a limp.

It had been a year now and she could do much more. At night, she often explored the gardens, running barefoot on the grass. Her midnight walks had brought rumors of a ghost that haunted the gardens. No one suspected her, for she had no one in whom she could confide.

She was kept upstairs where no one but the servants could see her. Her mother made it quite clear that a cripple was useless to all. Georgiana was ignored to do as she pleased, and so her prison had turned into her sanctuary. She meant to keep it that way.

She moved across the room to lock the door then stopped in front of the mirror to stare at the pale image she had become. Her long brown hair curled over her white nightdress. The deep shadows under eyes looked like bruises. Maybe Nurse Gibson was right about being fortunate someone wanted to marry her at all. She had never met Sir Edward Fairchild and he might well be the answer to escaping her father. But she couldn't leave Jane and Margaret here with him.

It had to be tonight, she knew.

She picked up a pair of scissors and holding her hair in a single clump, she cut it off. She trimmed the remainder as short as she dared. Then she moved to the bed and dragged from under it a suitcase. Taking out a pair of breeches, she pulled them on. They were a good fit. She tied over her breasts the strips of linen she had prepared, and then slipped a white shirt over her head. The shoes pinched her toes. Last, she combed the black paste into her hair.

She considered her image in the mirror. A boy stared back at her with large fearful eyes, his hair neatly combed. She had stolen the clothes from one of the stable boys, and it was a stable boy's image that now stared back at her. Satisfied, she pulled the cap down on her forehead, grabbed the jacket, and moved toward the window. Suddenly, she stopped.

She had almost forgotten.

She turned back to the case on her bed, and reached for a small bundle. Carefully, she removed the cloth and examined the pistol that lay in her hand. It was no ordinary pistol, the white ivory handle ornately decorated with her father's coat of arms. Measuring the powder, she poured it down the barrel and placed the patched ball on the crown of the muzzle. With the ramrod, she forced the ball down to the chamber, where it tamped against the powder.

Carefully she placed the stolen pistol in her pocket, trying not to think about the servant her father had arrested for stealing it. The man had raped a chambermaid. He had deserved arrest, she reminded herself. The maid had been dismissed once it was evident she was with child and she had come to Georgiana begging for help. Georgiana had helped her, giving her jewelry in exchange for bringing her the pistol she knew her father kept in his desk.

She quietly unlatched the window, and then taking a deep breath, she climbed out into the night in search of her father.

# 2

Atop the roof, she waited, listening. The house was a two-story yellow brick Georgian surrounded by a wooded garden on the north side of Russell Square, south of the lands where the Regent hoped to build his palace. Her father had the wall around the house and garden rebuilt the first time she had run away. The tall brick structure was an imposing obstacle and meant to keep both people out and her in. A dog barked in the distance. She could hear the horses in the stables in the carriage house. A carriage passed in the street below while the watch cried out the time. The usual sounds.

From her perch, she could see above the houses in all directions, despite the clouds that obscured the moon and stars. Satisfied that all was as it should be, she made her way along the roof to the lattice on the side of the house. She climbed down, pausing to look inside her father's bedroom window on the second floor. His room was empty. She cursed, hoping she had not waited too long.

She climbed down to the ground, and then made her way around the side of the house, staying in the shadows. Outside the study window, she looked to see if he was still downstairs. A light inside illuminated his desk and an empty chair, and the fireplace in which no fire burnt. She was too late. He had already departed. She cursed her misfortune and contemplated giving up for the night, but the panic inside her would not allow for further delay.

She crept toward the garden wall and the great tree that grew beside it. She scaled the branches as she had done many times as a small girl. Only then, she had never dared use the tree to climb over the wall as she did now. Once on the other side, she stood for a moment waiting for the pain in her legs to subside. The jump from the top of the wall was still the worst, but she dared not use the gate, for her father had a guard stand there every night. He was not a trusting man, her father.

A light fog drifted down the darkened street, and she startled at a sudden movement across the road. A stray dog disappeared into an alley, and she inhaled deeply trying to calm her racing heart. She had followed her father before, always losing him in the maze of city streets as they approached the Thames. But he had always gone in the same direction, and it was that way she turned now.

He never took his own coach but hired a hackney at the south side of the square, which took him to Covent Garden. She did the same, hoping his habit had not changed this night. Once they arrived, she took a coin from her pocket, her hands shaking, and thanked the driver.

"It's the sickness you'll find here, lad, better be careful," he advised.

She nodded and walked past Harlequin Court toward Wellington Street, careful to avoid the treacherous alleys that led to the Thames. The streets were crowded with men and women, the women offering services and the men shopping for appetites not met at home. Coaches and hackneys dropped off passengers and picked up others. Gentlemen strolled along in groups or alone, followed by girls selling themselves. A man in a top hat in front of Georgiana paused on the sidewalk to fondle a prostitute while his friends gave encouragement.

She sidestepped the men, avoiding eye contact and making sure she walked like a man, her stance open, her arms swinging and her head held high. She faked a confidence she did not feel.

She dodged the children begging in the street, while the prostitutes ignored her in her stable boy clothes. She spat on the sidewalk, and hoped her disguise would hold.

Here in the warrens and back alleys, she had lost sight of her father twice before. She had not dared stay long and always returned home. Tonight she was determined to discover where he went. She turned down King Street and then onto James Street, trying her best to act like she belonged, despite being scared out of her wits.

"Now 'ere we 'ave sweet young one who's to find 'imself some pleasure. What say you for a six pence, young master?"

The old crone strolled forward, exposing her left breast, and smiled with missing teeth. The skin on her breast was scarred as if burned and her tit sagged to her belly. Georgiana turned to walk past but this one was more persistent, more desperate, and would not allow her to pass.

"It's young flesh I seek," Georgiana answered, speaking in a deep voice as she had practiced.

The smile disappeared from the old woman's face, and she spat a gob at Georgiana's feet, hitting her target.

"O young, is it? My old flesh not go' enough for the likes of you." She didn't bother to cover herself, but stepped menacingly closer.

Georgiana stayed her ground, refusing to be intimidated. She drew from her pocket a coin and held it up. "Where?" she asked.

The old woman eyed the coin. "Now, that all depends on how young me master likes his flesh."

"Very," she answered.

The old woman took her eyes from the coin, and stepped back. Georgiana took another coin from her pocket.

"Like that, is it? Well it's not me place to judge or say 'tis evil you are about. The 'ouse you want is last on the left. May God take pity on your soul."

Georgiana walked quickly down the dark street toward the house mentioned, and tried to ignore the fear growing inside her. A hulking blackguard kept watch at the front door, so she headed for the alley around the back. The rear door to the house was locked, so she studied the wall. Finding her first hand hold, she pulled herself up, careful to support her weight for the next move. Slowly, she climbed a crumbling wall to a second floor balcony. She prayed the room she was crawling into was empty.

A door opened onto the balcony but no light came from inside. She listened, but no sound came from the room. Entering slowly, she felt her way toward the far door, opening it enough to look out carefully. The hallway was empty.

The light from the hallway illuminated the interior of the room, and revealed a bed and a washstand. A young girl lay tied to the bed, her eyes open, watching the intruder. She was naked, her small breasts barely formed. She lay motionless, blinking passively. The look in the girl's eyes was one she recognized all too well. It was one of utter defeat. She had given up fighting and waited now only for the end. Georgiana couldn't allow that to happen.

She moved closer to the bed, and taking a folding knife from her pocket, she cut the rope around the girl's hands and feet. It was a foolish notion, she knew. One she could not afford, but she could not help herself either. Her instinct to protect was too strong. The girl was trembling, her skin cold, but there was nothing to cover her. Watching with a vacant look, the girl closed her eyes as if she had not slept in weeks. Georgiana shook her gently but the girl curled up like a cat to sleep. She should leave her, find her father, and do what she had come to do, protect her own. Only she couldn't. No one had helped her escape her father's abuse. The servants must have known, her mother. They had all chosen to look away instead, chosen to protect their own. If she left this girl here, she would be no better than them.

She moved back to the door and slipped through to the hallway. A hallway of closed doors paralleled a filthy, threadbare carpet. Music and voices drifted up the stairs, and the heavy smell of tobacco hung in the air. From upstairs, a door opened and shut, and footsteps moved toward the stairs.

Fearing discovery, Georgiana had no choice but to open the next door. She listened outside for a second, and then entered. Furnished with a bed, desk, and chair, the room was empty. A closet in the corner stood half open, and clothes lay scattered about. Half-eaten food on a plate had attracted a rat, which eyed her before returning to its meal.

She picked up a black dress on the floor, some shoes that had seen better days and a blanket. Quickly she darted into the hall and returned to the girl, who still lay on the bed asleep. Georgiana shook her hard, and she opened her eyes, protesting with a moan.

"You must wake up," she said, pulling the girl up into a sitting position. "Here, put this on."

The girl moaned again, barely lifting her arms to get the dress over her head and slip her arms into the sleeves. Georgiana slipped the shoes on her feet and laced them up. They were far too big.

"Can you stand?" Georgiana whispered, but there was no answer. She felt her foot knock against a glass with a brownish residue next to the bed, the sweet medicinal smell of laudanum explaining the girl's soporific state. Georgiana sighed and looked at the balcony, wondering how she was going to get the girl down to the street. She should leave her, and return to the search for her father, but she knew she couldn't. Quietly, she cursed herself.

Voices and footsteps poured down the hallway, and fear set in. She grabbed the girl under her arms and yanked her to her feet. The sudden rough handling roused the girl. She screamed and pushed Georgiana away.

"Don't scream," Georgiana whispered, putting a hand over her mouth. But the girl fought her, punching her hard in the face. "I'm trying to help you. Be quiet."

Wild eyed and panicked, the girl fought her, and they fell on the floor struggling. The bedroom door opened, and someone grabbed Georgiana by her shirt and slammed her against the wall.

"What's this we 'ave 'ere then? A thief doing away with the goods, are you?"

Georgiana saw a massive fist move toward her and tried to get out of its way. It smashed into her nose and white-hot pain shot into her head. Her assailant dragged her by her shirt out the door and down the hallway. She tried to stand up but he moved too fast, blood streaming from her face. At the stairs, he shoved her and she felt herself falling. Her head hit the stairs as she went all the way down. She lay still at the bottom, thinking she had to move or he would kill her.

Wracked with pain, she pushed herself up and ran blindly toward the front door, but found it blocked by another man ready to stop her. She ran to the left, into a salon filled with cigar smoke, men lounging around, and naked girls entertaining them. She pulled back curtains on a window: barred. The man chasing her entered the room, paused in the door, smiled, and walked slowly closer. She drew the pistol from her pocket and aimed at his chest. He stopped suddenly, the smile melting away.

"Now, boy, there be no need of that."

A girl screamed and the noise in the room faded as the focus shifted to the confrontation.

"I'll show myself out, thank you, kind sir," Georgiana said and indicated with the pistol that he should step aside.

He moved slowly to one side of the room, and she moved past him, keeping the pistol pointed, aware that her hand was shaking. Aware of her weakness, he shadowed her movement. Walking backwards toward the front door, she paused to make sure the other man behind her at the door saw her pistol. With the attention of both on her, she waved the second man away from the door. He opened it for her, and stepped aside.

At the entrance way stood a newly arrived patron on the scene, surprised at what he was witnessing. It was her father. The shock of seeing him caused Georgiana to stumble, but she recovered quickly and hoped the blood on her face would hide her identity.

"Sir, if you will step aside, this boy was just leaving," said man at the door.

Her father's eyes were on the pistol in her hand, his stolen pistol. He raised his eyes to her and she saw suddenly that, in his recognition of the pistol, he had now also recognized her.

"Boy?" her father asked, raising an eyebrow. He studied her, his eyes moving from her face to her legs.

Her heart sank. It was over she thought, but to her surprise, he did step aside. She moved cautiously out the door and into the night, then she ran quickly down the road toward the busier Savoy Street, not looking back.

Her breathing was labored as the blood flowed from her nose down her face and throat. Finally, out of breath, she ducked into an alley to rest, hiding behind some old wooden crates. She tilted her head back and pinched her nose, crying from the pain. Footsteps followed down the street, and she moved deeper into the dark and kept still, praying they would pass.

They didn't.

"Georgiana, I know you are here," he said softly. "Are you coming out or must I come in?"

She kept still, shrinking into the darkness as best she could, wondering why she was hiding. What could be more to her needs? He was here in a dark alley with her still holding the gun. Let the bastard come.

"You leave me no choice."

He moved down the alley toward her hiding place and her panic ballooned.

"How long have you been following me?" he asked, his voice filled with anger.

She didn't answer, holding her breath as she waited for him to come close enough so she could be sure of her aim in the dark. He paused in front of her hiding place, listening for her to give herself away. Then he took another step, then two more. She raised the gun, but he caught the movement, and brought his walking stick down hard on her arm. She cried out in pain, dropping the gun and bolting. She pushed off the wall and dashed back down the alley. She felt a blow to her head, and stumbled, crashing to the ground with a scream.

"I 'ave 'im, Guv'ner," a male voice said, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her up.

It was the same voice as from the house. She should have known her father would leave nothing to chance.

"Much obliged, Thomas."

Her father took hold of her other arm and they dragged her out the alley. Kicking hard, she managed to land a blow on her father's shin, and had the satisfaction of hearing him draw in his breath in pain. He let go of her arm and slapped her hard. For a moment, the world was dark.

"Find the pistol," she heard him say.

Thomas searched the alley, and then handed the pistol to her father. They bound her hands and feet, and then threw her in a coach where she lay in the dark unable to move. Her father got in, then the door closed, and they moved off into the busy streets.

"What will you do with me?" she asked softly.

"What an extraordinary question, my dear, but I fear it is a question that needs must answer. I despair that I greatly underestimated you, Georgiana, and it is not a mistake I am willing to repeat. You really should have accepted marriage. I meant only the best for you."

"I will not abandon the girls to you."

"Ah yes, the girls. Such pretty young things they will turn out to be, and such temptation, no doubt. But pray tell me, what is it exactly you had planned for me?"

She kept her silence, trying to twist her arms into a more useful position. She still had her pocketknife.

"Come now, speak up, this is not the time to keep your own counsel."

"I don't know," she said, trying to loosen the rope around her wrists but only managing to chafe her skin in the effort.

"Don't know. How is that possible? I assume by your presence at Madame Annette's tonight that it is not the first time you have followed me. It also stands to reason that with my loaded pistol in your pocket you had your less-than-innocent little heart set on doing away with me. Murder, my dear, is what they call it and no one would even have suspected you, the poor crippled soul who cannot even walk. Then the fact that I would be shot in some house of ill repute, often frequented by murderers, should be enough for any constable to come to a logical conclusion. I must say it was a capital idea, really. Bravo, Georgiana."

He waited for her to respond but she kept her silence, trying desperately to think of a way out.

"You are a beautiful girl but it is your spirit that I have always favored. The fight in you always excited me greatly. Why, I do believe I am quite hard now."

She veered away from his hand as he tried to touch her.

He laughed. "Ah, quite right. Not the time or place for it, a shame really. One would have to clean you up first. There is too much blood even for my taste."

"Where are you taking me?" she asked angrily.

"You must understand there are consequences to this sort of business. I cannot simply return you to your current station in life with the hope that having learned a valuable lesson, you shall not again try to do away with me. No, this is quite serious, I am afraid. You leave me no option but to make sure you leave these shores, never to return. I have some connections, who will most kindly help me."

"How?"

"I mean to sell you into slavery."

"You can't do that. I am still a lady of birth. I would tell them the truth and expose you."

He laughed as if she had made a joke, and it worried her greatly.

"You are too amusing," he said. "I will simply tell them you are a mistress I have grown weary of, and who has threatened my good standing. Whom do you think they will believe? A gentleman like myself, or a whore who I have been kind enough to educate, and who has taken advantage of my good person? No, no, dear, it simply won't do to try and escape this fate you have created for yourself. I have told you on several occasions, I believe, that as a female born into this world, you have no rights and that men may do with you as they please. It really is true, my dear, and the sooner you reconcile yourself to that fact the better. The men in the East are quite fond of young white women, and now that you are miraculously restored to full health, you will fetch quite a good sum."

"Why don't you just kill me and get it over with."

"What, and put my soul in jeopardy of damnation for all eternity? No, dear, that certainly wouldn't do."

"You could just let me go. I will disappear and never bother you again."

"Let you go? I think not. If there is one truth I have come to recognize about you, dear, is that you do not give up. No, you love those girls, and fear that I will harm them some day. I cannot say for sure if I will or not, for my appetites, as you know, are quite strong. No, you will protect them, no matter what. You may have failed tonight, but you will try again, and I should loathe looking over my shoulder for the rest of my time on earth, in fear that you may put an end to me. No, I am afraid this is the only solution to our little dilemma."

"You cannot think there will be no investigation into my disappearance."

"Quite right, but tell me did you leave your room through your window?"

She refused to answer, already anticipating the direction of his thinking.

"Ah yes, by your silence, I surmise you have. One is to conclude therefore one of two possibilities. You were taken by some villain in the night, never to be found again, or you have deceived us in your state of health, and have made good on your promise to run away after I informed you of your coming engagement. I shall, of course, be forced to part with such information to the constable upon his request, and add the fact that as a young girl you were quite prone to running away. I do believe it will be the same constable who retrieved you the second time you attempted to flee. No, dear, your situation is quite impossible, I fear."

The carriage pulled up outside an inn near the docks.

"Ah, here we are," her father said.

He took a blanket from the seat and threw it over her, covering her completely. The carriage door opened and she was dragged out by her feet, then hoisted over someone's shoulders and carried up stairs. She heard voices and she screamed, struggling to attract attention, but her efforts only seemed to create laughter. No one paid any attention to her cries for help.

She was thrown on a hard wooden floor, the wind knocked out of her. She gasped for breath. At the door, she heard her father ask for a bucket of water. Then the door shut, and his footsteps crossed to where she lay. He removed the blanket. They were in a room with a bed, chair, and desk in an inn that had seen much better days.

"We must make you presentable again," he said, placing his beaver hat and gloves on the table.

She felt the penknife in her pocket jabbing her side, a comforting reminder of its presence. She sat up as best she could, her arms wracked with pain. The door opened and a girl carried a bucket of water into the room. She kept her eyes on the floor, not once looking at Georgiana. Her father gave her a coin and she curtsied and left.

"Now, I will cut you loose, so you can clean yourself, but remember Thomas is outside the door. It would be foolish to attempt an escape."

The blood rushed back into her hands, and she rubbed them as he cut free the rope around her feet. He indicated the bucket of water and she stepped toward it. A knock at the door distracted her father. She slipped the knife from her pocket and dropped it in the bucket of water as she submerged her hands. Her father took a parcel from Thomas, but kept his eyes on her and closed the door again. In the parcel were a long white dress and some satin slippers. He placed them on the bed.

"Would you like some help with your toilette?" he asked, mocking her.

"I am perfectly capable."

"I meant only a kindness."

He placed the chair closer to her, and sat down as if to watch a performance. She picked up the grimy rag provided. Rinsing it in the dirty water, she washed the blood gently from her face and chest. She removed her jacket and the blood soaked shirt, ignoring her father's watchful eyes, thankful for the strips of linen she had wrapped around herself. They, too, were red with her blood but she would not remove them. She cleaned herself as best she could, leaving her damaged nose for last. She touched it gently and pain tore into her head again.

"It's broken I fear," he said. "Nothing to be done now. Just clean it off and wash that dirt from your hair. Quite a shame really what you have done to it," he said, undoing his cravat. His action alarmed her. He was making himself comfortable, which meant they would not be leaving soon. Her heartbeat raced as she felt his eyes on her.

She rinsed her hair, the black mixing with her blood in the bucket. Taking her shirt, she rinsed it in the bucket and reached to the bottom, unfolding the knife in one quick movement.

"Never mind the shirt. You won't need it again."

"It's still a good shirt that someone can make use of," she said and rung the water from it. She hung it by the fireplace to dry.

Her father stood up and walked across the room, placing the chair by the fire, his attention shifting from her for a second. She took the knife and slipped it into the pocket in her breeches, the blade almost cutting her in her haste.

"Sit here and I will comb your hair," he said.

She hesitated, recognizing his manner for what it was, but she obeyed. She crossed the room and sat down, letting the warmth of the fire dry her skin. She forced herself to be still and patient, to not rush the moment. She would only get one chance. Her father was too clever and too strong to give her another, should she fail.

He stood behind the chair and his hand touched the skin on her neck. She jumped, unable to suppress the reflex.

"Don't touch me," she hissed, knowing it was exactly the wrong thing to say to this man, but unable to stop herself or the disgust she felt.

He put the comb on the table next to her, and using both his hands, he massaged her shoulders, his hands working their way to her front to fondle her through the fabric.

"You know how such words of defiance arouse me, yet you speak them so freely. Perhaps it's not disgust for me you feel, after all."

"I despise you," she said, ignoring his hands on her.

"'Despise' is a strong word. It has been so long since we were together. Come let us not part in anger, but enjoy each other's company one last time. A parting gift you could say from your loving Papa."

"Thomas will hear. He will think you perverted for wanting a boy."

"Thomas is much used to perversion and has strict instructions not to enter no matter what he hears. So you see, my love, we can enjoy ourselves. No one shall disturb us until morning."

He jerked her from the chair and moved her toward the bed, throwing her down. He undid the buttons on his breeches. She slipped her hand into her pocket and around the knife then waited for that one chance. He jerked his coat off, and then lifted his arms to pull his shirt over his head, and for one moment, his eyes left her. She removed the knife and, gripping it with both hands, she jumped up. With all her weight engaged, she plunged the blade up and into his chest just below the ribs, hoping to pierce his heart.

He screamed in pain, and stumbled back under the force of her thrust, tripping and falling to the floor, his arms still tangled in his shirt. She hoped his scream would attract as little attention as hers had. She kept her eyes on the door.

It didn't open.

On the floor, her father managed to rip the shirt off, his eyes on her, filled with fear as he attempted to stand. He collapsed again, and she knew then the knife had found his heart. He crawled toward the door, the knife sticking out of his chest.

She moved closer and he kicked out at her, but she dodged his foot easily and jumped on top of him, holding him down with her weight, so he could not move. He tried to push her off, but his strength was draining quickly. He opened his mouth to call Thomas, but she grabbed his coat from the floor, and smothered his cry. He struggled briefly, and then lay still as the life began to drain out of him. Her tears were falling on his face. She hated herself for crying.

He deserved it, she told herself. She had no choice and still she cried, sobs of fear and pain, unable to stop them. She removed the coat from his face, and watched the color drain from his skin.

"You know you will go to hell for this," he said softly.

"Perhaps, but you, dear Papa, will have that pleasure first."

The corners of his mouth pulled up in a smile and then the life in his eyes dimmed, and he was gone. She stared at him for a while, then slowly rose and put her hand over her mouth to stifle the hysteria within her. She had killed him.

# 3

Shivering in the cold, wet shirt, Georgiana pulled her jacket closed and kept walking. She had no idea where she was, or when it had started to rain. The street was dark, and she hoped a hackney would come along. Those on the street at that hour paid her no attention. She kept her eyes down, walking west from the river, she hoped, but she was not sure.

In her pocket, she held the pistol. She had remembered to retrieve it from her father's jacket before she climbed out the window. She was becoming good at exiting through windows. She looked at the sky, conscious of any sign that dawn was breaking. She had to make it back before sunrise.

She walked faster, pausing at an intersection, not sure which way to go. Traffic bustled to her right, so she went that way. Waving down a hackney that appeared, she gave an address and they moved off. Sitting in the dark of the cab, she wrapped her arms around herself tightly trying to stop shivering. Was the sense of relief she now felt wrong? she wondered. She should not be relieved at any one's death, most especially not her own father's. Yet he deserved it, she told herself again. She had done the world a favor.

She forced herself to remember the first night he had come to her at fourteen years old. She had woken from sleep to feel someone touching her arm. She had startled awake, but it was only her father come to see her. At least that was what she had thought at first. But then, she had been concerned even before his hand wandered to cup her breast.

With that touch, she had rolled away from him across the bed, and he had smiled at her. She ran to the door but he had locked it. She had pounded her fists against the door, crying for help. No one came, and eventually she gave up and slipped to the floor, half exhausted. He had picked her up and put her back in bed, gently at first, then undressed and joined her. It had been a painful night that was repeated many times over the next few years.

She had been no match for his strength, and the more she fought him the more pleasure he seemed to derive. She had told her mother and received harsh punishment for telling malicious lies. At first, she had wanted to believe her mother didn't know the truth, then she didn't care anymore. She tried running away, but with no money, she didn't get far before they caught her and brought her back. She secretly wrote a letter to her mother's sister, Aunt Beatrice, asking for her protection. Her mother had punished her daughter severely for that as well.

Soon Georgiana gained a reputation for being willful, and having too much imagination brought on by reading novels that gave her fanciful ideas and dramatic fits. With no one to confide in, and no one who would believe her, she sank into a deep depression. She found the deep vein along her inner wrist and traced it with her fingers. She had tried to end her own life, but her maid had found her.

Her father had the servants watch her day and night after that, and she was hardly ever left alone in a room again. Her father took his turn watching as well—only he did more than watch. Now she watched the dark streets passing and the only thought that remained was that she should have killed him long ago.

The hackney stopped and she took a deep breath and opened the door. She paid the man, keeping her head down, thankful that the pouring rain made the exchange short. She walked the last few streets home. Making sure no one saw her, she slipped into the neighbors' garden, for their gate was always open. An old garden shed provided the right height to scale the wall and she dropped into the darkness of her own garden and waited. There was no movement in the house yet. It was still dark.

She made her way back up the latticework to the roof and into her room and latched the window. She put more coals on the fire then discarded all her clothes and put them to dry by the fireplace. Taking a spill from a jar on the mantel, she touched it to the fire then lit a candle and placed it next to her bed. After she put the pistol back in the case under her bed, she stood at the basin and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was bruised and swollen, the bone in her nose cracked and crooked. It was bleeding again and her breath labored. She touched her nose gently and cried out. She would have to fix it herself. She could not have anyone asking her how she had been so injured.

She brought a chair over to the basin to sit on in case she should lose consciousness. Then with two fingers on each side of her nose, she cracked the bone back into place and turned quickly to the basin as she vomited. Pain and nausea overcame her. She was shaking again, but she had no time to lose. She could hear servants about the house already.

She washed herself as best she could, and then walked unsteadily to the window and flung the dirty water out into the rainy night. Her nightdress lay where she had left it. Once dressed, she unlocked the door, pulled closed the curtains around her bed, and climbed between the covers. Moments later, the door opened and Nurse arrived with her morning tea.

"Miss, you have been ill," she asked, concerned about the vomit in the basin. "Why did you not call for me?"

"I am not well, Nurse. Best leave me to rest today."

"I shall bring the physician."

"No, it is not necessary; it is only a bad headache which afflicts me."

Nurse walked toward the curtains at the windows, meaning to open them. "I only require darkness, and to be left alone," Georgiana said quickly. Nurse stopped and turned toward the bed.

Through the white curtains around her bed, Georgiana could barely make out her movements. "Please, Nurse," she said. "I must rest."

"As you wish. I shall have a maid come up to clean and bring your breakfast."

"Thank you."

"The key, miss?"

She took the key from around her neck and handed it to Nurse through the curtains. They would no longer need to lock the door to the girls' room. They were safe now.

"And, Nurse, please make sure that I am not disturbed."

Georgiana sighed with relief when the nurse had gone, and sank under her covers. If she had returned home even a minute later, she would have been discovered.

She was tired and every bone in her body ached, but she could not sleep. She lay awake, replaying the night's events, trying to still her panic. The relief was wearing off, replaced by fear. She had killed a man. No matter how many times she told herself she had no choice, or that he deserved it, the fact remained. She had killed someone. Not just someone, but her own father.

Her sin would follow her for the rest of her days. She had broken the first commandment. While a part of her still believed in hell, she had given up on God after her prayers went unanswered. She would not be faithful to a God who had allowed a man like her father to exist and go unpunished.

God wasn't real, but made up by the church to keep people under control. If he was real, he wasn't the kind of being she would want a close association with because the cruelty he allowed in the world spoke ill of him. Still, she had killed a man. Her mind always returned to that fact. She would go to hell.

She had done what was necessary to protect Jane and Margaret. But that wasn't the only reason. True, she had killed him to save herself, but mostly she had done it because she hated him. She had wanted him dead since she was fourteen years old, and she wasn't sorry.

He had needed killing. Did thinking like that make her the monster? Had she killed one monster, only to become one herself?

She had to put it behind her, she knew, had to forget it, or he would haunt the rest of her life, too. Only some events were not meant to be forgotten, murder surely being one of them.

The watch would find the body soon, and the constable would be called. She strained to listen to the noises of the house. Doors opened and closed, and she heard Betty passing her door, humming to herself as she usually did. A horse in the stable neighed, and the bells from a passing coal wagon reached her from the street. The usual sounds filtered into the room, and soon she drifted off under the rhythm of the day, too exhausted to remain awake.

***

Georgiana opened her eyes slowly, aware that someone was crying in her room. Why would someone be crying? she wondered. Then recollection filled her, and she sat up quickly listening. "Nurse Gibson?"

"Oh, miss, I am so sorry. I meant only to make sure you were not in need of anything."

"But what is the matter?"

"Oh, tis a matter of a terrible thing for sure, but I am not to say anything as it is not my place. Your mother requested your appearance, but I informed her of your health, and she said that it could wait until you are restored. She has locked herself in her room and will not come out."

"But why?"

Nurse Gibson moved closer to the bed, intending to draw the curtains.

"No, please, Nurse, the light affects me so."

"Oh, miss, how am I to impart the gravity of the moment in these conditions?"

"You need say no more. I see from your own despair that it is most grave."

"Grave indeed, for a wretched deed has been done to your good father. The constable himself arrived just this afternoon to impart the misfortune that has befallen him."

"What has happened, Nurse Gibson?"

"Oh, miss, your father has been murdered. It is wretched beyond meaning."

"Murdered," she said. She knew what Nurse Gibson would say and still she was shocked to hear the words from her.

"You are upset. I will call the physician."

"Yes, of course I am upset, but, Nurse, there is nothing he can do for me. Please leave me now."

"Oh, the Madame will surely think me impertinent for having informed you."

"I am sorry for that but I must be alone now. Please leave."

"Oh dear," she said and started crying again.

"Out, Nurse Gibson," she said, louder this time, her voice cracking and almost hysterical herself. She heard the door open and close and her footsteps moved away.

It had begun.

The panic now was worse than before. She got out of bed and locked the door, then paced up and down her room, trying to calm herself. She passed the mirror and paused to look at herself. She was covered in blood again and the bruising left her eyes black. The swelling to her face was enormous. She would not be able to explain it.

She washed herself then found a clean nightdress and put it on. Then with a pair of scissors, she cut her old nightdress into pieces and fed it to the fire, saving some of it to use as bandages. She tied one around her neck so no more blood would turn her nightdress red. Her sheets, too, were red and she used water to clean them as best she could. Again, she threw the water out her window. Then she unlocked the door and climbed back into bed. She prayed her mother would stay in her room for a good long while.

For two days, Nurse came with her food and left again each time, crying over the tragedy that had befallen the house. Jane and Margaret begged to see her, but Georgiana refused them. Her mother stayed in her room and the constable visited again. In the interim, her brother was sent for.

Charles had been gone to sea for five years to fight the war but Napoleon was not the only reason that had kept him away all those years. There had been no kind word between her brother and father. Her father had refused his only heir's request to buy him a commission in the military. Charles had left to fight, despite his wishes.

He had joined the Royal Navy, where he couldn't buy a commission but instead had to prove himself before being promoted to an officer's rank. Profound sadness had engulfed Georgiana the night she had said goodbye to her brother. Now, finally he was to return.

In the days that followed her father's death, the house remained shut to the outside world. Ironically, mourning allowed her to recover, hidden away, sleeping in her room, catching up for all the years she had spent sleepless and afraid of her father.

***

Georgiana sat on the settee downstairs close to the fire where the footman had placed her. The drawing room was chilly and she was content to sit there, her eyes on the flames. It had been a fortnight since her father's death and she was dressed in mourning. The black Parramatta bodice was covered in crepe and she had insisted on wearing a black veil over her face. The mirrors in the house were covered by crepe as well. Even the servants' uniforms had been altered with the fabric. What a fortune was to be made in selling crepe, she thought.

The door opened and she stiffened as her mother entered the room. She glided across the room like a ghost in black and stopped in front of her.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"What, Mother?"

"The veil. You are not required to wear one."

"No, but I wish it."

She had not gone to her father's funeral, and her mother had not requested that she be present. Her bruises had faded to shadows, but were still far too visible.

"You play the part well, daughter, but I am not fooled by this show of the dramatic. You hated your father and I cannot see that his death should affect you so."

"Perhaps I mourn so as to meet your constant need of propriety."

"I fail to see that my wishes would suddenly concern you when you have had a complete disregard for them your entire life."

Georgiana shrugged, having no energy to aggravate her mother further, and asked, "Why was I called downstairs?"

"I have received word that Charles has arrived in London. I expect him any moment." She was flushed, her cheeks red in anticipation.

Georgina watched her mother pace the room, trying to find a sign of grief for her recently murdered husband. She seemed more excited at the prospect of seeing her son than saddened at being so newly a widow. Maybe she wasn't the only one who had wanted the bastard dead.

A carriage drew up outside and she heard the great front door open and close again. The butler announced, "Lord Charles, my lady, and Captain Nicholas Markham."

Two young men entered and bowed. They were dressed in dark blue coat uniforms with white blouse, white breeches, white stockings and buckled shoes. Georgiana hardly recognized either of them. Had it been that long?

As they rose, the darker one stepped forward and took her mother's outstretched hands. The Charles she remembered had changed remarkably, but then he had been but a boy when he left. Before them now stood a man with the bearing of one who had seen and accomplished much.

"Mama, I came as soon as I heard. I am so distressed that I was not here to do my duty at your side for I hear he has already been laid to rest."

"Yes, it is not to be helped. You are here now, and that is all the consolation I need."

Behind her brother, Georgiana watched Nicholas. He stood tall and proud, his light hair cut close but still managing to curl in places. His expression gave nothing away as to a changed character, and his eyes remained on Lady Wyndham as he waited. His uniform fit him well, Georgiana thought, and noticed the gold epaulette on his shoulder, denoting the rank of captain. Her brother stood aside and introduced Nicholas who bowed to her mother.

"My condolences on your terrible loss, Lady Wyndham," he said and Georgiana thought his voice much changed. It was no longer the voice of the boy she remembered but the deep tone of a man with a certain confidence.

"Thank you, Captain Markham. I am quite distraught, I assure you, at the circumstances I find myself in."

To prove it, she fainted, but was immediately caught in strong arms that carried her to the settee across from where Georgiana sat so perfectly still. As the good Captain and her brother attempted to revive her mother, Georgiana tried not to laugh but a small sound escaped her. Their attention was suddenly focused on her.

"Dear God, Georgiana? Is that you?"

"Hello, brother, forgive my rudeness, but I fear a curtsy is beyond my talents now."

He came forward, took her hand, and knelt in front of her, leaving Nicholas to care for her mother who suddenly revived as her son's attention shifted.

Charles reached to remove the veil from her face, but she took his hand instead. With both his hands trapped in hers, she felt safer. He frowned at her, trying to pierce the darkness around her face.

"Georgiana, what is this?" he asked, confused. "Why must you hide yourself like this? I wish to see your face. It has been too long that we have been parted, and I must reconcile my memories of you with your own kind face."

"I fear Georgiana has cultivated a flair for the dramatic. She has not been quite herself since the accident."

"What accident?" he asked, turning to his mother.

"It was merely a riding accident, nothing to concern yourself with. She is in good health, although she has lost the use of her legs."

His alarm turned to an expression of pain and he returned his attention to Georgiana.

"I am so sorry to hear of this misfortune and am made even more so because I had not been sent word that you needed me."

Georgiana was suddenly thankful of the veil as she felt tears well up at his words. All this time she had believed her brother uncaring. Her mother had assured her that he had been informed but was too busy fighting a war to even write.

"Your father and I discussed the matter but felt that there was no danger to her life and that we need not concern you with the matter."

"Not concern me?" he said his voice angry. "Of course, it concerns me."

His anger made her mother flinch, and she glared at Georgiana. One did not argue in front of guests. It was the height of rudeness, and her mother held good manners above all else. She composed herself quickly, and smiled at Charles and Captain Markham.

"You must both be weary from your long travels, I am sure. I have had rooms made up for you both."

A look passed between her brother and Nicholas, and the silent communication spoke of their years together. She envied them their easy confidence with each other. Charles was more Nicholas's brother than he would ever be hers.

"That is kind of you, Lady Wyndham, but I fear I must decline," Nicholas said. "Having just arrived in London after an extended absence, I have many affairs to put right. I have arranged to stay at my club."

It was a lie, Georgiana knew. Her brother had asked him to leave, to give the family this moment. Her mother objected, as was polite, and received his promise that he would visit.

Nicholas looked uncomfortable on the small settee, and the settee seemed even smaller with him sitting on it. He seemed relieved to finally be able to leave. He walked over to Georgiana and taking her free hand, for her brother still held the other, he bowed.

"I must offer my most sincere condolences on your loss," he said. Then, bowing to her mother, he retired from the room. The minute the door closed, her brother lifted the veil from her face, taking her by surprise. She looked away from him, but not before he had seen the damage.

"Dear God, Georgiana, who has done this to you? You must tell me at once."

She kept silent, stunned by how quickly he had moved. He put a light hand under her chin and turned her face to him.

"Georgiana?"

She glanced at her mother, knowing the expression she would see there, her lips a thin line of disapproval. "You have cut your hair. That is most unseemly, Georgiana. Why would you do such a foolish thing?"

"In solidarity for the plight of the poor," she said lightly.

"Why do you babble about the hair," her brother roared, losing his temper and standing up. He towered over his mother. "Look at her face! She has been treated badly and you quibble over her hair?"

Her mother blinked and Georgiana knew she was contemplating another fainting spell.

"She has often in the past hurt herself so as to provoke attention. With her father dead, she is desperate to have others pity her. It has long been a dilemma for both me and your poor departed father. She has only herself to blame for if she would not throw herself into such mad passions, she might come to live the proper life of a young lady of fine comportment."

"Good heavens, madam, do you really mean to tell me she has done this to herself?"

"I tell you as it is. We have long suffered under her misguided actions, her lies and deceit intended to bring shame to this family."

"What deceit?"

"Oh, I cannot say," she sobbed, and seeing she was finding no sympathy in her son, she once again swooned onto the settee.

"Pray spare us these hysterics," he said, but she refused to revive herself and so he turned his attention to Georgiana.

"Why do you say so little in your own defense? Am I made to understand from this that it is indeed as she has said?"

Georgiana looked down at her hands in her lap and nodded for she had no choice.

"So it is true," he said. "You did this?"

He gently touched the bruise on her cheek.

"I fell from my bed and hit my head on the side table," she said, hating the lie.

"You see," her mother said, suddenly revived. "I despair, Georgiana, that in my grief at the loss of my good husband and the joy of my son so recently returned, you must again throw yourself about to attract all eyes to you."

"I beg your forgiveness, dear Mother. I shall take more care with my person in the future."

"I should think so. And now it is time you retired," she said and rang the bell on the side table.

She turned to look at her brother who still watched her with a frown on his face. "Don't worry, Charles, I am quite in good health."

"Are you?" he asked, squeezing her hand.

She smiled and the footman arrived to carry her back upstairs.

She kissed her brother on the cheek. "I am glad you have come home. I missed you."

Then the footman picked her up and carried her out the room.

***

Charles looked up from the newspaper he was reading when the butler entered the breakfast room to announce a visitor. "Constable Marsh?" he said, frowning.

"Yes, sir."

"Could you ask him to come back another day? Tell him I am only just returned to London yesterday."

"I believe it is his third visit, sir, and he has informed me that he refuses to leave until he has spoken directly to you."

"What a nuisance. Very well," he sighed. "Show him into the drawing room."

Charles looked at the closed door for a moment and folded the paper. Taking one more sip of his tea, he stood and made his way to the drawing room.

Constable Marsh was a thin man dressed in black as if he mourned for each of his victims. He was closely studying a portrait on the wall of one of the long dead ancestors on the Wyndham side.

"Constable, I understand I am obliged to speak to you," Charles said as he entered the drawing room.

The man did not immediately turn in his direction as he had expected but took a moment more to finish his close study of the portrait before turning slowly toward him.

"Ah yes, Lord Wyndham," he said as if Charles were the visitor and he the man of the house.

Charles frowned. "What is this about?"

"It is about your father's death."

"Yes, I already understood that," he said, annoyed. "But what is it that needs to interrupt my breakfast?"

"I have some questions."

Charles had expected an apology. He was of higher standing in society than the man before him and it was for the Constable to wait upon his convenience. Yet the man before him did not seem to extend the respect due Charles and it angered him.

"What questions?" he asked.

"They are questions for your sister actually."

"My sister?"

"Yes, Georgiana."

"I know what my sister's name is, Constable. What I don't know is what you could possibly want to ask her."

"She was one of the last people to speak to your father on the night of his murder."

Charles contemplated having the man removed from the house but he was also curious as to the man's purpose.

"I still don't understand," he said. "What has my sister to do with my father's death?"

"That is what I want to discover," he said and smiled as if Charles had arrived at the answer to a complicated question.

"I have no idea what you're on about."

"She was the last person to speak to your father," the Constable repeated slowly.

Charles stared. "You surely are not suggesting my sister was somehow involved?"

"No," he said lightly. "Are you?"

Charles inhaled slowly to get his anger under control. He realized the man before him was not only clever but dangerous, and not someone who would be easily put off.

"You do realize my sister is paralyzed."

"Oh, yes, I have been told."

"And I was told my father was stabbed in some flash house on the other side of London."

"That is correct."

"So let me see if I am to understand you correctly. You believe my weak and paralyzed sister was somehow able to stab my father in the chest in this flash house far away from here?"

"No. Why? Do you believe she did?"

"Most certainly not," Charles roared, his anger getting the better of him. "How dare you come here with these accusations! I will have you removed from your station and you shall never work again for you are clearly the worst constable to go by the name."

"No need for all that," Constable Marsh smiled. "Since the idea is so farfetched, there can be no harm in my asking her some questions, can there? Then I can be on my way and report my duty done in having explored every clue I have found."

"What blasted clue?" he demanded.

"It seems the only witness I have is a man by the name of Thomas. He worked for a rather unsavory establishment by the name of Madame Annette's, which your father liked to frequent. This particular establishment catered to a rather unseemly appetite that some gentlemen cultivate, namely young girls."

"How dare you," Charles said his face growing red with anger. His words however seemed to have no affect on the Constable as he continued as if uninterrupted.

"This Thomas informed me that on the night in question he helped your father catch a young boy whom they then transported to this flash house where your father was killed. It is this young boy I believe who killed your father."

"Again, what has this to do with my sister?"

"Thomas heard your father call the boy Georgiana."

Charles stared at Constable Marsh a moment, and then laughed.

"Yes, it is rather unbelievable, is it not?" Constable Marsh said. "Still, I am required to question your sister."

"And you believe the word of this man who is probably a criminal himself?"

"Of course not. But this man produced a name. Your sister's name no less. "

"And you have a motive, I suppose?"

"Ah yes, you see that is where my questions come in. But if your sister is, as you say, paralyzed, what can a few questions do but clear up the matter entirely?"

"Indeed," Charles said. "You do realize the sheer madness of your accusation, don't you? Apart from the fact that my sister is paralyzed, how would she find her way to Madame Annette's? Then there is the fact that my father was a man in perfect health. I do not believe a mere girl could easily overpower him."

"All good questions," Constable Marsh said nodding. "But still I fear my curiosity will not allow me to rest until I have settled the matter."

"If you persist," Charles said. "I shall see that she is brought down."

Constable Marsh nodded and returned to studying the portrait again. Charles left the drawing and closed the door behind him. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the banister and looked up, wondering if he was doing the right thing. The minute the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it again. The Constable's accusations were completely preposterous. Yet Georgiana's face was covered in bruises and her explanation for them made little sense. What would the Constable make of the bruises?

***

He took the stairs two at a time, and knocked on her door, waiting for a reply. Then he entered to find her sitting before her looking glass as her maid brushed her hair.

"Charles," she smiled. "You are real. I had wondered if I dreamt it." He moved forward and took the hand she held out to him. He smiled but it was a strained smile and she noticed it immediately. "What's the matter?"

He looked at the maid and she gave a quick curtsy, and then left, closing the door.

"Constable Marsh is downstairs and he insists on asking you questions," he said and watched her reaction carefully, but she only smiled at him.

"Is that all," she said. "By the look of you, I thought it must have been dire. Please, go downstairs and tell him I will appear as soon as I am ready."

He hesitated, his eyes on the yellowing bruises.

"Don't worry, Charles," she smiled. "I will take care of it."

He left but the feeling of unease remained. Charles waited in the drawing room for her with Constable Marsh, the two men doing their best to ignore one another. Finally, the door opened and a footman carried his sister into the room while another brought her wheelchair. She was carefully placed in it, and Charles studied her, realizing suddenly why it had taken so long for her to come downstairs.

The bruises that had covered her face only an hour ago were gone. Her hair was once again long, as her maid had fixed hairpieces to it, and the long chestnut strands were beautifully arranged around her face. She wore some make-up around her eyes to emphasize their shape and her lips were slightly rouged. The effect was a soft feminine picture of beauty and innocence.

"Constable Marsh," she said, her voice soft and sweet. "I understand you have some questions for me."

Charles turned to the Constable to see him study his sister closely. He approached and came to stand directly in front of her.

"I understand from the servants that the night of your father's death you quarreled with him?" he asked. "What was it about?"

"I believe, Constable, that if you had been able to discover a quarrel existed then you would know what it was about as well."

The Constable smiled. "You were not pleased with the match your father made for you."

"No, I was not."

"It was, in fact, not the first time you quarreled with him."

"No," she said. "It is no secret that my father and I did not understand each other well."

"In fact you had tried on two occasions to run away."

Charles turned to look at his sister surprised by this statement.

"Yes," she said.

"Why?" Constable Marsh asked.

"Because she is willful, and means to send me to an early grave," her mother said as she entered the drawing room, her face thunderous. "What, may I ask, is the meaning of this?"

"Ah, Lady Wyndham," Constable Marsh said. "Do join us."

"Do not dare to presume so upon my good nature or I will have you removed immediately," she said, her voice icy. "This is my house, and as such, you are here on my authority. Now, for what purpose do you attend us?"

Constable Marsh seemed suddenly less sure of himself, and Charles smiled to see him even slightly uncomfortable under his mother's frigid stare.

"I wish to know the reason of Miss Wyndham's unhappiness."

"She is unhappy because she is female, and as such forced to conform to propriety and etiquette against which she is in constant opposition. It has long been a struggle for Georgiana to act appropriately and her rebellion has caused much strife in this family. She is willful and spoilt and given to the overly dramatic. Her need for constant attention has caused her to be careless with her own person and she is, therefore, as you see, paralyzed for her own wickedness. And all this, Constable Marsh, is absolutely none of your business."

"I beg your pardon, Lady Wyndham, but it is my duty to ascertain certain facts in my line of work."

"Your line of work is to find criminals, Constable Marsh, and not to harangue the good people of the upper classes. I will remind you not to forget your station."

"I beg your pardon, m'lady," he said slowly, his face turning a shade of red. "I trust you were home the night your husband was killed and can verify your daughter's presence here?"

Charles had never seen his mother turn that particular shade of purple before. He glanced at his sister to see her equally fascinated by the performance being played out before them.

"Constable Marsh," she said, her voice cold enough to freeze hell itself. "I trust you have not taken complete leave of your senses, and have some self-preservation left. I will ignore the implication if you leave this house immediately and never return."

His confidence clearly shaken, still he insisted. "You were home that night and can verify her presence?"

"Yes," Lady Wyndham said evenly. "My daughter was home and I sat next to her bed, nursing her, as she was ill that night. Now get out."

Constable Marsh turned to Georgiana and she smiled at him sweetly. Then he gave a small nod and left the drawing room, closing the door quietly behind him.

His mother turned to Georgiana and gave her such an open look of hatred that Charles himself recoiled from it. His sister, however, seemed not affected by it at all and only smiled at her mother. Then Lady Wyndham left the drawing room, and Charles found himself alone with his sister.

"Georgy," he said softly using his childhood name for her. "He is for bedlam, right??"

"Completely," she said smiling. "I would never have stood that close to Mother when she is that cross."

"You know what I mean," he said, but she remained silent, only raising an eyebrow at him. "Of course, what an idiot of a man to even suspect you. You are paralyzed."

"And a girl," she said. "Which is worse than being paralyzed and far more hopeless for what can I do after all? Still, I suppose I am flattered."

"Flattered?"

"Oh yes," she said. "For him to think I am that strong and capable. No one has thought that of me in a long time."

Charles smiled and felt his relief return. How could he ever have suspected her even slightly? She was right. The whole idea was beyond mad and Constable Marsh was a raving lunatic. He rose from his place on the settee and kneeling down in front of her he took her hand and held it in his.

"I'm sorry, Georgiana," he said.

"What do you have to be sorry for?" she asked.

"You were so unhappy here."

She shrugged. "That wasn't your fault."

"But I didn't help you either, did I?"

"You are here now," she said smiling. "And you can help me back upstairs. I fear the morning has quite tired me out. I just don't have the same strength I used to."

He carried her upstairs, feeling her weight in his arms, and thought that a small slip of a girl like her could never have killed anyone.

# 4

The blow came from his left. Nicholas never saw it coming. It slammed into his jaw, the uppercut knocking him off balance for a second, but instinctively he leaned right to avoid the follow up punch he knew would come. He had underestimated his opponent. Suddenly a street fight in an abandoned factory in Covent Gardens wasn't as good an idea as he had thought.

Nicholas smiled and shook his head to clear his vision and stop the ringing in his ears. Recalculating his strategy, he made sure to stay well out of reach of his opponent. They circled each other, looking for a weakness. The crowd surrounding them called for blood. He leaned forward, his elbows in and his right hand a little higher than his left, ready to block another blow.

He jabbed, and then followed several more punches, trying to tire out his opponent enough so he could land a knockout punch. But he was well matched. The Irishman was far more hardened, and had probably learned to fight in the streets. His body and instincts were well suited for the game, and Nicholas could only hope the man would make a careless mistake before fatigue took its toll.

He kept his hands well in front of his face, trying to make sure the blows did little damage, but still they found their mark. Soon he knew the match was lost, for he was too tired to block the final blow that sent him crashing to the ground. He lay exhausted, staring up at the faces that encircled him, waiting for the world to stop spinning before a hand pulled him to his feet.

"Well fought," he said shaking his opponent's hand.

"I'm thinkin' you should return next week," the Irishman said, smiling, his teeth stained red with his own blood.

"It may take me longer to recover," he smiled. "But soon," he promised.

They parted as spectators exchanged winnings and the losers were left disgruntled to find solace in drink, especially welcome on such a cold night.

"You should have told me you intended to lose, old boy, for now I have not a farthing more to buy you a drink with."

Nicholas turned to see Charles leaning against the wall. He barely recognized his friend without his uniform. He now wore fine tan pantaloons tucked into tall boots; a silk waistcoat; a long, elegant black coat; and a perfectly tied cravat at his neck. He was a gentleman now, no longer a soldier.

"You should know better than to gamble away your new fortune, Charles," he said. "Come, I will change and then I shall buy you that drink."

"I say, Nicholas, why do you prefer these street fights to a more relaxed bout at Gentleman Jacks?"

"There is more sport in a street fight," he said. "Besides I require the hardness of the ground to remind me I'm still alive when my face hits it."

"And none of your circle of friends sees you humiliated when you lose," Charles said.

Nicholas laughed. "And that, yes."

They left the old factory, neither one paying any attention to the boy in the shadows who watched them.

Georgiana had followed her brother just as she had followed her father. The effort had been easier because her brother was honorable, so felt less inclined to make sure he wasn't followed. He had led her to an old building in Covent Garden used for bare-knuckle boxing matches. At first, she had stood in the back of the crowd that circled the fighters, her eyes on her brother as he watched the opponents beat each other up. It wasn't until she noticed that one of the fighters was Nicholas that she had moved in closer to watch the fight.

Both fighters wore only breeches, no shirts, and no gloves. The match lasted only minutes but both fighters were exhausted and covered in sweat. Georgiana watched, astounded as Markham took a pounding from his opponent, but refused to give up. His eyebrow was cut and blood ran down his face. A jab to the right side of his face split the skin on his cheekbone. His eye swelled up and he spat blood. A few punches to his ribs had her convinced he must be in great pain but he smiled at his opponent after every crushing blow and kept at him. The final blow landed him on the floor where he stayed.

She watched them now, making sure to stay in the comfort of the shadows. Her brother and Nicholas spoke while his valet cleaned his cuts, and sewed them up with a needle. Blood ran down Nicholas's face and she saw him flinch only once as his valet stitched him up. Otherwise, he sat on an old crate, patiently waiting. Her brother shared a word, and Nicholas laughed. His bare chest was covered in sweat and blood, the muscles hard under his skin. When his valet stepped away, his surgery completed, Nicholas dipped his head in a bucket of cold water and began drying himself. She watched as he took off his stained clothes.

He stood naked as the day he was born. She could feel her skin flush, but did not turn away. He had a beautiful, sculpted body, but it was the way he carried himself that fascinated her most. Even completely naked, he still showed a confidence and a lack of inhibition that drew her.

His valet helped him into his clothes and then handed him a comb. Soon Nicholas looked ready for a gentleman's night out despite his swelling face.

Envy ran through her at the ability of men to have such freedom of person and such confidence while the women of their class were forced to endure the tyrannies of gentility and modesty. She watched them leave, waiting a minute more before following them.

They walked to their club where she knew she would never be admitted. She contemplated waiting for them, but they could be there all night. She leaned against a lamppost, her hands in her pockets and pulled her cap lower. It was the first night she had allowed herself to leave the house since the night she had killed her father. She was strangely calm now, euphoric even.

Constable Marsh had been so close to sending her to the gallows, but he had made one big mistake. He had tried to reveal the truth.

Truth in her society was hardly ever allowed to see the light of day. It was far too threatening to the established order of their lives, so any hint of it was crushed as quickly as poor Constable Marsh had been. He had lost his position as a result of his questions. Her mother had made sure of that.

He came too close to the truth and was called a lunatic. She felt sorry for him, for she had experience with trying to reveal the truth. Her mother had great experience in making sure the facts never became known. She had never thought that her mother's ferocious need to keep her good name would one day come to her rescue. She wondered if her mother believed any of what Constable Marsh had implied.

She felt sure Charles did not. She had watched him closely after the questioning and he had believed the part she played: a weak and helpless female. He wanted to protect her because he felt guilty, guilty for having abandoned her to their father. He wanted to believe she was the innocent and fragile being she was supposed to be. It helped that society had taught him that was what women were.

But her mother had experience with her daughter's more determined nature, and might suspect that Constable Marsh had been on the right track. But even if her mother did suspect, she would never allow her suspicions to be revealed. Her good name would be lost forever. It was ironic that those qualities she so despised in her mother and brother were those that worked to her advantage now.

She watched a couple walking slowly past, the man's attention on his companion. She was pretty, and dressed well, but the hour proclaimed her a kept woman, for no fine lady would be about this time of night. She laughed at a comment her companion made, and soon they were gone.

Across the street, a grubber worked his piece of iron between the stones of the road, looking for horseshoe nails or anything else he could find to sell. He dug at the dirt and filth between the stones, paying no attention to the carriages around him. It was late for him to still be about. A young girl with a baby in her arms approached, showing the twisted limb of the sleeping infant. Georgiana dug a coin from her pocket and gave it to her. The girl curtsied and moved on.

Georgiana looked up at the tall windows of the club, watching the fashionable and privileged enjoying a night's entertainment. They would play cards and many a young man would lose a small fortune this night. The same fortune could keep the young girl and baby, and dozens like them, fed for years.

Angered by the thought, she walked down the street amongst the women who advertised their wares by lifting the hem of their skirts. A watchman rounded the corner in the road and the women melted into the shadows as he passed. He called out the time, as watchmen were wont to do every half hour, and then moved on, whistling under his breath. He had barely closed the door on his wooden kiosk, when a group of young men picked it up and turned it over. Laughing, they disappeared into the night as he yelled all manner of bad words at them. It was a common sport among the young, well-off men to tip a Charley.

She laughed as the fat watchman emerged from the kiosk with his bum in the air. Straightening himself, he glared around to find the culprits. Catching her glance, he shouted at her, "You there, young scoundrel, come 'ere at once."

Georgiana looked behind her to see to whom he was speaking, then realized he meant her. Frightened, she ran and he blew his whistle as he pursued her. She ducked down an alley, finding her way to its end, and walked quickly down Fleet Street toward St. Giles. She glanced back to see if she had lost him in the alley, and saw him emerge from it and turn in her direction. He blew his whistle again and this time it was answered by another. She started running in earnest.

***

White was crowded, and after leaving their coats in the vestibule, Charles and Nicholas crossed the hall and ascended the broad marble staircase to the upper rooms. They bypassed the gaming rooms and brightly lit salon where most others had gathered, and chose instead the library with its quieter environment. Seating themselves near the fire, they ordered a drink.

"I must thank you, Nick, for your timely retreat from our house the other night, and also apologize that it was necessary."

"Think nothing of it."

"I take it you found accommodation then?'

"Oh, yes. I have taken rooms at the club."

"It is a pity your family was forced to sell the town house."

"Debts must be settled."

"Such a misfortune."

"I was myself fortunate in another's misfortune. Lord Arbury was called home to his estates in Shropshire after his wife's death in childbirth. I have taken his vacated rooms."

"Good God, why was he in London to begin with? One would think with a wife about to give birth he would have remained close."

"He is not overly fond of her, I was told."

"Still, there is duty to consider."

"Perhaps he isn't overly fond of duty either."

Their brandy arrived on a silver tray and, after a short toast to the King, they sat in silence for a while. A gentleman entered the library but seeing it occupied was about to leave again, but changed his mind. "I say, Wyndham, is that you?"

Charles stood and bowed. "The very same. How are you, Lord Davenport?"

A cousin of the King, he was also a long-time friend of Charles's father. "My condolences on your loss, Charles. I was a great admirer of your father and feel his death greatly."

"Thank you," Charles said, and turned to Nicholas. "May I introduce my good friend Captain Markham."

Nicholas bowed.

"Is it Captain Nicholas Markham?"

"Then you have heard of him?" Charles said, pleased.

"Who has not? Your exploits on the sea are legendary, Captain, and have reached even the Court. You captured, I believe, not one but two French ships in the Mediterranean—on the same day. It was said that England is in need of more Navy men like you, so this war can finally be won."

"We are not far from it, Lord Davenport."

"No, indeed. Now, if we can win the war at home, England may finally know some peace."

"War at home?" Charles asked.

"The war on crime," Lord Davenport answered. "London has long been the home of thieves, swindlers, pickpockets, prostitutes and murderers. The prisons are overflowing, and with the war we have not been able to transport as many as deserve it. With your father's recent murder, I understand the subject has been greatly debated in the House of Commons. It has come to the point that a noble and decent man is murdered in this city. Something must be done. The murderer must be brought up on charges and hung. We must make an example of this man. If we do not, we may all soon live in fear of our lives."

"What is proposed?" Charles asked.

"I had hired a former Bow Street Runner, a man by the name of Constable Marsh, who is well known to run down just such characters. However, Lady Wyndham paid me a call and informed me of the man's impertinence upon his visit to your house and I was forced to remove him from his position. I must apologize sincerely. I had no idea the man was given to such fanciful imagination."

"No, indeed," Charles smiled. "The man was quite raving."

"Yes," Lord Davenport said slowly. "Still, the problem of crime in the city goes far beyond your father's murder to the general state of policing in this city, or rather the lack of it. A minority of us in the House of Lords is trying to pass a bill to establish a central police office. The watchmen of this city are ineffective and corrupt. Change is necessary but we are unfortunately too few in number to make much progress."

"It sounds a worthy fight," Charles said.

"Worthy indeed and it could use good men like yourself and your friend here. Tell me, Captain, have you recently been the victim of a crime yourself?" he asked, looking over Nicholas's bruised and battered face.

Nicholas smiled and shook his head. "The only injustice committed upon me, I am afraid, is that I was the loser in a boxing match."

"Ah, yes, of course. Are you missing the battlefield already that you resort to such extreme sporting pleasures?"

"It is good to keep one's hand in."

"Yes, indeed. Well, I shall leave you gentlemen to it then. Perhaps a hand of faro later, Wyndham?"

"By all means."

"Good. And Charles, please think on my suggestion of joining the fight to stop crime in this city. You would make an excellent MP and you owe it, perhaps, in memory of your father."

"I will indeed think on it, Lord Davenport."

They watched him as he left the library, and then sat down again.

"In memory of your father," Nicholas said and raised an eyebrow.

"He didn't know the bastard as well as I did," Charles said, frowning. "If it wasn't for Georgiana and yourself, Nick, I'm not sure I would have survived childhood."

"What do you think your father was doing at a flash house?"

"One well known for its reputation of harboring the worst criminal element, no less. But blasted if I am not bound by duty and honor to bring my father's killer to justice."

"It has long been your downfall, Charles."

"Honor is a virtue. How can it be my downfall? And you, Nick, are the most honorable person I know."

"I speak of duty. Duty shall be your downfall and honor mine."

"Let's drink to that, to duty and honor."

They emptied their glasses.

"Speaking of duty, I fear I have neglected mine for far too long."

Nicholas smiled, which was getting harder to do as his lip swelled. "I gather we are not talking of your father now?"

"No, I speak of Georgiana."

"Ah, yes, the sweet Georgiana."

"She has grown into quite a beauty."

"She was always beautiful, Charles."

"I suppose so, but did you ever think of her as willful?"

"No, never. She was always headstrong but not at another's expense. My recollection of her was a wild girl riding over the countryside with greater confidence than I ever had."

"Then is it not strange that she should fall from a horse and never walk again?"

"It is unfortunate but not unlikely. She did spend a good deal of time riding and she always wanted the most spirited horse to ride."

Charles was silent, his eyes on the fire, thinking about something Nicholas could not know. He looked concerned but Nicholas knew not to push for details. Charles would speak of when he had come to a conclusion.

"It concerns me that I have neglected my sister's welfare for my own freedom. Having left to fight the war, I escaped my father's harshness. I knew he was a cruel man, having experienced his wrath firsthand, but I was fortunate in that I could leave his house and make my own way in the world, thanks to you and your kind family. In my desperation to escape, it never occurred to me that Georgiana would be left to withstand the worst of his angry tirades. I thought his evil confined to me and that he would not harm such an innocent. But she is so changed, Nick, I hardly recognize her. She is a stranger to me, but above all she does not trust me."

"What has brought this on?"

Charles sighed. "After you left that day, I removed that ridiculous veil she wore and was horrified to discover bruises on her face that yours will soon resemble. She looked like she had been in a match herself. They were old bruises, Nick, and what I witnessed was the end stage. I do not even wish to contemplate what she looked like the day she received them."

The words angered Nicholas and he stood and moved toward the fireplace, trying to keep his emotions under control.

"Did she say who had done this to her?"

"That was the worst part of it. My mother accused her of inflicting them herself, called her a willful girl in need of attention."

"Did she dispute these allegations?"

Charles shook his head sadly.

"Then it is clear. Had she been willful, she would have denied it," Nicholas said. He picked up the poker and moved a log into better position, and then leaned against the mantle, thinking.

"You are considering that it was your father?" he asked Charles.

"What else am I left to think? His punishments were cruel when we were children but I had hoped that he would not treat her so as she grew older. I tried to question Nurse the following morning, but could not locate her. Apparently my mother had her dismissed."

"So your mother knows something."

"Precisely. I had the misfortune to be the son of a cruel man and a weak mother. I tried to speak to Georgiana alone but she insisted it was all her own fault. She will not talk to me. Do you know she tried to run away not once, but twice, Nick. It was the second time that she fell from her horse and was paralyzed."

Nicholas paced in front of the fire, the poker still in his hand. He only wished he could have gone after Lord Wyndham with it.

"At least there is consolation knowing that if your father were the culprit, his evil is ended."

"True enough, but think on the years I have been gone."

Nicholas had been thinking about it. He stopped pacing and faced Charles. His friend looked tortured with guilt.

"Do you remember Georgiana when she was little?" Nicholas asked.

Charles nodded slowly.

"Then you must remember that she had more spirit and fight in her than the two of us could ever wish for. Whatever it was your father may have done in your absence, he was not likely to have crushed her spirit."

"Do you think so?" Charles asked, uncertain.

"I'm sure of it. She may just need some time to feel she can be herself again. Come let us leave," he said, putting the poker back. "Nothing will be accomplished by this endless speculation."

They retrieved their coats and walked out into the night as a young boy ran by, pursued by two watchmen. They watched the chase with amusement for a minute, and then walked on down the road.

"Do you know," Charles said, "a constable came by the house to question Georgiana."

"The man Lord Davenport mentioned?"

"Yes," Charles said. "He had the most outlandish notion that Georgiana may have been involved in my father's death."

Nicholas frowned. "But that's preposterous."

Charles laughed as if relieved and Nicholas wondered why his friend had even for a moment considered the idea.

"Those were my thoughts exactly," Charles said lifting his walking stick and piercing the dark with it to emphasize his strong feelings.

They walked on, both lost in their own thoughts. Nicholas looked down the road, but the boy and the pursuing watchmen were long gone.

***

Georgiana bolted down Fleet Street pursued by two men now. The second was younger and faster, so she concentrated on clearing all the hurdles in her way. The sides of the street were crowded with people, who slowed her down, and the road was filled with coaches traveling quickly through one of the worst parts of town. She darted into the road in front of a hackney, causing the horse to startle. She ignored the animal and the driver who cursed her.

She ran down the middle of the road and slipped in the dirt and muck, finding herself nearly trampled to death under the hooves of horses as they pulled their loads. She jumped between two coaches and into another alley, crying out in pain as her leg hit something hard in the darkness. The smell in the alley was terrible, the stink of human waste making her gag. She could hear the second watchmen behind her, ordering her to stop, so she kept running deeper into its darkness. The buildings crowded close and someone opened a window above and emptied the contents of a chamber pot behind her. She heard the watchman curse.

She hid among the piles of garbage and old crates, watching the light from the watchman's lantern retreat. At the entrance to the alley, he conferred with the first watchman, who had caught up. They argued for a minute, and then both left and she sighed in relief.

Her legs were shaking as she stood up again and looked down the alley behind her to measure the distance to the next road. She put her arm over her nose and walked carefully on, not wanting to take the chance that they were waiting for her to come out. The alley led onto another, the stink worsening. The houses narrowed, rising above the mud and sewage and threatening to fall around her in decay. Broken windows were patched with rags and the walls were crumbling back to dirt. A young girl eyed her with suspicion from where she sat on the back step of a house. Her hair was dirty and matted, her dress filthy, and she wore no shoes. As Georgiana passed her, she bared her black teeth and hissed like a cat.

The alley was filled with people, she soon realized, people with no place to go. They rooted through the garbage looking for scraps to eat. Most of them were half-naked, barefoot children with huge haunted eyes. They followed her, begging for money. She took some coins from her pockets and pitched them in the air, then walked on, leaving them behind to fight over the spoils, the bigger ones winning.

A woman slept under a wooden crate, curled around her baby, a bottle of gin empty beside her. Both mother and child wore filthy rags and had nothing to cover themselves. She noticed the baby was awake, watching her as she paused, its face brown with dirt. There were two clean lines down its face from tears cried earlier. The toddler was still now, its eyes moving past her to stare at the sky again. She could leave a coin, knowing the woman would likely use it to buy more gin, but what other comfort did she really have? Didn't everybody need comfort? Wasn't it a vital need just as important as food?

She took the coin from the inside pocket of her jacket and moved forward to place it inside the baby's blanket. The woman's eyes opened suddenly and she jumped to her feet, holding a knife to Georgiana's throat.

"It's alright. I mean no harm," she said, holding up the coin.

The woman snatched it from her fingers but did not remove the knife.

"More," she breathed, her breath putrid and her teeth black.

Georgiana sighed, defeated by her naiveté, and reached slowly into the front jacket pocket. She took out another coin and dropped it to the stones under them. The woman dove for it quickly, found it and came up with her knife ready. She stopped suddenly, her eyes on the pistol Georgiana held in her hand.

"My turn," Georgiana smiled and the woman shrank back, picking up the baby, who started to cry. She held the child in front of her as a shield to protect herself.

"Is that even your baby?" Georgiana asked angrily.

She scowled. "Course it's my baby. Bought and paid for."

"You bought it!"

"You is gentry. I can tell," she sneered.

"Why did you buy the baby?"

"Course I makes more money is why," she laughed, incredulous at Georgiana's ignorance.

Georgiana wanted to take the baby from her arms and run. "And then what?" a little voice said inside her head.

She knew poverty and suffering existed, but, growing up in a privileged household, had never known what it looked like. It was so easy to condemn this woman, but she guessed morality was not a luxury easily afforded in the poorer streets of the city. Evil was something she was better acquainted with and evil she knew had many faces.

She was staring at a form of evil but the question was, what was she going to do about it? Could she help the baby? What about the other children in the alley? There were so many poor. The woman sensed her weakening resolve and backed away slowly, holding the baby close as it cried. She soon disappeared into the darkness and Georgiana was left with the sound of the baby's crying as it faded into the night.

She placed the pistol back in her pocket, and walked slowly on, disgusted with herself. She finally emerged from the maze of darkness onto a slightly wider street and followed it down to the river, where she stood watching the ships anchored there.

There were so many, their masts reaching high into the dark sky, and she wondered about the worlds where they had docked. She longed to see the places she had only read about, the great continents that lay beyond the small world she occupied. She envied her brother his freedom as a man. He had been at sea for five years and been to the Continent and beyond it. Did he so wish it, he could buy passage on any one of those ships and sail for the new world, for Africa, or the East.

A church bell announced a death, and an old horse pulling a wagon moved slowly along a dark street. She sighed, the baby's cries still echoing in her mind, and turned onto a little crooked road parallel to the river. Rain began to fall, and the Anchor Inn glowed with warmth between two buildings that leaned inward, threatening to crush it.

She stepped inside the public house, looking around at the noisy room. There were mostly men and a few painted ladies, who turned to look at her as she stood there. She forced her way to the counter, managing to elbow her way through without offending anyone. The room smelled powerfully of unwashed bodies and tobacco. She ordered a tankard of ale, having to shout to be heard, making sure she sounded arrogant. She could feel eyes on her, but refused to be intimidated. She found a place to sit near the fire, out of the way, where she could observe people from under her cap.

The inn was filled with sailors who mixed with the local dock workers. A black man sat drinking amongst his shipmates, and she watched him, fascinated, as she drank. She had seen dark-skinned Africans before on the streets, but usually from afar and never was she able to just sit and watch one. The crowd grew thicker and she listened to the different languages around her. She listened to an Asian man as he tried to speak English with a heavy, strange accent. She marveled at the sounds that came from his mouth.

Someone addressed her in a foreign tongue and she shrugged, not understanding. Those who addressed her in English, she couldn't understand either. After a while, no one disturbed her and so she simply watched. She watched a young boy work his way to a gentleman's side and brush up against him to lift his purse. It happened so quickly and so easily that Georgiana wondered if she had seen it at all. The boy's eyes met hers and he froze, knowing she had seen him. She smiled and shrugged and he disappeared into the crowd.

A beggar removed a patch from his eye and put it in his pocket to use again the next day. He had two perfectly good eyes. Georgiana recognized a girl she had seen earlier begging. She had given her money. She sat at a table eating a hearty meal with her day's collection.

Those around her had worked hard all day and into the night and now sat down to good suppers, which they relished. They laughed and told stories, happy in the company they kept. They were beggars and thieves and hard-working men and women and she envied them despite the hardships she knew they endured. She watched as a fight broke out between two groups of sailors. Chairs and tables went flying and those around the melee stood aside with their suppers in hand waiting for the spat to be over, as it soon was. Everything settled again into conversation and laughter.

The pickpocket arrived in front of her with a platter of bread and cheese. He sat down at her table across from her. He didn't speak, only motioned to her that she should share his food. She reached for the loaf of bread, tore off a piece, and took a bite. The bread was old and stale, but she ate it, taking a piece of cheese as well while watching the boy. He kept his eyes on her, and ate quickly, jumping at every loud noise. After he finished, he nodded at her and slipped between the crowds. He left through the front door without a word spoken.

She couldn't stay all night, so reluctantly she finished her ale then made her way out. She found a hackney and stepped into its darkness, preparing to return to her own realm. Neither she nor the hackney driver noticed the pickpocket who came out of the shadows and climbed on board as they moved off down the street. He clung to the back of the carriage, a silent shadow that followed her home and watched her climb up the wall and back into her privileged world.

#

Charles woke slowly, aware that his valet stood beside his bed with glass in hand. Suddenly the need for the tonic made itself known, as the pounding in his head began again. He groaned in pain, remembering the long night of brandy and women.

"Thank you, Harris," he said and reached for the glass. "What time is it?"

"Noon, sir."

"Blast it. I told Georgiana I would breakfast with her today."

"Your bath is ready, and I have laid out the blue coat."

Charles nodded and sat up, drinking the glass of foul-smelling liquid, which the valet prepared every time his master drank too much. He had no idea what was in it, only that it worked. Grimacing at the taste, he set the cure down, and staggered next door where his bath awaited him. Harris shaved him as he sat in the hot water.

"I heard little girls giggling in my sleep."

"Indeed?"

"Are there little girls present in this house?"

"I wouldn't know, sir."

"Maybe I was dreaming."

"Quite possibly, sir."

After a quick wash, Charles donned his shirt and pantaloons, and tied his cravat. He combed his hair, letting the curls fall where they may. He looked into the mirror. Satisfied with the fashionable wildness he had created, he let Harris help him into his coat and went in search of Georgiana.

He helped himself to a quick breakfast, eating some bread as he walked, much to the servant's surprise. In the drawing room, he found only his mother, sitting alone. She seemed relieved to see him.

"Charles, I had almost despaired that I should see you at all today."

"Madam," he said, and bowed formally before sitting on the settee, eating his sandwich, opposite her. "Has Georgiana not come down yet?"

"Georgiana? Come down?" she asked puzzled. "Georgiana is indisposed, Charles. Why are you eating in the drawing room?"

"Indisposed?" he asked. "Permanently?"

She blinked at him as if trying to understand something that confused her.

"Georgiana has lost the use of her legs, madam, not her faculties," he said.

"I see," she said, as if hurt, and glared at him. "It is not proper to eat your breakfast with your hands, Charles. Have you lost all sense of good manners?"

He knew the look well, remembering it from his childhood. What was she more upset about, he wondered: his manners, or the fact that he was questioning her about Georgiana? He also knew that the next hour would be painful unless her good humor was restored by his paying attention to her every whim.

"What I mean to say, my dear mama, is that Georgiana is quite capable of joining us in the drawing room."

"Charles, you know that it is unseemly for someone so indisposed to be in society. My sole consideration is for Georgiana. Her physician has also made me to understand that she should not be overtaxed."

Any idea he had of trying to put her back in a good mood disappeared with those words. He put what was left of his sandwich on a side table and leaned toward her.

"Do you mean to tell me that since the accident, Georgiana has been shut up in her room with no visitors, no friends to keep her company and not even her dear mama?"

"She has had her nurse for company and seeks no other. I assure you she is quite content with the arrangement. I do my duty to sit with her when time permits me for you know I am kept quite busy with my engagements."

Charles stood up and strolled over to the window, trying to keep his temper in check. "How long has it been since the accident?"

"I believe it's been three years. I don't remember."

Dear God, he thought, three years of being quarantined.

"Mama, you have been remiss in your duty as a mother. Georgiana is to be brought down every day. She is not to be hidden away like a shameful secret."

"Charles, propriety must always be the first consideration and I will not have my visitors exposed to an invalid," she said, her voice rising in anger.

He turned away from the window to look at his mother. She had been a beauty in her youth and still retained a handsome appearance. She took great pains with her dress, and prided herself on her place in important society. He tried to remember what kind of a mother she had been and couldn't. He remembered nannies and governesses. The few occasions he had been in her presence, she had been a polite stranger who looked him over like a prized possession.

It was Georgiana, he remembered. She was older by two years but she was the one who had soothed him as a child after his nightmares or nursed him when he was ill. It was Georgiana who had stood between him and his father. "Madam, I shall speak plainly. If you wish to remain in this house, you will do as I have requested," he said, raising his hand to silence his mother. "I have no more to say on the matter." He left the drawing room and took the stairs two at a time in search of his sister.

The second floor rooms were empty, but on the third floor, he heard footsteps running along the hall and giggling. The same giggling of little girls he had heard in his dreams. He made his way up to the old nursery and opened the door onto a large room flooded by sunlight and scattered with toys. Georgiana turned to look at him, and smiled before returning to her task. He entered the room and closed the door behind him.

It was their old nursery room filled with the toys they had played with as children. He frowned, finding it strange that this was where he would find her. She sat at a table near the great window painting a puppet.

He strolled over to her and examined her work. She was applying black paint to the eyebrows.

"What do you think?" she asked.

She was dressed in black, her hair short, adorned with a ribbon instead of the customary cap. The dark bruises were still visible but they were much fainter now. She had chosen to not cover them up today. The sunlight shone on her clear skin and she glowed in its light.

Their mother was beautiful but her looks were far surpassed by Georgiana's. Her short dark hair only seemed to emphasis her beauty, her blue eyes larger and the lines of her long neck elegant. He wondered if their mother's animosity toward his sister stemmed from jealousy, but then dismissed the idea. Their mother had despised her even as a child, he remembered, long before Georgiana had grown into a beautiful young woman.

"Charles?" she said and turned to him in inquiry.

"Think about what?" he asked.

"My painting?"

He glanced at the puppet and smiled. "These are our old puppets. You changed the colors."

"Yes, they were in need of color as the old colors have faded."

He heard the laughter again and thought himself going mad. Had Georgiana heard it too? She gave no indication and he turned toward the soft giggles, following them to a table draped with sheets. Kneeling down next to the table, he pulled back the cloth and discovered a small world of dolls and teacups, a tea party. In the circle sat two little girls of maybe four who looked up at him with curiosity. They looked much like Georgiana as a child. They both had long, curly brown hair and big blue eyes and they had the same nose and smile. Twins, he thought, surprised.

"Would you like some tea?" asked one girl, holding out a teacup while the other reached for the tea pot to pour him some.

Astounded, he stared at them and they giggled again.

"Are you Charles?" asked the second girl.

"Yes," he said, finding his voice.

"Georgy told us you came home. I am Jane and she is Margaret."

"Pleased to meet you," he said.

They returned to their tea party, dismissing his presence, and he replaced the bed sheet and stood slowly up.

When he returned to Georgiana, he saw that she was watching him closely. "You didn't know," she said softly. He shook his head and frowned. "Father never wrote and the few letters I received from our mother never mentioned that I had gained two sisters."

Georgiana looked relieved, and he wondered briefly at this reaction to his words but she glanced toward the window, denying him access to her emotions.

"Her maternal instinct is not her strongest."

"That does seem the case," he said thoughtfully. "But why keep it a secret?"

Georgiana didn't answer. He took off his jacket and sat down at the table next to her. He undid his cuffs, and then rolled up his sleeves. She watched him, the look in her eyes weary, and it made him sad that she should feel that way about his presence. He reached for a paintbrush. Dipping it in the paint jar, he began to paint a long black strip down the front of the puppet stage.

"How old are they?" he asked.

"Four. They were born October 2nd."

"Not even a year after I left. I must have angered him greatly by leaving. He never wrote to me, never answered any of my letters. You know, I think he would have disowned me were I not his only heir."

"Probably."

"Dear Lord," Charles said. "That explains it."

"What does?" she asked, alarmed.

"After I absconded to join the navy, Father saw it necessary to supply himself with a new heir, for fear I would surely not come home again. I can only imagine his reaction when he fathered two more girls."

His sister kept her silence, returning her attention to her paintbrush.

"Was it terrible for you here?" he asked, not willing to let her ignore him.

"Not entirely." She smiled but said nothing more, picking up instead another brush, and changing colors, she continued to paint the eyes. They painted for a while in silence, listening to the soft chatter and giggles from under the table.

"They resemble you greatly," he said, and thought he saw her flinch, her brush hesitating before she continued.

"Do you think so?" she asked. Her voice was guarded, he thought.

"Big blue eyes, long brown hair. Yes, I would say, most definitely. Is Mother not pleased?"

The strain he sensed between them irked him. He wanted his Georgiana back, the one who talked to him endlessly, telling him stories and laughing with him. He didn't know this stranger who sat opposite him now, keeping so quiet and reserved. His Georgiana had laughed at life, and dared defy it. She was brave and full of life, and he had worshipped her. This silent and meek stranger angered him. "What happened to you, Georgiana, to turn you away from me so?" he asked, putting down his brush to look at her. "You are angry with me for having abandoned you?"

She glanced at him for a moment before she continued to draw the line across the wooden face. He could tell nothing from her expression, her emotions and thoughts locked away now. She used to be so easy to read. When they were younger, she had worn her emotions on her sleeve, not caring for propriety or the punishments her nanny or mother would inflict on her for doing so. When had she become so clever at hiding her feelings? And why had it become necessary to do so? This last question frightened him.

"The last time we were together, we were still at Evansgate," she said. "Do you remember?"

"Of course, I remember. Nicholas and I left for school and you returned to London."

"Eight years is long time, Charles. You, too, seem a stranger to me."

"Do I?" he sighed. "I suppose I must."

"You didn't expect it would be the same?"

He looked at her closely, not wanting to admit she was right.

"We were children, Charles. You were twelve when you left for school and then you ran off to fight Napoleon."

He flinched at the sadness in her voice. "I wrote you letters but you never answered."

"Did you?"

He swore under his breath, and stood up pacing in front of the window. She must have felt abandoned. He hated his father even more.

"What did you write about?" she asked.

"The war," he said curtly, his temper barely under control.

"You are so changed. What did they do to you?" he asked.

"They sent me to a convent."

"What in heaven's name for?"

"Just that," she said with a smile. "Schooling in humility, I think mother would call it. I was wild and unwilling to comport myself as a young lady should. I believe those were the official charges. I told untruths and risked the family's good name with my wild notions. I tried to run away."

"Yes, so I heard. Did you get far?"

"Not terribly. I had no money and Father hired some constable to bring me back. It didn't take them long to find me walking along the road."

"Where were you going?"

"Back to Evansgate."

"Of course, to Lord Markham—and he would have helped you, too. He always liked you."

"Yes, only I failed."

"So they stuck you in a convent, and it was the nuns then that turned you into this former shadow of yourself," he said. He regretted the remark instantly as he saw the effect of his words on her. It was the first real emotion he had extracted from her, but her pain only hurt him. "I'm sorry," he said, sitting down next to her again and taking her hands in his. "That was uncalled for. You have been through much with the accident, and God knows living with our parents must have been enough to drive anybody to madness. It's just that...." he paused, not knowing how to continue.

"What?" she asked softly.

He took a moment to answer. "Did he hurt you, Georgiana?"

She pulled her hands from his, and he had the feeling could she have walked away, she would have. Instead, she took a minute to study her hands in her lap before she lifted her eyes to his, and smiled at him. It wasn't what he had expected, and it frightened him more than anything else could have.

"You know Father," she said and shrugged. "He disciplined us."

"What he did was not discipline," he said angrily.

"Perhaps, but I was quite wild once and he did his best," she said.

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Not from her. She had as a child received more lashings than he did, and still she dared to defy their father.

"Was it that bad?" he asked. "You are not even willing to speak about it even after he has gone?"

"What does it matter anymore?" she asked, her voice low but angry now.

"It matters to me."

"Why? What good will it do?" she asked, her eyes flashing. "Let it be, Charles."

"I can't, damn it," he roared and the chatter from under the table seized and two small heads poked out to see, their faces concerned.

"Georgy?" Margaret asked, fear in her voice.

"It's fine, girls, don't worry. Charles is just playing a game with me."

They studied her for a second before disappearing again under the table, but the chatter did not pick up again.

"You feel guilty," she said finally, keeping her voice calm and even.

"Of course, I feel guilt. I should have –"

"Should have what? Taken me with you?" she asked kindly. "We both know that was impossible and had you stayed he would have eventually turned you into the same as himself, as he had tried to do since you were a boy. You had no choice, Charles, and look at you," she said. "You are returned a war hero despite the fact you left here with no money and no support. I am so proud of you, Charles. You did well. You are nothing like him. That is your victory, don't you see? You have nothing to feel guilty about, and I am annoyed to discover that you think I cannot take care of myself."

"You were always the stronger one."

"And don't you forget it," she smiled.

They sat in silence for a moment, and then she asked, "How guilty do you feel?"

He looked at her miserably. "Very."

"Good. Then when the time comes in the future, I will remind you of it. And you shall do exactly what it is I require of you to atone."

He smiled. This was the Georgiana he remembered.

"Let us not speak about it anymore. It is in the past now," she said and picked up her brush again and continued with her work. "I would much rather look ahead. What will you do now?"

"Do?"

"With your life. You cannot mean to return to the war?"

"No. I have responsibilities here. I am to meet with father's solicitors this afternoon to go over the estate. Tomorrow I have an appointment with a constable by the name of Jarvis."

"Another constable?" she asked.

"Yes," he said and sighed. "I am afraid that I am duty-bound to enquire into the details of Father's death. Lord Isaac Davenport is determined to make sure the murderer is found and hung, and he has asked me to help with the investigation. Now that Mother has managed to have that lunatic Marsh removed from the case, maybe we can finally find the real killer."

A knock on the door distracted him, or he would have seen her grow pale at his words. He turned to the door as a housemaid entered. "There is a Captain Markham to see you, sir."

"Ah, Nick. Would you show him up please?"

"To the nursery, sir?" the maid questioned in surprise.

"Yes, to the nursery," he replied.

"Very good, sir," she said and left again.

Charles smiled at his sister.

***

Nicholas followed a footman up the stairs and along a hallway to find Charles and Georgiana seated around a table, painting, while two little girls stood beside them watching.

"Nick, come in." Charles said, not looking up.

He was in the process of painting a flower in blue on the scenery while two small heads bent next to his, watching him closely as he concentrated. Only Georgiana turned to acknowledge Nick, and he stopped breathing as her eyes met his. Her brother had been right. She had grown into a young woman of remarkable beauty from which even the bruising could not detract. She smiled at him, and he bowed, again feeling his heart race. She had always been able to do that to him.

"Miss Wyndham," he said.

"Captain Markham. You must forgive us for not meeting you downstairs in a more formal setting, but we have been quite busy repairing the stage in preparation for a puppet show."

"Not at all, Miss Wyndham, I have fond memories of this room."

The two little girls turned to inspect him, and again he was taken by surprise as two identical images of a young Georgiana watched him.

"Captain, you've not had the opportunity to meet our newest family members. May I present our sisters, Miss Jane Wyndham and Miss Margaret Wyndham," Georgiana said.

He looked surprised but bowed to the little girls and they giggled.

"Girls, this is Captain Markham. Say hello." The girls curtsied, imitating the adults they had seen.

"Do you like toads?" Jane asked.

"Not in my soup, but in the garden they are quite pleasant," he answered.

Margaret laughed and went to fetch something, only to return with a large toad in her hand. "You can hold him," she said. "But don't put him in your soup. I don't think he would like it if it was hot."

"Most clever," he said and put his walking stick and hat down to accept the frog. He sat down in one of the small empty chairs and the girls followed him. "Did you find him in the garden?"

"Oh, no, we are not allowed out," said Jane. "We found him here in that glass jar," Margaret said pointing to it.

He noticed Charles lift his head from his work to glance at Georgiana, a frown on his face. She ignored him and continued with her own painting.

Nicholas talked to the girls about the toad, explaining about where it lived and what it ate. He glanced at Charles to see him frowning and wondered if he perhaps shared his concern at the unexpected scene. He could not imagine Charles would have kept the news of new siblings from him. It meant Charles had not known either.

Charles stood after a while and smiled at him.

"You are just in time, Nicholas," he said.

"For what?" the girls asked.

"We shall all go explore the garden."

Both girls moved to Georgiana's side, clinging to her. It was not the reaction Charles had expected, but he seemed to take it in his stride.

He kneeled down beside them. "What's the matter? Don't you girls want to play in the sunshine?"

"We are not allowed outside," Margaret said softly.

"We will get into trouble," Jane added, ready to dissolve into tears.

Nicholas watched Georgiana closely. Her full mouth was drawn in a thin line as she placed a protective arm around both girls and held them close, turning her face away from him.

"You will not get into trouble anymore," Charles said.

"Father will come back and find us outside and be ever so mad," Jane said and began to cry.

"Father is gone, Jane," Charles said, reaching for her to put her on his lap. He wiped her tears with his handkerchief.

Jane looked at Georgiana, and she nodded. "It's true, my pet," Georgiana said.

"He will never come again. I promise."

"Can Georgy come with us too?" asked Margaret.

"Of course, she will come," Charles said and gave her a look Nicholas did not understand.

"Will you?" Margaret asked.

"Yes. I will come too."

"Good, then it is settled," Charles said. "Can we bring toad?" Jane asked, and wiggling off Charles' lap, walked toward Nicholas and took the toad from him to hold up to Charles.

"Yes," Charles smiled. Then he picked up one girl in each arm, and to Nicholas said, "Bring Georgiana."

***

Georgiana studied Nicholas as he carried her down the long staircase. He had one arm under her legs and the other behind her back while she held onto his neck. He smelled fresh, like the outdoors, she thought, as he concentrated on their descent. He had long eyelashes for a man, and his eyes were not quite as brown as she remembered. They had flecks of gold in them and some green. His hair was combed forward and cut short, not like the style of the day, which was for longer hair like her brother wore. Nicholas did not seem to care for fashion.

His lips were well formed enough, she thought, not really knowing what she herself meant by that. His lower lip was fuller than his upper, almost giving him a pout. Just then, he smiled and glanced at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Well," he asked.

"Well, what?"

"How do you find me, Miss Wyndham?"

She smiled. "You have caught me, Captain. Very well, I shall tell you. I find you quite grown into a handsome man with extraordinary long eyelashes and a fine physique."

He laughed and continued down the stairs and out into the garden where Charles was showing the girls a caterpillar. He placed her on a bench near them and glanced up to find Lady Wyndham watching the scene from the window of the drawing room.

"She does not look happy," Georgiana said, noticing his glance.

"I imagine you would know why."

He sat down next to her, and turned his face up to the sun his eyes closed, giving her a moment to become comfortable in his presence. Still, if she knew the reason for her mother's weariness she did not share it with him. Instead he could feel her again studying him and he wanted to know her thoughts.

"You have been hurt?" she asked.

He opened his eyes to look at her and smiled. "Yes and no. They are somewhat self-inflicted, I fear. I like boxing but it does not like me overly much."

His eyes moved to her face where the traces of her own bruises could still be seen.

"What happened to your face?" he asked softly.

She smiled and looked away from him, breaking the contact. "Quite self-inflicted as well. I am rather clumsy these days. Being a cripple can be frustrating and I am not always willing to wait for someone to help me get about."

Charles was right. She trusted no one. She had no reason to trust him, he knew. But it hurt nonetheless. What had he expected? The truth was it wasn't so much what he expected, more what had he hoped for. He had hoped she would come to love him but the love he saw in her eyes and face now was not for him but for the two little girls she watched so closely.

***

She turned away from his probing eyes, and watched Jane and Margaret smelling a yellow rose. Charles showed them a bird's nest in a tree, lifting them up to get closer. It was the first time in a long while that they had been outside and Georgiana couldn't take her eyes off their faces as they explored the garden in wonder.

Her mother had forbidden them to leave the house. It was a cruelty designed not only to hide a secret, but also to punish Georgiana. Watching them now run along the garden path, chasing a butterfly, was overwhelming, and she could feel her tightly controlled emotions slipping. She knew Nicholas was watching her closely and she could not afford to show any emotion. She had learned her best defense was always attack and so she did.

"I know why Charles returned to England before the end of the war, but what about you, Captain?"

"One gets weary of war, I suppose."

"Is that truly the reason?"

He looked away and she almost felt ashamed, but forged ahead anyway.

"Are you still in love with me?" she asked, smiling.

He leaned forward, his arms on his knees, his head between his hands. "It was rather obvious, wasn't it?" he said, running a hand through his hair.

"You used to follow me around when you were a boy. You left flowers in my room and I know it was you that brought back my pony when he ran off. How long did it take you to find him?"

"Two days."

"Two days! What did your father have to say about that?"

"He thrashed me," he said and, sitting back, smiled at her. "It was worth it. You loved that silly pony even though it must have thrown you a dozen times."

She nodded, remembering how distraught she had been to find it had escaped.

"I was nine when I asked you to marry me," he said watching her. "Do you remember?"

"Quite well. I was ten, a much older woman even then and rather annoyed by your following me about. Then one day you went down on one knee in the garden and asked me to marry you. It was on a day much like this, I think. I gave you a bloody nose for your trouble."

"I was heartbroken," he said, placing his hand over his heart, and falling back on the bench, his face turned to the sky.

She smiled as he pantomimed the small boy he had been, her brother's pesky little friend who had watched her with adoration from under his long eyelashes.

"Why did you never tell me it was you who found my pony and brought him back?"

He shrugged. "Would you have accepted my marriage proposal then?"

She laughed, surprised to find she still could. "Probably not," she admitted. "I had my mind set on a career as a pirate."

This time he laughed, the sound traveling to Charles who turned to them and waved, then returned his attention to playing with the girls. "I thought you wanted to be a highwayman."

"At first, yes, but I soon realized there was more adventure on the high seas than waiting beside the road. Hiding in the countryside could become rather monotonous after a while, I should think."

Nicholas reached up and traced the bruise on her face. She let him because to pull away would only emphasize her discomfort. She cursed herself because her little ruse hadn't worked, after all.

"Won't you tell me what happened?" he asked again.

"I fell out of bed," she said, smiling, knowing he would not be put off. "I told you I am clumsy."

"No, you didn't," he said and lightly touched the bump on her nose. "Someone broke your nose."

She turned away from him, but he took her hand. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself, and turned to watch Jane as she rode on Charles's shoulders. Margaret begged for a ride next, and she smiled at the picture they made. She turned her face up to the sun, conscious of her hand in Nicholas' as he rubbed his thumb over her palm. Nicholas had always been observant, especially when it came to her. "We aren't children anymore," she said, pulling her hand from his and turned to look at him. "You can't fix everything like you used to."

"Why don't you let me try?"

"You brought Charles back," she said. "It's more than enough."

"Charles can take care of himself."

It was her turn to study him. "Can he? Then why did you join the Royal Navy?"

He shrugged. "For the adventure on the high seas."

"Nicholas, all you ever talked about was going to Oxford. You hated fighting. Guns frightened you. When your father forced you to kill your first rabbit, you cried for days. You refused to learn to hunt with him, no matter how he threatened you. You would not have joined the Navy unless you had a good reason to do so."

"Is that so?" he smiled. "You should never remind a man of his shortcomings, Miss Wyndham. And besides, as I recall you were rather good at killing rabbits."

He was trying to change the subject and she wouldn't let him. "You brought Charles back just like you brought my beloved pony back all those years ago. You kept him safe because you knew how much he means to me."

"Then you'll have to marry me now, won't you?" he smiled and, removing her white glove, kissed her palm. She wanted to withdraw her hand from his but she knew to struggle would only draw unnecessary attention. Thankfully, her long sleeves hid the scars at her wrist.

She laughed, not knowing if he was in earnest. "You are too young to get married, Nicholas, especially to an old cripple like me. You can rest assured I will not hold you to your proposal of twelve years ago. You may rely on my level-headedness."

"And if I refuse to take 'no' for an answer?"

"You leave me no choice but to give you a bloody nose again."

He laughed. "I have missed you, Georgiana."

"What's this?" Charles asked as he walked over and sat down next to her on the bench, loosening his cravat in the midday heat. "Are you proposing to my sister again, Nick?"

"You have found me out, Charles, but, alas, she has refused me again."

"Dear Lord, count yourself fortunate. Last time she drew far more blood from you. Do you remember, Georgiana," Charles said wistfully, "our days at Evansgate Hall? You would come up with great adventures for us. Like the time you wanted us to hide the fox in Lady Ashbury's bedroom."

Nicholas laughed. "The hounds followed its scent right to the front door, much to the butler's surprise. The hounds bounded through the salon where the ladies were gathered and up the grand staircase to Lady Ashbury's bedroom, where they jumped on the bed because the fox was hiding under the covers with a very surprised Lady Ashbury. I still don't know how you managed to tame that scoundrel."

Georgiana smiled at the memory and felt relieved the conversation had turned away from her. Nicholas's interest in her made her uncomfortable. She had grown used to no one paying her any attention and had found strength in being almost invisible to all those around her. To suddenly be the single focus of her brother was disconcerting, but to be the sole interest of Nicholas was frightening.

He could be relentless, at least the Nicholas she remembered. Her brother saw her the way most males in her society saw her, a helpless female in need of protection. Nicholas saw through her. Even as children, he had known her bravery and defiance was a mask for the real terror she had felt.

He had found her crying after a visit from her father. She had hidden in a dark stairwell in a wing of his parents' massive country house where no one ever went, and he had still found her. He tried to comfort her and she had pushed him for his effort, and roared at him to never touch her. So he sat with her for hours, while she cried in the dark. When he set his mind to something, no one could change it. She remembered his silent form beside her, not touching her in that dark stairwell but refusing to abandon her.

She listened while they talked about their shared childhood, and watched the girls play on the lawn. They placed their carefully picked flowers in pretty arrangements on the grass. She knew that her mother still stood at the window, watching them. Georgiana also knew that later she would pay a price for this moment of pure happiness, but she didn't care. Charles and Nicholas were alive and back home, and the girls were finally playing in the sunshine. It was enough.

#

The clock chimed the hour in the stillness of the drawing room where Georgiana sat occupied with her needlework. Her mother glanced up from the letter she was writing to smile at her before returning to her work. Georgiana frowned. She had come to hate the scene of women occupying themselves with the gentle activities of needlework and letter writing. It was expected.

Much in a woman's world was expected, but much more was not. For example, it was not expected that one complain about those things that were expected. She was to follow her mother's wishes. When her mother decided that, for appearances, she needed her daughter's company in the drawing room, Georgiana should not protest. So her objection had taken the form of silence.

Georgiana refused to talk to her mother politely about the weather, which was expected. Instead, Georgiana asked her what had brought on the sudden need of her company. This was unexpected. So finally, they had fallen into a silence, her mother retreating to write letters and Georgiana content to stab at a piece of cloth with a needle.

She knew that part of the reason she was brought downstairs was that with her father's death, her mother was forced into mourning, which meant no visitors would call, and her mother would not go forth. She had become trapped in the house just like Georgiana.

Her mother had no one to converse with but the servants, and any exchange beyond giving orders was not allowed in a world like hers where the classes were separated. The other reason her mother had forced this new arrangement was because of Charles. It was Charles's insistence that she should not be hidden away like a shameful secret that Georgiana had to thank for this new torture. This made her stab her embroidery all the harder.

Charles probably saw it as a kindness. He never had to sit through an afternoon sewing and making idle small talk about the weather. He had the luxury of going out to ride, or stroll along the streets. Being born a woman was a curse. Day in and day out for a week now, they had whiled away the hours in the infernal drawing room. But Georgiana could sense from her mother's self-satisfied smile that she had some new and special torture prepared for this day.

"I have written to Sir Edward," her mother said.

"I can't imagine why."

"He has called upon you twice since your father died, and you have refused to see him."

"I have been too distraught to entertain any visitors."

"You hated your father."

"With good reason, as you well know."

"You are insolent and I will not have you continue to malign his good name after his death. It is more than my spirit can endure."

"Your spirit, my dear mother, has long been absent and I see no advantage to restoring it now."

"There is a devil in you and long have I known it. I looked on you on the day of your birth and it was clear to me that you were an unnatural child."

"Why is that, dear Mother, pray tell? What is it about me that so disturbs you?"

"I will not be spoken to in such a manner in my own home."

"It is no longer your home, Mother, or have you forgotten that Charles is now the master here?"

"You are evil and it is for Charles that I must rid this house of your presence. I will not have you taint his mind as you for so long tried to turn me against my own husband."

Georgiana laid her sewing in her lap and studied her mother from across the room. She sat rigid at the desk, her eyes ablaze with such anger and open hatred that Georgiana wished she could leave the room. But it had never been her custom to avoid a confrontation, and so she met her mother's gaze with her own.

"It was your idea, wasn't it?" she said. "My dear Papa was only following your wishes in this match with Sir Edward Fairchild. Pray tell, since he never did anything for you, why would he do this one thing? What secret of his did you discover to hold over him?"

"Your ideas give away your evil nature. I cannot allow you to remain in this house indefinitely for fear of the hold you will have over Charles. I will not allow it. I now must think of my son. It is my duty."

Georgiana laughed, the sound loud in the drawing room, and her mother stood to walk over to the window as if to get away from her.

"Forgive me, Mother, only it is such cruel irony that you seek to protect the one child when the other had for so long needed the very same sentiment and you denied it."

Her mother remained silent, refusing to be drawn in.

Georgiana sighed. "So the engagement is to remain. I am to be married off. I suppose that you have written to Lord Fairchild with the assurance that the banns may be read despite the fact that I am in mourning for dear Papa. Such impropriety, Mother! Think of what society will say to such unconventional behavior."

"You care nothing for society," her mother snapped, pacing in front of the window.

"True, and you should have remembered that, for I shall refuse to marry him."

Her mother stopped pacing, and moved to stand in front of her daughter. "You will, or I will expose you for the whore that you are."

Georgiana smiled while inside she could feel herself shattering into a thousand pieces. "You wouldn't. The shame would destroy your standing in society. It would be the end of your reputation as well, not just mine."

Her mother stood her ground, which frightened Georgiana more than anything did. "I am thinking, Georgiana, of neither my reputation nor yours, but the girls. No one will believe your outrageous lies about your own father, but the girls would be branded your bastards and they will be outcasts for the rest of their lives. Is that what you wish for your precious darlings?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"I have for too long lived with the lie that I was the mother of your sin. I did it only because your father demanded it. He is dead now, and I want you gone from this house for I will not risk exposing this family's name to more unholy shame. You will marry Sir Edward or I will destroy your children's lives by exposing them for the bastards they are. I stand firm on this."

Georgiana felt the panic growing inside her again. Her mother meant it.

The door to the drawing room opened, and Charles entered. "There you are."

He crossed the room and kissed his mother on the cheek, breaking the spell.

"Charles," she said sweetly, moving to sit down on the settee. "You are returned early from your meeting with the lawyers."

Charles sat down next to Georgiana and smiled. "I wished to have tea with my dear mama and sister."

He reached for Georgiana's hand "Why you are shaking, Georgiana?" he asked, concerned. "What is the matter?"

She avoided her mother's glance and smiled at Charles. "I am a trifle cold, I confess, nothing more."

"I shall ring for some tea," her mother smiled. "That should warm you, my dear."

"Good, and after I will take you for a ride in my curricle for it is a glorious warm day outside and you look pale. I think some air would do you good."

"Georgiana is not used to such activity."

"What do you say, Georgiana? Do you feel well enough for a ride through St. James?"

She nodded. "I would like that very much."

"Then it is settled. Ring for tea, Mama."

Lady Wyndham stood and did as she was told before returning to the settee. Georgiana knew what was coming next, and she had to play her part well. She wanted desperately to escape the trap she could feel closing in around her, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it. She needed more time to find a means of escape, but her mother would also play her cards expertly.

"We are to congratulate Georgiana, Charles," her mother said.

"Oh, how so?"

"She has accepted Sir Edward Fairchild. They are to be married forthwith."

The astonishment on Charles's face was comical, but the last thing Georgiana felt like doing was laughing. She was closer to panic. She glanced away briefly, taking a deep breath in order to once again play her part.

"Married!" Charles cried. "But how did this come about?"

She smiled at him and turned to her mother. "Why don't you tell him, Mother?"

"It is quite simple, really. As you know, Sir Edward Fairchild has long been acquainted with your father, and before his death it was so arranged."

"But I thought you refused him," Charles said to Georgiana and stood up to walk across the room.

"Naturally she was apprehensive to leave the only home she has ever known," Lady Wyndham replied. "With time she has reconsidered and found it to her advantage."

"Is this true?" he asked, turning to her.

She could not find her own voice, not ready to confirm by her own word her life sentence. Her mother spoke instead.

"We can hardly expect Sir Edward to wait until the appropriate time to be recognized as Georgiana's fiancé. He is eager to be wed and she is fortunate to have such an offer made. I would be remiss in my duty to her to let such a good match go without the attention it deserves for she is not likely to receive any other offers in her situation."

Charles sat down next to her again and took her hand in his. "Georgiana, what do you say to this affair? Do you wish to be married to this Fairchild fellow?"

She did her best imitation of a credible smile. She could refuse and hope her mother's words were only that, but she couldn't be sure. Her mother's hatred was powerful enough to make even her reckless.

Georgiana could feel her mother's eyes on her and said, "I am quite fortunate, Charles, that he wishes to marry me."

"But do you wish to marry him?"

"Yes," she said simply, keeping her eyes on him.

He squeezed her hand as if in silent communication but she didn't know how to respond. The tea tray arrived to give her a few minutes to pull her tattered strength together. Her mother poured the tea and Georgiana was thankful that her hands did not shake when she took a cup. Her years of practice keeping her true feelings hidden were serving her well now.

"But do you love this Fairchild?" Charles asked, watching her over the rim of his cup as he sipped.

"I have yet to meet him."

Charles choked on his tea and Lady Wyndham rose to take his cup from him as he coughed. She placed it on the table in front of him as he recovered himself.

"Charles, love does not enter into the contract," Lady Wyndham said. "Society does not dictate it. All that matters is they have both agreed to the match."

Fully recovered, Charles frowned at her. "Perhaps not, but society does dictate that he should formally propose so she can accept him. Society also dictates that the head of the family should approve the match, and as the head of this family now, I have not been approached by Lord Fairchild as society dictates, good madam."

Georgiana couldn't help the smile that formed on her lips, and she didn't care that her mother witnessed it. Charles paced the room while her mother sat quietly sipping her tea.

"How much are you to be sold for then?" he asked, stopping in front of Georgiana.

She flinched but could not argue the point, and instead she said, "I don't know."

He turned to look at his mother who swallowed her last sip with some difficulty before answering. "Must you be so vulgar, Charles?"

"It's the truth," he insisted. "How much?"

"The dowry is ten thousand pounds a year and your father had agreed to pay Sir Edward's debts."

"Dear Lord, Georgiana, you are worth a small kingdom," Charles muttered and sat down again next to her. He picked up his tea and drank it slowly, deep in thought.

Georgiana wondered how he would respond, hoping perhaps he would refuse the match.

"If you so wish it, I will arrange to meet with Lord Fairchild. Do you wish it?"

He would not refuse it if he thought she wanted it. She knew this and with it her hopes sank. She hesitated a moment because she knew with her next words the trap would be firmly sprung and she would be caught forever in it. She glanced at her mother before replying to see the anger burning in her eyes.

"I do," she said softly.

He seemed disappointed in her words, turning away from her.

"I will arrange it," he said. "Now, I shall ready the curricle. I think we both need the fresh air."

She watched him leave the room, wanting to call him back, but instead, she turned to look at her mother whose satisfaction appeared to be surpassed only by her smile. "Now that wasn't so hard after all, was it, dear?"

***

The curricle moved quickly down St James Street as Charles handled his team with ease through the busy street. He was an excellent whip and his high stepping horses were well matched, their hooves echoing on the cobbled street. Glossy black hindquarters glistened in the sunshine and Georgiana yearned suddenly to go riding across the countryside on a powerful horse again.

They turned several fashionable heads as they passed, the ladies eyeing both occupants. She watched with interest since she had not been outside in the daylight in a long time. Her night excursions never took her through the middle of the most fashionable part of London where society came to stroll in the sunshine. Matrons escorted their fine young charges along the walk. Ladies wore the most beautifully colored dresses and bonnets, and she envied them their displays.

Gentlemen strolled along behind them or in groups with their top hats perfectly slanted and their cravats tied to impress. She watched a dandy in his bright yellow and purple colors, his walking stick swinging at his side. He had to turn his whole body in their direction, as his high stiff collar did not allow him to move his head. He watched them pass, catching her eye. He bowed in her direction, and she wondered who he was.

She turned to look at Charles, who concentrated on the reins and guided the high stepping blacks through the traffic. He had been quiet throughout the journey, and she allowed him to bide his time. Once they were in the park, he slowed the pace of the horses.

"I don't understand you anymore, Georgiana," he said finally. "Why would you wish to be married to this man you don't even know?"

"It is a good match," she said and turned to look at the passersby. The soldiers in their red uniforms looked quite handsome on horseback, or strolling through the park escorting young ladies in their finery. There seemed to be so many of them; she wondered who was left on the Continent to fight the war.

"When did you start caring about a good match?" he asked, his voice angry. "You used to defy anything society dictated. You had a passion for life that equaled none I have ever known. Nothing was impossible for you, and you were afraid of nothing. What happened to you to so change your very being?"

"I grew up, I suppose," she smiled, her lips pressed together tightly to keep them from quivering. "It happens to the best of us."

He drove through Hyde Park and continued into the less busy Kensington Gardens and stopped the curricle beside a stand of silver birch trees. With the reins securely tied, he put the whip aside and turned to her. She looked out toward the lake, watching the ducks, keen to keep her face turned away from her brother.

"Look at me, Georgiana," he demanded.

She turned to him and he removed her bonnet, undoing the bow under her chin.

"Mama isn't here now. Tell me what this is all about. I refuse to accept that you are so changed."

He was no fool, this little brother of hers, and it only made her part so much harder to play. She longed to tell him the truth but knew she dared not.

"Charles, who would marry me?" she asked. "Look at me. I am a cripple and already over twenty. I should have been married years ago. It is a wonder that Sir Edward would even consider this match."

"What about Nicholas?"

"Nicholas?"

"Yes, Nicholas. He has loved you since we were children and his adoration has remained constant all these years. He has returned for you. I am sure of it."

"He has confided this to you?"

"Only yesterday."

"Oh, Charles," she sighed. "Everything has changed. I most of all. We are no longer children who play at children's games. I am certain that any feelings Nicholas had for me were those of a child and have long been replaced by friendship and nothing more. We cannot hold him to it out of pity for my changed circumstances. It would be a great injustice you would do your friend to expect that he should marry me. If you care for Nicholas, you must know that. Sir Edward already has an heir, I am told. It is therefore a perfect match, you see."

"You are the one who is mistaken. Nicholas loves you and you will break his heart to be sure. He is a good man. No, he is the best of men. I have never known a more loyal and honorable person in my life, one with such strength of character and a heart so generous and filled with only goodness. You will damage him greatly if you do this. He has never wavered in his love for you, Georgiana, but it is you who have refused to take him in earnest."

"That is not fair, Charles, for I have seen him but twice since your return. Before that, we were children and I responded to him as a child would. Yet, you malign me for lack of feeling toward him when I do not even know him. You were both gone, Charles, for a long time. He cannot love me for he does not know me. He knew the child I was, and I am not that anymore. You are being unjust in your judgment of me."

"Perhaps you are right, but then let us put off this match for now and allow some time. I feel that you will come to see Nicholas as I do."

"You have a great respect for him," she said.

"Yes, I owe much to him that I will never be able to repay."

"Then know this to be the truth, Charles. I love Nicholas like a brother, nothing more. He is indeed the best of men, and were Nicholas to marry me it would indeed be a great injustice to him. Were you to let him marry me, you would destroy his life."

"Why do you say such a horrendous thing?"

"Because it is the truth, look at me. I am a cripple and can bear him no children. You yourself said I am much changed."

"You will find yourself again and he cares nothing for your changed circumstances."

Charles was stubborn; she should have remembered that from their childhood.

"Nicholas is to inherit one day and an heir must be provided. If his father were alive, he would never consent to such a match and rightly so. The old Lord Markham was our greatest ally growing up. He took us in, Charles, raised us like his own, and dared defy father. He did that for us. Without his help, we might never have turned out so well, and you wish to repay him by proposing I marry his son. If you care anything for Nicholas, you would not allow him to marry me. And if you care anything for me then let me wed Sir Edward, for mother is right in that I should never be able to hope for more."

Georgiana wanted to scream and cry, feeling the resentment of being caught in her mother's trap, but instead she smiled reassuringly. She could never allow Nicholas to even consider her. She would never let him be tainted by her past. She had too much to hide, too many secrets, and she knew she was broken. Nicholas deserved so much better and she had to convince her brother of it. She did not believe that Nicholas could still feel love for her, for his previous infatuation had been that of a pubescent boy for a girl.

Any love he had felt once would have faded by now. If it hadn't, she felt sure that if Nicholas knew the truth of her life, he would despise her. Her chance of a normal full life had ended the day her father touched her, and she would not drag Nicholas into her own sordid reality. She was making the right decision, even though she was condemning herself to a fate she could not completely imagine. She was doing the one thing she had always done, protect her girls.

She watched Charles now as she had watched him for the past weeks. He was so tender with the girls. He made sure that they were given the attention and care that her mother had never even considered. He spent time with them every day and they were growing to love him as quickly as she knew they would. He brought presents home for them and took them for walks. He would take the best of care of them, better than she could ever hope to do.

All that mattered was that they would grow up knowing they were loved, even if she could only do so from a distance. She knew it would break her heart to leave them, that it would be the hardest thing she would ever have to do, but she would do it for them. She would visit as often as she could, and it would have to be enough.

"Charles," she said softly. "This is for the best."

He looked at her a long time, a dark penetrating stare that she held because she must without flinching. "There is only one request I would ask," she said.

"Anything."

"Promise me you will love and protect Jane and Margaret as if they were your own."

"Why do you say something like this?"

"Do this for me and you will be helping me more than you will ever know. Promise me, Charles," she said, adamant, as she struggled to hold onto her rapidly fraying emotions.

"I promise," he said.

"It's just that Mother has never cared for children. That is all. They are deserving of attention and love, and I fear she will try to send them away."

"I will not allow it."

It was her turn to study him. He was still so young, only twenty. He was expected suddenly to take on the role of master of a great estate and to maintain it and its wealth. Now she was asking him to act the protector and guardian to two small girls. Other young men his age with the kind of money he had inherited would be out every night, gambling, carousing and drinking. He did not have the advantage of an older father or uncle to guide him in his decisions on the estate. He was going to make mistakes, maybe even some serious ones, and she feared for him. Would he be easily influenced by his mother's counsel? she wondered.

The truth of the matter was that with his long absence, she did not know what kind of man Charles had grown into. He had handled himself admirably on the battlefield under the orders of his superior. He was a brave soldier but what kind of man was he going to prove to be now? He had stood up to his mother twice that she had seen and it gave her hope. She knew him to be kind to the girls and she believed him when he said he would take care of them.

"Why do you study me so?" he asked, smiling at her. "You think me young and foolish perhaps?"

"No," she lied.

"I will not let you down, Georgiana. I promise."

She hugged him then and cried, not being able to stop the tears.

"Now see here, you are getting my coat all wet with your waterworks," he said as she laughed.

"Sorry," she said. "It's just so good to have you home again."

"It simply won't do to show such emotion in public," he said, imitating her mother's stern voice, and she laughed again. "Think of your comportment, dear."

The horses were getting restless and he picked up the reins and his whip and urged them on through the park. He nodded to a gentleman on horseback whom he knew. But he did not stop to talk out of deference for Georgiana who strived to regain her balance.

"What do you know about this Sir Edward Fairchild?" he asked.

"Nothing, I'm afraid."

"I shall make some enquires then to make sure he is up to snuff. I cannot have my beautiful sister marrying any old riffraff, after all."

She smiled. "It's really good to have you back, Charles. I have missed you so."

He turned to look at her. "I'm sorry I deserted you for so long. It was wrong of me to leave the way I did. I see that now. It is only that I always thought of you as the strongest, bravest person I ever knew and it never occurred to me for one moment that you had need of me."

"I was perfectly fine," she lied. "You had to go, Charles. Father was impossible and Mother was useless. It was the right decision, never doubt it."

"Do you mean that?"

She did. The one thought that had kept her company on the darkest days was that Charles had escaped and would never know her misery. She intended to keep it that way.

"Yes," she said firmly.

"Then, my brave girl, let us put your daring to the test, shall we."

He whipped the horses up and they flew out the park and into the street, barely missing the carriages and wagons in their path.

"Faster," she said, laughing, and he obliged.

#

Georgiana paused at the unlit corner, sure that she was being followed. Suddenly, she turned, but the street was simply busy with its usual night traffic. Men walked quickly on their way to home or entertainment. A street sweeper swept a path through the muck for a gentleman, who deposited a coin in the sweeper's hand. Carriages rolled along the road as a hackney swerved around a slower-moving cart. She did not see anyone in the shadows.

She pulled her cap lower and crossed the road, careful to avoid the worst mud puddles. She had had the same feeling of being watched for a week now. Every night she went out in her disguise to roam through the streets and every night she could have sworn she was being followed. She shook her head at her own suspicions. It was guilt playing with her mind. She shouldn't be out. She shouldn't be taking the risk of discovery that increased with every night that she spent walking along the dark city streets. It was foolish of her, dangerous even, but every night she found herself crawling through her window again. After years of being kept a prisoner, she could not resist the sudden freedom she had found.

She made her way to St. Giles as she had done each previous night. She was learning the streets and alleys, hiding in the shadows if she came upon a large group or a solitary person whose looks she did not like. She knew that she had been fortunate not to be confronted so far. She kept her eyes down and minded her own business. She observed the life around her, sometimes finding an inn to sit in for a while and observe the patrons around her. She would imitate their speech, listening carefully, trying to find meaning in their exchanges. She spoke as little as possible, knowing that her upper class accent could give her away.

She heard it again. The same footsteps following her. It wasn't her imagination. She put her hand in her pocket, feeling the pistol there, and kept moving.

She took a sudden left into a murky alley she now knew well, and hid behind a crumbling stone wall of a house destroyed by fire. She waited, holding her breath, listening carefully. A wagon lumbered past the alley. Then she heard the footsteps of a gentleman's boots moving swiftly up the street, while in the distance a Charley called out the time. She closed her eyes to listen carefully to an unrecognizable yet familiar sound, the pistol perfectly balanced and ready in her hand.

The rustle was small but continued around the corner and into the alley, pausing a moment before moving faster past her hiding place. She lunged out of the darkness and brought the pistol down hard when she saw the outline of a head. The crack of the pistol on skull sent a pain shooting up her arm, and she cursed. The figure crumbled to the ground in front of her. She dragged the body out of the alley and into the faint light of a street lamp.

The face was dirty and lean, but she recognized the pickpocket from the inn. She swore under her breath then dragged the body back into the darkness before someone saw her. She sat in the alley with his head cradled in her arms as she sought a pulse in his neck. She felt his chest rise and fall and she said a prayer of thanks she hadn't killed him. Why was the little fool following her? When had he started? She thought back to the night they had shared a supper and she realized he must have followed her home that very night. Clever bugger. The only question that remained was what did he want?

She heaved him over her shoulder, and struggled to her feet. She made her way down the alley, staggering under the weight, and tried to avoid the endless potholes that were like pits in this part of the city. An old woman, who sat reeking of gin and grinning with a toothless mouth, watched their every move. She spoke but Georgiana couldn't understand a single syllable, and kept walking. She scurried between back alleys until she finally arrived at her destination.

The Red Lion Inn was one she had found a few nights ago. It was dilapidated and unsavory; the worst kinds of people found their rest here. She had been wary of it but had forced herself inside then, as she did now. She shifted her burden as if she was dragging a drunken companion instead of an unconscious one. As she pushed her way to the counter amidst the early crowd, she put a coin in front of the bedraggled barmaid. "It's a room for the night I'd be looking for," she said imitating the speech she had heard around her.

The barmaid studied her, then her companion. "We is full up," she said, and returned to serve the customers.

Georgiana took another coin from her pocket, and put it beside the first. The barmaid looked at her again, curious as she studied Georgiana. Taking the coins, she pocketed them and ordered a small girl to take them to a room.

Georgiana followed the girl who held a candle. Struggling up the stairs, her burden slipped but she managed to grab a better hold, and kept climbing the narrow stairs covered with years of grime. Inside the tiny room was a small bed where Georgiana deposited the boy.

The girl started a fire in the grate that soon filled the room with more smoke than warmth. Then she hurried out, and Georgiana closed the door and tried to latch it, but the lock looked as if it had been kicked in. Propping the chair at the door so no one could enter, she listened for a minute but heard no footsteps outside.

She found a rag and some water in a bucket, trying not to think about another night when she had done the same in almost identical surroundings. She approached the bed and wiped the boy's face, parting his dirty hair to see the gash the pistol had made. His hair was soaked with blood, and she grimaced as she realized his hair was also crawling with lice and fleas. The boy's stench overpowered her. She placed him back on the bed, the cloth under his head. There was no help for it.

She made her way back down the stairs, and finding the little girl huddled under the stairs, she asked for some food, more water for a bath, some sturdy thread, and a needle. The girl didn't move, just stared at her as if uncomprehending. Georgiana looked around the crowded room. Finding the barmaid, a bargain was struck. With a nod from the barmaid, the little girl went off to fetch the items.

Georgiana waited inside the room, sitting on the chair against the door and studying the boy. She had no idea how old he was. His features suggested he was maybe twelve, but his body was so small and thin she could not be sure. His chest rose up and down irregularly, and she felt a twinge of guilt at his condition.

A knock at the door, and she moved aside, and slowly open it. The girl handed her a bowl of soup with bread, then disappeared down the dark hallway again to return with two buckets of water. She placed them in the room, turning to look at the boy on the bed. Her expression gave nothing away. From a pocket, she pulled the needle and thread.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked.

"A bump on the head but he'll survive."

She didn't leave.

"What's your name?" Georgiana asked.

"Ann."

"He will be fine, Ann, I promise."

She shrugged then left, closing the door.

Georgiana set quickly to work. Wrapping him in a blanket that wasn't really clean, she put his head in her lap again. She hoped he would stay unconscious for a little longer. With the candle close to her, she threaded the needle, and then wiped the blood from his wound. She pierced through his skin with the need and began the messy job of sewing up the cut.

Her hands shook and she took a deep breath to try to steady herself before continuing. After five stitches, she was done and she tied off the last stitch. She stood to wash her hands. Then she stripped the boy's filthy clothes off. He wore only a pair of torn breeches and a brown shirt with one solitary button.

His body was gaunt, his ribs threatening to come through his skin. He was covered in bruises of different shapes and sizes. His feet were unshod and covered in a thick layer of dirt. She tried to wash him to her satisfaction, but realized he would never be fully clean. She rinsed his clothes as best she could and hung them to dry. Finally, she sat again by the door, the pistol beside her on the table, and waited.

She was tired and she allowed herself to relax. Her mind wandered to her mother, and she sighed. She had no illusions about her mother. The real reason her mother wanted the marriage was that she feared Charles would eventually learn the truth about the girls.

Georgiana had no intention of telling Charles, but her mother didn't know that. Lady Wyndham was trying to protect Charles but she was also once again trying to safeguard her own good name. Her greatest fear always was the loss of that. She had gotten rid of Nurse Gibson for that reason. She had told Charles she held Nurse Gibson accountable for the bruises on Georgiana, saying the servant was untrustworthy. Charles had confided this to her and she had let him believe it. The truth was she didn't want Charles to know any of it. He didn't need to. It was in the past and it would serve no one now except to make Charles feel even guiltier for having left. More than anything, she didn't want him to know because she was ashamed.

She walked to the fireplace and poked at the feeble coals burning in the grate. Touching the clothes, she knew they were hours away from being dry again.

A groan from the bed got her attention, and she watched as the boy opened his eyes slowly, his face scrunched up in pain. He moved a hand toward his head but she stopped him from removing the cloth. As he became aware of her, he jumped up against the wall, clearly frightened.

"It's all right," she said reassuringly, and moved away from the bed. "I won't hurt you."

He didn't look convinced and she couldn't fault him. She sat on the chair by the door and his eyes went to the pistol next to her. Blast, she had forgotten the gun was there. "Look, I'm sorry I hit you, but I didn't know who was following me."

He watched her warily and she thought of the soup. She moved it across the table to him and put the bread next to it. "Are you hungry?" His eyes darted between the food and her, and she waited patiently for him to reach for it. He snatched the bread lightning fast and stuffed as much as he could into his mouth, never taking his eyes off her. He was wrapped in a blanket and he suddenly realized he was wearing no clothes, for his eyes widened and he stopped chewing. He saw his shirt and pants hanging by the fire, and looked at her accusingly.

"I stole your dirt, sorry," she said. "I washed you and sewed up the cut, too," she said, pointing at his head. He glared at her a moment, but then his hunger won over again. He reached for the soup and drank it from the bowl as quickly as he could. He used his finger to scrape out every last drop. Then he was at the fireplace and she was amazed at how quickly he moved. He grabbed his clothes and glared at her. They were still wet.

"Just let them dry," she said. "The room is paid for the night, so you might as well stay."

He shook his head, but put his clothes back to dry. The cloth she had wrapped around his head came off, and he left it where it fell on the floor. He returned to the bed and sat on its edge watching her.

"You don't speak much, do you?"

He shook his head and opened his mouth, showing her what was left of his tongue. She inhaled sharply, horrified. His tongue had been cut out.

"Who did that to you?" she asked, and then felt foolish. "Sorry."

He shrugged.

"I guess it would be useless to ask you why you followed me."

This time he smiled.

"Do you write?" she asked hopefully, but she already knew the answer before he shook his head. Where would a street urchin have learned to write? She sighed, defeated.

"Do you know where I live?" she asked and he nodded.

"Are you going to keep following me?"

Another nod.

"Right." She studied him, at a loss. There wasn't really anything for her to do. If she couldn't make him stop following her, maybe he could be of some use. He lived on these streets and he had been pretty good at following her until tonight. "You grew up on these streets?"

A nod.

"You know them well?"

Another nod.

"You know people here?"

Nod.

"Right, then. How about I employ you to help me and that way you can keep an eye on my every movement without getting smacked on the head again?"

She knew she wasn't going to give up her nightly excursions. She had tried. But she had to be clever about it or she would be caught. She had much to learn about the streets of this city and who better to teach her than someone who lived in them?

He considered it for a moment and made a movement with his hand she had seen frequently in this part of London.

"How much am I willing to pay?"

A nod.

"How about a half shilling every night we go out?"

He shook his head. The little scamp was tough.

"A shilling then, no more."

He nodded and smiled, satisfied. He got off the bed, spit in his hand, and extended it to her. She hesitated before taking it and sealed the bargain. He opened his hand to her and waited.

"Oh, you want to start tonight then?"

He nodded.

She shook her head. "Tonight, you rest. We will start tomorrow."

He looked disappointed but accepted her decision and turned his attention to the pistol. She let him pick it up because it wasn't loaded. He examined it and frowned at her when he saw it was empty. Disgusted, he threw it down on the table and gestured something to her. She had no way of knowing what he was trying to say. He was probably upset about the pistol and calling her a fool, which she knew to be true.

"You need to learn to write and read," she said.

He looked at her with what she guessed might be astonishment. He seemed to think it over, and then slowly he shook his head.

"I will teach you anyway. It's part of your employment duties," she said, scowling at him.

He scratched his head and glared at her like some feral animal caught in a trap, and she sympathized, as she knew the feeling well. She made him promise to spend the night in the room, and then said good night. She walked down the dark corridor and out of the bustling inn. Nobody paid her any attention. She had become adept at disappearing in a crowd.

#

"I must say what fine weather it is for a picnic in the country," Lady Delamere pronounced as she stuffed another tart in her mouth.

Georgiana had to agree. Blankets were spread out on the gentle slope overlooking hills of green countryside. A table laden with food was set up, carried all the way by footmen who now stood in their uniforms and white gloves waiting to serve the guests. Roast partridge, lemon fish, brown hulled peas, beans dressed in cream, tiny buttered potatoes and black pools of caviar had been excellently prepared. The tarts and sweets were numerous and a cake sat waiting to be cut. Lady Delamere had invited them to a picnic on her estate, Primrose Hill. More accurately, she wanted Charles to meet her daughters. Unfortunately, that meant they all had to be in attendance, including Georgiana, because Charles insisted on taking all his sisters.

She thought of the young pickpocket and what he would think of this extravaganza. They had so much food here, and no one paid it much attention. Were this feast laid out in St. Giles, it would be much more appreciated and soon gone.

She took a deep breath of the spring country air to clear her thoughts. Sheep grazed in the distance and a church spire rose up into the clear sky. The outdoors felt freeing, even if she couldn't join Jane and Margaret as they ran across the field chasing butterflies. Charles's return to London had brought the matrons out in full swarm to land him for their daughters. Regrettably, an initial mourning period had to be observed, but with the arrival of spring, they could hold back no longer. Mother had agreed to this one outing, as it would be a discreet gathering of good friends in the country, nothing indecent. She herself remained in mourning.

Charles sat surrounded by Lady Delamere's three daughters as they plied him with questions about his heroic endeavors at sea. He answered and smiled and flirted with them, enjoying their company and making sure not to single any girl out.

Georgiana considered her mother who sat close by, silent and still annoyed that the twins and her daughter were in attendance. She had managed to keep the twins housebound almost since birth, but Charles refused to attend unless the children did. In the end, Mama was forced to relinquish the point or give up the engagement, which at such a late hour would have been against all good manners.

"Lady Wyndham tells us that you are to be engaged," Mrs. Desmond said to Georgiana. "Congratulations are in order, then?"

"Thank you," Georgiana said, feeling annoyed that her mother was already talking about the marriage. She was wasting no time. "Sir Edward has yet to propose, though."

"Not proposed?" Lady Delamere said, shocked. "Then I am left confused."

"It was arranged before my dear husband's death," Lady Wyndham explained. "Under the circumstances, we have had to postpone the happy news."

"Such a dark horse you are," Lady Delamere said to Lady Wyndham.

Jane screamed as she fell from the branch of a tree, but she soon stood up again and dusted herself off. Lady Wyndham stood up in annoyance and walked toward the twins. She scolded them for their unladylike behavior and Margaret climbed down reluctantly. They were soon happy to pick flowers, the tree forgotten.

"Such wild children," Mrs. Desmond commented. "Why, my girls all have mild tempers and now are married to good-humored, respectable husbands."

"Indeed," Georgiana said, feeling sorry for them.

"It's quite a wonder you have not married earlier, Lady Georgiana. Did you have a season before your unfortunate accident?" she asked, eyeing Georgiana's legs under the flowing black material.

"Yes, several," she answered, and opened her parasol as she leaned back against the cushions.

"But your father found no one suitable?"

"He did not."

Lady Delamere smiled at her. "He doted on you, he did. I remember quite well his devotion to you. He would not leave your side, and scowled at every handsome suitor. I do believe he was quite the most affectionate and indulgent father to you. You must miss him dearly."

Georgiana smiled ironically at her mother, enjoying her discomfort but wishing never to talk about her father again. She wanted to leave it all in the past and never have to speak of it. She looked out toward the road at some riders in the distance. She shielded her eyes but already knew who approached.

"Ah, finally, here comes Captain Markham," Lady Delamere said. "Charles, you shall have some male company after all, and not have the girls' attentions to yourself for much longer. I wonder who it is he has with him."

The riders galloped up the hill and dismounted. Charles escorted his small sisters over and introduced them to Captain Markham and his friend Mr. Philip Tavish from Shropshire. He was a tall man of six and twenty, Georgina guessed. His clothes were of rich fabrics in bright colors and she wondered that such a dandy would join a simple country picnic. He bowed to her and raised his head, smiling.

Tavish paid a great deal of attention to the young ladies and, delighted with the new arrivals, soon the Delamere daughters had them seated on their blanket comparing the finer points of living in the country and the city. The servants poured cordials and offered pies, then retreated to once again stand aside and wait.

"Such pretty and accomplished young daughters, you have, Lady Delamere," her mother said, watching the three. Georgiana wondered how her mother could tell from such a short time spent amongst them. All Georgiana could ascertain from the short acquaintance was that Eleanor was given to vanity, Daphne spoke too much and Henrietta spoke hardly at all. They were all pretty enough, she supposed, but she could not imagine Charles married to any of them.

"I have done my duty by them," Lady Delamere said. "They have knowledge of sewing, dancing, music, and language. I have tried to achieve in them a pleasant manner of conversation and address, which is often lacking in an accomplished woman. As you can see, there is no lack of conversation between them."

Georgiana glanced at Henrietta in confusion for she sat next to Mr. Tavish in silence. He in turn was watching Georgiana, who lowered her eyes.

"I believe for a young girl to be truly accomplished, she must also have taste and elegance," Mr. Tavish said, addressing Lady Wyndham.

"Quite so," her mother replied. "But it all starts with good breeding, does it not? If one fails in that, all else is lost, I'm afraid."

Georgiana wanted to laugh, but stifled it behind a yawn instead.

"What say you, Georgiana, do you feel accomplished?" Lady Delamere asked.

"I'm afraid I do not have much to recommend me," she said.

"Oh, come, surely that is not true," Eleanor said. "Charles has said that you are quite an accomplished horsewoman."

The attention of all was suddenly on Georgiana, and she glanced at Charles to see him smile at her.

"I'm afraid my riding days are over. As for the usual accomplishments a young lady is expected to have, I am a failure. I cannot sew well. I never took much notice of the pianoforte. I can no longer dance and my voice when I sing makes the dogs howl. I am neither elegant nor willing to adhere to correct comportment and I give in to the worst of sins in that I give my opinions freely."

Lady Delamere laughed. "My dear, it cannot be as bad as all that, surely?"

"You have only to ask my mother, who can confirm all."

Lady Wyndham glared at her. "It is true. I have long suffered under Georgiana's temper."

"There, you see," she said and smiled.

"And these opinions of yours, are they modern?" Daphne asked slyly.

"I'm afraid so."

"Dear me," Eleanor said, sensing fun to be had. "You must give us a sample so we may judge for ourselves if you are indeed lost."

"I do not think it necessary," Lady Wyndham said, giving her daughter a hard look.

"No, I insist, Lady Wyndham, we are after all amongst friends," Daphne said.

Georgiana smiled. "I confess that I find the idea that a woman must be accomplished is a disgrace. I generally despise women for allowing themselves to be enslaved to a lifetime of servitude, thus denying themselves any rights. There, I have said it."

There was a brief silence and the young ladies shared a nervous smile.

"How shocking," Daphne declared. "But whatever can you mean?"

"I mean, Daphne, that we women are not people but playthings, taught to value obedience by our mothers who perpetuate our disadvantaged circumstances while men are allowed a great freedom. They are allowed to own property and inherit. They are allowed to make a living. They can entertain themselves by gambling away a fortune, by getting drunk every night if they so wish. They may have harlots to entertain them, and after the heirs are provided, may even keep a mistress, provided they are discreet. All a woman is allowed to be is accomplished, and provide male children."

"It is the most a woman can hope for. She must first obey her father, then her husband. She owns nothing and must know nothing beyond how to entertain. If she is destitute, she cannot earn her own living. She is little better than a brood mare with the same value as one if she is fortunate. I believe being accomplished is not a goal for which any young lady should strive. It is but an insult to her gender for she can be so much more."

Her monologue was followed by utter silence with only the birds still to be heard. The company around her sat stunned, and she lowered her eyes and tried hard not to smile. She had shocked even Charles. She dared not look at her mother, knowing what she would see there.

"That is quite abominable, Georgiana," Lady Delamere said, recovering first. "Surely, we do not deserve such censure as mothers."

"You deny the state women find themselves in?"

"I cannot. But what is to be done? One must, after all, adhere to those around one. It is the way things are."

Georgiana found the old woman's honesty refreshing.

"We need a revolution," Georgiana said. "Teach your daughters to demand more from their husbands and themselves."

"I have warned you that she has no calmness of temper. It is a defect that no amount of good breeding or education can overcome," her mother said, fanning herself vigorously lest a fainting spell should arise.

"And you, Eleanor?" Georgiana challenged the young woman, ignoring her mother. "Do you not feel cheated by life, having been born female?"

"Not at all," she said, glancing at Charles and smiling. "I am content to serve my husband and wish only that I may have the honor to do so one day."

"Ah, spoken like a well-bred young lady. Wouldn't you say, mother?" She laughed at Eleanor's words, not surprised. "You bring to mind my father's pointer bitch; she, too, was well trained."

"Enough, Georgiana," Charles said. "You go too far."

"My apologies, Eleanor," she said, contrite. "I'm afraid my manners are in disuse."

"Not at all," she replied graciously.

"What say you, men?" Georgiana asked, addressing the outnumbered men. "Will you give us the power to own land, to make a living and determine our own fates?"

"That and the moon and stars, did you wish it, Georgiana," Nicholas said with a smile, and everyone laughed as the tension lifted.

"Good heavens, Miss Georgiana Wyndham, you have certainly got spirit," Lady Delamere declared. "I for one feel that spirit is much needed in a woman under the circumstances you have described."

"You are kind," she said. "Would that others agreed with you."

Jane and Margaret came running up to the adults and fell down on the blanket next to Georgiana, each with a bouquet for her. "For me?" she asked, and they nodded in pleasure.

"We want to go down to the water, Georgy, can we please?" Margaret asked, her shiny brown hair flying about her face.

Georgiana put her flowers in her lap, and pulled Margaret closer to re-pin her hair, knowing it would soon escape its bounds again. "You will have to ask Charles," she smiled.

Jane's foot knocked over a glass, and spilled Lady Delamere's ale on her yellow dress.

"Oh, do be careful," Lady Wyndham said, raising her voice and angrily pulling the child's foot away. "I do apologize, Lady Delamere."

"That's quite alright, dear," she said to Jane. "I was done with it anyway. A walk down to the water sounds the right idea."

She stood up, and reached out a hand to the girls. They looked at Georgiana who nodded at them. They took Lady Delamere's hands and happily skipped off. The young ladies joined the expedition, and soon only Georgiana and Nicholas were left to watch them find dragonflies by the water. Jane was happy to hold on to Lady Delamere who seemed delighted by her spirit while Margaret found Charles more engaging. He made her a boat from a piece of wood and they floated it down the stream. She had never seen the girls so happy, and it was thanks to Charles.

She closed her eyes and listened to their laughter floating on the breeze, thinking this was how she would remember the day. She didn't open her eyes when she felt Nicholas sit down next to her. He sat silently and she finally sat up out of curiosity. He was studying a flower between his hands.

"Have you lost interest in the fair accomplished young ladies already?" she asked and glanced toward the stream where one of the young ladies in question was watching them.

"I keep you company for I cannot comprehend such neglect."

"Oh, Nicholas. You always were chivalrous but I assure you I am not in need of pity. Go and join them. Look, the young Miss Daphne seems quite enamored of you for she keeps glancing our way."

"The young Miss Daphne sadly does not hold my attention."

"No? Why ever not? She is quite pretty with her light complexion and pretty lips."

"Then you kiss her."

Georgiana feigned shock, and he smiled at her reaction. He saw the others had gathered by the water. "She is pretty enough, but shy and diffident."

"Then you prefer a more passionate nature?"

"I prefer a true paragon of virtue. An amiable-tempered girl who can cheer my evenings," he teased.

"Dear lord, that sounds dull."

"Then I defer to your greater wisdom. Tell me, what would you seek in a wife?"

"I would begin with a bold rider, a decent shot, and a woman who can recognize the finer qualities of a good port. With these true accomplishments in place, you are assured of good taste, passion and a fine figure."

Nicholas laughed. "I salute your superior choice."

Their conversation seemed to annoy Miss Daphne for she whispered angrily to her sister who turned to glance at them with a frown. "We are creating scandal, Nicholas," she sighed.

He took her hand in his and turned it over, kissing her palm. "Then let us warrant it, Miss Wyndham."

"Why, Captain Markham, you have grown bold."

"Do you disapprove?"

"Hardly, I only fear for your reputation for I have taken leave of my senses and suffer from a great lack of good judgment."

He smiled. "You are grown cynical and hard on men, it is true."

"Forgive me, Nicholas. I think highly of you and Charles, of course."

"I wonder then what has brought you to such a bitter state."

"Is that what I seem to be?" she asked sadly. "I suppose it must be."

He studied her intently, a frown back on his face and she was conscious of her perspiring cheeks. It was a hot day and her parasol did little to keep the heat at bay. She wanted to wipe her handkerchief across her brow but could not do it with him watching. The jacket she wore did not help but she could not take it off for fear people would see the scars on her wrists. She had become used to hiding them but warm summer days did not help.

"You are too warm," he said, noticing exactly what she didn't want him to see. "It is no wonder if you are determined to dress in long sleeves. Is the fashion not for short this season?"

"Since when did you adhere to fashion and in particular notice women's fashion?"

"I notice everything about you. Will you not remove your jacket and be more comfortable?"

She wanted to curse. "No, I am quite comfortable."

"You clearly are not," he laughed. "Here I will help you."

He untied the ribbon that tied her light jacket in front and she caught his hands.

"No, Nicholas, please," she said, her voice sounding far too desperate even to her own ears.

He stopped and withdrew, frowning at her as she retied the jacket.

"Why not?" he asked. "Are you hiding more bruises?"

"Yes," she said. "I told you I am clumsy."

"So it would seem," he said, frowning.

He would not release her hand though and removed her glove, running his thumb over her palm intimately. The small movement caused her heart to race, and she knew she had to tell him, for it was not fair to allow him to consider her for a moment longer. He picked a wildflower from among the grass intent on giving it to her.

"Charles has not spoken to you of the news?" she asked quickly.

"I have not had much occasion of late to speak to Charles. I have been away to my estate in Devonshire and have returned only this morning."

"I see."

"Will you not tell me then?" he asked, smiling, the flower in his hand. She hesitated, not wishing to cause any hurt but knowing it was the right thing to do. Maybe his flirtation was only that.

"I am to be engaged to Sir Edward Fairchild," she said, casually looking toward where Margaret stood with Charles, admiring something she held in her hands. She didn't want to see the effect her words had on him. He was silent for a good long while and his thumb no longer caressed her palm. Still he held her hand.

"Georgiana, look at me," he said finally.

Reluctantly she turned to him, wanting to cry at the pain she saw on his face. It was true then; he did still love her. She had hoped his feelings had matured since his childhood crush. She hated her part in the world that would hurt him. Charles was right when he said Nicholas was everything that was good and decent.

"It cannot be true. You would not agree to such a match."

"Why would I not?" she asked softly, her voice wavering.

"You swore you would only marry for love."

"Did I?"

She had, long ago when she still believed the world good. Before her father.

"When you broke my nose that was what you said to me."

Why did he have to remember every detail?

"I was a child, then not knowing yet that as a woman I would have no control over my own life. I am to do as I am told. I am to be affable and well mannered. It is expected for I, Nicholas, am not a child anymore and I cannot think as a child. Our kind does not marry for love, you know that."

He let go of her hand and she dropped it onto her lap, feeling the loss.

"You have allowed them to turn you into the creature you despise. What a hypocrite you are," he said angrily, crushing the flower in his hands, and tossing it violently away.

"That is not fair. The only option I have in this life is to marry. Why are you so angry with me?" she cried, playing the simpleton because it was safer to do so.

"Because I am in love with you and have been in love with you as long as I can remember."

"Nicholas, you must not say that." She should have known he was no coward. He would not pretend anything other than what he was.

"Why? You know this to be true for you are no fool. I have never been able to hide my feelings for you, and had no wish to do so."

"This is absurd. You were infatuated with me, perhaps, but that is not love. To love someone you must know her, and you do not know me. I have seen you but twice since your return, and you were absent from my life for a good long while. The person you knew was a child with the passions of a child, not yet familiar with the world as it truly is. I am much altered and did you really know me as I am now, you could not love me."

"Allow me to know my own feelings," he said angrily. "I love you, Georgiana, though you will not have me. I had hoped to prove myself to you on my return, but find I am too late to show you that my feelings are in earnest."

He stood then and walked a little way from her to stand and stare at the river. She watched him, waiting until he turned back to her. "Give me time to win you. That is all I ask."

She felt her heart constrict, and turned her face away from him, wanting to cry out at the cruelty of it. She did not love him, but she did not want to hurt him either. He had been a dear and good friend to her and Charles, but she must drive him away. She turned back to him, her emotions barely under control.

"Nicholas, you are a dear friend, and I have long thought of you as a brother. I have no feelings of love for you beyond that. If I marry you or I marry Lord Fairchild, what difference does it make? I would still not marry for love."

He looked away from her, out toward the hills. She wanted to take the words back, but it was too late. It was for the best, she knew, but it made it no less terrible.

"In one sense, you are correct, madam. I do no longer know you, for the girl I remember was not cruel, and she was no coward to be led about like some prime bit of blood."

He bowed formally to her, then strode to his horse and rode away.

Charles and Margaret walked up the hill toward her, and she composed herself. "Look, Georgy," Margaret said. "It's a worm."

She looked so happy and proud of her find and Georgiana admired it greatly, her inner turmoil well hidden. Then Margaret ran back to the water to join her sister and Lady Delamere. "You told him," Charles said.

She nodded. "He hates me now, Charles. I have lost his good opinion and I fear it will be lost forever, but the worst is, I have lost a friend."

"Nicholas could never hate you, and you misjudge his character for he is not so easily put off. You will see him again, I wager. He has been dealt a blow and must only find his balance again."

He returned to the water's edge and Georgiana lay back and closed her eyes, hoping he was wrong. She had not the strength left to fight Nicholas. She had tried her best to put him off—so much so that she quite loathed herself.

***

It was far too warm in the drawing room. Her mother fixed her with such an intense stare that Georgiana found herself fidgeting. She wound her handkerchief through her fingers and turned to look at the clock. He was late. A quarter hour had passed from the hour of his stated arrival. It did not bode well. They were expecting Sir Edward Fairchild.

Charles had been satisfied in Fairchild's character and reputation and all that was left to do was meet this man who was to take control of her. She wore a gown less severe than her usual mourning dress. Her mother had insisted. Her short hair was decorated with a ribbon and her mother had even tried to apply some color to her face, but Georgiana had refused it. Charles paced by the window and Georgiana wished he would seat himself as his energy was not helping her nerves. She dreaded the opening of the door.

Her father's reputation had been one of the best and it meant nothing to her that Sir Edward was of the same standing. He had an estate in the country and a London house where he spent most of his time. His estate was in dire need of money; he would be forced to sell his London house if he did not marry soon. Charles did not see this as a sign of bad character, only a weakness of mind that in itself was not harmful.

She could draw from him no satisfactory description of his looks, being awarded only that he looked well enough for a man, if somewhat overly dressed for one. She could conclude that her brother looked favorably on him.

A knock on the front door echoed through the hall and she tensed.

"That is him, Georgiana. Are you sure about this?" Charles asked. "It is not too late."

She glanced at her mother, who smiled at her.

"I am sure, Charles."

Yates announced him and Sir Edward entered the room after his perfume had already made its own introduction. Georgiana smiled as she felt herself surrounded by a rose garden, for Sir Edward not only smelled like one but also carried it on his person in the form of color and pattern. He was blindingly spectacular from his shiny Hessian boots, which had never seen a particle of dirt, to the large diamond in his cravat. His puce jacket was cut to perfection, and in his left hand, he held his quizzing glass. His collar was starched stiff and high and he had beautiful white lace at his cuffs.

"My dear Lady Wyndham, what a great honor," he said and bowed low, first to her mother then to Charles. "Sir Charles."

"Sir Edward."

He then turned to Georgiana and made a deep bow indeed and said. "Lady Georgiana, at long last."

"Sir Edward," she said and smiled.

"I must first offer my deepest condolences on your loss," he said. "I hope Lady Wyndham has informed you of my sentiments. I called on two previous occasions, but you were too distressed to receive me."

"I do apologize," she said. "I was not able to receive anyone in my state of sadness."

"I understand," he said. "It was a big shock, indeed."

Charles bid him to sit and he did so across from her, crossing his legs smoothly. Her brother guided the conversation in a more pleasant direction, giving her time to study her future. He was not as old as she had expected, and he cut a good figure in his tight cream pantaloons. A silk waistcoat of puce and primrose complemented his jacket, which was cut to his broad shoulders. His dark hair was cut long and looked like it had been windblown, but she knew it to be artfully arranged for effect. She had expected an old man who would leer at her, not a young dandy who barely looked at her at all. His attention was for Charles and her mother, whom he complimented to the point of making her blush. Georgiana watched, amazed, as her mother simpered like a girl in love.

Then it was time for Charles and her mother to leave the room, and she was left alone with her suitor.

"Well, Lady Georgiana, it seems we are to perform."

"Indeed," she smiled. "Do you know your part well then?"

"Tolerably, having performed it once before."

"Yes, I had heard. I am sorry that you suffered the misfortune of losing your first wife. No doubt, you must have loved her deeply."

"Not at all," he smiled. "We could barely stand the sight of the other, I am afraid."

He watched her closely for her reaction. She raised an eyebrow but guarded herself carefully. He admired her restraint and she his honesty.

"You are not shocked by such plain speaking, Miss Wyndham?"

"No. I prefer it to the dishonest discourse which passes for polite conversation."

"Excellent. Then we have that at least in common."

"May I ask you then, sir, since candor is not amiss here, why is it you wish to marry me?"

"I thought that quite in the open," he said and took a pinch of snuff from a gold box and inhaled it.

"You marry me for my money."

"Yes, indeed," he said. "Does that distress you?"

"Only if you mean to spend it all and leave me nothing."

He laughed. "Yes, indeed, that would be an injustice. I must confess that money holds an interest for me only when I can spend it. Otherwise, I find it a bore. This is why I find myself in need of a rich bride, as I am sure you know. My estate is in need of a firm hand or a rich purse, and I have no desire to go running about the countryside."

"You are aware then that I am not capable of giving you a child."

"Yes, your father had informed me before his death of your circumstances. As I already have an heir, you can set your mind at ease that I will not require your wifely duties in my bed," he said with amusement. "I require only that, in every other respect, you act as my wife with decorum and duty."

His manner more than his words put her at ease and she was allowing herself a glimmer of hope that perhaps she would not be doomed to a life of hell after all.

"I am sure I could suffer duty but decorum has long been my weakness. However, I will endeavor to become better acquainted with it."

"Excellent," he smiled. "But tell me, Miss Wyndham, is this truly your wish? You do not have some other young man whom you would prefer?"

She looked at him in surprise. "I confess that I am amazed you should speak of my wishes. I have long been schooled that I am even fortunate to be considered by one such as you."

"I must agree. My handsome countenance and excellent condition do speak for themselves. But I also have manners, good breeding, and a wit matched by few. Fortune has indeed smiled on you."

He made this pronouncement so seriously, she wasn't certain if he was in jest for she did not know him. He watched her without so much as a sign until he smiled and she laughed in relief.

"Come, Miss Wyndham, let us embark as friends with honesty between us. Is this what you wish?"

"Yes," she nodded.

He stood and kneeled before her then, and taking her hand in his, he opened his mouth to propose, but got no further. The door suddenly burst open, and Nicholas stormed into the room followed by an apologetic butler.

"I am sorry, miss, but the gentleman insisted."

Fairchild sighed and closed his mouth again. He glanced at her. "Enter the young man, besotted and ready to do battle." He stood up slowly and bowed to Nicholas. "You have arrived, I want to say, at an inopportune time, but fear you already know that."

"You are deceived, Sir Edward, to think of making a proposal to Miss Wyndham."

"Indeed, how so?"

"She is to marry me."

Georgiana glared at Nicholas and said. "Yates, would you please fetch Lord Wyndham."

The butler left to do as he was told.

"Marry you? And who are you, sir?"

"Nicholas Markham."

"Ah, Markham. I have heard a many good things of you, but not that you are engaged. I assure you I have quizzed Miss Wyndham as to any impediment to our engagement and she had not mentioned you." He turned to her, his eyebrow raised. "Miss Wyndham, is it true? Are you engaged to Nicholas Markham?"

"I am not, Sir Edward, and have given him no hope that I would consent to such a match."

Sir Edward turned back to Nicholas. "There you have it. The young lady has, I believe, made her choice, and it is quite fortunately turned in my favor. Now, if you will excuse us, I have a proposal to return to."

Sir Edward turned back to Georgiana, but was stopped by Nicholas, who took hold of Sir Edward's arm to stop him.

"I will not allow it."

"Not allow it? Good sir, unhand me," Sir Edward insisted.

"Georgiana, this is madness," Nicholas beseeched her.

"Leave, Nicholas," she said angrily.

"I cannot. Not until you promise you won't marry him."

"I will marry him."

"He will gamble away every cent until you are left with nothing. He is depraved and debauched, the kind of man you said you loathed."

"Debauched!" Sir Edward said, an eyebrow raised. "That's a bit strong, sir, and if you continue to insult my honor, you may leave me no choice but to defend it."

"No," Georgiana cried desperate to stop what she could see happening before her eyes.

They stood facing each other, of equal height and stature, and she prayed Charles would arrive soon.

"Unhand me and apologize," Sir Edward demanded.

"I will not. You are not fit to marry her."

"Then, I shall have my satisfaction!" Sir Edward growled. "My honor has been besmirched, good sir."

Georgiana wanted to stand up and cross the room, if only to hit Nicholas across the face hard enough to stop this scene. She glared at him instead. "Nicholas, stop this. I will never marry you."

He turned to look at her, a hard, tortured look on his face, and she wanted to go to him. Why could he not be like other men, and accept that the world must dictate her fate? She had always known him to be passionate in his feelings, but not to the point of self-destruction. "I am, madam, at your mercy," he said. "I do what I must, for I know no other way."

She wanted to cry but pleaded with him instead. "Please, Nicholas, don't."

Nicholas turned back to Sir Edward and said, "We meet at dawn."

"Choose your weapon then," Sir Edward said.

"Swords."

They bowed to each other and Nicholas left as Charles arrived.

***

Hampstead Heath was eerily quiet, the trees barely illuminated in the early morning light. Charles was pacing outside the coach as they waited for Nicholas to arrive. The physician sat in his own coach awaiting the outcome. Georgiana watched Sir Edward speaking to his second, his expression not giving a hint of the gravity of his situation. He was calm, dressed today in white shirt and black waistcoat but still sporting his Hessian boots. His cravat was missing entirely. It was quite a change from his attire of the previous day.

She had insisted on being present even though her brother had, at first, refused. She had won him over only by saying she deserved to see the duel, as it would be her fault if someone were killed. His anger with her had been evident. He avoided her now for fear he would say something to her that he would regret.

"Maybe he won't appear," she said as he passed.

"He will." The words seemed to conjure Nicholas from the mist as suddenly he stood in the clearing in uniform, his sword at his side, behind him stood his second. Sir Edward removed his coat and brought it to the coach, handing it to her.

"Sir Edward," she said, as he turned to take his sword.

He turned back to her, a questioning look on his face.

"I beg of you, if it comes to it, spare his life."

"My dear, it's a sword fight. Delivering wounds are its aim. Your request is one I cannot promise to fulfill. Isn't your sentiment with the wrong man?"

She had managed only to anger him further, and thus make him far more likely to hurt Nicholas. Why had it come to this? She was no one, certainly not a beautiful lady who drove men to suicidal tendencies. She knew Sir Edward's motive was money and perhaps pride. She did not understand why Nicholas would throw away his life for an idea as fickle as love. Had she not proved to him that his case was hopeless? She did not love him and could never love any man. She would never allow herself to be so weakened by an emotion. Nicholas's actions only proved her right.

Even now, he watched her with such intensity that she could almost feel him touch her. He was a fool. He was about to die for someone who did not return his devotion. She was not worth his life. No woman was, but she should have known he would not give up without a fight.

But even if she had known it would come to this, how could she have prevented it? His gaze burned into her, and she ached to reach him, to talk him out of this madness that could end his life. She was not uncaring, for he was after all like a brother to her. She owed him more than she could ever repay, and this was not how she imagined it would end.

"Come to your marks."

Nicholas had removed his coat and stood like Sir Edward in a white shirt. They raised their swords to each other then assumed an en guard position, sword tips touching. A third party took his own sword and placed it under theirs, then raised it suddenly, parting the swords, and the duel began.

Nicholas lunged forward, attacking first, his right leg leading and putting Sir Edward on the defensive. He moved with a speed that she hoped wasn't recklessness. Despite all his quickness, his blade never touched his opponent. The swords scraped and rang against each other, and she flinched at the sound.

Sir Edward elegantly parried the blows aimed at him, backing up as Nicholas advanced, the attack coming hard and strong. It was obvious that Nicholas being the younger and stronger had on his side energy and force, but Sir Edward seemed to be able to hold him off with skill. The two men circled a tree, trading feints and thrusts, almost impossible to see clearly through the mist. The sound of the swords sliding against each other and coming together rang out loudly in the stillness of the morning, jarring her nerves as she watched in horror.

She inhaled sharply as Sir Edward stumbled under the onslaught, catching himself with his free hand as he fell to his knee, his sword still engaged. Nicholas pressed his advantage and moved forward, but Sir Edward avoided his deadly aim, and grabbed his opponent's arm, pulling himself up and unbalancing Nicholas. The move left Nicholas vulnerable, and Sir Edward's sword found the exposed flank, cutting deep into Nicholas's flesh. She winced as he stumbled. Finding his footing, he continued the attack.

Georgiana could see now that Sir Edward held the upper hand, and had since the beginning. His actions were not clouded by a reckless passion, rather controlled and calculating. He manipulated Nicholas into showing his weaknesses, his impetuous confidence.

His shirt scarlet, Nicholas was bleeding heavily but refused to quit the duel, ignoring Charles who tried to interfere, pushing him aside. The wound should have been enough to stop the contest, according to the rules, but neither man seemed to want to end it.

Nicholas continued to advance, intent and lethal, aiming for his opponent's heart. He came close, and slashed through to Sir Edward's shoulder. Sir Edward continued to avoid his blows, waiting for Nicholas to exhaust himself, or for the loss of blood to slow him down, but the younger man kept the pressure on him.

Georgiana saw the moment when Sir Edward changed his tactics. The feint was accomplished so subtly, but the outcome was lethal as he maneuvered Nicholas into a defense that put him at a disadvantage. Then Sir Edward moved forward, coming in hard with a lunge.

Nicholas had not expected the move but still managed to catch it on his blade. Sir Edward again came up under his guard with a twist of his wrist and aimed his point accurately. Nicholas deflected the parry before the sword would have sunk into his heart, saving himself, but the blow struck him on his injured side, jarring him again. Sir Edward disengaged his sword and with a combined parry and riposte moved forward, closing the distance between them to attack again, a bloodthirsty look in his eye.

Georgiana wanted to scream for them to stop but didn't want to distract Nicholas, who was now fighting for his life. The advantage had shifted, as Nicholas lost blood. She gave him only a few more minutes before he would drop.

Why didn't Charles do something? She lifted the blankets from across her legs and swung the carriage door wide, ready to jump out. She watched in horror as Sir Edward made a lunging run. Nicholas stumbled back under the onslaught and, losing his balance, went down hard. With another twist of his wrist, Sir Edward disarmed him, sending Nicholas' sword flying, and moved in for his throat.

Georgiana heard herself scream, and Sir Edward stopped his blade at Nicholas's throat, his eyes on her. She shook her head, her eyes pleading, and he stepped back and walked away, leaving his opponent bleeding on the ground. She wanted to go to Nicholas, but sat back against the seat and closed the door instead. She pulled the hood of her black cloak over her face. Sir Edward climbed in and the coach moved away back to the streets of London.

#

They were married within a fortnight in a small church near the Fairchild country estate in Devonshire. The quiet ceremony took a quarter of an hour, and Georgiana was barely conscious of her surroundings as she repeated the words required of her. She was seated in front of the altar, as was Sir Edward, who seemed more focused on a crease in his pantaloons, which seemed to give him offence, than on his bride.

His coat of puce superfine was draped over his broad shoulders by a master. His waistcoat was silver and white, elegant in pattern and stitch. His cravat, as usual, was beautifully tied but this time he wore in it a ruby pin. She looked quite drab beside him even though she wore her best, a light blue muslin gown with lace. She clutched her bouquet of white roses and thyme firmly, and lifted her chin higher, trying desperately not to give into the need to stand up and run out of the church. What a shock that would give them, she thought, and smiled to herself.

The vicar caught her smile and stumbled over his next words. In his dark grey cassock he swayed in front of her slightly as he read from the Bible, and she tried to pay attention to the verse. His hands were unusually strong for those of a vicar. Their skin a nut brown, they looked like a farmer's hands. Did vicars work that hard? she wondered, while she studied his face which was equally tanned and rugged.

He was blond with neatly combed short hair, and his eyes were the color of the sky on a sunny day. Only his sizable nose prevented him from being truly handsome, but his mouth was sensual enough to further the idea. She smiled to herself as her thoughts turned to kissing the vicar, wondering if his lips were as soft as they appeared.

He wore no ring. She knew that a vicar drew a good wage, enough to keep him comfortably, and the small village they had driven through had looked prosperous enough. A young handsome vicar with a good income and unmarried? There had to be something wrong with him. She studied him more intensely.

He glanced up from his Bible and met her gaze. Again, he stumbled over the next sentence before finding his equilibrium, and she smiled, pleased to have an effect on him. Then, remembering she was here on her wedding day, she frowned and returned to studying the stone floor. Maybe she was as crazy as people probably thought she was.

After the ceremony, the party moved to Ravenstone Park, the Fairchild family estate in Devonshire. The carriage drove from the church, with its stone walls and spire, through the small seaside village of Linton, the beach deserted of walkers or fishermen. Boats lay like beached whales at low tide. Curious villagers lined the streets to watch the carriages pass and she returned a few waves she received.

A roundabout road through a park ended at a high wall covered in ivy behind which hid Ravenstone, clinging to its hill overlooking the ocean. Mullioned windows, pointed gables, and massive chimney stacks could be seen over the wall, and once they entered through the gates, she could see the entire stone mansion. She could not decide if the manor house was ugly or truly striking, as it seemed an odd mixture of a Gothic castle and a more traditional Tudor mansion.

"Do not judge it too harshly, my dear. It is built around a medieval manor," Sir Edward said, watching her reaction to her first sight of her new home. "Give it time and it will surprise you yet with its strange beauty."

She smiled and gazed back at the structure, which seemed to loom over her as they approached. The servants waited outside the great front door in two straight lines to greet the new mistress of the house, and she swallowed in apprehension at this new life she had begun.

The carriage slowed, then stopped, and Sir Edward carried her past the servants, who bowed and curtsied as the couple passed. Inside, a grand marble staircase led up to the floors above and she glanced at the family portraits that hung on the wall. The faces all seemed to frown or scowl at her. They were a serious looking group of ancestors. Edward carried her easily, and soon they reached a drawing room where he deposited her on a settee near the fireplace, and placed a blanket over her lap.

"If you will excuse me a moment, I have a few matters to see to and then I shall return to your side directly. I will order some tea. Is there anything else you wish?"

"No, thank you," she said. He bowed and left.

She undid the ribbon on her bonnet, and put it on the settee next to her. Rubbing her temples, she lay back against the settee and closed her eyes to her new reality. The tea soon arrived carried by the housekeeper, Mrs. Bristow.

"Welcome to Ravenstone, my lady," the woman said. "If you require anything, let me know."

"Thank you," Georgiana smiled, too tired to make any other conversation.

Charles and her mother arrived in the drawing room as Mrs. Bristow was leaving.

"Good heavens, it is a grand house," her mother said, walking to the windows to glance out at the gardens. She ran a white-gloved hand over the writing desk and frowned at the dust on her glove. "But it has been too long neglected."

Charles frowned at her and sat down next to Georgiana as she poured the tea. "Mama, we are just arrived at Ravenstone, and may I remind you, we are here to celebrate a wedding, not criticize our host's housekeeper?"

"Indeed. Has it not been a most suitable match, Georgiana?" her mother asked, looking down her nose.

"Yes, most suitable, Mother. Sir Edward is most agreeable, and I have reconciled myself to my fate."

"I am so pleased," her mother smiled, and seated herself opposite them. "He does have a pleasant manner."

"And a fine tailor," Charles added. "I simply must have his name."

Georgiana sipped her tea and watched her mother calculate the value of everything in the room. She was rather displeased with something as a frown appeared, and it did not move, even as her eye had found a new object to evaluate. Georgiana cast a glance around the room to see what had displeased her mother so.

The few paintings hung in the room were unostentatious, and lighter patches of wallpaper revealed where other paintings had once hung. The gigantic gold baroque mirror over the fireplace was in dire need of dusting. The carpets were rich in design but threadbare, and the few pieces of furniture in the room had seen better days. No amount of polish would restore the luster to their surface. She glanced at her mother whose eyes were watching her and she raised an eyebrow.

"Do you see?" her mother asked.

"See what?" she asked.

"The gardens are overgrown. The house seems to lack enough servants to maintain it. The art and furniture have been sold off. It is really rather shameful."

"Ah, that. Sir Edward has exhausted his resources. I would have thought that obvious since I find myself married off to him so he can drain mine."

"Why must you be so indiscreet?"

She sighed and rubbed her temple, setting her teacup on the table next to her. "I am married now, Mother, and I may be as indiscreet as I wish."

"If it pleases you."

"It does."

Charles watched the exchange with amusement and seemed disappointed when their bickering ceased.

"However, I must proceed to guide you, perhaps, in those qualities which are needed for the proper management of a house," her mother said, unable to help herself. "A profitable plan must be pursued, for the daily affairs of this house cannot continue as they are."

"Thank you, Mother, but when I have need of your counsel, I shall request it."

"Early rising is a great advantage, or servants may become sluggards and follow the mistress's example."

"But, Mother, a married woman never comes down for breakfast."

"And neither shall you. You will breakfast in your room early, then see to the house."

Georgiana rolled her eyes, and Charles chuckled under his breath as the exchange continued, one-sided as Georgiana refused to take further part in it.

"Cleanliness both in person and house must be observed at all times. You must demand to see the housekeeper's account book and make sure that every entry is correct. Economy must be your utmost priority here, Georgiana."

"Mother, you must quit this line, or I shall be forced to leave the room."

Her mother raised an eyebrow as she realized what her daughter had said, and Charles laughed, breaking the tension.

"You could inspire her to walk again, Mother." He stood and walked over to examine a painting of a hunting scene that had managed to survive being sold.

"I must agree with you, Mama, that the house is, indeed, in great need of funds in every way. Georgiana's dowry will hardly restore it to its former grandeur."

"Perhaps he plans to use all my money, then kill me, and marry another heiress with a greater fortune. He would probably need three... no, maybe four wives in total, depending on his gambling need."

"I dislike it most heartily when you carry on in such a dramatic fashion, Georgiana."

"Do you, Mother? Then it is rather fortunate you need not remain here, but are capable of returning to your own house."

"Such impertinence. I was quite right in changing my mind about having Jane and Margaret accompany us on this trip," she said hurtfully, and seeing her arrow strike home, smirked with great satisfaction. "I would not expose them to your temper."

"You sent Jane and Margaret back?" she asked, alarmed.

"I promised you they would be at the ceremony, nothing more."

"But they were to stay here a week," she cried and shifted her focus to Charles, who scowled at his mother.

"Why was I not informed of the change in plans?" he asked, concerned.

"I did not find it necessary to bother you with tiresome details. I have sent them back to London with Nanny and they are quite safe. I am sure that Sir Edward will loan us the use of his carriage when the time dictates so I may return."

"But I did not say goodbye to them," Georgiana cried.

Charles sat down next to her and took her hands in his, rubbing them. "Now there, Georgiana," he said, trying to comfort her and looking confused at her reaction. "It's not all bad. You are to visit us on occasion, and I shall bring them soon to see your new home. Maybe Mama is right, and you should have some time to accustom yourself to your new husband and home."

She didn't hear the rest of what he said as her despair took control and her body shook as she cried. Charles held her, stroking her hair and talking to her softly while she struggled to regain her balance.

She had explained to Jane and Margaret the changes that would occur in their lives, and at first, they had been upset. She had reassured them that they would adjust, but now could not do the same herself.

She could barely suffer the separation. They would be well looked after with Charles, but how was she supposed to stop needing them? She hadn't been ready to say goodbye. Perhaps she never would have been. She would not finish Robinson Crusoe with them, and the thought was devastating.

She inhaled deeply as she felt the muscles around her heart constrict, and the seeds of hysteria bloom in the corners of her soul. She would not see them grow up. She thought she had been ready to face that reality but now that she was so suddenly without them, she felt her self-control slipping.

She wanted to fix Jane's hair and see Margaret dancing across the room to her. She wanted to hear them giggle, and watch them fall asleep every night. All she had asked for was one more week of memories, one more week of seeing them in this house, playing in these gardens so that she might sustain herself through the long days and nights without them. She had been so strong through the years for them that she didn't have any strength left to let them go.

She sobbed, feeling the hysteria growing and was vaguely aware that Sir Edward had returned to the drawing room. Charles carried her to a room where she was placed on a bed. Her slippers were removed and she was covered in a blanket. She cried herself to sleep, praying the deep ache she felt inside would be better by morning.

She slept fitfully, dreaming of running through a maze while Jane and Margaret ran ahead of her, slipping around corners until she could no longer see them. She called to them to wait, but they continued in their game, hiding from her, small giggles echoing around her as she tried to locate the source. She stumbled over a root, falling hard, and pulled herself up again, desperate to reach them, only to find when she reached the center of the maze that she was alone, and the world was as silent as if she had lost her hearing. She woke suddenly gasping for air, her heart pounding. She was alone in the room and the world around her was as quiet and dark as her dream.

***

Georgiana woke slowly as the maid drew the curtains. She tried to remember where she was. The room was unfamiliar with its huge, ornate bed and heavy furniture. Then memory returned and with it, the deep ache inside her, and she groaned.

"I am ever so sorry, Lady Fairchild, to wake you but Lady Wyndham required that you should be awakened so you may start your day. She said how it was important to rise early and to remind you of such."

She sat up and accepted the cup of tea, sipping it slowly as she studied the room. Bare of paintings, the drapes were worn and tattered where they should have been mended. She studied the maid as she moved about the room. She appeared no more than seventeen. It was unusual to have a lady's maid so young. The position, which paid good wages, was sought after. It required confidence and skill to dress the mistress's hair and maintain her extensive wardrobe.

"What is your name?" Georgiana asked.

"Oh forgive me, Lady Fairchild. I am Harriet," she said and bobbed a quick curtsy. She continued to run around the room, putting water in the basin and making sure the fire was burning warmly in the cold room.

"Shall I bring your breakfast?"

"No, I will have it downstairs."

"But I was told you were to have it in your room."

"And now I'm telling you I will have it downstairs."

Harriet hesitated and Georgiana knew she was dreading the next part of her job. She stood uncertainly beside the bed, her face pinched.

"Don't worry, Harriet," Georgiana said. "We shall manage together."

It took two hours to wash and dress as Georgiana guided Harriet how best to go about taking care of a cripple. She was still dressed in her wedding gown, which had to be removed first. She tried to dress Georgiana's hair but was unable to do much with the short style. Harriet was nervous and kept dropping pins and brushes, apologizing many times over. No reassurances helped.

A footman carried her down stairs to a sad-looking breakfast room in need of a rug. She ate breakfast with her mother who refused to acknowledge her presence. Sir Edward and Charles arrived shortly from their morning ride, smelling like grass, fresh air, and horses. Georgiana envied them.

Edward expressed no surprise at her presence and Charles knew better than to say anything.

"You could ride," Sir Edward said, taking a bite of his eggs.

"Do you read minds?" she asked, surprised by his comment.

He smiled. "I'll have a special saddle made so you can have some exercise."

"That is out of the question," her mother said. "It's far too dangerous."

"Is it?" he asked frowning. "How?"

"She could be killed."

"I imagine, dear madam, so could you on any God given day just riding in a carriage. It happens all the time."

"My sole consideration is for my daughter."

"Excellent, for my sole consideration is for _my_ wife." Sir Edward smiled but his expression was stern as he spoke to her mother. "My life, good madam, is in London, and Georgiana is to remain here. I wish to make her as independent as possible, and her comfort and well-being in my absence are my priority. She is, of course, capable of making her own decisions."

They both turned to Georgiana to find her smiling. "I want to ride again."

"There, it is settled," Sir Edward beamed.

"Whatever happened to Armageddon?" Charles asked, referring to Georgiana's beloved stallion.

"Your father shot that devil after the accident," her mother said. "He should never have consented to her having him in the first place."

"Shot him," Charles said, incredulous, "but he was worth a small fortune. Georgiana, you had great success breeding him and selling his foals. With Father's love of money, I would have thought shooting that horse was out of the question."

"You bred horses, Georgiana?" Sir Edward asked.

"She is the best judge of horseflesh," Charles smiled, proud of her. "They would come from far and wide to Clarence Hall to buy Father's stock, only it was Georgiana who actually bred them. She has a good eye."

"Then you must see what can be done about those nags out in the stable," Sir Edward said, pleased.

"I think I am going to much enjoy being married to you," Georgiana sighed.

Sir Edward laughed. "I am happy to hear it, for I intend you to work hard and build me a fortune."

"Work?" her mother said. "I will not have it. Surely, you see she is not capable of doing anything. I myself intend to visit often and run this house for it is in need of a strong guiding hand. You may put your mind at ease on that account."

Sir Edward leaned back in his seat and studied her mother, making her squirm slightly under his scrutiny. "Georgiana will run this house."

Her mother snorted at the idea. "I think not. It was made quite plain to me with her hysterics yesterday that my daughter's weakness is not only of body, but also of mind. The stress of responsibility will send her into a complete breakdown. No. I will remain to do my duty before returning to London."

Sir Edward stood suddenly, pushing his chair back, and leaned across the table. His face was so close to her mother's that, finding herself suddenly confronted, Lady Wyndham took a fright and leaned back, pinned against her chair as he glared at her.

His voice was soft and controlled as he said, "Madam, mark my words well for I shall not repeat them. Georgiana is the new mistress of this house and she will run it and anything else I deem necessary. You are here under her roof and will do as she bids you. Is that clear?"

Lady Wyndham glared back at him, but eventually lowered her eyes and nodded.

Sir Edward straightened and smiled. "Excellent. Then we understand each other. Now you must excuse me for I must go see my son. May I bring Rupert to meet you in the drawing room after breakfast, Georgiana?"

She nodded and watched him leave the room. His character was usually amiable but she had twice now been witness to a different side of him, first at the duel and now here at the breakfast table. Underneath his calm exterior hid a completely different man and she wondered at him.

"Well, I never," her mother said. "I shall not stand for such treatment."

"Oh do be quiet, Mama," Charles said. "He was quite right to put you in your place for you failed to recognize it."

She stood and, squaring her shoulders, exited the room, her head high.

"We won't see her again for a while."

"Wouldn't that be nice," Georgiana smiled.

"You know, I think your marriage to Edward may just be a good one. I liked him well enough before, but taking the dragon by the tail and making it behave is really extraordinary, isn't it?"

"So you are not angry with me anymore about marrying him?"

"I was never really angry with you, just concerned for your happiness."

"I am as happy as I can possibly be," she said.

"What a strange way of putting it but I suppose it is true," he sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair and pushing his plate away.

He leaned back in his chair, his mud-spattered riding boots stretched out in front of him. He studied the room, shaking his head at the lack of adornments or even some basic furniture pieces like a sideboard. "It's a wonder there are beds for us to sleep in still."

She noticed that he had not eaten much and yet she knew Charles to have a good appetite. The eggs on his plate were not cooked enough and the bread was burnt and hard.

She sighed. "There is much to be done here."

"Will you really manage?" he asked.

"You are a good brother, Charles, to worry so. What really concerns you?"

"Why are you to live here and he in London?"

She shrugged, not wanting to admit she had never been consulted on the matter.

"It's not really a real marriage, is it? He wants someone to take care of Rupert."

"Yes, of course."

She sounded a lot less concerned than she felt. She frowned at her half-cooked eggs, not being so quick to accept her own explanation. Her new husband had not asked her if she was willing to remain behind at Ravenstone while he returned to London.

Perhaps he was, after all, like most men and required only that she obey him and not concern herself with matters beyond her capacity. She was not against the idea of his being in London while she remained: far from it. She liked the arrangement. It promised her a degree of freedom she had not expected.

What she hated was that once again she was at the mercy of a man's decisions. Sadly, too, her country life meant she would have less opportunity to see Jane and Margaret and this alone caused her enough distress that she felt again her tears running down her face. She wiped her face quickly but Charles came to console her, kneeling at her side. His kindness was her undoing, and a sob escaped.

"There, there," he said kindly. "I'm sure once Edward gets to know you better he will come to love you and never want to leave your side. These things take time."

Georgina laughed at the idea that her brother thought her emotional reaction concerned her feelings for Edward. Only her laughter sounded like more hysterical sobbing, and she allowed her brother to continue under the misapprehension.

***

Rupert was seven years old and glared from behind his father's leg at her with great hatred as she sat on the settee, trying her best to smile at him. Having pulled her fragile emotions together and washed her face, it was a relief to meet Rupert, who immediately managed to divert her. The minute he had arrived in the drawing room, he had thrown his wooden block at her, hitting her in the face with the toy.

Sir Edward had been mortified and angry, giving Rupert a quick smack on his bottom and making him apologize. It did not help relations. Rupert hated her now even more because his beloved Papa had turned on him. His dark hair was long and shabby, unkempt with knots, and his breeches were torn at the knees.

"It's a wonder I found him at all," Sir Edward explained. "His nanny said he has taken to hiding and no one can find him except that he comes in when hungry. He loves the garden and knows every good place in it to burrow into. I had to drag him out of the hedgerow by his feet. You would have thought I was trying to murder him by the noises he was making. I expect he is nervous about meeting you."

"It's quite alright, Sir Edward. I have often wanted to hit someone with a wooden block for much lesser offenses. I admire his aim and strength," she said rubbing the spot on her forehead where his missile had found its mark.

"You had better call me Edward," he smiled and moved to sit down next to her, causing Rupert to scurry behind a chair where he sat mumbling to himself and sticking his head out once in a while to send her a searing look.

"Sir Edward—I mean Edward," she smiled, correcting herself. "Do you mean what you said this morning?"

"I said a good many things. Which exactly are you referring to?"

"The part in which I will have control of the estate."

"I do, very much so," he said seriously. "You must build me an empire with riches beyond my wildest dreams."

She laughed. "Are you ever serious?"

"Sometimes," he smiled. "I hope I wasn't too serious with your mother this morning. I despise arguing and find that with some it is easier to simply establish boundaries early so I don't have to constantly struggle with them."

"She will recover," Georgiana said.

They sat listening to Rupert mumble, and Edward shrugged at her when she raised an eyebrow in question of what it all meant. He removed a loose thread from his expensive puce velvet coat.

"You wear beautiful clothes," she remarked.

"Yes. I am afraid it is a weakness of mine," he frowned. "I feel I must apologize for the state of this house; it is in even worse condition than when I was here last. I have no talent for its maintenance and no patience for it. Thus I will give you free reign over the entire estate."

"You trust me to run it all?"

He nodded.

"You have noticed I am a female," she said. "According to popular belief, women are hardly capable of thought and yet you want me to run the estate?"

He laughed. "I admit it is an unusual idea, but then you can hardly do worse than I have. I am afraid that I spend all my money on my London house and my debts. As you know, I married you so I would not have to sell this place, as my debts, I am afraid, are high and it has come to the point that I was threatened with debtors' prison."

"Surely not," she said, pretending shock. Charles had informed her of it already.

"Indeed," he sighed and leaned back against the settee. "My gambling debts are quite high."

"Then give up gambling," she said simply.

"Give up gambling?" he said, smiling. "I think not. It is highly entertaining and on occasion, I manage to win great sums. How else is a gentleman to entertain himself at social gatherings?"

"Flirting with beautiful young women, perhaps," Georgiana suggested.

"I find them all so tedious, nothing in their heads but how much every man in the room is worth."

"Dancing, then."

"Again, tedious. Vapid creatures, who step on one's feet and take the shine off them."

"Dear me, I wonder that you have not completely expired from so much tediousness."

He mistook her criticism as a joke and laughed, clapping his hands, the movement peculiarly feminine for such strong hands.

"I must congratulate you, dear, on possessing wit, a rare quality indeed amongst the accomplished females of our world."

"You are being unfair in your judgment of the fair sex, Edward," she chided. "Women are not allowed to be smarter than men as it makes men look bad, and since men really are not all that smart to begin with, it is indeed a low standard."

He stared at her for a second, and she feared she had gone too far. She bit her lip, wishing she could take that last remark back, but then, he smiled.

"Perhaps."

Unfortunately, his smile did not reach his eyes, and she could feel the hair on the back of her neck rise as her instincts warned her of danger. She realized she knew little about her new husband and she could not afford to have a man who held power over her be offended by her remarks. He stood suddenly and excused himself, leaving her alone in the room with Rupert. Seeing his chance to escape, the boy ran for the door and slammed it behind him. Not a good start.

#

In the late afternoon, Georgiana found herself in the study, seated behind a great wooden desk with the household ledger open in front of her. It was a mess. Missing entries abounded, and those that had been entered did not add up. She had sat over the figures for hours while her mother explained the various entries and how they should have been done. Then they called in the staff.

"You must dismiss her immediately with no pay and no references," her mother insisted, looking at the housekeeper who paled at the words. Mrs. Bristow was a woman of about forty who stood in front of Georgiana, neatly dressed in a simple black, inexpensive fabric with no adornment. Her hair was pulled back in a severe knot and her hands were strong and work-roughened. Despite the threat to her livelihood, she remained controlled, her eyes steady on her mistress.

The cook stood next to Mrs. Bristow with the opposite appearance. A large disheveled woman about the same age, with a filthy apron, unkempt hair, and dirty hands, she was looking pleased.

"I said to Mr. Madden as he should dismiss her ages ago, madam, but he would keep her on," the cook said, addressing Lady Wyndham with an ingratiating smile, and ignoring Georgiana as she had since arriving in the study.

Georgiana could have told the cook not to bother, but her mother soon made it clear. "You are to be dismissed as well, for your cooking skills are nonexistent, not to mention that your appearance is unacceptable." This evaluation was one Georgiana could agree on, but the cook seemed not at all concerned at the words and simply kept her silence.

"Mrs. Bristow, who keeps these books?" Georgiana asked before the cook could begin another sentence.

Mrs. Bristow lowered her eyes for a second before recovering. "Mr. Madden, m'lady."

"Is it not part of your duties as the housekeeper to keep the household accounts?"

"It is, m'lady. However, Mr. Madden insisted that he would keep them."

"He is the steward, I take it?" It was not unusual for a steward to keep the household accounts.

She studied the rest of the staff. The butler, Mr. Elton, stood perfectly still, his white -gloved hands at his side. His wrinkled face expressionless, his right eye a milky white, he should have been retired a long time ago, living comfortably off a good pension.

The young footman stood beside the butler as if ready to catch him should he collapse. Dixon was his name, she remembered, and he was Mr. Elton's grandson. His livery was threadbare, but clean and mended. He should have received a new uniform once a year, but it appeared he had made do for several years with the one he wore. Tall and lean, with well-muscled arms, he kept his red hair neatly tied in back. She knew him best, as it was he who had carried her around all day.

Campbell, the groom, stood next to him. He looked short next to Dixon but he was all muscle. His thick neck supported a smooth, bald head, his face hard as a statue's, his eyebrows heavy and in one long line. He seemed a complete foil to Dixon.

Anna and Elizabeth, both housemaids, stood behind the housekeeper. Georgiana knew that they had only been hired temporarily, that when Lord Fairchild was not in residence, Mrs. Bristow managed the house by herself. They were both quite young and kept still, eyes downcast, as if invisible. Harriet was the only lady's maid. Fortunately, her mother had brought her own maid and Charles and Sir Edward had their own valets.

"Have you no stable boys, Mr. Campbell?" she asked.

"No, m'lady. I manage well enough."

"How many horses are currently in the stable?"

"Fourteen, m'lady."

"I see," she said, only she didn't. She knew that eight of those horses would return to London where they had come from, and that one horse belonged to her brother and the other to Sir Edward. That meant there were exactly four coach horses that would remain, and that, she agreed, one man could manage. She also knew how much work it required to keep a stable, having spent most of her childhood in one.

Fourteen horses were a lot of work. One man could not manage for long. He did have the help of the two coachmen from the London house, for there was no coachman hired on to Ravenstone. And no gardener, which would explain the sorry state of the gardens. "Where is Mr. Madden?" she asked to no one in particular. "I thought I made it clear I wanted all the staff present."

No one answered.

"Speak up," her mother demanded.

"He is in town, Lady Fairchild, visiting his sick mother," Cook said.

"I see," she said—only again she did not. After such a long absence, it was customary and essential for the steward to present himself to his master on his return.

"I understand from information that I have been able to gather that you have not been paid your wages for several months."

No one said anything, but Cook seemed slightly startled by this information and glared accusingly at the housekeeper, an odd reaction. Ironically, the housekeeper hadn't let the deficit slip. Harriet, who stood behind Cook, her face flushing, was the culprit.

The absence of wages explained the lack of servants and Georgiana wondered that they hadn't all gone to seek work elsewhere. She also knew that without a reference, most of them would find it difficult to obtain a new position. Mr. Elton would not find new work at his age, especially with one blind eye, so he had remained. Dixon had remained to take care of him, she imagined.

She unlocked a wooden box on the table next to her. Starting with Mr. Elton, she paid them the five months wages owed as well as the wages for the next month to come. She also gave them each a raise, much to their surprise. It was her money, after all, and Sir Edward had given her a free hand. She intended to make the most of her position before he withdrew his generous offer. Her mother noted the amounts in a new ledger she had started. When she was done with them all except for Cook, Georgiana thanked them for their hard work and loyalty, and dismissed them. "Wait a minute, what about my share?" asked Cook angrily.

"Your share?" Georgiana asked, confused. "You are the only one who was paid, in fact rather generously. Why is that?"

"That is a lie, I tell you," she said, her voice raised now, her face flushed. She turned to glare at the other servants who had paused in their exit to watch the confrontation.

Georgiana was about to reply but from the corner of her eye she saw her mother move around the table to stand directly facing Cook. Smiling to herself, Georgiana sat back in the great chair to enjoy one of the few advantages she had in her mother.

"You dare to call your mistress a liar," Lady Wyndham accused, her eyes furious, and Georgiana almost felt sorry for the woman. "She is the lady of this house and you will show her the respect due her. If that's not perfectly clear, you may leave this house immediately."

"Yes, madam," Cook said, cowed but still resentful. She curtsied, and then pushed past the rest of the servants. They followed in her wake and Dixon closed the door behind him, a smile on his face.

"Why did you not dismiss that horrible woman?" her mother asked when they were alone again.

"Will you cook tonight's dinner, if I do?" Her mother remained quiet. "I didn't think so."

"You cannot mean to keep her on?"

"No. I will replace her as soon as I find another cook. Until then, I want to discover why she was the only one paid."

"I see," she said and Georgiana thought she saw a glimmer of approval, but it was hard to tell since it had been so long since she had done anything of which her mother approved.

"What do you suspect?"

"I don't know," Georgiana shrugged. "I must first meet with Mr. Madden, and then maybe I can discover where the money went for the servant's wages and the household accounts."

"It has clearly been stolen by him and the cook was his spy in the house, keeping an eye on servants and family," her mother said. "She cannot cook, that is clear from the dinner last night, which you were fortunate not to eat. I must be sure before I dismiss him. His absence is an insult, you realize."

"Perhaps, but Edward has long neglected his estate. Maybe he never expected Mr. Madden to be present. He cares nothing for the running of Ravenstone."

"It is his duty to maintain the estate," her mother said, scowling fiercely.

"He means for me to do it."

"You?" her mother said surprised. "But that is impossible. Not only is it unseemly for a woman to involve herself with money, but also in the running of the estate. How are you to manage in your condition? He asks too much of you."

"Mother, you know I care nothing for appearances. I will get about the estate on horseback."

"Horseback?" her mother said, outraged. "You cannot even walk. How are you to ride?"

"That is the beauty of it, isn't it? The horse does the walking for me and all I have to do is sit there -- something I have become an expert at."

"It is not appropriate for you to be seen in public."

"What public, Mother? Have you not noticed the empty fields?"

"There is still society about in the country. I will not have—"

"Stop, Mother," Georgiana interrupted her. "Let's not have that argument again. I am no longer at the mercy of what you dictate."

She was not now at her husband's mercy either, but she didn't voice her thought out loud. Her mother looked like she wanted to argue further but then thought better of it.

"Will you help me enquire for a new cook, please? Then go over the accounts with me again so I can be sure of all their meanings?"

Her mother seemed mollified by this request, and sat down again in the chair next to her. They worked until it was time to dress for dinner and Georgiana thought how strange it was to feel grateful to her mother for the first time in her life.

***

The first few days in her new home passed quickly, and she reveled in her newfound freedom. She acquired a new mare with the help of the groom. She had been most specific as to her requirements and he had managed to find her a well-bred young horse with clean lines and a sound spirit.

Belladrum was black as midnight, her coat taking on a dark blue sheen. With a finely-shaped head and strong, straight legs, she had an alert look Georgiana remembered having seen in the sire years ago. He had been a champion racer bred from the White Darcy Turk. She had good blood in her from both her sire and her dame. Georgiana had always believed a well-bred horse required good blood from both sides, not only the sire. The mare had not come cheaply but she would be worth her weight in gold and more, once she was bred.

With a few modifications of the new sidesaddle Edward had given her, she would be able to ride again soon. The prospect of it left her feeling breathless with anticipation. The days dragged by as she waited impatiently for the saddle to be fitted. Her nervous anticipation was misunderstood by her husband and brother as anxiety over riding again after her terrible accident.

Her brother reassured her she did not have to ride again did she not wish it. It was all she could do to control her need to tell him she was not afraid at all. Quite the contrary, she was quivering with anticipation and excitement, not fear. After all, no riding accident had left her crippled, but rather, she had been struck down by her father's fury. But she could say none of this to her brother, so she allowed him to believe what he would.

To distract herself, she concentrated on her new responsibilities. Her mother had supervised the cleaning of the house and complained greatly about Mrs. Bristow, which was in the woman's favor.

Georgiana spent some time trying to win over Rupert, who had managed to hit her twice more with his wooden block. The last time she had been fast enough to catch the projectile, and had thrown it back at him. Hit squarely on his forehead, he was so surprised that it took him a full minute before he began to wail, which brought his father running. Edward had scowled at her for the rest of the day, but Rupert never threw another missile at her.

His nanny quit after he pushed her in the pond for the second time. Georgiana could not really blame the poor woman. Rupert had kicked and bitten her numerous times, as he was determined to live out his days and nights in the garden shrubbery as a wild animal. She sighed, not knowing what else to do. Edward had laughed and called him high-spirited. She would need to find a governess for the boy.

Charles rode over the estate and made notes about what needed to be done. It was a long list in which Edward took no interest. He spent his time reading or visiting with neighbors. The estates' accounts were missing along with Mr. Madden, the steward, who was still nowhere to be found. She had also discovered from Edward that Mr. Madden's sick mother had died two years ago. Edward only shrugged when she had quizzed him about his missing steward.

The only reaction she did get from him was when she mentioned that she would let Mr. Madden go as soon as he reappeared. Then he had looked up from his book and simply said 'no.' The word had been meant strongly and she had reminded him that he had given her a free hand with the estate but he only repeated it, one word. No.

She had no choice but to have Charles show her how to keep an accounting of the estate, which was much more complicated than the household accounts. The planting of barley and wheat, although underway, was late for the season, Charles informed her, and no oats were planted this year as the seed had spoiled from being left out in the rain.

There were other problems. The fallow fields had not been planted because there were not enough workers. The turnips would feed the animals in winter, Charles said, but then it was discovered the estate's cattle had disappeared.

She could not be surprised. The estate had fallen into complete neglect, the cottages in dire need of repairs, the fields in need of new equipment and workers. Many had left as the estate faltered, moving to fight the war or to work the mills in nearby towns. She needed workers desperately for she had two thousand acres of land to farm.

To add insult to injury, any money made in past years from the corn crop, sheep farming and rents, when collected, had been used to pay Edward's debts. Thus, the estate was without funds to pay for repairs or wages.

She should have been overwhelmed by the amount of work that needed to be done, but instead she felt for the first time a real sense of purpose. She had felt for so long that she was worthless, incapable of performing even the most basic of tasks. Now suddenly she was learning the challenges of running an estate and it was exhilarating. While Charles helped her understand the needs of the estate, her mother helped her to understand the running of a large house.

Georgiana and Lady Wyndham had made an inventory of what paintings and furniture were left in the house, what needed fixing, and what was to be replaced. A carpenter had been sent for and they had hired two more maids, a footman, a stable boy, and a coachman from the village.

Then, together, they made a list of tasks that would need to be undertaken to return the house to its former glory. They were noted down in order of priority. The east wing had a leaking roof that needed immediate attention. A carpenter and crew from a nearby town was secured, and set to work. The stonework on the west wing wall was crumbling and would need to be replaced. A mason and two apprentices were hired to fix that.

Another list was made of purchases to be made in London to replace those items missing from the house, including pieces of silverware, paintings, rugs, and furniture. Georgiana hired a gardener and two men to help him tame the gardens, and to start a kitchen garden. She was spending a small fortune, but she wanted to do as much as she could before Edward realized she was emptying his new coffers.

Invitations had arrived from neighbors for dinners, dances, and balls. None of the invitations included her. Edward, Charles and her mother attended, leaving her home, despite Charles' protests. Her mother had argued, and Edward reluctantly agreed, that the local gentry had no wish to be exposed to a cripple, any more than the city gentry had been.

Georgiana was glad of it, she told herself. She had no real wish to sit through long evenings of tedious conversation where she must constantly remember not to know anything about anything. Her days were long and filled with new responsibilities so that she was tired by nightfall and enjoyed her evenings alone, reading by the fire.

Soon her mother would return to London with Charles. They would see Jane and Margaret again and Charles would give them the letters she wrote. She missed them terribly. During the day, it was easier but at night, she felt their loss, and often cried herself to sleep, only to dream of them and far too often, Nicholas too. This last left her confused and guilt-ridden.

It was always the same dream of him in a duel. It is early and the fog ghosts around the trees and surrounds the two figures intent on killing each other. He falters, stumbles and his opponent's sword drives home, stabbing him through his heart. The surprise on his face turns to shock when he looks in his opponent's face, as if recognizing him for the first time. He falls to the ground and his opponent turns to face her in the dream, only it is not Sir Edward. It is her own face she sees in the dream, right before she wakes to spend sleepless hours wrapped in her own guilt.

On one of those nights, she made her first journey out into the woods. She was careful to climb along the ledge of her window and across the slippery roof to the scaffold used by the workers. She made her way into the deep glen behind the house, happy to escape into its welcoming embrace to stretch her legs into a run. The exercise helped her focus her raw emotions into a manageable state, and she returned to the house and her room able to sleep a few hours before dawn.

#

"They are in the kitchen, madam," Elton said, his face tightly controlled as he handed her a wet and muddy note.

"Who is in the kitchen?" Charles asked, turning away from the window and the rainy afternoon.

Georgiana took the note and, recognizing it, carefully placed it on the table away from her books without reading it, for she already knew what it said. She had left the note in question at the Red Lion inn with the girl Ann. She was to give it to the street urchin she had met. She was a little confused by the 'they' Elton had used for she was expecting a 'he' only.

"There are five street children in the kitchen awaiting an audience with Lady Fairchild, sir," Elton answered Sir Charles.

"Street children?" Lady Wyndham asked, raising an eyebrow and placing her teacup on the table.

"Five?" Georgiana asked, puzzled.

"Good heavens," Charles said intrigued. "From which streets do street children come in the middle of the country?"

Elton waited for instruction and Georgiana had to come up with one quickly.

"I will come to the kitchen," Georgiana said quickly. "Charles, would you help me?"

"You cannot mean to have dealings with street children, Georgiana," her mother said.

"Don't worry, Mother. I have this in hand."

Her mother looked skeptical but said nothing more and returned to her letter writing. Charles carried her along the hall and down a flight of stairs to the kitchen where he placed her in a chair by the hearth. Dixon, Cook, and Harriet surrounded four wet, muddy boys huddled together near the fire, a pool of water collecting under them. One boy held in his hand a wrapped bundle that squirmed. A smile of relief spread slowly over his face at the sight of her, and he turned to the others and nodded as if her appearance had answered a question. He did not seem surprised at all that she was now dressed as a female, nor that she was crippled. Maybe she hadn't fooled as many people as she had hoped.

"Who are they?" Charles asked her.

"I offered employment to this young man here," she said, smiling at him.

"'is name is 'arry, miss," the tallest of the boys said, addressing her. His face was scarred by a diagonal cut across his left cheek.

She had finally learned his name. The pickpocket who had followed her in St. Giles was called Harry.

"How's your head, Harry?" she asked. He rubbed the spot and smiled at her nodding.

"You bought some friends, I see."

"We all goes together, miss," the tallest answered again. "We is the 'icks gang."

"And which of you is Hicks?"

"None, miss. 'e was sent to the gallows last month on account of murder, miss."

"I see," she said and watched Charles's reaction to this information. She could see the questions forming from his expression, but shook her head at him silently, asking him to wait.

She studied the boys, who appeared between the ages of five and fifteen. Their clothes were rags and only one wore a semblance of shoes. She asked them their names and again the tallest answered for them all. He was Peter, the oldest, he said, at seventeen. She had guessed him to be younger, but perhaps the lack of good food in the rockeries had that affect on the body.

Next was Eye on account of that he only had one. His right eye socket was empty. No one knew his real name or age, Peter informed her, including Eye. The last boy, James, a six-year-old, hid behind the others, his left hand clinging tightly to Peter's jacket. He seemed to be the only boy not somehow damaged. The bundle in Harry's arms was his baby sister, Sarah. Their mother had died.

"Can I see the baby?" Georgiana asked, holding her arms out.

Harry moved forward and gently placed the wet bundle in her arms. The baby's pale face looked up at her, the blue lips shivering with cold, the eyes vacant.

"Harriet, could you find me a blanket for the baby and something to swaddle her with?"

Surprised at the request, Harriet hesitated, and then left to do as she was asked.

"What have you been feeding her?" she asked Harry.

He shrugged and glanced at Peter who answered for him. "We did our best, miss, milk or broth if we could find it."

"Cook, I need warm milk please, then some bread and warm soup for the boys."

Again, there seemed to be some surprise at the request but Georgiana ignored the startled looks. She asked Dixon to find some dry clothes for the boys to wear and requested that warm water be brought first for the boys to wash. While the staff tended to removing the wet muddy clothes from the boys and getting them cleaned up, she attended to the baby with Harriet's help.

"Do you think this is a good idea?" Charles asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Dry clothes are always a good idea, Charles," she said, choosing not to answer his real question.

Harriet washed Sarah gently in a large basin of warm water, while she continued to ignore her brother's scowling face. The water removed months of grime from the thin body. Her small feet were cold, and Georgiana swaddled her in a warm blanket before feeding her in front of the fire.

The child refused the milk, a weak cry coming from her that Georgiana was quite happy to hear. She wiped her mouth and kept trying while the boys sat down at the kitchen table to eat. Harry watched her from across the table and she smiled at him, happy that he had found his way. She had begun to worry.

He had disappeared shortly after they had become friends, and she was concerned something had happened to him. Before leaving London she had been sure to leave him a note at the inn where she had seen him last. She had no name to put on the note and she knew he could not read. She did not think she would ever see him again, yet here he was. He was resourceful. He had to be if he had lived on the streets and survived. The note she had left told him where Ravenstone was but not how to get there. The note also said to ask for Lady Fairchild. She had hoped he would come. She hadn't considered that he might bring others.

The boys ate with their eyes down in their bowls, hungrily spooning the soup up as quickly as they could, tearing at the bread, and stuffing it in their mouths. All except for Peter, who ate more deliberately. He studied her from across the room, his eyes shifting between her and Charles. She wondered at the control it took, for he was probably just as hungry as his friends were. She smiled at him reassuringly. He held her gaze, neither returning her smile nor looking away.

"What is this all about, Georgiana?" Charles asked softly, sitting down next to her by the fire.

"It's about charity," she said, looking down at Sarah in her arms, trying again to get her to take a little milk.

"Charity?"

"Yes, charity, helping others in need."

"I know what charity is, damn it."

"I'm relieved to hear it."

"They are from London, Georgiana. Ravenstone is nearly two hundred miles away."

"Exactly, Charles. They are desperate. Desperate enough to come two hundred miles from London having probably walked most of the way, but what does it matter how they got here?"

She had left some money with the note but she could not tell him that. It would have been just enough for passage on a cart, she imagined.

She focused on the baby, hoping Charles would give up his line of questioning.

"Elton said they asked for you as Lady Fairchild. How did they know to do that?" he asked.

She sighed and looked up at Charles. "Remember when you first came home and we spoke in the nursery in London, you said you felt guilty for leaving me in Father's awful clutches while you went off on your adventures?"

He frowned at her. "Not very fair, dear girl."

"Remember that I said one day I would ask something of you and you would have to do it to make up for abandoning me?"

He nodded slowly.

"I'm asking you to not ask me any more questions concerning this."

She returned to her efforts, not waiting to see his reaction. Sarah would simply not take any warm milk. She frowned to herself, wondering if she should call for a physician.

Mrs. Bristow arrived with some socks for the boys who were on their second helping of soup and bread.

"What do you intend to do with them?"

"Employ them."

"You can't do that," Charles said sharply. "They are thieves, perhaps even murderers."

She glanced at the boys to see Peter watching her, and said casually, "More than likely but so would you be had you grown up where they did."

"You can't be in earnest?"

"They are children and I mean to help them, Charles. You yourself said we need more workers."

"Workers, yes, but not young criminals likely to cut our throats and steal the silver."

"Don't be afraid, Charles, I will protect you," she said smiling. "Besides we have not much silver left to steal."

He stared at her as if trying to discover some vital information he was missing. "What will Edward say?"

"Edward?" she said laughing. "He wants to know nothing of the estate but will spend hours on the latest colors we picked for the drapes. You know I believe the decoration of the rooms is the first sign of interest he has shown in this entire property. He is quite good at it too, I must admit. Besides, he returns to London with you in two days."

"I cannot leave you here alone with these...these... rapscallions," Charles said, almost at a loss for words.

They both turned to look at the four rapscallions in question. Cleaned up and fed, they looked quite harmless, especially the youngest, James. His head was dropping over his soup bowl as he tried to stay awake, but he kept eating as if unsure of his next meal.

Harry stood up from the table and crossed the kitchen to take his sister from her. He sat down again at the table and dribbled some soup into her mouth with a spoon. She took it immediately. Georgiana smiled at him as he looked up at her. She noticed then that all the servants had arrived in the kitchen to watch the unfolding scene. Even Campbell had come in from the stables, and stood leaning against a wall watching the boys.

She waved him over and asked him if there was room above the stables for the boys. He said there were two free rooms with good beds.

"You will train them as stable boys," she told him.

He scowled, but nodded.

What was she to do with the baby, though? Sarah seemed comfortable in Harry's arms. She had quieted down and happily took the soup he gave her. When she wanted no more, he passed her to Peter who held her while Harry finished eating. She guessed they were used to taking care of the youngster.

"Murderers?" she asked Charles, an eyebrow arched.

He shrugged but had the good grace to be slightly uncomfortable with his earlier remark.

When they were all done and James was fast asleep with his head next to his plate, Peter picked up the small boy and Campbell showed them the way to their new rooms.

***

Despite her assurances to her brother, she worried over telling Edward about the boys for two days. If she told him, and he didn't like the idea of street children on his estate, then he would have them removed. If she declined to inform him of their presence and hoped he left for London, none the wiser, then they would be safe. The decision weighed on her, but in the end, it was taken away from her as Edward stumbled across Rupert and James playing together. After she explained their presence to him and her willingness to employ them, he merely shrugged.

"He will make a good companion for Rupert," Edward said, looking at James out the window. He was playing in the garden with a puppy.

She was glad that Edward had taken the discovery so well, but she feared for James in Rupert's company.

"I don't think so," she said.

Edward turned to her. "Why ever not? You wouldn't suddenly share Charles's idea of these young fellows?"

"On the contrary, it's James I fear for."

Edward laughed and turned back to glance out the window. "That boy grew up on the streets of London. I am quite sure Rupert will receive his due."

He moved away from the window and pulled on his riding gloves.

"Are you ready?" he asked her.

She nodded and smiled, trying to look more afraid than confident. She was finally to ride. Edward carried her out of the drawing room and Elton opened the front door. Outside the sun was shining, and Bella stood patiently waiting for her next to Edward's hunter. Campbell held her steady as Edward placed her in the sidesaddle and adjusted her skirts over her legs. Then he tied a strap over her lap and handed her the reins. Her hands were steady as she wound the leather through her gloved fingers and she felt Bella move under her. She held her steady, and nodded to Campbell who moved away.

Georgiana leaned down to stroke her black velvet neck, whispering to her as she pulled at the reins. She reveled in the feel of the powerful horse under her, and waited impatiently for Edward to mount. Then they walked slowly down the driveway as the servants watched from the windows. Bella danced a few steps sideways, feeling her excitement, and Georgiana reined her in, least Edward think her too spirited for her. She settled right away, responding to her every command.

The gardener tipped his hat as they passed, then continued with pruning the shrubs that had grown out of control.

"It's good to see the garden take shape again," Edward said. "There are many different trees planted in this garden by my grandfather. Oaks and beeches, which are common, but also rare cedars and redwoods."

"It is a beautiful garden. I wonder that you did not make sure that it was better taken care of."

"That's why I married you, dear," he smiled. "An estate this size takes two qualities to insure its well-being, money and interest. Both I lack greatly, I'm afraid. I loathe the country, far too dull."

"But that is why you hire a competent steward to see to your interests here."

"Indeed," he smiled but would not be goaded further into another conversation to dismiss his clearly not so competent steward, Mr. Madden.

A pavilion of stone stood in the center of the rose garden and rambler roses climbed the arch of the entrance. It was a formal garden, grown wild, though daffodils bobbed their yellow heads out of the soil in honor of spring. The fountain had crumbled and would need rebuilding, she noticed, adding it to the list of endless undertakings still requiring attention.

They rode through the east gate, the main entrance to the house with its walled garden, then turned to ride along the cliffs overlooking the ocean. The woods were behind Ravenstone, while the land along the cliffs was barren of trees. Sheep grazed in the emerald green fields filled with meadowsweet, which grew alongside white sea campion and yellow iris. A sparrow hawk glided above them in the blue sky following the sea cliff.

She leaned forward and used her whip lightly, and soon she was galloping over the green fields. The sudden freedom she experienced urged her on faster, and soon she was flying over the ground. She pushed Bella over a low hedgerow, clearing it easily and scattered a flock of sheep as she turned to follow the cliff, galloping along it oblivious of everything but the sudden freedom she felt running through her veins.

She could hear Edward's hunter right behind her, and she slowed, coming to a halt on the cliff overlooking the ocean.

"Oh, Edward, isn't it wonderful," she laughed, wiping the tears from her face.

"Are you crying," he asked, concerned, and stopped his hunter next to her.

"No," she laughed, "it's galloping through fresh air, I imagine, that has made my eyes water."

"You are enjoying it, then?" he asked, smiling.

"Oh, how could I not," she said, laughing. "To be allowed out again, after so long, and it's so beautiful here. Thank you, Edward, for it is in this moment that I am alive again, truly alive."

He held out his hand to her, and she took it, squeezing it lightly before letting it go again.

"Good, then I will not feel too much of a heel when I leave you tomorrow for London. You will be able to manage?"

"I will manage quite well, thank you."

She hid her disappointment at his news, and looked out to the sea. They took in the view of the ocean for a while, noting a sailing ship headed north. She studied him, wondering at this strange man, who asked nothing of her, and gave her so much. Was she so susceptible to any small kindness after years of abuse from her own father? No, she thought, it was the horse and saddle. It meant she had her freedom again, and this time not just on the nights she crawled out of her window.

She had begun to explore the woods beyond the house, climbing out of her window almost every night now. She had seen him leave the house the night before and had thought briefly of following him. But then decided he knew the woods better than she, and she would only risk getting lost. Her secret would be discovered instead of his.

Where did he go? she wondered now. He turned and smiled at her and she pretended shyness and looked away. Then Edward pulled his hunter away from the edge of the cliff, and she reluctantly followed behind. The ride back was a more subdued pace. Charles met them at the front door as they returned, and Peter collected the horses.

"How was the ride?" Charles asked, as Edward lifted her from the saddle.

"Splendid. Your sister is an excellent horsewoman and almost got away from me."

He carried her up the stairs to her room so she could change out of her riding habit. She had a quick breakfast, and then sat in the study with her mother going over the final details of what she required from London.

She studied her mother as she bent over the long list in front of her, marveling at how well they had worked together over the last few days. She would almost miss her, a startling realization.

"Georgiana, make sure you treat the servants as such, and not as friends. Also I trust you will comport yourself in a manner here that befits your station in life. Above all, you are to stay separate from society for you must remember at all times, you are indisposed."

"Yes, Mother, I shall endeavor not to cause you any shame."

Lady Wyndham stood suddenly. "You are ungrateful. I have worked so earnestly the last few days to make Ravenstone more comfortable."

"You have," Georgiana said, contrite. "And I do not mean to be ungrateful. You have taught me much I needed to know and have made it easier for me here. I am indeed grateful, Mama."

And she meant it, but as grateful as she felt, she still could not reconcile this new feeling for her mother with the one of disdain that she had lived with for so long.

"I should think so," she said. "I must see about the menu for tonight though I cannot think Cook will manage any of it. I will send you a new cook from London as those I have interviewed here will simply not do."

Lady Wyndham left the study. Georgiana sighed in relief and glanced out the window. It really was a beautiful day and she longed to be in the sunshine. She rang the bell next to her, but Elton did not arrive and she rang it again. Her mother appeared at the door.

"You will find Elton asleep out here. It is quite amazing, for he is standing upright but his eyes are closed, and I do believe he is snoring."

Georgiana laughed. "Poor Elton, he should have retired long ago. Would you fetch Dixon for me please, Mama, and do let Elton sleep."

"I am to be reduced to a servant then."

"Please, Mama."

Dixon arrived and she asked him to help her into the garden. He moved around the table, and picking her up, carried her out into the sun. She sat on a bench by the pond, admiring the ducks, and watching James and Rupert attempting to fence under the great oak tree, the wolfhound puppy barking at their heels.

Charles had given her the puppy on her arrival at Ravenstone. Someone to keep her company, he had said. It was James that the puppy had followed since his arrival.

The boys from London had settled in well. Peter had a natural ability with the horses, Campbell had told her, while Harry seemed to enjoy helping the coachman. Eye wondered through the gardens for two days, touching every tree and flower and running his hands over the grass. He followed the gardener around, asking him questions about every plant until the gardener finally put him to work. They both seemed happy with the arrangement.

Sarah was in the kitchen in a basket, where the staff took it in turn to feed her and hold her. In the evenings, Harry would collect her and she slept with him in his bed above the stables. Georgiana had sent Harriett to the village to buy clothes, and shoes, and tomorrow she decided it would be time for another bath. She was still struggling to free their hair of lice, and realized that perhaps she would simply have to shave their heads.

She turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes, thinking how terribly happy she would be if only Jane and Margaret could be with her here in the sunshine. But she had hope again. She hadn't looked forward to the future in a long time.

***

Charles strolled out into the gardens and found his sister sitting in the sun. He watched her, unobserved. She looked content as she watched the boys playing in the garden. Watching them, Charles thought that Rupert's scruffy appearance was really no different from James's. One would be hard pressed to distinguish the high-born child from the street urchin, except that Rupert did not play fairly, as he hit James hard in the stomach.

One could argue that many of the high-born did not play fairly, despite the importance of honor among his set. James doubled over in pain and Rupert came in for the kill with his wooden sword, but James seemed to sense it and lunged out of the way just in time and came up with a fist that hit his opponent hard in the face. Georgiana laughed softly to herself. Rupert dropped his sword, began to cry, and went running to find his father.

"James might be just what Rupert needs," he said.

"That's what Edward thought, too."

She didn't seem surprised at his presence and he wondered if she had known he was there all along. He sat down on the bench next to her.

"He is a rather unconventional man, your husband."

She smiled but didn't say anything. They watched a sea gull float slowly across the sky then settle on a dark stone gargoyle on the highest turret. It was a beautiful house, he thought, despite its mixture of Gothic and Tudor lines, but it was the setting that was most spectacular. The house faced the ocean, nestled in a glen to protect it from the winds. Behind it lay an impressive wood and the walled garden, once put to rights, would be quite beautiful.

He envied her Ravenstone. His own estate lay further north and lacked the dramatic landscape. He turned to watch her. Her eyes were closed, her face turned up to the sun. Young ladies did not let the sun touch their face for fear of coloring it. But then Georgiana had never been like any other young lady he knew. She looked content but for the dark circles under her eyes and a deep sadness, which he knew he would find when she opened her eyes. She smiled enough and even laughed more often in the last few days, but he could not help think there was something that troubled her deeply and he didn't think it had anything to do with Ravenstone.

"You know I saw it before," she said.

"Before?"

"Ravenstone. When we were at Evansgate," she said. "I must have been twelve maybe, when I rode over that hill there," she said, pointing to it. "I thought it beautiful then, a place filled with happiness."

"Yes, Evansgate isn't far," he said. "I had almost forgotten."

"I was happy there," she said.

"If you need anything you will send for me, won't you?"

She turned to him, "Thank you, Charles. There is one thing I need."

"Anything," he smiled.

"Bring Jane and Margaret to me, often."

"Of course. You always were protective of your siblings. God knows you took better care of me than our own parents."

She took his hand then, and held it. She hadn't done that since they were children and he swallowed hard, ashamed that as a grown man the gesture affected him so deeply. They sat silently for a while and he could tell by the small frown planted between her brow that she was thinking hard about something.

"Charles," she began but then hesitated.

He waited patiently knowing what she would ask.

"How is Nicholas?"

He hesitated too long and cursed himself, for she would note it. "He is well enough," he lied, wanting to protect her.

"Charles?"

She said his name as if admonishing him, and he gave her a long steady look, seeing the questions on her face.

"He is physically well again, but he is much changed, I'm afraid. It is to be expected, I suppose, but in time I'm sure he will find himself."

"Is he still in London?" she asked softly.

"Would that he were," he said frowning. "I have it from a mutual friend that he has taken to the sea again."

"You are worried for him?"

"No," he said. "He is one exceedingly hard bastard to kill."

She smiled, but he knew it was for his sake, because the sentiment did not show in her eyes. He should not bother lying to her, because she could read him too well.

"Why does your knowledge of Nicholas come from a mutual friend?" she asked, her face still.

She had hit at the truth of the matter, as he knew she would.

"He does not speak to me," he said, trying his best to keep his voice even and failing miserably. "Oh, Charles, no," she cried distraught. "He cannot mean it. You are the best of friends."

"Had I not given my permission for the marriage, Edward would not now be your husband. But that is not the worst of it, I am afraid. The greater betrayal was that I had not informed him of it in time."

"In time for what?"

He shrugged. "Nicholas would have prevented it. He would have found a way as he always did."

"It wasn't his decision or yours," she said angrily. "It was mine."

"Was it?" he asked, trying to understand why she had done it. "It doesn't seem like you at all, Georgiana, and don't tell me again that you are changed, for you are not. I have spent some days with you now, long enough to know you again. I fear you have become adept at hiding your true self."

She took her hand back, folding it neatly in her lap, and he knew he had hit his mark.

"What or who are you hiding from?" he asked softly.

"Perhaps myself," she said, and smiled with the trite answer. "Edward is not a bad man."

"He is amiable enough, it is true, but he will gamble away all your money."

"I know it," she smiled. "Why do you think I'm trying to spend it so quickly? Mama has strict instructions to beat Edward back to London tomorrow and purchase all that we require before the money is gone. And she means to do it. It seems we have found common cause, after all."

"And when the money is gone?"

"I will think of a new strategy," she said, amused.

He studied her, his gaze disconcerting for she looked away toward the house.

"I mean to be happy here, Charles," she said. "I have my freedom and am removed from the endless maneuverings of society. I am to be envied. It was the right decision to marry Edward."

"I believe you are right," he said, giving in.

"It seems right that I should be here," she said. "I was happiest here in Devonshire. I still wonder how Lord Markham was able to persuade our father to let us stay there so long."

"I imagine he blackmailed the old bastard. Perhaps there was some political maneuverings Papa needed doing and Markham helped him on the condition we could stay on at Evansgate."

"Will you really become a Member of Parliament?"

"I have already been appointed to fill Father's place and will be expected to stand for his seat in the next election."

"And you are still set to champion the cause of justice then?"

"I shall endeavor to rid the streets of London of thieves and murderers. Davenport will not rest and means to use Father's murder to gain his cause of reform. He has, I believe, hired two more of the top Bow Street Runners to investigate. Unfortunately, for Davenport, what they have so far uncovered is Father's true nature in the places of ill repute he frequented. This is all to be kept secret, of course, never to see the light of day. Still, he means to find his man and hang him."

She was silent, her face hard and unreadable, and he took it as a criticism. "You do not approve?"

"If Davenport was serious about wanting to rid the streets of London of crime, he should focus on alleviating poverty, not creating a larger and more efficient police force. The poor steal because they are hungry. The paper this morning was filled with his new bill."

"You have read the papers?" he asked, astonished.

"Why should that come as such a surprise?" she asked.

"Because—" he started, but then thought better of it.

"Because I'm female," she finished for him. "And ladies do not read newspapers."

She laughed but it was not a happy sound.

"Forgive me," he said, contrite.

"Whatever for? You are quite right. A young woman could not possibly comprehend the complexity of the issues in a newspaper," she said, her eyes flashing. "I would do better to restrict myself to much simpler affairs like music and needlework so as not to be thought brash."

"I deeply apologize," Charles said, trying to calm her again.

"It's just that I expect more from you, Charles," she scowled fiercely. "But it seems I am to be mistaken, and that you are no more capable than the rest of your kind of seeing women as anything other than brainless chattel incapable of independent thought."

Deeply hurt by her words, he stood to leave but she caught his hand.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't want us to quarrel before you leave."

She had wounded him, even though he had to admit that he was guilty of that of which she had accused him. He liked to think himself worthy of her respect, but his ingrained attitudes gave him away with small slips like the one he had just made, which surprised him more than her. He vowed to prove her wrong, but knew it would take time to win her trust again.

"Please, Charles, sit down," she said.

She sounded distraught and he sat down next to her.

"You'll have to forgive me, Georgiana. I fear I am conditioned like you say, but I shall strive to be better."

She smiled at him and they sat talking of safer subjects and watching the boys play. She wanted desperately to see Jane and Margaret again, and made him promise it would be soon. He wondered at her insistence at seeing the girls. He would have thought it a relief for her to no longer have to play nursemaid to them. But she was quite devoted to them, and again he marveled at her ability to want to take care of those around her.

He had wished more for her than a marriage of convenience. She deserved a husband who loved her, someone whom she loved and children of her own to care for. Again, he wondered if he had made the right decision in allowing her marriage to Fairchild.

They sat a long time in the garden talking about Evansgate and he knew that they spoke of it because they had been happiest there. He turned to glance in that direction, wondering if Nicholas was there now, and perhaps at that moment looking toward Ravenstone and thinking about them. Then he shook the feeling off. Nicholas was at sea, and sadly, the better they would all be for it.

#

As Georgiana expected he would, Mr. Madden appeared right after the carriage left for London. Edward, Charles, and her mother were not out of sight ten minutes but Elton announced a Mr. Madden to see her.

He bowed before seating himself on the settee opposite her, commenting upon the new furniture and rug her mother had been able to acquire from a nearby town. Although not up to standard, she had improved upon what had previously decorated the room. It would do until the new furnishings arrived from London. While he catalogued the improvements, she studied him. He was not at all what she had expected.

In her mind Mr. Madden was an old man marked by greed, with a fleshy form and perhaps scarred in some way by his misdeeds. His clothes should have been soiled about the edges and in disrepair, as befitting a lout unable or unwilling to perform his duties. Instead, across from her sat a neat, slight figure with the face of an innocent. He was older than she, but not by much. He seemed comfortable in his own skin, and even more so at Ravenstone. He had not waited for her to ask him to sit down. With that assumption, he was telling her what he wanted made clear from the beginning: he felt at home in her house.

They sat in silence, taking the measure of one another. Then she lowered her eyes, as was expected. "Your mother is better, I take it?" she asked.

"Improving, yes."

"Most favorable news," she said, letting the lie stand. "It is unfortunate you missed Sir Edward, for he has this very hour departed to London."

"Did he not tell you?" Mr. Madden asked.

"Tell me what?" she asked, weary of the answer.

"He must not have," he smiled. "Sir Edward and I met. He came to see me quite often during his stay here at Ravenstone."

Already he had the upper hand, she thought, annoyed at Edward. "Indeed, no, he did not so inform me." Why hadn't he told her?

"And where exactly is it that you reside, Mr. Madden, for you do not seem to occupy your cottage?"

"It is of no consequence," he shrugged. "You are making improvements to Ravenstone?"

"Yes," she said. "They are much needed."

He smiled but said nothing further. Why did he not wish her to know where he was staying?

"I have need to see the estate accounts," she said.

"Of course, I shall bring them directly."

"You do not have them with you?"

"Alas, no, for I do not carry those weighty tomes wherever I go."

He spoke well for a steward, and she puzzled about his visit if it was not for the purpose of business.

"And so then, why are you here, Mr. Madden?"

He studied her a moment and she found his gaze bordering on insolence, but she awaited his answer.

"Curiosity," he said simply and smiled.

"You have no skill as a steward, do you?" she asked.

His smile grew wider. "It is rather obvious, isn't it?"

"The estate has slipped into disrepair in your hands."

"I cannot claim full responsibility for that, Lady Fairchild. I must agree I have not helped matters but it was already crumbling on my first visit here. I admit to having no head for numbers and the running of an estate is far beyond my skills."

"And yet my husband keeps you on as steward. Why is that?"

"Why, indeed," he said making a comical face, but he did not fool her. "He is, as you know, an unusual man, generous to a fault. I do not know what I would do without his good kindnesses to me. I am but a child lost in the woods, I feel, and he my savior."

She didn't answer and took closer note of his person. His clothes, though they were simple in their style, were too well cut and stitched not to be expensive. He wore an emerald ring on one hand, and none of his fingers bore even a sign of ink, as hers did.

She had expected a lazy, stupid old man who could be easily ignored. Instead, the young man in front of her was sharp and well educated with a great propensity for falsehood. She also sensed it would somehow be dangerous for her to ignore him. Who exactly was Mr. Madden?

She called for tea and hid behind the façade of a gentle born lady, helpless and easily controlled. It had proven a useful strategy before, and if she wanted Mr. Madden to drop his guard, that facade was her best hope. They sat chatting politely of the weather and the views. She did her utmost to seem dull and amiable, but feared she had shown too much of her true self already.

After his departure, she sat for a moment trying to understand why Edward would allow the man to remain employed if he clearly was not suited to the position. Even Edward could not be so beyond care in his estate duties as to hire a man unable to run the estate, and then keep him on after his failure was known. Except clearly this was exactly the situation, and Mr. Madden cared not that she knew it.

That left two possibilities. Madden either believed she had no power to change the arrangement, or she really didn't have the power to change it. She preferred the first, but already knew the second was true. Edward had already refused to allow her to dismiss him. But why? What hold did he have on Edward? This was what she needed to discover. Only then did she have hope of changing the situation.

***

"Look to it, Elton. Lock the door," she cried as Rupert and James made a run for it with Dixon chasing close behind them. Elton managed to slam the kitchen door and lock it before the boys reached him. They dodged his arms and ran around the kitchen table trying to make it to the other door and out into the garden. Cook blocked the way, a wooden spoon in her hands and with such a fierce scowl that it gave them pause sufficient enough for Dixon to catch Rupert. James slipped under the table, eluding the adult hands that tried to reach for him.

Their protestations made Georgiana smile until Rupert bit Dixon's hand. Thankfully, the young footman would not be denied and held onto the boy, cuffing him on the ear to stop him. Rupert glared at the servant, but calmed down enough for Dixon to remove the boy's clothes and dunk him in the tub of warm water. Georgiana sat on a chair next to the bathtub and scrubbed her stepson clean.

With soap in hand, she bent to the task of washing the dirt from his skin, getting soaked for her trouble as he struggled. Dixon turned to help Harriet who had managed to get hold of James's leg and was trying to pull him from under the table. James had his hands firmly wrapped around the table leg and held on for dear life, screaming at the top of his capability.

The kitchen door burst open and Peter and Harry with pitchforks in hand, arrived ready to defend their young friend, only to stop dead at the sight in front of them. Everybody froze, including James.

"It's alright, boys. It's just bath day," Georgiana said, and returned to her task.

James received a severe scolding from Peter who managed to get him into the bath without so much as a shove. He sat in the water looking completely miserable as if death would soon follow. He was given strict instructions to do as he was told or deal with the consequences, at which point James gulped and nodded his small head sadly. Then Peter and Harry turned to exit.

"Oh, boys," Georgiana said sweetly, stopping them as they were about to leave. "When I'm done with these young lads, hot water will be ready for both of you. Do bring Eye along as well. I think we are going to shave heads today, for all of you are still scratching."

Their faces paled but she received two short nods before they left.

"About time," Cook mumbled as she closed the door. "The stink on them is something fierce. I don't want the likes of them in my kitchen as it is, but with the stink it is asking too much."

After they were clean and dried, Dixon carefully shaved their heads and they were dressed in clean clothes. He escorted them upstairs to the schoolroom where they would meet their new governess. Tomorrow, lessons would start.

"Do you think the governess will stay?" Harriet asked as she swept up the hair from the floor.

"I hope so," Georgina sighed. "I'm paying her more than enough. My mother said she comes highly recommended."

Elton stood by the door waiting for instructions, and she frowned.

"Elton, come sit down at the table," she said.

He raised an eyebrow but moved forward to take a seat. He had worked hard in the last month and the strain was showing. With the house filled with people, he had been constantly on his feet.

"I have arranged for you to retire," she said, and was dismayed to see him pale at the news. It was not the effect she had hoped for.

"As you wish, madam."

She looked at Harriet but found no help there.

"Do you not wish to retire, Elton?"

"No, madam," he said simply, but would say nothing more.

What was she to do? She needed a butler who could perform his duties but she also knew that with servants who had worked their entire lives for one family, retirement was not always a time to which they looked forward. Elton was such, it would seem. She wished suddenly that she had spoken to Dixon on the matter first, but it was too late for that now.

"So be it then, Elton," she said. "If you so wish it, you may remain." He looked at her directly then, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

"However, I have two conditions."

The smile disappeared.

"You are to take rest each afternoon, no shorter than three hours, and when the house is full of guests, Dixon will help you with your duties."

"Thank you, madam," he said and stood to leave.

"Your lie-down may start today," she said and he changed direction, shuffling along to his quarters.

Harriet smiled while Cook frowned at her and said, "I could do with a lie-down meself," she grumbled.

"You already nap every day," Georgiana said. Cook looked startled but then quickly returned to her work of peeling potatoes.

Georgiana sighed, exhausted, and putting her head in her hands, she studied the kitchen's bounty. From the ceiling, hung hams and sausages next to dried spices from the garden. The great open range was heated by coal and fitted with a tank with taps for hot water. At one end of the kitchen was the scullery with two double sinks where the dishes were washed every night. At the other end of the room, was the butchery with the hanging carcasses of a rabbit and pheasants.

The cutting tables on the right wall stood next to a large scale on a table. Along the wall on her left were shelves on which pans, molds and plates as well as wooden serving dishes were neatly stacked. The dresser in the corner housed the china for serving food. Another shelf with a table stored the spices and the coffee and tea. In the center was the great table, around which the servants sat and ate their meals. She had always loved the kitchen with all its delicious smells and vowed to spend more time in it.

***

The days passed quickly with the duties of the estate demanding her time. She could not fire Mr. Madden, and so she spent many hours on horseback meeting her tenants and seeing to the business he chose to neglect. She inspected the spring barley crop and watched the shepherd tend an ailing sheep. She spoke to him at length, asking him questions until she could think of no more.

She hired more workers with Mr. Campbell's help and he accompanied her on her rounds. She had the fallow fields planted with turnips for the animals to eat in winter. After visiting the cottagers and listening to their concerns of leaking roofs and drafty, crumbling ancient walls, she decided action was required. On her rounds, she learned that the only task Mr. Madden performed well was the collecting of rents, and turning out tenants who could not pay.

When she confronted Mr. Madden as to the whereabouts of said rents, he merely shrugged his shoulders and replied that all moneys were spent on the wages of the servants at Ravenstone. She didn't dispute the fact, knowing it for a lie, but asked again for the accounts, which he promised again to deliver before leaving with a tip of his hat. Should she confront him with thieving, she would be forced to dismiss him. But having been given strict instruction from Edward not to do so, confronting Madden and then failing to dismiss him would make her look foolish or weak. Perhaps even both. She sighed and decided to concentrate on the situations within her control.

Peter, Harry, and Eye received riding lessons every morning, and afterward, they were required to attend the schoolroom with James and Rupert. Part of their duties, she informed them, was to learn to read and write. The new governess did not argue with her on the matter, even though Georgiana could sense from the thinly drawn line of the teacher's mouth that she was not happy with the arrangement. To the woman's credit, she had not quit despite Rupert's best efforts.

Georgiana spent what free time she had left in the garden with a bow and arrow practicing her archery. She taught the older boys the sport, and on Sundays, she would hold a competition with the winning prize of sweetmeats. Peter and Harry soon became decent shots but it was Eye who won the prize for three weeks in a row. Rupert and James sat on the sidelines with their wooden swords, watching the spectacle, while Sarah napped in her basket next to Georgiana.

In return, the boys decided to teach her how to throw a decent knife. She was soon able to beat them all, much to their surprise. When it was obvious they had mastered these skills to the point of boredom, she hired a fencing instructor to teach them how to use a sword properly. James and Rupert paid particular attention to their lessons.

Rupert still scowled at her most of the time, just as his ancestors did from their portraits. Still he had blessed her with a smile once, when she had managed to hit an unusually difficult target with her knife. She even managed to get him to sit at her feet, leaning his head against her when she read to the boys at night before bedtime.

The kitchen had been a place that had always seemed warmer and friendlier to her than the rest of the grand houses she had known. As a child she had preferred to sit downstairs surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the servants, the smells of roasting meat turning on the spit, and friendly cheer of a world far removed from her own.

Soon after their arrival, she had taken to sitting by the fire and reading aloud to the boys in the kitchen after dinner. At first, the servants were shocked by her presence in what they considered their own personal realm, but they soon became more comfortable and began talking freely in her presence while she played with Sarah.

Now sitting quietly beside the fireplace in the evenings with Sarah in her lap and the boys around her, she felt as if she had come home. All that was missing were Jane and Margaret. Nothing was ever going to fill the emptiness she felt in their absence.

From the servants she heard about Harriet's sister in London, who worked for a family whose young son took great liberties with the female staff. To complain was to lose her job, so Harriet's sister spent her days avoiding the young man and making certain that she was never caught alone with him.

Elizabeth's father was forcibly removed from land the family had farmed for generations, but he could not prove a claim to it with paper. Georgiana had read about the new enclosure acts, permitting smaller tenants farmers to be removed from land to make room for bigger, more commercial farms. She sat silently listening as Elizabeth told of her family's new life in town. Her father had moved the family to work in a mill for wages. The rent in town was expensive and so Elizabeth sent her wages to help her family. There were still six younger sisters and brothers at home to feed.

Cook always left after dinner to find her own room. The governess, Miss Blackwell, preferred to eat in her rooms rather than join them in the kitchen. Thus, it was a lively and friendly group that gathered as the last dishes were cleaned and put away.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Bristow, would read a verse from the Bible and everyone would listen with respect. Then she retrieved her household accounts and sat at the table with Georgiana going over the day's expenses and the menus to come. She was a competent housekeeper, well able to do the accounts, which was probably why Mr. Madden preferred her not to do them.

After Georgiana finished reading to the boys, the younger ones were carried off to bed fast asleep while Harry collected his sister from her basket. Once Dixon carried her upstairs, and after Harriet closed her bedroom door, Georgiana's thoughts would turn to Jane and Margaret again. It soon became a well-established routine.

***

Georgiana pulled her long black cloak closer as the wind blew stronger than it had the previous day. She looked out to sea at a frigate on the horizon, its sails straining under the blow. Bella stood perfectly still on the cliff top, her proud head angled to the left as she watched the ship, her ears up.

Georgiana gazed at the flight of a seagull, and pulled the reins gently as the mare turned, excited by some new sound. She turned to see what had caught her attention and stiffened at the sight of two riders on their way to join her. She had not met any of her neighbors and had hoped to keep it that way.

"Hello," a pretty young woman called out as she reined in her galloping horse. "I had not thought to find anyone riding out here."

"Yes, it's rather unexpected," Georgiana replied.

"I'm Lydia Jones," she said breathlessly. "And this is my brother Robert coming now."

They watched as Robert arrived reluctantly, his horse moving sluggishly in his sister's wake.

"I'm Georgiana Fairchild," she said.

"From Ravenstone," Lydia cried, surprised. "But I thought —" She stopped herself and turned to her brother, mortified and at a loss as how to continue.

"Lady Fairchild," Robert said, and gave her a small nod from under his hat. "I think what my sister is trying to say is that we believed you to be indisposed."

Robert Jones was a man of fashion with a slightly fleshy form. His gaze had settled on her face and form in a familiar way.

"You are correct. I am, as you say, indisposed," she replied and caused more confused looks.

"You seem quite fit from here, Lady Fairchild," Mr. Jones smiled.

"Indeed," Lydia smiled. "I must confess I had glimpsed you before on several occasions riding across the fields, but was unable to catch you before you disappeared. One was almost to think you rode on purpose with such haste because you seek to avoid company."

"Then you are mistaken in my intent," Georgiana lied. "My mare is swift, I confess, and in need of exercise. I regret not having noticed your approach before this day, but as you see here I am in your company."

"Then you must be well to get about so, and to be in company as you say?" Lydia asked, eyeing her legs. "We had come to believe otherwise."

"As I have said, I am indisposed. I cannot walk."

"How extraordinary," Mr. Jones replied, wrinkling his nose as if he had smelled something bad.

"Indeed," Lydia said. "How brave you are to ride, then."

"Foolish, perhaps," Robert said.

"We are at home at Adley Hall," Lydia said excited. "We must have you visit."

"I cannot impose," Georgiana said.

"It is no imposition, I assure you," Lydia said smiling. "Oh, please say you will come! You cannot mean to leave our company again, now that we have found you in it."

"I shall try."

"Robert, do tell her she must come."

"If she is not so inclined, we should not push the matter on her. Good day to you, Lady Fairchild," he said, and touching the brim of his hat, turned his horse. "I believe we have taken up enough of your time. Come, Lydia."

Bewildered by her brother's sudden departure, Lydia followed him, giving Georgiana one last wave. She watched them riding south for a minute then urged Bella in the direction of Ravenstone. No doubt, Robert Jones did not wish to be made uncomfortable by a cripple. It was this attitude she counted on, and she smiled to herself, thankful not to have to spend long afternoons in his company.

Still it would not be long before unwanted visitors would drop by, bursting with curiosity after Lydia's description of the afternoon's chance encounter. Georgiana would make herself unavailable, she decided, and give the staff strict instructions to be on the lookout for visitors and to warn her. It was in the afternoons she would need to be especially vigilant. She decided she would use that time to go out and ride.

She headed toward the western section of the property to check on the building of the new cottages. She had decided to build new shelters instead of repairing the existing ones. The old cottages were not fit for a mouse to inhabit, and she didn't want to waste money repairing them.

She urged Bella on with greater speed, taking to the woods and the dark, winding paths within it. The trees flew by dangerously close, but she didn't slow, enjoying the challenge. The path split into a fork and she pulled on the reins. Bella slowed, but pulled at the bit, throwing her head up and rearing. Wanting to continue the gallop, she danced sideways and Georgiana talked to her softly, calming her.

The two paths were unfamiliar and Georgiana paused, trying to remember which way to go. She usually stuck to the roads that covered the estate and had only taken a path through the woods a few times. She didn't remember a path that split. She hesitated a moment, looking back the way she had come, then took the left fork.

Given her freedom, Bella took to her easy gallop again, and they followed the path uphill until it suddenly opened up into a clearing. Bella stopped without being asked, and stood in front of the ruins of an ancient castle, its blackened walls crumbling down the hill, with only one tower and the north walls still standing. Stairs led up to a partial second floor and there was a wooden door that led into the tower.

A raven sat on top of the tower watching her. Bella put her head down to graze on the long green grass. Edward had mentioned the existence of the ruins of the original Ravenstone castle. In its day, the fortress commanded a wide view of the coast from the tower. Hidden from sight amongst the trees, the location provided an ideal lookout for approaching ships.

The raven took to the air, gliding silently above, and disappeared over the trees. She pulled Bella's head up and turned her back, then stopped, her eye caught by the grass around the castle. She studied it, a frown on her face, wondering why a deserted old ruin had a path of flattened spring grass leading to it.

Georgiana glanced at the wooden door again. It looked too solid to be part of the ancient building and she wondered why someone had bothered to put a new door on an ancient castle. Doors were meant to keep people out. If she tried the door, would it be locked? she wondered. She glanced around the clearing but then decided the risk was too great. There were too many dark hiding places in the woods where someone could be watching her. She urged Bella around the side, staying amongst the trees to make sure she covered her own tracks. She rode all the way around, studying every detail.

The only other path was an old road that led to the castle from the west. Barely visible under the spring growth, she could tell the road had not been used recently, but had been made ready. The grass on the road was shorter and the young trees that would grow in its sunlight had been removed.

Who had gone to the trouble of maintaining the old road and why? And to where? She wound through the woods then joined one of the estate roads on the western portion. Someone also had purposely covered up the entrance with branches, so that from the estate road, the path was hidden.

Not far from the cottages, she turned in their direction and noticed a small boy sitting alongside the road watching her. He stood suddenly, pulled his cap lower over his forehead, and walked casually on, whistling a tune and dragging a stick in the dirt behind him. Was he just a small boy out on the road playing on his way home? Most boys his age were out working, helping their families in the fields. Maybe he _was_ working and his job was to watch the road at that particular place.

He walked a little faster, glancing back at her to see if she was still there. Georgiana smiled and waved to him. He walked faster. She knew if she tried to follow him, he would easily lose her. Whomever he was on his way to inform, she was sure that person would come to her eventually. She would be patient, but she still wanted to know what the attraction was to the old ruins. She smiled. Maybe living in the country wasn't going to be as dull as Edward seemed to think.

She urged Bella on and inspected the progress on the new cottages, happy with the new design of three bedrooms and two common rooms. The old cottages were far too cramped and overcrowded. She gave the young architect the next installment of payment and praised him for the work already completed.

On arriving back at Ravenstone, she sat down to tea and her mother's latest letter from London. The new furnishings were paid for and en route, she wrote. Charles was the newest Member of Parliament and was acquitting himself well on the floor. She also mentioned his role in the latest police reform bill. The Bow Street Runners were investigating the death of her father. They were looking for a young man with black hair by the name of George in connection to the murder. An eyewitness gave a description of the young man to the police and a sketch was provided. Georgiana tried not to let the fear curled up inside her escape. They were looking for a young man, she told herself. Eventually they would give up and it would be forgotten. Another unsolved crime among many.

She continued with the letter, scanning ahead to see if her mother mentioned Jane and Margaret, but she didn't. Georgiana sighed and put the letter down, rubbing her temples. She would write to Charles again, imploring him to bring the girls for a visit. Doubtless, he would reply that he hoped to soon, but that his new duties forced him to remain in town for the present.

She took from the drawer the letters she had received from the girls, letters written with his help. She read them again, tears running down her cheeks, and she wiped her eyes so she could see their drawings. They wrote of playing in the garden, of their new governess who was teaching them French. They sounded happy, but that knowledge did little to stop the pain she felt in their absence.

Folding the letters carefully, she retied the blue silk ribbon around them and replaced them in the drawer. She turned to look out the window just in time to catch Rupert shooting an arrow at James who stood against a tree with an apple on his head.

"Dixon," she screamed, not bothering with the bell.

***

The doctor finished tying the bandage on James's arm, and closed his case with a snap. He washed his hands in the water basin, and then turned to her. "He is a lucky young man," the doctor smiled. "No real damage done. I will return to change the dressing. Make sure he doesn't use his arm or the stitches will come undone. Maybe Rupert should not be allowed near a weapon until he learns to respect life."

Dr. Milton was an agreeable old gentleman with grey hair and a rounding figure. He had a kind face and gentle manner that he used to put his patients at ease. He had quickly calmed James down and managed to have him hold still while the arrow was removed from his arm.

"It's my fault, I'm afraid," she said. "I never should have read them Robin Hood."

She gently wrapped James in a blanket. He had stopped crying, his small hiccups settling down as he drifted off to sleep, exhausted. He lay on the settee, his small head cradled in her lap, and she ran a hand gently through his hair, reassuring him.

"He is not yours, I take it," Dr. Milton asked, not unkindly. "For I would surely have been so informed by now."

"No," she smiled but gave no further explanation, and he did not push the matter. "Is there much talk of me?"

"Oh, dear me, yes," he smiled. "The countryside is ablaze with talk of the mysterious beauty, Lady Fairchild of Ravenstone. To have spotted you riding across the fields or observe you atop the cliffs looking out to sea is like having glimpsed a ghost itself."

She sighed, not pleased, wishing she could keep to herself without creating a dramatic mystery that would only fuel curiosity.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Dr. Milton said, reading her response correctly. He poured himself a cup of tea. "They will soon find something else to gossip about."

"How can they gossip about me if they know nothing of me?"

"You had thought to escape to the peaceful countryside?" he asked, smiling. "Alas, out here the gossipmongers have more time to devote to gossiping."

"And what could they possibly be saying about me?"

He leaned slightly forward and lowered his voice. "I have it on good authority that you stare out to sea above the cliffs to watch for your lover who will return soon to claim you and carry you away."

She smiled slowly, and then laughed. "How romantic."

"You are not too upset then?" he asked.

She shrugged and said, "It would do me no good, would it?"

Peter knocked softly on the open door and waited for her to wave him in.

"This is Dr. Milton," she said, introducing them, and was surprised to see Dr. Milton stand and bow to him.

Peter seemed just as surprised, and hesitated a moment before returning the greeting. He had been away in town when the incident happened and had only just returned. Then he moved forward to see James.

"He is fine," she reassured the older boy, and saw the tension leave his body.

"I will pay the expenses," he said, his face set in a hard line. He pulled from his pocket some coins, and waited for Dr. Milton to tell him how much.

Surprised, Dr. Milton looked at her, and she gave a small nod. He named a sum she knew to be far too low. Peter handed over the coins, then picked James up gently and carried him out.

Dr. Milton watched him leave, and then looked at the coins again.

"He gave me more than I asked for," he said, sitting down again.

"He knew you were asking too little. He is a proud young man."

"Remarkable," he said, shaking his head and pocketing the money. "He will be a good example for his younger brothers."

She didn't inform him that they were not related.

"What happened to his face?"

She didn't really want to say, but Dr. Milton had been so kind.

"A street fight, I believe."

Dr. Milton didn't seem surprised. He simply shook his head. "It's a crime what some children suffer in this world. Is it what happened to the other boy?"

He was referring to Eye, who had been present in the drawing room when the doctor had first arrived. Eye had been the first to appear at James's side and had carried him inside.

"That's Eye," she said, shaking her head. "He was held down and his eye cut out as a warning not to steal in another gang's territory."

Dr. Milton took a sip of his tea, a thoughtful look on his face. "I worked in London for a time and after some years of taking care of the rich, I decided to open a small clinic near the docks. I never worked so hard in my life. I felt so helpless in the face of so much desperation. I collapsed one day from pure exhaustion and a feeling of utter defeat. My dear wife insisted we move here to a quiet practice in the country."

"You are a good man," she said.

"Am I?" he asked, his face sad. "I feel every day as if I abandoned them."

She remained silent, letting him struggle with his own demons.

"You are kind to give sanctuary to these boys. It is far more than many would do. I have heard that you are even teaching them to read and write."

She looked at him calmly even though she felt alarmed that he should know so much. Servants talked and she could not control it. She couldn't say why she should feel alarmed that he knew. Her need for secrecy was making her feel anxious about too much and she resolved to be calmer.

"I hardly give them anything," she said, her voice even. "They work for me and I wish them educated enough to be of use. I should dismiss them were they not capable of good work. Nothing more."

After the doctor departed, Georgiana sat thinking about her nervous state and decided she needed something to occupy her. The old castle was a good place to start.

***

An owl hooted, turning his head backwards to look at her, and she shivered, rubbing her arms as she folded them. It wasn't the first time she had come out to the ruins, but the visit had been uneventful. She sat in the shadows of a tree as the clouds drifted in front of the half-moon in the sky, and waited patiently for something to happen.

She rubbed at the new blisters on her hands absently. Climbing out of her Ravenstone bedroom window had been far more challenging than her window in London. A much higher descent, and the walls were damp and slippery with moss. She had almost fallen off the roof tonight, and the misstep had sent her heart racing.

She didn't know what it was she hoped to achieve with her vigil, only that having more information had always served her better than having less. Edward had, after all, put her in charge of Ravenstone and she meant to know everything that happened in what she now considered her home. She smiled at the thought. She had become possessive of the old stone house and its surrounding countryside. She managed to attain a independence here she had never known before, and it was this she told herself that she meant to protect above all else. If Ravenstone did not survive, neither would she. Their fates were linked now.

A barely audible sound alerted her suddenly, and she sat up and watched the wooden door swing open from the inside and four men emerge. The last one locked the door before they all walked west through the grass and down the road. A silent group, they departed quickly, and soon the clearing was empty again.

She sat back against the tree and waited just in case one of them returned. After a few minutes, she left her hiding place and walked toward the tower using the same path they had through the grass. She tried the door even though she knew it would be locked. She would learn nothing more tonight, she knew. Walking back down the hill toward Ravenstone, she paused to stand behind a tree to listen in case someone had followed, but the night remained still.

Once back in bed, she lay awake thinking about the stories she had heard about smugglers along the coast. The cliffs along the Ravenstone property had many small coves that could easily hide small boats from view. The war with Napoleon on the peninsula was costly, and the government had raised import taxes and added new ones. The tax on tea had been in force since the beginning of the war. Poor families in the country who were already burdened could not pay the new taxes. Not without an extra income. Smuggling allowed the southern counties to prosper.

The majority of laborers in the country had enough money to buy food but not enough to buy coal to cook it with, and thus ate mostly bread and cheese. She had discovered this only recently. She had made sure that the new cottages all had a fireplace for cooking but had failed to recognize that the families could not afford the wood or coal on their wages because the price of goods had gone up so much during the war.

She had also discovered that, like the house staff, they had not been paid by Mr. Madden for their labor in the fields for months. She had paid them the back wages and allowed them to cut wood from fallen trees in the forest. She knew they had done it without permission before, but now they could do it without fear of being caught. Even so, it was not enough.

Were they smuggling to make an extra income, and if they were, could she stop them? Did she have a right to? They had fended for themselves since Mr. Madden's arrival. She would not be surprised to find it was Mr. Madden who was using the old ruins to smuggle. She had to get into the tower to take a look, and she was going to need help doing it.

#

The confusion of voices in the hallway gave the first indication that Georgiana's carefully guarded privacy had been penetrated by her nearest neighbors, the Kingstons. Despite Elton's objections, the unwelcome visitors insinuated themselves through the front door and down the hall in her direction. She barely had time to compose her face into a mask of false delight when they burst into the drawing room. She bid Lady Kingston and her daughters welcome and ordered tea, having no other choice.

"It is regrettable," Lady Kingston said, "that you are unable to make the rounds of the neighborhood so I have taken it upon myself to come for a visit. It is fortunate we find you in today."

It was not yet midafternoon, and a heavy deluge had already forced them to light candles to dispel the gloom. Georgiana drew her attention away from the storm that threw a torrent of water at the windows, and studied Lady Charlotte Kingston and her two daughters in the doorway. They had paid a visit before but Georgiana had been out, and remained out until they departed. Lady Kingston had been astute enough to visit during a storm this time.

Georgiana watched her remove her wet hat. Shaking it free of water, she placed it near the fire to dry. She was a middle-aged woman, quite handsome if she could remember not to pull her lips together in a continuous pout. Far from giving her an appealing look, it made her seem somewhat comical.

"It is kind of you to take the trouble on such a wet day," Georgiana said, smiling, and turned to the two daughters who sat on the edge of the settee looking quite uncomfortable and wet. They were probably Lydia's age, she guessed, friends of hers, who studied Georgiana closely for a sign of what she did not know. A moment or two passed before one of the girls had the courage to speak.

"Lydia tells us you enjoy riding?" Caroline asked politely.

"Yes," she said smiling slowly, and taking her time to answer. "I enjoy the fresh air."

"The weather has been so wonderful of late that you have gone out every day," said her sister, Dorothea, her tone almost admonishing.

"Have I?" she asked and Dorothea had the good grace to look ashamed.

Lady Kingston sat down next to her daughters and smiled at Georgiana. "You must forgive my daughters for, you see, they have been ever so excited to meet you since Lydia spoke of you."

"I have been rather busy with running the estate," she said, and answered the knock on the door.

Mrs. Bristow entered with the tea tray and placed it in front of Georgiana, and then left, closing the door behind her.

"Running the estate?" Lady Kingston asked, confused. "Surely, you have a steward to see to those matters?"

"Yes, Mr. Madden has been a great help but I prefer to keep an eye on the workings of the estate myself."

"My goodness how... unusual," she said, her tone disapproving. "Shall I pour?"

Georgiana nodded, and looked at the girls to see them glancing at her legs. They were probably disappointed that there was nothing to see under her skirts. At least, they had the grace to look away, flushed with embarrassment and avoided further glances at her lower limbs.

"Thank you," Georgiana said, taking a cup of tea and holding it in her lap. The room descended into silence and Georgiana waited, smiling pleasantly, as they all took small polite sips of their tea. As hostess, it was up to her to avoid a gap in conversation, but she had never felt an inclination to adhere to social etiquette.

"Have you been staying long at Ravenstone?" Lady Kingston asked eventually.

"Two months now."

"I see. And your husband, I understand, has returned to London."

"Yes," she said simply, knowing that what Lady Kingston was really asking was why had he returned to London, leaving his wife here alone?

"You have not been wed long then?"

"No, not long."

"It is to be expected, I suppose, under the circumstances," she said, glancing at Georgiana's legs.

Georgiana could feel her restraint slip and, biting her tongue, she did her best to ignore this last comment.

Lady Kingston took a sip of her tea again and the clock was the only sound heard but for the clatter of teacups on saucers. Outside, the wind was blowing the rain against the window.

"Sir Edward and your mother were kind enough to visit us before they returned to London."

"Were they?" she said. "And how did you find them?"

"Find them?"

"Was my mother terribly polite? And my brother, did you find him an exceptional young man ready for matrimony?"

The girls both blushed as if caught at an indiscretion, and Lady Kingston's gaze turned slightly colder.

"I found them both as expected. Lady Wyndham is amiable and your brother also. Will he be visiting again soon?" she asked.

Georgiana smiled, and glanced at the girls, and saw they were watching her closely again, interested in her next words. She lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of her tea, lowering the cup again before answering. "I imagine not," she said. "His responsibilities in London keep him away, I'm afraid."

"That is unfortunate. We had so hoped to be able to send him an invitation to our summer ball at Hamly House."

The girls looked disappointed and both turned to their mother in silent communication. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to let us know when your brother is to visit again for he has caught the attention of my girls, as you can see."

"I am at your service," she lied as the girls once more would not meet her eyes.

"It is difficult to find an eligible bachelor in the country. Most young men prefer to remain in London to amuse themselves with town pleasures. We had hopes for a while of Sir Edward for Caroline but you have snapped him up with your great fortune.

"Then, of course, there is Captain Markham, who has inherited Evansgate Hall. He is a fine young man of great character and good temper. But even he was only in residence long enough to settle the estate before returning to London, and now we have heard he has returned to sea, where he is sure to be remain a good long while."

Georgiana tapped the side of her teacup with a finger, half listening to the rest of Lady Kingston's words. She studied the two girls, wondering which Nicholas would prefer. Caroline was the elder and pretty. She had a kindness about her that her equally pretty sister Dorothea seemed to lack. Caroline's soft nature and beauty would appeal to his romantic, sentimental side.

"Don't you think so?" asked Lady Kingston.

Georgiana hesitated a moment, not having heard the last few words said. Not sure what she should say, she settled on one word hoping for the best. "Indeed," she said. It was a word that covered so many instances without giving offense and she thought it a wise choice.

Lady Kingston smiled and Georgiana relaxed again.

"Excellent. We will look forward to your visit at Hamly House in a fortnight," Lady Kingston said, and made to stand as Georgiana paled. Had she really just agreed to that? She must have, for Lady Kingston looked pleased with herself. They bid her goodbye and exited to their waiting coach.

"Damn," Georgiana said to no one in particular.

***

James had recovered well and with the bows and arrows under lock and key, he was soon following Rupert into misadventure again, the wolfhound pup keeping up with them as its legs grew ever longer. The rugs and Italian furniture from London arrived and were moved into the house, giving the rooms an air of a real country estate. Her mother's letters still failed to tell her even a few words about Jane and Margaret.

Harry taught her how to pick a lock and she practiced until she had mastered her new skill. Then she returned that night to the tower. Even though she had practiced her lock picking skills in the dark of her bedroom, it took nearly her an hour before she heard the tiny clink of the lock giving way. She paused on the threshold, the door finally open, and listened. She was alone.

Inside the tower walls, she reached for a candle in her pocket and pulled it out along with some touch paper wrapped in a dry rag. She took out her knife and struck a small flint against the back of the knife to create a spark that soon ignited the touch paper.

With her candle lit, she closed the tower door behind her, making sure it did not lock, and then made her way down the stone stairs. She walked down into an old dungeon and held the candle high, but the light could not penetrate into the deep darkness that surrounded her. She walked forward carefully, only to stop when her left foot struck an object that scraped across the floor, making her jump. She waited for her heartbeat to return to normal then bent down to find an oil lamp. She lit it, then extinguished her candle, placed it back in her pocket.

She moved further into the dungeon, and frowned when she found small barrels and bales stacked neatly together. There must be over a hundred barrels and just as many bales. She moved forward and bent down to run her finger along the seam of a barrel that leaked a small amount of liquid and smelled it. It was brandy. Next to the barrels, bales were stacked that contained tobacco wrapped in oilskin to make them watertight. Where did it all come from?

She combed the dungeon until she found an iron gate at the mouth of a tunnel that led downhill. She swung the heavy gate open, the sound echoing in the stillness, and made her way carefully down the tunnel. Soon she heard the rush of waves breaking on a beach, and the smell of salt water grew strong. The tunnel ended on a narrow beach completely hidden by the tall cliffs that surrounded it on three sides.

She watched the waves for a moment, then made her way slowly back up the tunnel, wondering what she would do with her newfound knowledge. Would she try to stop the smugglers? They were using her property for their illegal trade, putting her in danger of arrest, if not worse. If these goods were found by excise men, Edward could be held accountable.

What was the penalty for smuggling? she wondered. Near the top of the tunnel, she froze as she saw the flicker of a light behind the gates. She quickly extinguished her lamp and drew from her pocket a knife. She looked back down the way she had come, wondering if there was a path up the side of the cliff.

A soft voice carried to her, and she frowned, thinking she recognized it. She crept slowly up the final stairs. She had left the gate open wide enough to walk through it without making any noise. She stood in the dark shadows of the dungeon, watching Peter and Harry examine the cargo just as she had done earlier. They had followed her.

She sighed loud enough for them to hear, and so startled them that they jumped in her direction, their knives drawn. Peter held a candle in his left hand. They looked ready to fight to the death.

"Stand down, boys, it's only me," she said and stepped slowly into the light.

Clearly relieved, they lowered their knives. Harry smiled at her, though Peter looked like he still wanted to do her harm. His thin face was set in hard lines of anger.

"You should not be here, miss," Peter said.

"You should not have followed me," she replied, wondering why he was angry. "So we are even."

Harry grinned at her and she shook her head at him.

"Still following me, Harry?"

He nodded, looking proud of himself.

"We need to leave," Peter said.

She didn't argue with him. She swung the heavy gate closed. Replacing the lamp onto the floor, keen that nothing should look out of place, she followed the boys up the stairs and out. She closed the door but had no way of locking it, and knew that the smugglers would be highly alarmed at finding their door unlocked. This turn of events might be enough to scare them away. They might even move their contraband and not return.

They walked through the woods in silence, returning to Ravenstone, with Peter constantly checking to see if they were being followed. Harry didn't seem at all worried and walked along casually. At the stables, Harry nodded his good night but Peter followed her around the side of the west wing where the ivy clung to the dark walls. She studied him a moment, wondering how long he had known that she was no cripple.

"Did Harry tell you?"

He shook his head. "Harry keeps his secrets."

"And you are not going to ask me why, either, are you?"

"It's not my place to question you."

She studied his face. His were eyes focused on her, but she could read nothing in them.

"You don't trust me," he said. "You want to know if I will keep your secret."

She nodded. Peter was no fool and his cunning made her more anxious, not less. Fools were easier to predict.

"I saw you climb out your window weeks ago."

"And you have followed me ever since?"

He remained silent.

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't sleep much."

This was probably true, but there was more he wasn't saying.

"Then I bid you good night, Peter," she said and reached to pull herself back up the wall.

He watched her climb, and then sidle along the roof before scaling down to her window. She opened it and crawled inside, then waved good night to him.

She put on her nightdress, thinking about Peter's speech. When he had first arrived two months ago, his London dialect had been strong. She still heard it sometimes, but he was actually working hard to lose his accent.

He had lessons every day with the Mrs. Blackwell, who was a strict teacher. Perhaps she was forcing him to speak without the heavy dialect. Yet Georgiana had gotten the impression Peter wasn't a boy who could be forced to do anything he didn't want to do. So why did he want to?

She unlocked her door and climbed into bed wondering if she was doing the right thing, trusting Peter. But then she didn't really have a choice. In the end, she fell asleep, exhausted and dreamt of pirates chasing her through a dark forest.

***

The day of the dinner at Hamly Hall arrived far too quickly, and Georgiana sighed heavily as Harriet styled her short hair carefully around her face. For propriety's sake, as her mother would have it, one could not ignore an engagement, once accepted. She might want to ignore propriety, but she could not stand rudeness.

With that thought, she dressed for the coming dinner, wearing her best gown. Choosing the blue muslin she had worn at her wedding, she added a pearl necklace and earrings. When she was satisfied with her appearance, she wrapped a cashmere shawl about her shoulders and asked Harriet to bring her cloak.

Dixon carried her out into the waiting coach where Harry stood in his new uniform, grinning while he held open the door. Dixon was to accompany her, and rode with Harry who took his place behind the coach. The coachman cracked the whip, and they set off with a lurch.

The road to Hamly House wound through the village and past the church where the gravestones cast long shadows with the setting sun. The vicar stood on the stone stairs leading up to the church and watched her coach pass. She smiled, remembering her thoughts of kissing him on her wedding day. It seemed a long time ago.

The road wound past fields, farms, and small stone cottages until they turned between two iron gates. The formal gardens of Hamly house were perfectly kept, the house itself a Tudor of pale stone. The light shone brightly from the downstairs windows, and all too soon, they came to a stop. Harry opened the door and pulled down the steps, then stood aside as Dixon lifted his mistress from the carriage. He carried her up the short flight of stairs to the front door that swung open as they neared.

Lady Kingston stood in the great hall waiting with a smile. "Lady Fairchild, I am so glad you have come to cheer our evening," she said, and guided Dixon with an extended arm in the direction of the drawing room.

Georgiana held her head high and smiled as she entered to find the drawing room filled with visitors. Clearly, she was to be the night's main attraction as all conversation ceased with her arrival, and all eyes followed her entrance.

Lady Kingston would have her sit on the settee next to her. Georgiana recognized Lydia and her brother, Robert, and Lady Kingston's daughters. They all stood together in their finery, their eyes on her. Other guests, whom she had not met, mingled throughout the room, or sat in various chairs. Slowly she labored through their introductions to her as the night wore on. Every noble or gentry within a good distance had been invited, and had accepted.

Georgiana soon was unable to remember any of the names of those introduced to her, and already she wished herself back at Ravenstone. She listened politely as Lord Kingston complimented her on her fortitude, riding despite being so disadvantaged. Another lady complimented her on her dress, and then the conversation lapsed and silence descended on the room again. Georgiana was determined not to be intimidated as she felt every gaze in the room on her. The butler appeared and announced the arrival of another guest, Captain Nicholas Markham. Georgina stopped breathing, truly wishing she could slip away unnoticed. The evening had suddenly gotten worse, much worse.

The announcement brought an almost imperceptible gasp, primarily from the female guests in the room, and all eyes moved from her to the man that entered in blue uniform, his hat under his arm. He bowed to his hostess, Lady Kingston, who had quickly left Georgiana's side to greet him.

"Captain Markham, what a great surprise," she breathed, her eyes shining at the magnificent success her evening was proving to be.

"I am uninvited, Lady Kingston, and can only beg forgiveness. My only excuse for my intrusion is that I am in need of charming company."

"Had I known of your arrival here in the country, Captain Markham, be assured you would have received my invitation. With your presence, the evening is complete. You must meet our guest of honor, Lady Georgiana Fairchild, who has graced us with her company this evening."

He bowed deeply, his eyes only on her. "Lady Fairchild."

His tone sounded mocking to her, but no one else seemed to notice.

"Captain Markham," she responded simply.

"You are in remarkable good health and happiness, Lady Fairchild. Married life must be agreeable to you."

"I have found it to have only advantages, Captain Markham."

"Not a life of enslaved servitude as you had feared?"

His words set off a wave of whispering around the parlor and she forced herself to remain guarded. The entire room was hanging on their every word.

"I find marriage to Sir Edward very agreeable. He is perfectly amiable."

"So would be any man, having removed himself far away."

She felt herself flush as the whispering turned to soft laughter. She was not to be forgiven then.

He straightened before she could reply, and turned his back to her. Lady Kingston glanced at her daughters and moved forward on his arm toward them. They performed the expected curtsy with vigor, while he bowed in returned. He was soon absorbed into a small group and conversation was once again assured.

Georgiana feared for what the rest of the evening would become.

"It is most fortunate, indeed," Lady Kingston said as she took her place next to Georgiana again. "My Caroline has set her cap at him, but Dorothea will not give him up so easily."

"Oh dear, I feel I must warn you, he is the most eligible young man here tonight, and quite a few young women will be vying for him. You are confident that they can hold his attention?"

Lady Kingston turned, rather affronted by the question that came from an elderly woman, Mrs. Ashton, who was seated across from Georgina. The woman had, up to that point, ignored the entire party by sticking her nose in a book titled _The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia_. The book lay in her lap now, forgotten, as the unfolding drama before her absorbed her attention.

"My daughters are the best match Captain Markham could hope for," Lady Kingston said, her tone cold. "Why only last week the Marquess of Hartington himself paid us a visit. He was quite taken with both Caroline and Dorothea."

Lord Kingston raised an eyebrow at this statement but kept silent on the subject.

"I do not question your daughters' accomplishments, nor their breeding or beauty, for they have that. I only question their ability to be of interest. Having met Captain Markham on a previous occasion, I found the young man to be singular in his taste for intelligent conversation with little interest in the usual, accomplished young ladies. With only two minutes in your daughters' company, I ascertained that intelligence is not their strong suit, my dear."

Stifling a laugh as Lady Kingston opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, Georgiana was relieved that the attention had shifted from her, and that there was once again conversation in the room. She could still feel the intrusive gaze of many of the guests, but she could at least now feel confident that she was not the only topic of conversation, and thus might yet survive the evening without further embarrassment. She thought of her mother, who would not have appreciated the circumstances.

Lady Kingston, unable to find a suitable reply to Mrs. Ashton's remark, rose from the settee and crossed the room to speak to her other guests. Lord Kingston smiled politely but remained silent. The other occupant of their small circle was the young Mr. Jones, whose eyes had not left her since she arrived. She had tried her best to ignore his rudeness, but turned now to stare at him, hoping he would relinquish his post. Her attention seemed to only encourage him, for with a smile from the left side of his mouth, he gave her a slightly drunken look. She despaired and returned to ignoring him.

"Do you read, Lady Fairchild?" Mrs. Ashton asked.

"Indeed, I do," she said, hopeful for the one meaningful conversation of the evening.

"And what do you read?" Mrs. Ashton asked, her face already drawn into lines of disapproval at what she feared she would hear.

For a moment, Georgiana considered lying, answering with the name of some novel that was popular amongst young women and would draw superficial censure at best. She often ran into this dilemma of pretending to be someone she was not, only so as not to have someone find fault with her.

"Come now, Lady Fairchild, surely you remember the name of the last book you picked up?" she asked impatiently.

"Most recently, I read _The Social Contract_ ," she said and waited for the reaction.

"Rousseau," Mrs. Ashton said, clearly surprised.

"Why, yes," she said sweetly.

"You dare much, Lady Fairchild," Mrs. Ashton proclaimed.

"So I have been told."

Lord Kingston scowled at her with a fierce look of disapproval, while Mr. Jones still watched her, his expression unchanged. She wondered if he was listening at all, and supposed he was not.

"How is your book?" Georgiana asked, indicating the one that lay in her lap.

Mrs. Ashton picked it up and handed it to her. "It is the story of a young man, Rasselas, son of a King in Abyssinia, who escapes his gilded prison to see the world and search for happiness."

"Will he find it, do you think?" she asked.

"No," Mrs. Ashton replied, shaking her head and looking disappointedly at Georgiana. "Happiness does not exist, my dear."

"You seem so sure of it."

"You are young," Mrs. Ashton replied. "It is just as it should be that you have hope, but sad to say, being a keen observer and having reached a grand age, I can with good confidence relate that happiness lives only in the wishing for it."

"In that case, I shall waste no more time in trying to acquire it."

"That is quite impossible, I'm afraid. You see, it is in us to seek contentment except for those who are the kind who must breathe tragedy to survive." She leaned slightly forward as if to impart a confidence and looked toward a woman on their right. The woman in question sat in a chair across the room, not engaged in conversation. "That is Mrs. Naslyton. She is one who feels cheated, when she does not have something to lament.

"Her husband, the good Mr. Naslyton, renders himself into a drunken stupor to bear it. I am surprised they were invited at all, and I cannot think what Lady Kingston is about in requesting their presence tonight. Those such as myself, who have attained a vast experience of the world, closely examine the conduct and habits of others before they form a friendship on the sole recommendation of appearances."

"And do you have many friends, Mrs. Ashton?" Georgiana asked dryly.

"Many? No," she replied, her tone defensive. "Surely you would not acquaint yourself with them."

"I am unfortunately the kind that smiles at all and approves of even those poor souls who are destined not only to live on the edges of society, but beyond it."

"Then you lack courage to find fault with vice or to defend virtue. It shows a character whose preference or love is meaningless, for it is given too freely."

Georgiana smiled, not wishing to give offense, but also not wanting to continue the conversation.

Mrs. Ashton returned to her book.

Dinner was announced, and the drawing room soon emptied as the guests made their way to the dining room. She waited for Dixon to arrive, and watched Nicholas leave the room, escorting Caroline, and smiled to herself. She had been right about his choice.

She was seated next to Lord Kingston who sat at the head of the table. Lady Kingston sat at the foot with Nicholas on her right and Caroline next to him. Georgiana glanced at him and he returned her glance with complete equanimity, then she broke away to answer a question from the gentleman on her left. She did her best to keep up the polite conversation about music and life in the country.

Each course arrived, more delicious than the one previous, and she ate slowly, enjoying each dish. She smiled and laughed at appropriate moments, and forced herself to be as amiable as possible. The conversation turned to the war and Napoleon, as most conversations did. A question was asked of Nicholas, if he thought the war would soon be won. Everyone listened to his account of life on the seas, the woman responding to the romance of it while the men were more interested in the politics.

Georgiana listened to his voice and not his words. She had missed the sound of him. It had about it a calming effect on her, the deep even rhythm of it, lulling her serenely as she listened. Then the conversation turned to the recent social unrest and the fear that a revolution could occur in England as it had in France.

"It cannot happen here," Sir Arnold Chettam proclaimed. "The poor in England may suffer but it is the fate of the poor to do so no matter what country they live in."

"Indeed," replied Lord Kingston. "It is not the poor that are to blame for the unrest but those few troublemakers who stir them up for their own gain. We Englishmen are, however, blessed with Members of Parliament who have seen to it that sedition will not find its mark here. With the passage of the new Acts, no group can organize for fear of the consequences. We have made it illegal for groups of over fifty to assemble. That is what I call making good use of power and may those scoundrels be wary of it."

"What scoundrels, Papa?" Caroline asked prettily.

"Why the Radical Whigs, of course," he replied, scowling down the table. "Lord Grey, you know, criticizes the peninsular war. And that damned lawyer, Brougham, who has been let into the House of Commons, speaks of reforming education. Fortunately, he was defeated but he still causes trouble with his oratory and his influence. The push for reform in government is even more radical. They shall not rest until they see power shifted from the upper classes to the middle classes and they will use the masses to do."

"Their ideas are based on the same principles and morals as those of both the French Revolution and the American, I believe," Sir Arnold said. "Writers like Rousseau can be held responsible."

At this last comment, Mrs. Ashton's head raised, and she glanced at Georgiana with a gleam of satisfaction in her eye.

"I believe, Lady Fairchild, that you only recently read a book by Rousseau," she said, pleased with herself.

Heads turned in Georgiana's direction and even the sound of silverware on fine china stilled.

"It is true," Lord Kingston replied for her, his tone disapproving. " _The Social Contract_ , was it not?"

"Yes," she said, smiling. "It was a most provocative book."

"But were you able to understand any of it?" asked Sir Arnold.

"Oh yes, it was clearly written."

"Then be so good to tell those here not familiar with the work the sentiment of his ideas," he said.

There was in his tone a sense of mocking, and Georgiana looked around the table at the expectant faces, awaiting her answer. Sir Arnold seemed not to believe her, and she wondered with which part he found trouble. Was it that she had read a book like that, or that she had really understood any of it?

This was her opportunity to behave according to the social dictates that stated modesty was to be preserved at all costs, and that reason was to be left for the minds of men, which were far more capable of it. Women were allowed to ponder the trifles of domestic pursuits, not the philosophies of men.

What was required of her now was some cheerful and entertaining statement. She knew that to answer any other way would be considered arrogant and brash, both qualities to be seriously avoided in a woman. She should desist, she knew, or follow a dark path that would lead to censure.

She had no wish to insult her host, but neither could she be anyone other than who she was, with an understanding of the world that was contrary to everything she had been taught. It infuriated her that, as a woman, she was treated as a brainless chit incapable of original thought, or even thought itself. Still she chose her answer carefully, striving for the least harmful perspective.

"Rousseau claims that all men are born free," she said. "He writes of conditions that suppress the freedom and will of the people, and by contrast of laws that must ensure liberty and equality for all."

"Then he supports the freedom of slaves," Sir Arnold said, then boasted, "It is a sentiment many share, myself amongst them, and did we not abolish slavery in Britain? You need not have applied yourself with so much effort to understanding Rousseau on this account. You would have better spent the time learning a pretty new tune on the pianoforte so as to amuse us later with your more genteel talents."

He was putting her in her place and Georgiana felt herself flush. She glanced at Nicholas and found him wearing an expression of amusement. His watchful glance spoke of daring, for he knew she could not resist.

"He writes not only of the freedom of slaves," she said evenly. "But for all those that are not free or equal, for inequality is a form of slavery. I speak of the poor who have no equality and are thus enslaved by the rich and their laws, which favor them, and I speak of women who are destined by men to a life of subservience by the same laws."

"Come now, Lady Fairchild, you cannot mean that you are for giving legislative power to the ignorant masses?" Lord Kingston said.

"I am for individuals rights. Government should be run with the consent of all people, not a privileged few."

"Spoken like a true Whig," Lord Kingston said. "But surely you do not argue against the King's divine right to rule. He is chosen by God himself to rule over his people."

"Is he?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Did God tell you?"

There was a collective gasp around the table at her statement and her insolence in making it. A low murmur began, and she ignored it.

"That is blasphemy itself, Lady Fairchild, and I will not have it. You are an abomination," Lord Kingston said.

"Come now," Sir Arnold said, and the whispers died down again. "Lady Fairchild, you are grossly mistaken. A woman cannot understand these matters, for they are complicated. Best leave the discussion of politics to men. Even we barely understand them." He looked around the table for encouragement and was rewarded with a few low laughs.

"Was it not Milton who said women are for softness and attractive graces?" asked another gentleman, trying to ingratiate himself and change the mood.

"I believe it was," smiled Lady Kingston gratefully.

"Women are innocent and fragile and we men try only to protect their sweet nature from the hardships of the world," Nicholas said. "You would not condemn us for this behavior?"

"Indeed, I would," Georgiana replied sharply. "Men require women to be innocent like children, so men may govern us and we may respond with obedience. You require in us a mild temper so you may keep your dominance over us. You deny a woman's ability to think or reason, and it is a wonder that we are allowed a soul at all. Women obey an illegitimate power and they degrade themselves in doing so, for many men lead lives of debauchery and their women must bear the consequences with genteel silence."

"A strong sentiment, Lady Fairchild," Nicholas said, emphasizing her title and piercing her with a look of contempt. "Rest assured no one would ever accuse you of a mild temper or able to suffer in genteel silence. As a gentleman, I give my word that if we govern it is only in hope to take care of the woman in our lives and to show them the love and respect they so rightly deserve. It is not, as you say, a sinister motive that drives us, only a wish of giving happiness."

"And yet you do not see the misery it brings."

The stillness that followed was one that she had long grown accustomed. To her, it meant she had succeeded in her remark to unsettle their comfortable notions of order. Striving for composure, she picked up her spoon and continued to eat her dessert as if she had not just gravely insulted everyone at the table.

The conversation never recovered fully, and after the dessert dishes were removed, the ladies retired from the room, leaving the men to their port. Dixon placed her on the settee near the fire in the drawing room, and she thanked him as he left. Lydia came to sit with her but was soon called away by her mother, leaving her with two old women whose names she could not remember.

It was just as well since neither would speak to her, but only give her long reproachful stares before looking away. Lady Kingston busied herself in the room speaking to various ladies and encouraging her daughters to play the pianoforte, which they did tolerably well. She imagined her hostess was terribly sorry she had invited her. Or perhaps the evening would be long discussed and it would be declared a success on those grounds.

She studied the paintings and furnishings in the room and then had nothing else to occupy herself with except the study of the people in the room. Mrs. Naslyton was again sitting by herself, twisting a handkerchief and looking not sad but anxious. She stared at Georgiana, a frown on her face. Mrs. Ashton was reading her book by the window. The young ladies had gathered around Caroline, who had required them to sing while she played. It was a merry tune and did much to improve the mood of the room in which groups of women stood whispering softly in their circles while glancing her way.

The men soon rejoined them and she watched Nicholas from across the room. He was always surrounded by others and laughter usually followed him. She smiled at the memories of him she had from childhood. He had always been good at making others feel at ease, a skill she greatly lacked.

Steady to his purpose, he ignored her although she had almost caught his eye. He had looked at her, she was sure of it; she had felt his eyes on her. But why did she care? she wondered. It was good that he had chosen to ignore her. It was easier this way.

When she could not stand her circumstances one moment more, she bid her host and hostess goodnight, and Dixon deposited her back in the coach for the return trip to Ravenstone. She was quite confident she would not receive more invitations any time soon. She glanced out the window into the darkness, annoyed to find tears running down her cheeks. That he had not forgiven her was no surprise, but to have him despise her was unbearable. She wiped the tears from her face, angry with herself.

#

Eating his breakfast while he read his newspaper, Charles ignored his mother. She was once again ranting about Georgiana's behavior. He found it astounding that, despite the distance, his mother still took Georgiana's every action as a personal embarrassment.

"I tried my best with her, Charles," she said.

"I'm sure you did, Mama," he lied. She had completely ignored their presence as children, and was relieved to have them live in the countryside with the Markhams, where they spent a good four years of their childhood. He had been eight and Georgiana ten when the miracle had occurred that had changed their lives. At Evansgate, they had grown up under the guidance of Nicholas's father.

"Does she not understand the damage she does, not only to her name but to ours? Lady Kingston's letter was well meant, I am sure. To so malign your hosts, it is unspeakable. She should not have forced her company on them."

Charles rather doubted the good intentions of a letter that would voice a condemnation, no matter how appropriately phrased. "I have not seen Georgiana seek out society, Mama. I am sure the invitation came from them."

"They would never have invited her," she said, appalled. "Her condition is not to be borne in polite society."

He lowered his newspaper with dissatisfaction. "I cannot fault you for expecting her to behave as a lady of rank, but to make her an outcast based on the condition of her limbs is going too far. There is no reason for her not to be in society."

"She makes herself an outcast, and there are certain facts that cannot be overlooked," she said, her voice rising with anger.

He put down his newspaper and studied his mother from across the table. Her anger was more intense than he expected. Georgiana's social life might have merited some mild annoyance, perhaps, but not the depth of anger his mother displayed. More than once, he had noticed that when it came to Georgiana, his mother's reaction was not at the same level as the grievance.

"Why do you hold such condemnation for her?" he asked curiously. "What has she done to you that you hate her so?"

The question surprised his mother as much as it did him.

"How can you say that? I do not hate her."

"Come, Mother," he said. "Since my return, I have been witness to an undercurrent of animosity toward Georgiana. You deny you prefer my company over hers?"

"I love both my children equally," his mother said defensively.

"Both your children?" he said quietly.

He watched her face drain of color, and with it he understood suddenly how blind he had been to it all.

"I meant all my children," she said, but they both knew it was for naught.

He retrieved his watch from his pocket. "I will be late."

He bid his mother good day and took his gloves from his valet who stood by the door with a hat and walking stick. Charles decided the day warranted a walk, as he needed the time to think. A coal cart rumbled down the street and a hackney followed slowly behind it. He tipped his hat to a gentleman who passed and whistled a tune under his breath, trying to remain calm as the anger boiled inside him.

How had he not seen it? Jane and Margaret looked like Georgiana not because they were sisters but because she was their mother. She had allowed herself to be compromised, and this was unforgivable to his mother. The reason for his mother's anger toward Georgiana was all too clear. It explained why Georgiana wrote to him so often wanting to see the girls, her constant need for news of them. He had been so easily fooled and it angered him.

He made his way to his father's former place of business, suddenly thankful that there would be little time to think for now about what he would do. He was glad suddenly he had decided to maintain the office. It was not the sort of endeavor a gentleman such as himself would usually undertake but he had decided to try his hand as his father had done so well. He had been highly respected by those in the know with money and financing. Business would occupy him for the day.

Charles had come to understand from his lawyers that much of the family fortune was tied up in funds of one kind or another, primarily in banking and trade. He could leave it all to his lawyers and live the unfettered life of a gentleman of means. Most of those he knew did not dirty their hands with trade. But it was his sense that he should be more than a man of leisure that had caused him to hesitate when he was questioned about his father's place of business. He wanted a sense of purpose to his life.

He strode quickly across the bustling street making sure to keep his shoes from the muck. A small girl begged him for money and he gave her a coin, and then turned down fashionable St James Street. A barouche with a fine pair of grays trotted past him and he tipped his hat to the gentlemen and lady who rode in it. He had met them at a dinner a few nights ago, he believed, but only briefly and could not remember their names.

He passed the ladies' shops, which sold fine dresses and hats of the latest fashions. He glanced inside the windows at the finery on display and smiled at a pretty shop girl.

His thoughts returned to his work. Lord Davenport had requested he take his father's place in the House of Commons and so had obtained for him a pocket borough from a good friend. For the sum of sixty thousand pounds, Charles would be able to step into Parliament. A considerable favor, Charles knew it would come with considerable expectations of his support on bills in the House of Commons that affected Lord Davenport's interests in the House of Lords. As a Baronet, Charles could serve in the House of Commons but not the House of Lords. The House of Commons was, however, beginning to prove to be a place of great influence.

His father had served for over twenty years, and as much as he loathed the man, Charles had to respect the reputation his father had built for himself as a skilled politician. Those whom he had supported and who supported him were wont to fill his place with the son who would, like his father, prove to be a man who could be counted on to support the government. His father had been a staunch Tory party member, conservative, and careful to maintain the traditions of the landed gentry.

However, his father had also been a man whose fortune was built on manufacturing and industry. Old money and new rarely agreed on politics. Charles knew he would have to be careful whom he chose to support, and which bills he favored. He had found especially interesting that most members of Parliament did not read the bills they voted on out of respect for the opinions of others.

He arrived at the elegant building, which served as the place of business not only for himself, but for several other barristers and businessmen.

"Good morning, Mr. Ellis," he said as he entered through the front door.

"Good morning, Lord Wyndham," his clerk said as he took his employer's hat and walking stick.

Charles walked down the hall past the great collection of paper work and books neatly organized on shelves. He sat behind his desk and returned to reading the Bill of the Framework Knitters that he was to vote on soon. It was required that he vote against it, he knew. Lord Davenport had not seen the necessity for Charles to read the bill at all.

"It is far too long and filled with passages of such legal magnitude as to be almost incomprehensible," he had said over dinner at the club last night.

Charles picked up the weighty tome, _For Preventing Frauds and Abuses in the Frame-Work Knitting Manufacture_. Sixty-three pages did seem rather excessive for a bill that was to improve the wages and working conditions of the workers in the mills. He knew it was an attempt to stop the unrest and destruction of factory property by unhappy workers, but it was also so much more.

With the machines owned by the factories instead of the workers themselves in their homes, it had been possible to drive down wages and raise profits. Abuses such as terrible working conditions and long hours had become commonplace. The government could not, however, allow radical workers to form a seditious organization that could ultimately change the workers' plight across the nation. The bill was doomed to fail because its very nature threatened the owners who had maintained their wealth through the exploitation of those workers. Those in power, both new and old, could never allow the bill to pass.

This was the sort of legislation that Georgiana would have supported. However, even if the bill did pass the House of Commons where it had some support, the House of Lords would not follow. He was also aware that his family's fortune was based on the very profits of those factories, as he owned three cotton mills in Derbyshire and two silk mills in Leicestershire.

He sighed and rubbed his temple, then continued to read the pages before him. Mr. Ellis appeared with forms to sign, and then his lawyer arrived to discuss the East India shares Charles owned. He was to dine later with another friend of his father, Lord Fenwick, to discuss a loan his father had made the man, a substantial sum. Charles was not looking forward to the evening.

Taking his father's place was a formidable task, and he feared failure above all else. He feared it because he had performed so poorly as a naval officer. He had been adequate at best and had resented the ease with which Nicholas had taken to life at sea. Charles was far more comfortable on dry land and felt confident he could find a place for himself in politics. His father had been a businessman first and a politician second, and Charles had yet to decide which he was. He returned his attention to the bill, trying to forget why he was so angry with Georgiana.

***

Why was that woman still here? Georgiana wondered. She pushed her half-cooked eggs around her plate, and ate a slice of bread with jam instead. Months had passed since her mother returned to London, and still the promised new cook had not been sent. She stared at the letter she had opened in which her mother had replied to her inquiries about a decent cook. Apparently, not a cook in all of London could meet her mother's high standards.

Lady Wyndham had also made it painfully clear Georgiana was not to accept any more invitations into society. How did she know about Lady Kingston's dinner? Only a week since that evening, did country gossip reach London that fast? Her mother had also scolded her for preferring to eat in the kitchen with the servants rather than by herself in the dining room.

"Is the rest of the mail still in the hall, Elton?"

"Yes, madam."

"Could you bring it to me please?"

"Certainly, madam."

The mail was for the most part for her, but on occasion, a letter arrived for one of the staff. She picked up the one from London addressed to Cook, and stared at the handwriting. It wasn't her mother's, but then her mother was smarter than that. Did Cook now spy for Mother as well? It wasn't to be borne. She could not go another month with the awful food Cook made a habit of serving. She was surviving on bread and cheese.

She handed the mail back to Elton who took it without comment. Dixon helped her to move into the drawing room where she sat looking over the week's accounts. She took each bill and entered the date, the amount, and the creditor's name. When she had the figures all down, she counted up the total and frowned. The sum was formidable.

The new cottages accounted for most of the bills, plus other improvements that had been needed on the estate. The work on the house itself was completed now, but the bills were still arriving. She opened the wooden box on her table with a key, and shook her head at how much emptier the coffers looked since she had arrived. She counted what remained, and then decided she had to be far more careful. Elton announced a caller, and she looked up in surprise from her books.

"Mr. Gordon, the vicar?" she asked. She hesitated, and then said. "Show him in, but first have Dixon help me to the settee."

She put aside the inkwell and quill pen, and rubbed at the ink stains on her fingers to no avail. She reached for her white gloves and covered her stained hands. Dixon arrived to lift her to the settee.

Mr. Gordon entered wearing his cassock and she wondered at this peculiarity, for he was not required to wear it all the time. He was as handsome as she remembered, she decided, as he bowed to her. She offered him the settee opposite her. He sat down and she ordered tea, and then waited patiently for him to state his business.

"You do not attend Sunday services," he said, frowning.

"Indeed, no," she answered. "Under the circumstances, it is quite impossible."

"Yet you ride all about the countryside."

She could not argue with him on that point, so she did not try.

"Why are you here?" she asked impatiently.

"I fear for your spiritual welfare, of course."

"Of course," she said slowly, noticing how he did not meet her eyes when he made that last remark. A vicar who lied, she wagered. "You really wish me to attend Sunday services?"

"I do, yes," he said, pulling at his collar.

"Alas, Mr. Gordon, I'm afraid that I will have to disappoint you."

"But how else am I to save your soul?" he asked, his enticing lips drawn into a smile and his eyes almost teasing.

He was a proper rogue, she decided, intrigued by his behavior. She had been in residence at Ravenstone for many Sundays, so why did he approach her now? "I'm afraid my soul is already doomed to spend eternity in hell," she said and watched the smile slip from his face.

It was blasphemy, she knew, but didn't care. It was true. She only wondered why she had said it to him.

"You do not seem capable of a sin great enough to be so condemned at such a young age."

"We are none of us what we seem," she said pointedly, and thought she saw the shadow of some emotion in his expression, but he controlled it quickly.

"You are far too cynical for someone so young and –"

"Innocent?" she asked, wondering why he had not finished the sentence, then realized he must have also heard of her evening at Lady Kingston's.

"Yes, I was going to say that."

"But then you changed your mind."

"I realized you might take offense at the characterization. You believe innocence is not a sentiment for which a woman should strive as it keeps her in servitude to men. Your speech at Hamly Hall has been much reproduced. The countryside is abuzz with its audacity. Only yesterday I was walking across some far field, only to hear your views discussed by the shepherds."

The tea arrived and the maid placed it on the table in front of her.

Georgiana poured the tea and handed Mr. Gordon his cup, noticing again his hands that seemed not to belong to a vicar at all.

"May I ask you how it happened?" he asked.

"How what happened?"

"How you lost the ability to walk."

"A riding accident."

"And yet you ride about the countryside again completely unafraid. How odd."

She studied him as she took a sip of the tea, knowing it would be too hot, but wanting the time to consider what he was trying to achieve. She burnt her tongue, but showed not a hint of the pain.

"Nothing more terrible can happen to me now, can it?"

"Except dying."

"Yes, and that isn't so terrible, is it?"

"You are not afraid of death then?"

"Dying is the easy part," she smiled. "It's living that requires effort and courage, doesn't it?"

He shifted as if uncomfortable, and she wondered that it had taken so long. She was usually able to unsettle someone much faster. He had remarkable fortitude.

"You seem to possess immense courage, Lady Fairchild."

"Do I?"

"Indeed you do. You run the estate yourself, and cleverly by what I have been told."

"You have asked about me?"

"As a vicar, I am entrusted with information. I also feel I am in a position to inquire after the welfare of my parishioners."

"How nice for you," she said.

He smiled in return and sipped his tea. She felt like an insect being closely observed, all details safely locked away in his mind to be used at a future time. That was exactly why he had come. He wanted to see what kind of person she was, but for what purpose? Perhaps he was only curious, and like others had come to investigate for himself. The conversation turned to safer topics of weather and livestock sales before he took his abrupt leave and she returned to her letters. After making the fourth mistake within three lines of writing, she gave up and sent for Peter. Her mind would not be still.

He knocked softly before entering and then stood before her, hat in his hands, wearing muddy shoes that left a trail wherever he walked. He was starting to look less like the thin street boy when he had arrived at Ravenstone, and more like a young man. His cheeks were no longer hollow and his face had altered so that she thought him handsome. The only aspect that had not changed was the look in his eyes, which remained inscrutable. He rarely gave away any sign of what he thought or felt. She had only seen him angry once, and that was the night he and Harry had followed her into the dungeon.

"Is it still empty?" she asked.

He nodded.

The smugglers had removed all the contraband the night of the Kingston's dinner party.

"Let me know if that changes," she said.

"Yes, miss," he said his eyes on her. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you."

He left again and Mrs. Bristow arrived to clean the mud from the floor.

Her instincts told her to be suspicious of the vicar's visit. If he was truly concerned for her, he would have visited much sooner. The timing of her discovery of the smuggled goods and his visit was far too coincidental and she didn't believe in coincidence. She returned to her accounts but was soon interrupted again by Elton.

"Now what?" she asked.

"A Major Price, madam."

She sighed, resigning herself to yet another curious visitor. She closed her ledger as Elton showed in a man in uniform. He wore a blue jacket with red facings on his lapel and collar, and cuffs with yellow lace. He carried his black hat under his left arm. He walked slowly into the room, taking in his surroundings. She had a feeling he missed very little.

Major Price had the bearing of a man used to power, and worse, used to having his way. She drew in a slow steady breath not unlike those she had used when her father had entered the room. She composed her expression into the unreadable mask she had cultivated at an early age.

His gaze finally settled on her short hair, her riding skirt and jacket, the way she sat with her back straight, not letting it touch the back of her seat. His eyes remained too long on her lips and she knew he did it deliberately to unnerve her, to see her reaction. If she was flattered, she was vain and easily influenced. If she was insulted, she was insecure and predictable in another way and therefore easily manipulated. She showed no reaction and still he learned more than she wanted from this. He would know now that she had developed defenses beyond the normal social façade of cool disdain. He would have to be smarter to get from her what he wanted. The only question that remained was what did he want?

He did not bow to her and he did not wait for her to ask him to sit down. He lowered himself gracefully into a chair that was not in her direct line, forcing her to twist her neck at an uncomfortable angle to see him. Clearly, she was dealing with a master, and possibly, a dangerous man. Already, she felt like a sacrificial lamb, and he had not yet said a word. She did not order tea for this man had not come for refreshment. Elton understood this and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

"Major Price," she said evenly. "What can I do for you?"

"I understand you sympathize with the cause of revolutionaries."

She smiled. He went for blood quickly. She remained calm, surprising herself as the fear in her veins collected in the pit of her stomach, curling into a tight knot of panic.

"I sympathize with those less fortunate than myself."

He sat perfectly still, watching her, and she felt as if he was looking straight through her.

"Admirable, I'm sure," he said. "Rousseau, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said evenly and met his gaze. "You should read him. Even you might learn something."

His turn to smile. The expression did not improve his features, and only served to alarm her more. His face was not frightening, but rather normal. His brown eyes were perfectly set apart in a countenance of hard stone. His nose and lips were equally well formed and the overall affect was a certain neutrality. He had a mustache neatly trimmed, and she imagined him grooming it in front of a mirror as he calculated his next ploy to achieve his objective. His eyes did scare her: deep and full of a kind of knowledge that humans should not possess.

"I have read Rousseau," he said.

"And you found him wanting?"

He took his time answering her, and crossed his legs, the right over the left.

"Not wanting, no. Naïve, perhaps. No man is free, not even the King himself and equality, Lady Fairchild, is not a condition human nature will ever be comfortable with. There will always be those that try to better themselves, those that want to be set apart from others. It is in man's nature to enslave, to conquer, to wage war, and human behavior, Lady Fairchild, is an instinct far superior to mere philosophy."

"And yet the principles espoused in that book have inspired not one but two revolutions."

"And does not America have a flourishing slave trade and is France not on the brink of complete anarchy? Neither, I believe, considers women equal."

He was not wrong, and she hated him for it.

"You are not here to point out the weaknesses of Rousseau's ideas, Major Price."

"Indeed, no. I am, Lady Fairchild, in command of the 8th Light Dragoons, and am charged with finding and arresting smugglers. You have a group of smugglers operating on your estate."

"I am offended by your accusation."

"No, you are not, Lady Fairchild. What you are might be described as uncomfortable at best, but you do not take offense easily."

Damn him. She needed to divert him.

"I thought excise men were charged with apprehending smugglers, Major Price?"

"Excise men are ineffective and easily corrupted."

She sat silently thinking for a moment before she said, "A war is being fought on the peninsula, and yet your considerable talents are being employed to ferret out harmless smugglers. Is the Crown so desperate for funds?"

"The Crown is always desperate for funds, but you are correct. Smugglers are but a small interest in that they can lead me to my real purpose."

"And that is?" she asked, curious as to his real intent.

"Spies, Lady Fairchild. They move freely between the Continent and England with the help of smugglers. That alone is enough to have a smuggler hanged for treason."

"Any spy in particular?"

He smiled. "You show intellect, Lady Fairchild."

"It can be so very strenuous."

He stood and approached her, seating himself next to her on the settee. He meant to unsettle her, and she refused to give in to his manipulation.

"His name is Arnaude Rochette and he is probably one of Napoleon's more prodigious accomplishments. He has managed to earn himself egregious amounts of money from the French by selling our military movements and weaknesses."

"That is unfortunate," she said, attempting to remain steady as she tried to guess the real purpose for his visit.

"It's far more than that. He must be stopped and you, Lady Fairchild, are going to help me find him."

She would much sooner throw a dinner party than have anything more to do with this man.

"I don't see how I could."

"The scoundrel has some connection to Ravenstone, I fear."

"That must be our cook then, and you are welcome to take her away immediately for she has tortured me long enough with her cooking."

"You think to be funny."

"Not at all," she smiled. "I take it quite seriously when you accuse me of smuggling and treason."

"You mistake me. You are, after all, not only a cripple but also a mere woman, and so hardly capable of such industry of mind and body as to be able to commit these crimes. No, I only require information from you."

He was goading her.

"Such a relief it is to hear that you have confidence in me to be of some use then. But tell me, so I can be sure. Why would I help you?"

"Because you love your country, Lady Fairchild, and you want England to win the war."

"Or because you will apprehend my husband for smuggling, possibly treason, if I don't. I much prefer honesty, Major Price. It wastes less time."

He smiled, and reaching for her hand, raised it to his mouth. He kissed her wrist at its most delicate point, where it bent, and the blood in her veins pumped through the fragile blue lines under her translucent skin. His lips were wet, his mustache a light brush, and he was slow to lower her hand again as he studied the thin red scar along her wrist. She regretted not having worn her longer gloves but she had not expected visitors, especially the kind who would kiss her hand.

"You take untoward liberties, Major Price," she said, and pulled her hand out of his. "What makes you sure I can find him? I am but a crippled woman, as you have said."

He smiled slowly and glanced at her. "Lady Fairchild, most men may have the disposition to think woman are helpless creatures, but let me assure you I am not one of them. In fact, I believe women far more superior to men in manipulation, deceit, and strength, and I make it a habit never to underestimate them."

"How forward thinking you are," she said. "What makes you so sure there is a connection to Ravenstone?"

He took a moment, and she met his gaze without hesitation.

"We captured one of Rochette's more knowledgeable messengers and persuaded him to give us his master's name and location. Unfortunately, the prisoner died before he could give us any details. It is the closest I have come to the traitor."

He lifted his hand, running it down the side of her face, and she forced herself to remain perfectly still. "I believe you are in the perfect position to help me. As the mistress of this reputable estate, you will be able to discover any suspicious activity, and keep me well-informed."

"Again, I must refer you to my cook. She is far better suited for such a task, having as she does a long history as an informer."

He smiled. "Why does a man like your husband leave such a beautiful and intelligent woman as yourself so unprotected?" he said, giving her an admiring look. "Does he not long to kiss you? Touch you?"

She wanted to hit him. She had no use for the rules of society, but at this moment she wished suddenly to hide behind them. She should, according to society's dictates, avoid having a gentleman call on her alone. For a married woman living in the country, such visits were permissible, but still not advisable.

By rights, her husband should be with her, or an elderly, unwed woman, so a conversation such as this could never happen. She was at his mercy, without protection, and for the first time she longed to have her mother sitting opposite her. He was trying to show her how vulnerable she was, trying to frighten her into submission. Her cowering had ended with her father's death, but she also knew the value of allowing someone to think they had succeeded.

"You are too familiar, Major Price," she said, allowing her voice to shake and lowering her eyes as any lady would have. "How dare you?"

"I dare greatly."

She kept her silence, her eyes on her hands.

"Come now, Lady Fairchild, you have no recourse. I think highly of you and you should see my attention in its true light as a compliment I pay you."

"What do you want me to do," she asked softly, trying her best to act submissive when she felt anything but.

"I mean to discover who runs the smugglers who use your castle to store their cargo. He, I believe, will lead us to Rochette."

His request made, the Major stood resolutely, bowed, and then departed as suddenly as he had appeared.

She considered the implications of Price's demands. Picking at the lace on her dress, she pulled a loose thread and watched the pattern on her skirt unravel. She could not see that she had a choice. Branded a traitor during wartime, she would be hung.

#

The ship's mast strained as the sails filled with a strong wind while its hull groaned from the immense pressure of breaking waves. The _Juliana_ bore up and spread her wings steadily up the coast east by northeast, running at seven knots. They had tacked three times and the rush of feet over the deck was followed by hands climbing the rigging to shorten sail and hold the course.

The first lieutenant stood on Captain Markham's left and discussed with him a problem with the rigging. Nicholas nodded his head and the man set out to carry out the order. Calculations preoccupied the Captain's mind as he stood on the quarterdeck. He listened perfunctorily to the creak of the rigging and the shouts of the bosun and his men.

He gazed at the yards above him, satisfied finally that they were as sharp as required. The day had been filled with the mundane tasks that occupied any ship in the navy, repairs and training. A broken horse on the top mainsail had required splicing together. The rope was used by the top men to unfurl the sails.

Sails were checked for weakness, the deck scrubbed, the hull pumped and the guns exercised to make sure every man knew his part seamlessly. They had seen one sail that morning, and inspected a company frigate on its way to London. It should have been travelling in convoy but had lost sight of the other ships. They had escorted the frigate closer to the coast then tacked southwest.

"Two points off," he said.

"Aye, aye, sir," replied the helmsman.

The ship's orders were to maintain a naval presence on the southwest coast. There was no longer a fear of a French invasion by sea as their navy had been decimated by Wellington, which left little else to do in the North Atlantic. The _Juliana_ spent her days escorting the East India Company's frigates and chasing cutters suspected of smuggling, boarding them and confiscating contraband.

The work was dull, and cannons stood silent but for a warning shot fired across a bow once in the last week. But if the work was tedious, he heard no complaints from his crew. The _Juliana_ had seen her share of battle.

As a third class ship, she carried sixty-four guns on two decks. She was a man of war with considerable power. French built, she had sailed under their flag in the Mediterranean, only to be captured in battle. She had survived Trafalgar and the Americas and taken her share of prize. Now, she waited for new orders, and the next battle.

The white cliffs of the shoreline came into view as they sailed along, heading north again. A seaman pointed toward the shore, and Nicholas glanced up to see a dark figure on the cliffs, astride a black horse. He pulled his telescope out, but could see only the black horse and a cloaked figure with hood. He lowered the telescope and turned to see a sailor cross himself as if death itself stood upon the cliff. Men of the sea were a superstitious breed, and constantly on the lookout for a sign that would foretell their fate. He could not blame them. Life in the navy was often filled with death. He turned to look at the cliffs again, and the figure on horseback who watched them.

This was the Devonshire coast, he knew. It was where Georgiana was. His mind would always return to her. Not a day passed when he did not spend time thinking about her. It had been that way since the day he had met her.

He had been eight years old when his father arrived from London with two children. He and his sister had been summoned to the drawing room, where two young strangers sat on the settee under the scrutiny of his mother. His father had stood with his hands behind his back and introduced them. Georgiana and Charles would be staying with them for a while, his father said. His mother had spoken up, refused. She would not be charged with their care. She was not to be so mistreated.

Nicholas had never seen his father openly angry with his mother. While they quarreled, Nicholas had studied the pair sitting so still. The boy looked about Nicholas' age and clung to his sister's hand, his eyes on the floor, cowering, as if he was trying to make himself smaller, less of a target for the anger that flew around the room.

When Nicholas looked at the girl, he smiled. She had hair down to her waist, the color of dark honey, and huge blue eyes the color of the sky on a clear day. A bruise on her face had turned an ugly yellow, and he wondered how she had gotten it. She sat straight, her chin raised and her eyes defiant, glaring at him in return. There was not an ounce of fear in her. He had known then he was going to love her.

She had cared nothing for him, ignoring him as he followed her and her brother through the garden and fields. He would have followed her anywhere just to watch her walk through the high yellow grass of summer, her hair trailing on the breeze. In the sun, her tresses turned to gold, and her skin glowed until he thought her not real.

She would turn sometimes to see if he was still there, but her face rarely held a smile. In the schoolroom, she would stare out at the garden, her mind far away, and he wondered where her thoughts took her. The governess would ask her a question and he would try to slip her the answer under his breath, sure that she would not know it. She would look at him with a scornful look and reply with her own answer, which was always correct.

She spent hours in the library, hidden in the window seat, reading books. She disliked the pianoforte and refused to take lessons as his sister did. She would not play the harp either, or sing or embroider in the drawing room. She went swimming in the lake, and rode for hours across the fields on the pony his father had given her. She climbed trees faster than anybody he had ever seen. She was like no girl he had ever known.

Her brother stayed close to her the first few weeks until Nicholas convinced him to leave her side for longer periods of time. She was amused by his efforts to draw her brother away, but she also seemed relieved somehow, and after the first year, Charles and Nicholas became fast friends.

They played as boys did at that age at mischief and games. His father taught them to shoot, and Georgiana insisted he teach her too. His father had given her a rifle and she had proved a keen shot. For four years, he had watched her and loved her until at fourteen, she had been sent back to London, and he and Charles had been sent to boarding school.

He still remembered clearly that last day he had seen her. She was dressed in white, the long folds of her skirt moving gently as she stood under the oak tree she had climbed so often. At fourteen, she already resembled the beautiful women she would become. He had gone to find her, knowing she would be there. He had stood watching her, until she looked in his direction, and smiled at him. He had not known a smile could contain in it so much sorrow. He had approached her slowly and she had turned her gaze back to the fields.

"You will take care of him," she had said. "He will need you now."

He had nodded slowly, and then she had walked back to the house and he had followed her for the last time, watching her walk with her head held so gracefully.

His father waited for them with Charles at his side. The carriage was ready to take her back to London. Nicholas's mother and sister stood silently to one side as she walked up to his father and kissed him on the cheek. It took his father by surprise, and he took a moment to recover as she thanked him.

His mother and sister were shocked by her open display of affection, and refused to acknowledge her farewell. He had stood watching her kiss his father goodbye, feeling jealous for the first time in his life. Charles clung to her hand briefly then let her go. With a last look at her brother, she had stepped into the carriage and was gone.

He should have given her up that day, he thought. She was not for him but he had never been able to accept it. He watched the figure on the cliffs through the light rain, wondering if it had been too late for him from the day that he had first met her.

He had known she would be at Lady Kingston's dinner. He had sworn to himself that he would stay away, that he had given her up. Still he found himself at the dinner pretending all night to ignore her all the while following her every gesture. He hated his own weakness, his inability to forget her. Even now, he watched the figure on the cliff, wanting it to be her. He turned his back angrily, went below, and slammed his cabin door. .

***

"They are back," Peter said, his voice edged with anger.

He meant the smugglers, she knew. She did not take her eyes from the scene in front of her. The ship swayed heavily in the rough seas, but continued its course. She strained to see the name but the vessel was too far away. A gust of wind whipped her hood off her head and Bella stirred restlessly, her front hooves nervously pawing the ground. Georgiana backed her away from the cliff, and turned to Peter, who sat astride one of the new horses she had purchased. "We will need help," she said, the wind whipping her words away, but he nodded so she knew he had heard her. "In London, did you know any boys who could be trusted and would want to move to the countryside?"

He thought a moment. "Aye, miss, there is Davey and his lads. They are six of them altogether. They might do it if'n they needs to."

She smiled as she heard him lapse into his former speech, and wondered if thinking of London had that affect on him. "Explain that they will work on the land as laborers at first, but tell them nothing else for now."

He looked at her doubtfully, and she knew he was thinking they would not come to work in the fields. It was backbreaking work from sunup to sunset and no London criminal used to easy money would likely want to slog in a muddy field.

"I can't see another way around it, Peter," she said. "Ride for London tomorrow. If your mates won't do it, find others who will."

He turned his horse back to Ravenstone, and she watched him for a moment before she glanced out to sea again. The square-rigger had already disappeared beyond the headland around which lay Linton village. The second time she had seen a ship in a week, she knew they patrolled the coast looking for smugglers. This last one had been much bigger though than the average cutters that were armed with twenty guns apiece, their sleek lines built for speed.

The patrols by sea were worrisome but she knew she had more to fear from the excise men on land. She had that morning witnessed a column of men riding in dragoon uniforms on the road away from the village. They had arrived only this week, she had been informed by an excited country girl who watched them pass as well. She hoped Peter's recruitment efforts would be successful, even though she knew that what she was about to do would be dangerous.

A crew of clever, street boys, hardened or otherwise, would be a challenge to control, and they would be noticed right away as Londoners. She could explain them as an answer to her labor shortage, for there were not enough fit men to work the fields. With the coming of harvest, no one could question her reasoning.

The boys would be outsiders, but they would be skilled in the work she would ask of them after dark. As for trusting criminals, perhaps she was incautious, but she needed whatever help she could get.

The laborers on her estate and the people in the village were themselves loyal but not to her. Their loyalty had long ago been won by whoever was smuggling on her estate. She would not have help from them. She would have to find her own gang and who better than those who had to survive by their wits in London's underworld?

She turned Bella west, and galloped back to Ravenstone thinking about the weekend to come. Charles had promised a visit and he was bringing the girls. She had the room next to hers prepared instead of having them up in the nursery. Rupert and James were having their baths so they would be presentable, and the staff was readying the house as if the King himself were arriving.

The coach from London pulled up to the front door in late afternoon. Georgiana waited in the drawing room, trying to remain patient as she heard Charles in the grand hall. Then the door opened and two little girls in white dresses came running in, and threw themselves at her. She hugged and kissed them as they chattered about their journey while Lady Wyndham looked on disapprovingly. She had followed them into the room with a scowl already on her face, and Georgiana guessed it was a long road to travel with two such excited little girls.

"You should not encourage them so," her mother said, and turned to Betty who stood behind her. "Take them up to the nursery, Betty, and put them to bed. It's been a long day for them."

The two small faces looked suddenly sad and their energy left them as they slumped one on each side of her.

"I want to stay with Georgy," Margaret sulked.

Jane clung to Georgiana's arm, her face a stubborn line.

"Betty, they can stay a while longer," Georgiana said, her voice hard, daring her mother to defy her. "Go to the servants' hall and take some time for yourself, and then come back when their dinner is ready."

Betty curtsied, glad to leave the battlefield, while Jane and Margaret relaxed back onto the settee. "You are impossible," her mother glared.

"I missed you too, Mother."

Charles entered and gave her a kiss on each cheek then poured himself a snifter of brandy. "You look in excellent health," he said, smiling at her as he relaxed into a chair. "Doesn't she, Mother?"

Lady Wyndham turned away and glared out the window refusing to answer.

Charles made a face, and the girls giggled. "I could swear we have only just arrived, not yet ten minutes and already, Georgiana, you have managed to make Mother disagreeable."

"I have had good practice of it."

"Such impudence," Lady Wyndham said. "I shall not stand for it."

She left the room, slamming the door behind her. Charles and Georgiana smiled at each other.

"The country air agrees with you then?" Charles asked.

"Yes," she said. "That and the freedom to be my own person. You, on the other hand, do not look so well."

He was thinner than the last time she had seen him, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He took a sip of brandy and stood to take off his coat and loosen his cravat. "I am overworked is all," he said. "Being a Member of Parliament and expected to fill Father's shoes in business has caused me sleepless nights."

He stood in front of the fire, and she saw she was mistaken to have brought attention to his worries for suddenly the lines of stress around his eyes and mouth became noticeable. Oblivious, Jane, and Margaret squirmed their way off the settee to explore the drawing room.

"Is it so intolerable?" she asked.

"I much preferred fighting Napoleon," he laughed. "In war, it is clear who the enemy is. In politics, enemies arise from all sides. Father was a Tory and his friends are most conservative, intent on making sure that legislation remains firmly in their hands, even if their need for control damages England. And you should see the riots in the streets. People are starving, and we hear only of defeat on the Continent."

"But I thought that Prussia and Austria had agreed to reenter the war?" she said, confused. "Would that not have improved our odds?"

"Sweden and some other German states too, and do you know Napoleon defeated the alliance again at Lutzen and Bautzen, despite his defeat in Russia? The man has lost almost all his officers, and his troops for the most part are inexperienced, yet he inflicts enormous casualties on the alliance."

"You are upset by the war."

"That is but a small part of it. I have been arguing with Father's old friends and allies for months now, and they are ready to see me gone as much as I am ready to go."

"Arguing about what?"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "We must continue to send troops and funds to protect Canada from the Americans. The Tories refuse to see that impressment of seamen from American ships is causing us more harm than good. They wish to re-establish friendly relations, but will not consent to secure the restoration of peace by any sacrifice of the maritime rights of the Empire."

The Royal Navy was finding it difficult to find enough sailors for its ships and a bill was passed making it legal for British ships to stop American ships and force sailors into the British navy.

"They could just pay sailors better and perhaps they wouldn't have to force men onto their ships," Georgiana said.

Charles began to pace in front of the fire. "Were they even to lower themselves to such an idea, payment is not something the British Empire can afford right now with the war draining our resources. The Prince Regent continues to spend money on lavish balls and refurbishing the bloody Pavilion, which have emptied his pockets. He has begun to dip into the Treasury now. And do you know what the Commons chooses to spend endless hours debating this week?" With this question, Charles stopped pacing to stand in front of her, his eyebrow raised.

She shook her head slowly, afraid to set him off again.

"They are debating whether or not they should allow some benevolent Christians the right to communicate to the population of India the useful knowledge of morality and religious improvement."

She watched him return to his pacing, and sighed, not at all sure how to comfort him. The drawing room door opened and two scrubbed and combed little boys stepped into the room, followed by an equally spotless dog. Jane and Margaret paused in their exploration to stare at the boys, who returned the favor.

The only one who seemed at all comfortable was the dog. The boys had christened him Mud because of his color but also because, like them, he was always covered in it. Mud now proceeded into the room and made acquaintance with Jane and Margaret by licking their faces. They giggled and petted him while the boys gave each other a look that seemed to communicate their disinterest, and finding nothing to hold their attention, they departed.

Georgiana watched the girls, wishing she could call them over to sit with her, but knowing they would rather play with Mud.

"I heard Nick was here," Charles said, sitting down again.

She turned to look at him and wished she could make things right between Nicholas and her brother. She knew he missed his friend. They had been like brothers and had confided in each other. She imagined their last five years together in the Navy had made them even more reliant on each other's counsel.

"I saw him at Lady Kingston's dinner a fortnight ago."

"Ah, yes, the dinner," Charles said, frowning.

"You heard then it was a great success, much talked about still."

Charles studied the fire. He looked resigned, lost in his memories.

"What was it like?" she asked softly.

"What?" he asked, turning to look at her and taking a sip from his glass.

"Life in the Navy."

"Ah," he said and smiled slowly. "The worst excitement I have ever had. I fear the rest of my life will never quite compare."

He was watching the flames again and she thought he would say nothing more about it, but then he continued.

"At first I thought I had made the biggest mistake in my life, and even contemplated crawling back and asking Father's forgiveness."

"That is very bad, indeed."

"It was horrible. The smell of a ship alone made me sick and we had not even taken to sea yet. We were fortunate, we thought, to be commissioned on the same ship, not realizing until later that for such luck to occur there was reason and not a good one.

"Captain William Lamont was the man aboard a ship called the Oriana and he was not much loved by his crew, and in turn, his men were not much loved either. We started as midshipmen and were so to learn the sea. It was our duty to help the lieutenants control the crew and fortunately, as we were born to privilege, a certain amount of authority was already due us by the seamen. We were, however, not given any respect. That we had to earn for ourselves."

He stopped speaking and was lost in thought, his eyes far away as he remembered something.

"Did you?"

He pulled himself back from his thoughts and turned to her. "Hmm?"

"Did you win their respect?"

"Eventually, yes," he said and smiled.

"How did you manage it?"

He frowned, clearly not sure what to say next. "Certain events are not meant for a lady's ears."

"Oh, Charles, I thought we had agreed on your last visit you were not to treat me as a simpleton."

"I am only trying to show you the respect due you."

"Respect," she scoffed. "Show me respect by treating me as a strong woman able to cope well with life's less pleasant side. We are not fragile creatures, Charles. We do not break."

"If you are certain," he said his eyes hard. "You want all the details then?"

"I do, indeed."

He leaned forward and, glancing at Jane and Margaret to make sure they were paying no attention to the adults, whispered, "Even the one where I was held down in the Captain's cabin by two of his lieutenants so he could bugger me?"

She gasped, the sound drawing the girls' attentions to her. Charles stood, poured himself another brandy and poured her one too.

"Here, drink this," he said evenly, handing her the snifter. "It will bring back your color."

She took it gratefully, allowing the warmth of the alcohol to restore her composure. Charles returned to his seat.

"Still want the details?" he asked.

She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and he smiled. "By God, Georgiana, is there any limit to your daring?"

When she didn't answer, he took another swallow of his brandy and she wondered that he was not already drunk.

"Nick was the stronger of us," he said slowly. "They knew he would kill them did they try something like that with him, but I was not so well placed. While Nicholas was on watch, the Captain called me to his cabin and suggested I play the girl for him. I refused, and his lieutenants arrived to insist. A cabin boy who overheard my dilemma informed Nick who arrived on the scene at the most opportune time, and held a knife to the Captain's throat. They released me with no harm done, but Nick was flogged for leaving his station."

"But officers aren't flogged," she said.

"Indeed," he said. "But he was, and severely, and do you know he stood throughout the lashing without once falling to his knees, without not once crying out? It infuriated the Captain."

"But won the seamen's respect."

"Yes," Charles said slowly.

"Did your standing improve?" she asked carefully.

"Not at first," he frowned. "Nick and I were given the worst assignments and the Captain and lieutenants refused to teach us what we needed to know, so we learned our duties from the seamen. I didn't sleep much, and was constantly afraid of being molested. While I became weaker, Nick only became stronger and had to take care of us both. Then the Oriana was sunk in battle off the coast of Cyprus, and the Captain and his lieutenants sunk with her. When we had made our way back to London, we were fortunate in our next commission. And so wiser and hardened, we thrived and we were soon made Lieutenants on board the HMS Blackburn."

"You miss him," she said.

"Like a severed limb," he said. "And now you have heard from me what only one other person knows. It is a great confidence, don't you think?"

She hesitated in answering him, familiar with the particular look in his eye.

"Yes," she said softly. "A great confidence that I am honored you should have shared with me."

"It is your turn then," he said and leaned forward, his eyes glowing with intensity.

"My turn?" she asked.

"Share a great confidence with me."

"What do you want to know?"

"What happened while I was away at sea trying hard not to be buggered by some pervert?"

She glanced at the girls but they paid no attention to the conversation as they played with the dog. It was important that she make the right response but what she did not know was which response was the correct one.

Telling him the truth would not help settle his already agitated mind. If she lied to him, she knew he would feel even more isolated. He would recognize the lie for what it was. He was no fool. His good friend was lost to him, and his life in London was taking its toll. He wanted her to trust him. This moment meant everything to him, the lines on his face and the look in his eyes yearning for her confidence.

But still she hesitated.

"Mother told me," he said softly, his voice edged in disappointment.

She took a breath and said lightly, "What, exactly?"

"Jane and Margaret are yours," he said and watched her closely. Breathless, she could not speak, but her eyes shifted to the girls and he followed her gaze before returning to hers. He rose from his chair slowly and set his glass down. He sat next to her and took her hands in his.

"She would never have done that," Georgiana said.

He smiled. "No, you are right. She would not have, but she let slip a wrong word and I caught her out. And now it is obvious."

"Is it?"

"To me, yes."

"How so?"

"I have had some time to think about events and circumstance. Your reaction to being parted from them was also enlightening."

"I see."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"To protect them, I suppose."

He looked hurt. "You don't trust me?"

She hesitated and she knew that he noticed the pause. "I do. It's just you were gone so long I wasn't sure, and I didn't know how you would react if you did know."

"And the father," he asked softly.

"Is not important anymore."

"Still you cannot find it in your heart to trust me?" he said. He shook his head in disappointment, and then he stood. "I need a long walk." He left the drawing room closing the door softly.

***

Charles did not come down for dinner that night, and she ate in silence with her mother who had still not forgiven her for the afternoon indiscretion. She longed for the warmth and laughter of the kitchen.

She read the girls a good night story, and when Betty came to fetch them, she asked that they remain with her. She stayed up half the night, watching them sleep, and wondering at the changes in them in such a short time.

Jane had freckles now and Margaret's hair was growing lighter. She studied them to make sure she missed nothing. They smelled like little girls, their skin absorbing the sweetness around them, like the cinnamon they ate on their bread. The last six months had been taxing, and she was only now realizing how so. She felt tears on her cheeks and rubbed them away with her hand. She had tried so hard not to mind being away from them, and failed utterly. She minded a great deal.

She fell asleep, listening to them breathe, and thinking it was the best sound on earth. She awoke to the sound of their giggles. Opening her eyes, she stretched but the mattress next to her was empty. Then, the bed covers moved at the foot of the bed, and whispers erupted from under them. She smiled and yawned.

"I wonder what that sound is?" she said aloud and was rewarded by another fit of giggles.

She sat up and sighed. "Mud, is that you?"

Muffled laughter and a shriek from Jane were followed by utter silence. Margaret, no doubt, had probably silenced Jane.

"Oh well, it was probably just the wind," she said and relaxed back onto her pillows. "I think I will go back to sleep now."

The shapes crawled up the bed and then exploded out from under the covers with a loud roar from the girls. Georgiana pretended a great fright and swooned with her hand on her brow. They watched her cautiously but came closer and when she could feel their breath on her face, she opened her eyes suddenly and laughed like a ghoul.

They jumped back in fright and laughter, and she caught each by a foot as they were about to escape off the bed. She dragged them back and tickled them until they all lay in a pile of exhausted amusement. Betty arrived to take the girls to be dressed, and she promised to have breakfast with them in the kitchen later. First, she had to find Charles.

Harriet informed her he had not returned in the night. Distressed, she asked to have her horse to be saddled. She galloped across the fields in search of him, cursing herself for having given in to his demands. It took her two hours to find him.

***

Charles watched his sister arrive through the dark woods that surrounded the ruins, and wondered why he had not seen before how beautiful she was. She sat on her black horse with immense poise, her head held high. There was an elegance to her that did not come just from breeding but from character.

Her hair remained short, and he wondered why she preferred it so. Her eyes seemed larger, her full lips enhanced with the lack of anything to detract from them. Did she imagine that the shorter hair made her less attractive? he wondered. If that was the case, he should warn her that it only made her look all the more stunning.

He knew the moment she saw him, for her horse gave a small step sideways as if she had communicated it. She looked relieved, and immediately he was sorry he had caused her alarm. He remained still, under her scrutiny, knowing what she would see.

He stood among the ruins of the old castle, looking like he had been drinking all night in some disreputable establishment. His white shirt was loosened from his breeches and he had lost his cravat somewhere. He had walked for miles and then ended up amongst the ruins of the castle, thinking about Georgiana. He did not want to believe what he had come to suspect, but there were too many unanswered questions to deny the possibilities.

He smiled at her as she approached, and walked to meet her. He helped her off the horse and found a seat for her on some stones amongst the ruins. She removed her gloves and watched him as he walked slowly to her mare and ran a hand over her flank.

"Have you been here all night?" she asked, frowning. The slight inflection on the word _here_ drew his attention and he glanced at her. So she did know. He had wondered.

"Ah, Georgiana," he sighed. "Does it not exhaust you to carry so many secrets?"

Her face was guarded again, and he felt himself grow angry despite how tired he felt. He had never been so tired before, he was sure of it. But it was an exhaustion born from the weariness of the soul.

"Yes," he said finally. "I saw the smugglers."

"But they did not see you?"

"No," he said and noticed her relax again.

He rubbed Bella's neck with some grass he pulled. His sister had ridden her hard and the mare's smooth black skin glistened with sweat.

He worked on the horse, cognizant of his sister watching him. He had so many questions to ask her, but he didn't know if could live with the answers. Asking Georgiana questions could be dangerous, he had learned.

He remembered how hurt he had felt when he had first returned to London, and realized she did not trust him. He wanted to protect her and felt it was his duty to do so. The last few weeks his thoughts had often led him to her. Before yesterday, he had been the conquering hero returned from the battlefield ready to defend the innocent, only to discover that he had been the innocent and she the one protecting him. He felt like a child again and as unfair as the resentment was, he felt it anyway.

He tired of being the one who was in constant need of protection. He felt vulnerable, and both Nicholas and Georgiana made him feel more so. They seemed invariably to become stronger with life's hardships, while he became weaker in the face of conflict. It wore him down and made him want to remove himself from them. He didn't want to know what had happened to change her so. He was quite sure the knowledge would only make his guilt worse. Georgiana was now a woman with an inner core of steel he would never possess.

With no part of the mare left to rub down, he let the grass in his hands drop to the ground and turned to her. "Are there many more secrets, Georgy," he asked, using his childhood name for her.

"No," she said.

"I may not be as strong as you are," he said finally. "But I am still your brother and I want to help."

"I'm fine, dear brother," she said.

He nodded, not believing her, and turned to look at the castle. "What are they smuggling?"

"The usual things," she shrugged. "Tobacco, French brandy, tea."

"And you allow it?"

She sighed. "I had hoped they would stop using the castle."

"Will you turn them in?"

She took a moment to answer him and he wondered at the pause. She would provide a version of the truth, he thought, and was deciding which version.

"Edward has not been dutiful in taking care of those that relied on the estate for a living. His steward here has not been good enough to see to even their basic needs. They have had to rely on themselves to see them through. I don't feel that I am in a position yet to be able to disallow them this."

"You realize that you and Edward both can be found guilty of smuggling?"

She offered an enigmatic smile and he felt his frustration rising again. He wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know. He turned his back to her and walked a few paces away, his gaze on the trees, trying to understand her.

He could do nothing to help mend what had happened to her in the past. As it was, all he could do was help her now, but he knew he had to be careful, because she refused to confide in him.

"You know I want to help," he said, turning back to her.

"But without all the information, I will only make a mess of it." He sat down next to her, taking her hand in his. She had such thin long hands, delicate, he thought.

"Who was it that hurt you so badly?" he asked softly.

She inhaled sharply, and tried to pull her hand away, but he held on.

"Please don't," she said. "It's not important anymore."

"Isn't it?" he asked sadly.

"You want to help me?" she said angrily.

"Yes, with all my being."

"Then leave it alone."

"I can't."

"Nothing good will come of it."

"Don't you think I deserve to know the truth?"

"It's in the past, Charles. Can you not just leave it there?"

"Does your honor mean nothing to you?"

"My honor?" she said. "What is it you intend to do, Charles, challenge the man to a duel?"

"I don't know yet." He recalled Constable Marsh questioning her, and her cool response. He remembered his mother's anger, and the strange looks that passed between her and Georgiana.

"He's already dead, isn't he?"

She remained silent.

"He was right, wasn't he?" he said slowly.

"Who?"

"Constable Marsh," he said. "He paid me a visit last week."

"Did he?"

"He was angry and adamant that you had killed Father."

"That's impossible," she said.

"Is it?" he said, raising his voice. He hated her at that moment. He was trying to keep her safe because he loved her, and she continued to make him feel small with her refusal to think him strong enough to know the truth.

"How can you accuse me of such a thing?" she asked.

"Because I think it's true. I don't know how, but I can guess at why."

"I won't stay here another minute listening to this," she said angrily. "Help me to my horse."

"Somehow, I don't think you need my help," he said and he turned away from her and took the path back to the house.

"Charles," she called after him. "This isn't fair."

He didn't respond but continued on his way, not at all sure that he was right but always coming back to the same question. Why had their mother agreed to keep the children and pretend they were hers? The person he knew his mother to be would never have agreed to this unless there was another reason. Something so terrible it had to be hidden at all costs. All he knew was that he was tired of the lies and he would have the truth one way or another.

#

It had been a few days now and still he would not talk to her. Charles watched Georgiana from a distance, his face set in a brooding line of discontent, while she ignored him, deciding to make the most of her time with the girls. Picnicking on the grass, she relaxed on the pillows and laughed as she watched Rupert and James run away from the twins who wanted to pin flowers on the boys.

Later Rupert managed to transform them into proper fighting soldiers and with wooden swords in hand, he marched them up and down the lawn before sending them into battle. He set up an ambush and they waited for their first victim behind the shrubs. Unfortunately, her mother was the first to pass their hiding place and they pounced on her with fierce growls. She jumped and screamed, dropping her basket of flowers and ran in fright, truly fearing for her life.

Georgiana spent a good hour calming her mother. She lay on the blanket and Georgiana fanned her face to cool her while the children circled them, their swords drawn to make sure their prisoner did not escape.

"Do make them go away, Georgiana," Lady Wyndham said harshly, glaring at Rupert, who commanded his troops to hold steady.

"Rupert," Georgiana said. "I think you may yet gain another prisoner."

He followed the direction of her gaze and smiled to see Harry, pushing a wheelbarrow toward the stables. With a quick word to his soldiers, he had them in line and marching off to battle again.

Relieved, her mother calmed down, and managed to sit up and take a glass of lemonade. Georgiana glanced at Charles who sat on a bench near the house, his face turned to the sun.

"What have you done to Charles?" her mother asked, her voice clipped.

"Done?" Georgiana asked. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

"Why is he not sitting here with us?" she asked. "He has been behaving strangely since our arrival."

"And you think I have something to do with it?"

"Naturally."

"I think Charles is trying to make a decision about something and he is staying far away from me so I do not overly influence that decision."

"What decision?"

"I don't know, do I?" she said teasingly. "That's the whole purpose of the distance, Mother."

"Fiddlesticks," she said. "I shall go ask him."

Her mother stormed off in Charles's direction and she watched them argue for a moment before her mother seemed to give up and leave him to his musings.

He had refused an invitation to see the lovely Miss Kingstons, but not to be put off, Lady Kingston arrived to call on Ravenstone. They all sat in the drawing room politely drinking tea, the young Caroline and Dorothea trying to draw Charles into conversation, which he allowed reluctantly. They did not direct their conversation at Georgiana and she guessed she had not yet been forgiven. It meant her mother was left to carry the entire visit, which she did well while Charles, like the Kingstons, refused to even look at Georgiana.

She had been angry for finding herself in the predicament Charles had so cleverly used to discover the truth. She was now at his mercy, a position she had long ago come to despise. She wanted to trust her brother. She even believed she could, but a part of her was fearful that he really was not the brother she remembered.

The truth was she did not know what he would do now that he knew she could walk. Would he give her up? It was a question that went around in her mind so often she no longer cared to know the answer. Her cards were on the table, and it was his turn to show himself. She had faith in him, she told herself. She had to trust someone and if not her own beloved brother, then who?

She felt sorry for him, watching him struggle against everything he had been taught; the indoctrination of young males to favor their fathers started at birth. Everything he had learned to be and everything he had thought himself to be, a young gentleman with honor and duty, was being put to the test. Everything he knew about what a woman should be, she had proven wrong.

When the tea was gone, Lady Kingston finally had no other recourse but to leave, and tried to get Charles to promise that he would visit them soon. He murmured something that seemed to satisfy them and they departed.

Meanwhile, he took long rides and stayed away from the house even when the rain arrived to drench the countryside. On the night before he was to leave, she dressed in her breeches and after everyone had gone to sleep, she tried his door but it was locked. She took another route, over the roof and down to his window. Using her knife, she unlatched the window and opened it quietly, then slipped into his dark room.

He slept on his back, the covers thrown carelessly off. She moved cautiously forward and sat at the foot of his bed, folding her legs under her. She watched him sleep for a moment, almost too afraid of waking him. She needed to know if he would keep her secrets.

She must have been gazing at him intently for he seemed to sense a presence and opened his eyes. With his first sleepy instinct, he seemed to sense that it was only his sister, and he almost smiled. Then his second instinct must have screamed at him that it was his sister. He bolted up and away from her in fright, and she almost wanted to laugh except it was sad he must think she would do him harm.

"How did you get in?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying not to look like he was concerned and failing by the nature of the question.

"It wasn't difficult," she shrugged and pointed to the widow.

"Christ, Georgiana, you cannot just climb in my window in the middle of the night."

"You locked the door," she said accusingly.

"Because I did not wish to be disturbed."

"Am I disturbing you?"

He got off the bed and covered himself with his robe, tying the belt tightly. "What do you want?"

"An answer, I suppose. What will you do?"

He lit a candle from the embers, which still smoldered in the fireplace. He placed the candle on the nightstand, and inched further away from her. He looked her over, his gaze taking in her breeches and coat, the knife in her hand that she played with. She saw his eyes linger on the knife.

"Are you afraid of me?" she asked softly.

"Of course, I'm bloody afraid of you," he said, raising his voice. "You lie to everyone and you do it so well for years that no one suspects a thing. Then you crawl into my window and sit at the end of my bed with a knife in your hand and watch me sleep. I'd be an idiot not to be afraid of you. I don't even know who the hell you are anymore."

He was really shaken. Else he would never have used curse words in front of her. A gentleman did no such a thing, and he prided himself on keeping those standards. He walked over to the window and leaned out, apparently to see if she had used a ladder. He did it without turning his back on her. Not seeing anything, he looked up toward the roof and was still left without an answer.

"You are my brother and I love you. I would never hurt you," she said, her voice filled with reproach.

"I'm sorry. You'll have to forgive me if I don't take your word for it," he snapped.

She sat at the foot of the bed watching him and he looked out the window again, a frown on his face.

"Do you want me to show you how I did it?" she asked.

"No," he said, annoyed. "I most certainly do not want you to try and break your neck again. I would like to understand any and all of what you have not told me."

She reached down to take off her shoes, then her breeches.

"What in God's name are you doing?"

"I want to show you something."

"This is hardly appropriate," he said, looking away from her.

"You wanted the truth, didn't you?"

She pulled her breeches down and moved her legs to the light so he could see the jagged scars running down her legs.

"Look," she said.

He turned his head slightly.

"My God," he said, horrified at what he saw.

"Do you want to know how I got them?"

He nodded slowly.

"Dearest Papa took a hammer to my legs."

He swallowed hard. "Why?"

"He didn't want me running away from him again."

"He beat you for being with child?"

"No," she smiled. "For they are his children."

He paled at her words, and sat down heavily on the bed.

She got dressed again. "After the girls were born, Father wanted to get rid of them. He was going to sell them. I found out because one of the nuns at the convent took pity on me. She helped me escape, and I ran away, taking them with me, but he found me. In his rage and so that I would never run away from him again, he broke my legs."

"Dear God."

She shrugged. "Father was clever at hiding his true nature and even died with his honor intact. Mother, of course, was quite instrumental in assuring that end."

"She knew?" he asked, aghast.

"Oh, I told her, but she chose to not believe me. It was easier for her to believe me willful and manipulative, than to think her own husband would rape her daughter."

"But surely after Jane and Margaret were born, she could not deny it?"

"Could she not?" Georgiana laughed. "I was simply promoted to whore. Mother quite refused to see anything she didn't want to see. It was the scandal she feared above everything."

Charles took her hands in his. He was shaking.

"I should have been here," he said, tortured. "Georgiana, none of this would have happened had I not abandoned you."

She laughed. "It would have made little difference to Father. Had you tried to stop him, he would have killed you."

She turned to look at him, and noticed the tears that ran silently down his face. She wiped them with her hand and turned his face to look at her.

"Charles, my only consolation all those years was that you had escaped him. Don't you see there was nothing you could have done?"

"But your legs," he said.

"I am fine again. The physician was quite skilled, and was able to reset the bones. I could not walk for some time. I had no feeling in my legs, and it wasn't until after the third year that feeling returned. By then, Father had lost interest in me. I had become useless to him as I grew older. He preferred young girls."

"And Jane and Margaret? How did you manage to keep them? "

"As soon as I was able to put ink to paper, I wrote to everyone in society of my joy in being again a sister. I promised my nurse a fortune if she would deliver them herself. I thought Mother would kill me the day Lady Aster paid a visit to congratulate her on not only having twins, but having so cleverly concealed her confinement. She stormed into the nursery before Mother could prevent her, only to find that indeed the two new babies were real. They had no choice after Lady Aster informed others of this miracle."

"Were he alive, I would kill him myself," Charles said.

She sighed, rubbing a knuckle over her brow. She moved to sit on the floor in front of the cooling fire and added a lump of coal to burn.

"What happened that night?" he asked. "The night Father died."

"I was afraid for them, Charles. After I heard about his plans to marry me off, I decided I couldn't leave the girls at his mercy," she said slowly. "I killed him."

Slowly she stumbled through the story, not realizing she was crying until he handed her a handkerchief. Putting an arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close. He kissed the top of her head and held her while she cried. After a long while, she pulled away and he let her go. They sat side by side, watching the glowing embers.

"His death was too good for him," Charles said finally. He took her hand in his and held it between his own.

"I don't regret it, Charles. I only wish I had done it sooner."

"I understand."

Did he? She tried to read his face but the light was not sufficient to give her enough information.

"Do you think I should feel guilty?"

"No," he said but she did not believe him.

She laughed, the sound harsh in the stillness of night.

"He raped and used me for years, tried to sell his own children, crippled me and committed who knows what other terrible acts and God help me, Charles, I feel no guilt for killing him."

"Good," he said.

"Is it, Charles?" she asked sadly. "I feel so lost sometimes. I will never be the ideal well-bred young lady. They are right to call me an abomination."

"It's all so ridiculous, don't you see that?" he said.

"I think I do, but then sometimes I do not. I believe in morality and honor and duty as much as you do, but I am condemned by my thoughts and actions that exile me. I cannot be what is expected of me, for I see a lady as everything that is weak."

He was silent for a time and then he turned to her and said, "Georgiana, do you know, I don't think I will ever marry."

"Marry?" she asked confused, not understanding why he spoke so suddenly of it. "Why ever not?"

"Because you have spoiled for me the idea of what a lady should be. To me, you are the definition of everything that is good and strong. A true lady, and I fear there are no others out there for me to find."

"You must marry, Charles."

"No, I fear I cannot."

"If you do not, the good matrons and their young offspring shall hound me to hell itself did they discover your reason."

He smiled.

"I missed you, Charles," she said.

"Can you ever forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she said and kissed him on his brow.

"Do you want me to leave Jane and Margaret with you?"

Her heart missed a beat. She did want it desperately.

"I miss them terribly, but my first duty is to them and not my own need. If it is ever discovered who their real mother is, they are ruined and will suffer for the rest of their lives. It's too much of a risk," she said. "It would seem strange that I am raising them instead of Mother. It will set people to thinking about it and if anyone dangerous, with enough intelligence, were to start asking questions, it could all come undone for them. I would not risk their life and yours like that."

"Mine?"

"The scandal would end your career in politics."

"I care less for it than you."

She shook her head and sighed. "There is more."

"Tell me."

"I find myself in a rather dangerous position. I am not sure exactly how I shall escape it, but I would fear for Jane and Margaret here."

"What danger?"

"A Major Price paid me a visit and threatened to expose my smuggling contraband, did I not help him."

"But you are not smuggling contraband," he said angrily.

"That is not important. You yourself pointed out that since it is being done on my property and with workers from my fields, it will look like Edward and I are involved."

"And what does this Major Price want?"

"Arnaud Rochette. A French spy who is somehow connected to Ravenstone."

"I don't understand how you can help him."

"Neither do I, but he is convinced. He wants to discover who the leader of this gang of smugglers is."

"And you propose to do so, don't you?"

"Why not?" she shrugged.

"Because it's dangerous and foolhardy."

"My very reasons for making sure Jane and Margaret remain with you."

"I forbid you to do this," he said angrily and stood up. "You cannot mean to place yourself in such danger."

"Oh, Charles," she sighed. "Surely by now, if nothing else, you realize I am capable."

"I only mean to protect you, not question your skill at God knows what," he said, frustrated.

"Protect me by protecting the girls," she said and standing up, she reached for his hands and held them in hers. "The rest I can do myself. If nothing else, Father taught me to fight back."

He smiled. "I almost feel sorry for Major Price."

"Now you understand it all," she said. "But I must go for soon Harriet will come to wake me and find me gone."

He unlatched the door and she slipped out into the hallway.

***

Peter returned some days later from London with six boys who settled into one of the newly finished cottages. They had arrived in time for the harvest. Fortunately, with not enough workers in the fields, their appearance was more welcome than suspicious among the locals.

They knew nothing of farming, or how to work the land, but they learned quickly. She rode past a field in which the hay was being cut to store for winter. The laborers were mostly women and children as so many men had gone off to fight. The six new boys were collecting the cut hay into bushels. The bushels were then tied by the tiers who came behind. The hay would next be put into stacks so it could dry. The process had to be attended to quickly for to leave the moist hay without drying it could result in spontaneous combustion.

On a hot summer day with not even a sea breeze blowing across the fields, she was thankful the new boys were adjusting. She wiped the sweat running down her face, and seeing a grove of shady oaks on a nearby hill, she urged Bella toward them. She galloped up the slope and into the shade, only to stop short as she noticed a horse tied up to a branch. It was a beautiful bay, and she admired the lines even as she scanned the shade for its owner. Her gaze met a pair of familiar eyes.

"Nicholas," she said in surprise.

"Hello, Georgiana." He lay on his back on the grassy hill overlooking the field of workers, his boots crossed at the ankles. It almost seemed as if he was taking a nap, his jacket discarded on the ground next to him. Between his lips, he held a blade of yellow straw that he chewed as he watched her.

She told herself she should leave and, as if sensing her thought, Bella took a step back. Nicholas moved swiftly and was suddenly beside her horse. He took hold of the reins, and led her horse further into the shade. Taking the reins from her hands, he pulled them over the mare's head and tied her up next to his own horse. Then putting his hands around her waist, he lifted her easily out of the saddle and carried her to his place in the shade. She didn't object, accepting just how happy she was to see him.

"Does this mean you are no longer angry with me?" she asked as he lowered her to the ground.

His face was close to hers, and she found herself suddenly breathing too fast as she noticed the tiny gold flecks in his eyes. After he put her down, he did not move away, as he should have, but remained kneeling next to her. He lifted his hand and with his finger, he wiped away the trickle of perspiration on her brow.

"I could never stay away from you for long," he said softly.

Then he leaned forward and his lips found hers and he kissed her softly on the mouth. Caught by surprise, she opened her mouth and felt his tongue graze her lower lip then dip inside to taste her. The sensation of his mouth and tongue and the feel of his body pressing her down onto the grassy slope made her dizzy.

She found herself responding to him and explored this new feeling, completely surprised by it. Then his hand, which lay against her belly, moved up to touch her breast, and an uneasiness she thought she would never have to feel again rose up hard and quick, and she pulled away. She sat up suddenly, her hand on her mouth. She took slow, even breaths, trying to regain her composure.

"What's the matter?" he asked, lying on his side, his head resting in his hand as he watched her. "Remembered suddenly you were married?"

His mocking tone annoyed her. "You kissed me," she said angrily.

"So I did," he smiled. "And you kissed me in return."

His self-satisfaction was irritating.

"I didn't want to be cruel," she said easily.

He laughed and it infuriated her even more.

"Why did you kiss me?"

"Because I have always wanted to kiss you and now I have," he said simply.

She couldn't fault his logic, she supposed.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to ask you to run away with me." He said the words evenly, without inflection.

She studied his face and he met her gaze, following it down to the pulse in the hollow of his neck. She touched him there lightly with her finger. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing her palm, his eyes closed.

"Run away with me," he said again.

"I cannot," she said.

He stood and walked a few paces away to stand with his back to her, his arms rested on a branch above him. "Tell me why," he said, turning back to her.

She felt like he was looking straight through her and it made her feel breathless and confused.

"It is hopeless," she said. "You would hate me one day for having forced you to give up your honor so. You family relies on you now, your sister and mother both. What would become of them? You are a good and honorable man and did I run away with you, you could not help but hate me for it."

He smiled but it was a sad smile.

"You broke my heart, you know."

"It was never my intention," she said.

He moved forward and placing one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, he picked her up and put her back on her horse. He gave her back the reins and turned Bella so she was facing back the way they had come.

"I will always love you, Georgiana," he said, his hand on her foot for a moment.

She bent down to him and kissed him then he stood back, and giving Bella a slap on her rump, he let her go.

#

"I think there might be an engagement," Lydia said excitedly as she spoke of the upcoming summer's end ball that was to be held at Evansgate Hall. "Captain Markham and Caroline have fairly been inseparable since the evening at Lady Kingston's. These two months now, he seems quite taken with her, escorting her to all the assemblies and now he will have a ball. It was his sister's idea to make it a masquerade ball. Imaginative, don't you agree?"

Georgiana smiled, unable to say a word for fear she would choke on it.

"Why, I think his sister so fashionable. She brought all her friends down from London, and I do believe it will be the most lavish ball in Devonshire for some time. Emily is so beautiful with her light hair and blue eyes. I wish my skin was as fair, but I dare say I am not as careful about the sun as she is. Do you know she insisted on having Caroline's dress made up by her own dressmaker whom she also brought all the way from London? I never saw such extravagance and I am not sure her family can bear the expense."

Georgiana kept her gaze on Lydia but she had heard not a word about the kind of dress she was having made. Her mind was on Nicholas, where it had been since their encounter that hot summer day. She had dreams of him, after which she would wake up suddenly, her skin as hot as if she were fevered. Her mind constantly strayed back to the kiss they had shared. She would find herself staring at her own lips in the mirror as Harriet brushed her hair. Most annoying was that he had finally managed to insert himself into her desires at the very moment that he would become unavailable, and it seemed he meant to do just that, permanently. He would be engaged.

She made to take a sip of her tea, but her cup was empty. She placed it on the table impatiently.

"What say you?" Lydia asked. "Do you think it a pretty invention?"

Georgiana blinked at her before realizing she meant the dress. "It will look beautiful," she said and smiled.

"Yes, Captain Markham's sister thought so too. Although I am not sure lavender will do for the ribbons, I might be better to go with white. Robert, of course, must have a new coat, and Mama says it will all be for naught for Dorothea is not to be cheered by his countenance now that her sister has taken the prize. Still we try to remind her that not all is lost as, with your presence here, there is still an eligible bachelor in the neighborhood. Is your brother attending the ball?"

"I do not know," she said. "I have not had a correspondence from him of late."

"No, of course not," she said disappointed. "I did try to tell them all before—"

She stopped talking suddenly, and Georgiana wanted to laugh at Lydia's expression.

"Before you were forced to call upon me and discover my brother's intentions?"

Lydia looked crestfallen, her cheeks flushed.

"I would have come anyway," she said defensively. "I like you and I don't care what the others say." She raised her head defiantly, her mouth set in a stubborn line and Georgiana liked her all the more.

"Likewise. You are one of the few of the society in the county whose company I enjoy," she said, and was rewarded by Lydia's return to happy chatter.

He was to be engaged. That was good, she told herself. Now, he would not bother her anymore with his unwanted proclamations of undying love. A sad, cynical mood came over her. His undying love apparently had succumbed, funeral services already held. It was to be expected, she supposed, and she was disappointed only because he failed to be the man of conviction she thought him to be. Nothing more.

She returned her attention to Lydia and her quest for the correct hairpiece which was vital to camouflage of the shape of her head, which her brother said was the cause of her lack of suitors. Georgiana found herself studying Lydia's head, thinking it did look oddly the shape of a bird cage, but guessed that the more likely reason she had no suitors was that Lydia would come with no money. The Jones estate, like Ravenstone, had been run badly and servants in the kitchen spoke of the terrible working conditions at Blakeney Hall.

Lydia had stopped speaking and was watching her strangely, when Georgiana realized she had been unconsciously tearing her handkerchief to shreds, the small white pieces on her lap. "Are you troubled?" Lydia asked kindly.

"Troubled?" she said and swept the small white pieces to the floor. "No, not troubled."

"Perhaps my endless chattering is too much. You are not used to it. Oh dear, I feel wretched. Please, you must forgive me. Mama always says I am to say no more than a sentence or two, and if I cannot remember this I am to answer only in the positive or negative fashion, but it is so perplexing. Why only yesterday, we were honored by a visit from Major Price and in my excitement, I completely forgot Mama's advice.

"He is so handsome and precise in all he does, so careful, and I was completely taken by his distinction of excellence in manner. I despair, I was only just started on telling him of the ball when he put me straight and clear, that I must overcome my urge to loquaciousness, as it's quite a bore and only shows my weakness of character.

"Mama was upset by his remarks, but she would try not to show it and I, of course, not used to such well-meaning honesty, sat there for the rest of his visit, trying to redeem myself in his eyes by only responding with a smile. So you see I will endeavor to correct my unfortunate habit."

She stopped suddenly, as if realizing she was doing it again, and glanced at Georgiana mortified, her face flushed.

"It was not only unkind of Major Price to think it necessary to curb your talent for conversation, but also wrong of him to think it unpleasant. Perhaps it is his weakness of character and not yours which he brought to light yesterday?"

"Do you really think so?" Lydia asked, her face lighting up again, but there was still some doubt. "Mama was ever so upset with me after he left. I have never seen her so shamed before."

"Lydia, you have a beautiful voice and I would listen to it as I would listen to a piece of beautiful music. You also have a great talent for hours of conversing in society, something I lack, and wish I had more ability in."

"Oh, it is ever so easy for me and I do so love to be in society," she smiled. "I had not thought I had a beautiful voice."

"Like a nightingale," Georgiana said, meaning it. "Have you considered perhaps singing?"

"Oh, I do so love to sing but Mama does not like me to. She says a lady should have the ability to do one or two songs well for company, but that it is vulgar to perform in front of others on a stage."

Elton appeared at the door. "Mr. Gordon, madam."

Another visit from the vicar: how unexpected. She anticipated that someone would visit her in connection with the missing cargo from the ruins of the castle. Only it was not the vicar she had in mind. "Show him in, Elton."

The vicar entered, only this time he did not wear his usual grey cassock but instead boots, black pantaloons, a white shirt and a jacket. He seemed rather disgruntled.

He bowed to her and Lydia, and seated himself in a chair across from Georgiana.

"Would you like some refreshments?" she asked.

"Thank you, that would be kind," he answered, but he seemed slightly annoyed to find Lydia present, for he gave her a look of irritation.

Georgiana noticed Lydia's silence only because it was so abrupt a change in manner, it could not have gone unnoticed. She sat demurely on the settee, her gaze lowered and her cheeks flushed. Mr. Gordon seemed not at all to notice Lydia's behavior, or if he did, he was perhaps used to the effect his handsome countenance had on young women. The sudden silence was quite a disappointment as she had hoped Lydia would keep Mr. Gordon in conversation so she didn't have to. Unable to rely on her suddenly shy friend, she turned to Mr. Gordon and asked him about his sermon at church the previous Sunday.

"Are you familiar with the book of Exodus?" the vicar asked.

"The exodus from Egypt led by Moses?" she said. "You see, Mr. Gordon, I am not yet completely lost."

"No indeed," he smiled. "I was particularly paying attention to Exodus 20 verse 15."

"I'm afraid this time you have caught me for I cannot claim to remember that particular verse, although I am sure to have been exposed to it at some time in my religious education."

Her use of the word exposed did not go unnoticed, she saw, as behind the vicar's well-controlled demeanor she saw the shadow of what she expected to be disapproval, but was instead anger. His lips thinned into a severe line.

"Thou shalt not steal."

He said the words harshly, and then played close attention to her reaction. She was fortunately saved from showing any such reaction by Lydia, who shot up from the settee to block his view.

"I do apologize but I must take my leave," she mumbled and made an awkward curtsy before leaving the drawing room at such haste as to almost upset the tea tray in Mrs. Bristow's hands. Fortunately, the housekeeper had quick reactions and managed to pull the tray out of the way before Lydia flew by and out the door.

"My word," Mrs. Bristow remarked. "The young lady is in haste." She put the tray on the table, and withdrew. Georgiana returned her now-composed gaze back to Mr. Gordon whose eyes were clearly on her.

"Would you pour?" she asked Mr. Gordon.

The request surprised him greatly, for men did not pour tea. It was a woman's duty to do so. He could, however, not refuse and he gave a small curt nod and moved from his chair. Having to pour the tea put him at a disadvantage. His hands were big and his movements not used to handling fine china. He almost dropped the teapot, then caught it, but spilled hot water on his hand. She thought he meant to curse and almost felt sorry for him. She watched him struggle as she tried to make sense of what he had implied by his Sunday verse.

She had meant to flush out the leader by removing the contraband from the dungeons to see who would come after it. However, she could still not credit a vicar for being the man to lead a gang of smugglers.

Peter had led her and the other boys, including Harry, to the ruins late the previous night. They had stored the contraband in a new location. It had been difficult to silently take the horses from the stables without waking the groom who slept above the stable. She had put Peter in charge, making her just another member of the gang. He had been quite competent. Taking charge seemed natural to him and he gave the orders. The new boys from London had great respect for him.

It had been her first opportunity to meet the rest of the gang. The street boys were between the ages of fourteen and seventeen but acted like hardened men, which they had a right to. They had eyed her suspiciously at first, but she had picked the lock and carried her share of cargo. By the end of the long night, she had become one of them, and if any of them suspected her of being a woman, they did not reveal it. They looked to Peter. He treated her as one of the crew, and they had followed his example.

Mr. Gordon handed her a cup of tea, and she asked him for some sugar. She studied his face as he complied. He looked disconcerted but was quickly adjusting to his new tasks and when he finally sat down with his own tea, she gave him a satisfied smile.

"Have you misplaced something, Mr. Gordon, that you feel the need to provide moral guidance with regard to thievery to your congregation?" She was proud of her even tone of voice, and was rewarded with a flash of humor from the vicar's eyes.

"Lady Fairchild, it seems you have the advantage, but you make a grave mistake in taking what is not yours."

So it was he, she thought, and lowered her gaze to her teacup for fear of revealing her surprise. She did not know whom she had expected to show up at her door demanding she return the stolen cargo, but it certainly had not been the high moral compass of the village. A vicar was supposed to be upstanding, beyond reproach, but then he was only a man, she supposed, and thus weak.

"I must confess," she said. "I had not expected that you would come to claim the contraband."

"Then, you confess you have my property?"

"I do, yes."

The vicar stood and, placing his teacup down, moved angrily toward her, but stopped suddenly when she pulled from beneath her dress a small pistol. Surprised, he retreated.

"Do please sit down," she said.

He did as she asked, and she put the pistol back under the folds of her skirt.

"Really, Mr. Gordon, what had you thought to do? I did not take you for an impulsive sort but perhaps I have misjudged you in that respect as well."

"You have no idea who you trifle with here," he snapped.

"Apparently not. I thought you to be an upstanding pillar of the community to be sure. But given the new light that has been shed, I take it you are a smuggler first and a reverend second."

He took a moment to control his temper and she watched, fascinated, as he clenched and unclenched his fists, his face still flushed.

"Do not judge me, Lady Fairchild. Only the good Lord has the right to do that. You will return the cargo, all of it."

"Will I?"

"You believe yourself safe from harm because of your standing in society, Lady Fairchild, but let me inform you that it is a grave misconception."

"Are you threatening me?" she asked, incredulous. He really was not taking her interference at all well.

"I must express to you the severity of what you have done."

"Do calm yourself then, and know I realize full well that it is not an orange I have stolen from a vendor. However, I cannot allow you to use my estate for the purpose of smuggling without at least having a discourse of some sort with you. After all, under the current arrangement, I have everything to lose and nothing to gain."

"I had an agreement with Mr. Madden, and he is well compensated for it."

"How fortunate for Mr. Madden. He really is starting to anger me with his continued absence from his place of work, and his continued good fortune, it would seem. You would not perhaps know where the damned fellow has made his hole?"

"Would you return the cargo to me, if I told you?"

She smiled sweetly. "You take me for easy prey, Mr. Gordon, but I must disappoint you."

"I see. What is it that you do want?"

"Why, I thought that obvious. I want to be your partner in this wonderful financial enterprise. It is quite lucrative, I understand."

Again, he vaulted from the chair, his face angry, but this time he refrained from moving in her direction.

"Are you mad?" he said, his voice raised.

"Unfortunately, that does seem to be the consensus," she said sadly.

He paced the room, glaring at her when he passed, as he tried to find a way to escape the situation.

"You are a crippled woman," he said mockingly. "How do you propose to be my equal in a dangerous undertaking that could get you killed?"

"You think it impossible then?" she asked.

"Clearly," he yelled.

"And yet this crippled woman absconded with your contraband."

He stopped pacing and glared at her, thoroughly annoyed.

"You think this a joke?" he breathed.

"No, Mr. Gordon. I take you quite seriously, I truly do. For a man, you have managed to surprise me and that is hard to do, believe me."

He stared at her a moment completely at a loss, then his expression slowly transformed and he began to laugh. He laughed and sat back down in his chair for support, as he seemed suddenly unable to stop laughing.

She was not sure what to make of this, but he was probably entitled to behave somewhat strangely, given the circumstances. He had only that morning realized all his contraband was missing. When his little spies had informed him that they had discovered it in her cellar, he had probably imagined many bad ends to his life. The stress may have affected not only his judgment but also his emotional balance. She waited for him to regain control. He finally sat still in his chair, slumped and drained of emotion.

Rubbing his face with his hand, he sat up straighter and fixed his clothes, then reached for his teacup again. He took a few sips and studied her and she smiled at him kindly.

"You are an unusual sort of woman, Lady Fairchild."

"You pay me a fine compliment," she said.

"What if I refuse?" he asked. "I could just take the loss and start again somewhere else."

"You could," she allowed. "But it would take some time before you were able to find a new position as vicar elsewhere. Then you would have to spend more time deciding whom to trust again, where to find your buyers and who the men were that you would have to pay to turn a blind eye. My guess is this could all take two, maybe three, years to arrange. I have it on good authority the war will be over by then and French brandy will once again flow freely into our fine country."

He said nothing, but she could see by his tightly clenched jaw that she had hit her mark.

"I, on the other hand, would have my first cargo already safe on land and ready to distribute to London. With the ruins and the tunnel, I will have an already well-used route and I'll soon find who you deal with because whoever he is, he is like you, a businessman, and he will deal with me when he sees my money."

"You are a bitch," he said, his eyes blazing.

The word took her by surprise. No one had ever called her that before. She forced herself not to look away from his anger. If she was going to do this, she had to get used to much more than simple slander.

"Mr. Gordon, just make sure you do not forget it, and we will get along just fine."

She seemed to win some small point with him, for he looked away, his mind working in another direction.

"I won't give you half," he said finally.

"Why not? That is what the word partner implies."

"Maybe so, yet I have set up this route and the buyers and my men will be doing the work. I pay off the excise men, and I am taking all the risk. The only thing you contribute is the use of the estate."

"The risk we share, for were the contraband to be found on my property, I would be the one arrested, not you. I will contribute men to help with the cargo and also to make sure you keep your side of our agreement. I will also keep your greatest threat, a Major Price, from discovering who you are for he seems most interested in you. As he poses a severe danger, I should really be receiving the lion's share, but I am willing to overlook that."

This would be the dangerous part, she knew, and she would have to play it carefully.

"I don't need your protection."

"Do you not?"

Mr. Gordon leaned forward and in an even tone said, "What makes you think I won't just kill you?"

He meant to only scare her, she hoped, but still she could feel the fear inside her begin to grow.

"Despite your unusual way of spending your leisure time, I think you believe most of what you preach, Mr. Gordon, and you do not strike me as a man comfortable with the idea of spending eternity in hell for murder. I could be wrong, but that is the chance I take. Suffice it to say, were I to meet an unfortunate end, I will be sure to save you a seat in hell."

He smiled and she felt herself relax a little.

"Now, as a sign of good faith, you will have to reveal Mr. Madden's whereabouts."

"Why do you want him so badly?"

"As you say, Exodus 20 versus 15. Thou shalt not steal. Mr. Madden has stolen from me in the most flagrant of terms."

He laughed and gave her the address, then she rang a small bell that stood on the table beside her, and Dixon arrived.

"Would you please send for Peter," she asked Dixon. She needed to get to Mr. Madden before the vicar had time to warn him, if indeed he had given her the correct address.

He left to do his errand, and she turned to Mr. Gordon. "Your contraband will be returned tonight. Will you take some cake?"

"Most generous of you," he said and relaxed into his chair and she poured him another cup of tea to go with his cake.

"Now that we have dealt with business, we can move on to more pleasant conversation," she smiled.

They spoke of the weather and the coming ball at Evansgate. He had not heard of any coming engagement.

***

Georgiana looked at the wig in the mirror, trying to decide if blond had been the right choice for her. She turned her head one way, then the other. She had piled the long strands into a fashionable chignon and threaded it with pearls. It had taken her long hours to perfect, and frustrated at one point, she had thrown the wig across the room. Having retrieved the hairpiece, she had started again and finally achieved a semblance of the illustration she had found in a copy of _Monde Elegant_ , which her mother had left in her room on her last visit. Harriet would have been able to achieve the same in twenty minutes but nobody must know that she would be attending the Evansgate ball.

She opened a jar of Pearl's white bloom foundation powder, and with a light brush applied it to her face. Her skin was tanned because she spent so much time riding around the estate, and she took no time to protect her complexion. The powder paled her complexion to a fashionable shade. Next, she used a pencil to apply a black paste to her eyelid, holding her breath and concentrating so as to stop her hand from shaking. At the end, she made a slight curve up, and sat back to look at the effect. Then she did the other side.

Her eyelashes also received a dark color and her eyebrows she lightened with a white paste. Some Pearl's rose pink blush for her cheeks and red lip rouge for her lips completed the picture. She sat studying her image, not recognizing herself at all, and smiled. It was perfect.

She stood and quickly dressed in the elaborate silver and white creation she had had sent from London. The hem was slightly too short and the bodice was a little tight but she had not been able to ask anyone to help her pin the necessary changes. The result was that her bosom seemed bigger and slightly more exposed than she would have wished, but it would have to do. She slipped her feet into delicate white slippers and tied the ribbons around her ankles. Her black mask with white peacock feathers was last. She fitted it over her face and tied it carefully to make sure it could not be easily removed. She looked at herself in the mirror and was stunned by the beauty she saw.

She used to enjoy dressing up for the balls she had attended when she first came out. In this, she was like every other woman. She loved beautiful clothes and jewelry and perfume. Perfume. She had almost forgotten.

She returned to her dressing table and found the last box she had to open. She untied the rose ribbon and opened the lavender box. Inside was a small delicate bottle of fine glass. Carefully she removed it from its silk bed and pulled the glass stopper out. She inhaled the delicate scent of orange blossoms and jasmine. Heaven would smell like this, she decided, and then applied some to her wrists, the hollow of her neck and behind her ears.

She found her black velvet cloak, and then listened carefully at the door. She blew out her candles and exited into the dark, silent hallway. She used the servant's staircase and crept down the stairs and out the kitchen door.

She hurried along the path toward the back gate. She found the carriage standing under the great oak, just off the road. Harry sat on top, holding the reins, while Peter quieted the four black horses. She slipped quietly from the shadows.

"Hello, boys," she smiled. "All ready?"

Peter and Harry pulled their own masks on, and she adjusted Peter's cravat. He looked smart in his black pantaloons and jacket. The mask gave him the look of a mysterious young gentleman, or maybe a highwayman. Harry looked equally sparkling and impressive. He tipped his hat at her, and flashed his usual cheeky grin as she passed to see the horses.

"Was it difficult leaving the stables with all this?" she asked.

"The bottle of rum worked," Peter said.

She inspected the horses, paying attention to their previous white markings. They were now concealed with a black paste. She had bought the black geldings specifically for the white markings on their legs and faces. Now they were all a uniform black.

Peter opened the door for her and she got into the carriage, then Harry cracked the whip and they set off. She sat in the coach trying not to feel nervous but her mouth was dry and her stomach felt sour. She wondered if this was how soldiers felt before they went into battle. It was madness, she knew. Pure insanity. She had tried for days to talk herself out of her willfulness, but in the end, the compulsion had won out. Now here she sat on her way to a ball to which she was not invited.

She was going because she wanted to go to a ball. She wanted to dance, drink champagne and flirt, all of which she had been denied because of her father. She wanted for one night to be without responsibility. She also wanted to attend because they had not invited her. Just one night to be someone else. The temptation was too great. Nobody would know. She would stay a while, then leave before the unveiling. She could not risk someone recognizing her without her mask. It was harmless fun, she told herself.

Evansgate Hall was situated inland, miles from the sea. It was an imposing three-story Elizabethan building of white Portland stone, with a monumental portico decorating the entrance. Nestled in a valley of open fields with a wooded area to the north, the drive to the portico was lit up and coaches were pulling up and waiting for their turn. She forced herself to relax.

All too soon, it was her turn to alight. Peter climbed down from his post and opened the door for her, letting down the steps. Then her white-gloved hand was in his, and he led her down and onto the gravel of the drive. She smiled as she passed him and he gave her a nod, then she walked the short distance to the stairs and up them, holding her dress. In the grand foyer that she remembered so well from her childhood, a servant took her coat and she was expected to follow those in front of her to the reception line. She asked the location of the ladies' water closet, and a servant directed her toward the other end of the house.

After the servant departed, she slipped out and made her own way back but took a different route through some family rooms and a library before she finally opened a door onto the grand ballroom, jubilant that she had so easily managed to avoid being introduced. She found herself on the second floor balcony looking down onto the dance floor below, remembering how she had learned to dance there alongside Nicholas's sister. Her memories suddenly were flooded with images of her life at Evansgate, the only time in her life she could remember without pain.

An orchestra played a piece she thought might be Bach. There were no dancers on the floor as the dancing had not yet been opened. The ballroom was crowded with guests who stood in groups, admiring each other's finery and masks. The room had been beautifully decorated with flowers and the center chandelier sparkled.

She studied those present trying to see if she recognized anyone. First, she saw Lydia, who looked lovely dressed in a formal yellow ball gown. She stood next to her mother, who was much shorter and rounder and seemed to be insisting on something as Lydia nodded and listened. Her brother Robert stood next to them, looking bored. Both Lydia and Robert wore masks but she had recognized them easily.

It terrified her to think she could be recognized just as easily despite her best efforts. It took her longer to find Caroline and Dorothea and she only did so because she saw Lord Kingston. Like many of the older guests, he was not wearing a mask.

She studied the man talking to Dorothea. His formal black tailcoat and white shirt were fashionable, and it wasn't until he turned his head that she realized it was Mr. Gordon. She supposed that the shape of his mouth gave him away because she never would have credited the vicar with such fashionable clothes. He spoke and Dorothea listened intently.

She had seen him only two nights ago as he and Peter led the rest of their crew down through the tunnel to the beach where they waited for three small dagger boats to arrive out of the darkness. On board were small tubs, two tied together, which allowed them to be carried over the shoulder up the tunnel. After many trips up and down, Georgiana had been exhausted but was able to find her way in the dark, having stumbled through every part of it.

Mr. Gordon had paid the agent, who then returned to the cutter waiting a few miles off shore. Then the vicar had paid his crew five shillings each, while Peter paid his boys, including her. They would move the contraband out by packhorse soon. Every man working for Mr. Gordon also worked for her on the estate. She had kept her cap pulled down low and her mouth shut. It had been her second midnight excursion and no one had seen beyond her disguise. Having Peter take charge allowed her to melt into the background and go unnoticed.

Now she hoped she could accomplish the same feat dressed in the height of fashion in a well-lit room. She gazed toward the entrance where the reception line had grown shorter as the last few guests arrived. Nicholas stood in the entrance to the ballroom, greeting his guests. He wore a dark blue tailcoat and white pantaloons, silk stockings and a fashionable high collar. His thick blond hair was perfectly arranged.

He was a tall figure compared to his sister, Emily, who was acting the hostess for the evening. She was also dressed in blue, her light curls arranged atop her head and threaded with sparkling jewels. She had about her a haughty air, a disdain she seemed to have been born with. Even as a little girl, she had found it beneath her to run about outside.

She turned from Emily back to Nicholas, and inhaled sharply when she found his eyes on her. Her first instinct was to move behind the pillar beside her, but she knew this would only arouse his curiosity more. Instead, she met his gaze for a moment, and then looked away, feigning boredom, and trying to imitate his sister who had perfected the attitude. She dared not glance at him again, but instead moved down the stairs and into the throng of guests, hoping to get lost amidst the crowd.

She found her way to a table and lifted a glass of champagne to her lips, then turned toward the dance floor only to see in front of her a white shirt, blue tailcoat and a well-tied cravat. She lifted her eyes to his face, wondering if her game was up before it had even begun. She saw no shock or anger in the depths of his eyes behind the mask, and lowered the glass from her lips.

"I don't believe we have met, madam," he said and smiled charmingly. "I would have remembered."

A part of her was angered by his interest in her, a woman he did not know to be her, and a part of her was amused and relieved that her disguise fooled even him. If Nicholas did not recognize her, no one would.

"I thought the point of a masquerade ball was to be mysterious," she said, keeping her voice unnaturally low, as she had practiced. It sounded strange to her ears but he didn't seem to notice its unnatural timbre.

He reached past her for a glass of champagne, his body far closer to her than good manners dictated. His arm brushed hers and she wanted to hit him, not because he was taking liberties but because he, Nicholas Markham, who had vowed undying love to her, was openly flirting with a complete stranger whose name he did not even know. How dare he!

She felt sorry for Caroline if indeed they were to be engaged this night. He was a rogue. How quickly his undying love seemed to have vanished at the sight of another pretty face. Men were all the same, debauched and depraved numbskulls, incapable of a serious expression or thought that would last.

"Then we are to remain strangers until midnight," he said as she moved slightly away from him without drawing attention.

She smiled and lowered her gaze coyly, not trusting herself to avoid glaring daggers at him.

"What am I to call you until then?"

"You can call me Madam M."

"I trust you will save a dance for me."

She nodded, her gaze still on the impressively clean floor pattern. She had no intention of dancing with the swine. Emily glided gracefully to his side.

"Who could you be talking to?" she said, her as voice high-strung as her personality.

"I would introduce you except I have no knowledge of this young lady's identity. She is determined to remain incognito."

"I see," she said aloofly, as if she had been forced to take part in the conversation. "Dear brother, it is time to open the dancing and I do believe you promised the first dance to Miss Caroline Kingston. She is such an amiable girl and handsome."

She said this to Georgiana as if warning her. Emily had a horse face, long and not suited for the human form. It gave her the right to be haughty and disagreeable, she supposed.

Nicholas bowed and then allowed his sister to lead him away. He was barely turned away when two gentlemen arrived at her side asking for the first dance. They did it together, using the same words, and Georgiana laughed, causing Nicholas to pause and glance back at her. He was no longer smiling, his face set in a frown.

She turned her back on him, deciding to forget about him and enjoy herself. It was why she had come. The gentlemen worked it out amongst each other who would dance with her first, then the leading lady called out the order and steps, the music started and she found herself in line to dance the cotillion.

The lively music and champagne created in her a great need for fun and laughter and even Nicholas could not dampen her mood. She ignored his presence even when his hand was in hers for the brief moments required according to the steps. She kept her gaze from his and focused on her partner. He had introduced himself but she had already forgotten his name. He was a good dancer as was her next partner and the one after that.

She never sat out a dance and soon two hours had passed and she was exhausted. She refused the next dance, and taking a glass of champagne she avoided the small gathered circles of people talking. They watched her pass, openly curious, and she heard snippets of gossip about herself. She smiled. Let them talk. She was enjoying herself.

The doors out onto the terrace stood open and she ducked out, suddenly hoping no one had observed her fast exit. The air outside was cool and she sighed in relief, her body hot and sweaty from the dancing. She sipped her champagne and looked at the stars, giddy with happiness.

Her father had allowed her to attend her first season but had been constantly at her side. He drove suitors away, saying none were good enough, acting more like a jealous lover than her father.

A touch on her bare shoulder made her jump, spilling her champagne.

"Forgive me," a voice said as she turned to face him. "I could not but help myself. Your dress glows in the moonlight and your skin shone with light. I had to touch you to see if you were real."

"I assure you, I am flesh and bone," she said icily and turned her back on him. It was Mr. Gordon and she wanted to do nothing but run away before he knew it was she.

He was not so easily put off, however, and he moved to stand beside her, watching her.

"We have met before," he said.

"I don't think so."

"Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Reverend Marcus Gordon," he said and made her a formal bow, but kept his gaze on her as he did.

"A man of God," she said, wondering if he too was playing a part or if he was really not aware of her true identity.

He smiled and she could not help but find her gaze drop to his lips.

"You will not give me your name?"

"No," she said simply.

"Am I to presume that you are here alone?" The comment, seemingly harmless, sounded to her ears anything but.

He had been watching her, she supposed, like many of the other curious. She decided making no response would be the better choice.

"Rather mysterious. All other young ladies here tonight seem to have someone else they return to after a dance: family or friends. But you, you dance, speak to no one, and when finally you can dance no more, you choose to come out here by yourself."

"My husband, I believe, is playing whist upstairs. I have no love of the game," she said, sounding bored and dismissive.

"Your husband?" he asked and taking hold of her hand, his fingers found the ring on her finger under her white gloves. "You are married."

She pulled her hand away. "For a vicar, you are too forward."

"I apologize, for I have no wish to offend you," he said, contrite, a smile still on his face but not looking one bit sorry. "Your beauty has reduced me to an imbecile. Perhaps you are perfectly unaware that for several hours now every eye has been on your person. Yet with one word from you, I will be silenced, for I see how you are discomforted by this news."

A young woman in yellow floated through the doors onto the terrace and she paused, catching sight of them. A look of distress crossed her face at seeing them standing so close together. She turned away and went back inside. It was Lydia. Georgiana wondered if she had followed the vicar out.

"Are you really a vicar?" she asked, deciding that perhaps going on the attack would be the best way of getting rid of him.

"I would pull my Bible from my coat but alas the pockets are not deep enough to hold such a thing as a holy book."

"I don't think you are a vicar at all," she said haughtily and made the best imitation of Emily. "Your coat is of too fine a material, the cut perfect. It is a garment that comes from the best shops of London, I warrant. It is not the sort of luxury a mere vicar would allow himself or be able to find the money for. Your arrogance and presumptuous character also speak of a man more suited to the gutter than genteel society. You may have mastered the way we speak and dress but your forward manners give you away."

He was not disturbed in the least by her words. Rather, the fiend was even more intrigued and his gaze seemed only more heated. He stepped closer to her and she forced herself to stand still. Giving up ground in front of this man would mean her defeat.

"To be so cleverly seen through is a disadvantage to me, but speaks of your intelligence," he said softly. "Beauty and wit, a rare combination in this society. I will take your comments as compliments. "

He was not to be so easily put off. She decided on another, more feminine tactic. "My glass is empty," she said, holding it up to him and smiling. "Would you be so kind?"

He unlaced the glass from her fingers, his own lingering on hers. He knew she would disappear but he also knew he had no choice but to do as she asked, or give himself away by confirming her words. She counted on his needing to keep up whatever charade he was playing.

"You will save me a dance?" he asked.

"Perhaps," she lied.

He left then, giving her one last regretful glance before going on his futile errand.

From the shadows of the terrace, a figure stepped out into the light and she inhaled sharply. Major Price, dressed in full uniform, walked slowly toward her, a smile on his face.

"You played that well," he said admiringly.

He had heard everything then. She had not known he would be here tonight and she wondered if she would still have come had she known. The hair on her arms rose and she shivered.

She walked a few steps toward the light, feeling as if she was escaping the devil himself.

"One moment please," he said, the words clipped and precise. "Who are you exactly?"

She paused and turned back to him and said angrily, "You do not endeavor at civility."

"And you do not endeavor at modesty."

"You have an evident need to insult me but I am a married women who will call her husband to her side should she be bothered by one more insolent man who thinks to take advantage of her."

"You will do no such thing for you have no husband," he said easily. "Not here tonight anyway; you arrived alone."

He had seen her arrive. She had not counted on that. She decided that she best leave now and did so, slipping into the crowd, not turning to see if he would follow. She found her way up to the dining hall on the second floor and even though she was not hungry, she forced herself to select some refreshment from the many dishes displayed.

There was soup and pigeon pie, veal, oysters, trifles and cake. With a plate and a glass of wine, she found a window seat hidden slightly by a velvet curtain and sat behind it. She ate slowly, trying to think.

She needed to leave. That would be the wise thing. A fox scenting a predator on his heels would make haste. Only the part in her that refused to be dictated to by a man stubbornly rose up and convinced her that she should not be so easily frightened off by Major Price or even Mr. Gordon. Damn them. She had a right to be here.

She ate the pigeon and realized she had been hungry. Dancing had been grand fun and she wanted only an hour more, then she would leave. Major Price could not interrogate her on the dance floor. Small pieces of conversation floated toward her and she caught the name Markham. She turned her head to hear.

"He has danced with her more than twice already," a female voice said.

"They are engaged," someone answered. "I am sure of it."

"You only have to see her face to know the truth of it. Why, she is fairly aglow with happiness and she so hangs on his every word, it is almost embarrassing."

"I rather wonder why he seems so out of sorts tonight?" asked a male voice. "He has had a frown on his face almost the entire night and his gaze is not on Miss Caroline Kingston but on a far more pleasing form and one mysterious, indeed."

"Who do you think she is?" someone asked as if they all knew about whom he was talking.

"Perhaps she is his mistress."

"He would not dare."

"Perhaps she came without his knowing?"

"Oh, this is exciting."

"He will announce his engagement tonight, I'm sure, and she will try to stop him because she is madly in love with him."

Georgiana laughed, the sound travelling easily to the group who stood beside the dining table.

"I say, who is that?" asked the man, annoyed.

She emerged from her hiding place to a round of gasps.

"You are most amusing in your wild speculation and to be pitied I am sure," she said sweetly. She placed her empty plate on the table, and left them standing there whispering to each other, no doubt about her obvious lack of decorum. On the balcony above the ballroom floor, she scanned the crowd but could not find Major Price.

Mr. Gordon, however, had already spotted her and he met her gaze with a sardonic smile and raised his glass to her. Dorothea, who stood next to him, scowled at her and, touching his arm, regained his attention. The group from the dining room walked past her, their expressions set in haughty disdain. She waved to them, but they ignored her.

Then the orchestra finished its last note. Instead of another set starting, Lord Kingston took the stage and everyone quieted down. His voice boomed through the ballroom as he announced the engagement between Sir Nicholas Markham and his daughter, Miss Caroline Kingston. A round of applause followed as Nicholas escorted Caroline to the dance floor. Taking her hand in his, he kissed it.

Then the music started again and people rushed forward to congratulate the couple. She caught the stares of those she had overheard in the dining room. They looked triumphant, their looks implying they knew all about her, and she smiled at them even though, strangely, she felt anything but happy. Her evening had suddenly turned dark but she didn't want to think of the reasons why.

When the dancing began again, she was in line and she forced herself into the steps even though all her enjoyment in the night had gone. Her partner asked her questions about her dress, and she answered, hoping she said something that would satisfy because her mind was elsewhere.

She knew that he would become engaged this night. What she had not counted on was her reaction to it. It was as if someone had opened a valve inside her, and she was filled suddenly with an overwhelming feeling of loss. She was astonished with her sudden lack of enjoyment in all she saw, heard, and felt.

What did it matter to her that he was engaged? He deserved happiness and a life filled with children and laughter. He was a good man. No. He was the best of men. It was only her vanity that was crushed, she decided. He had shifted his feelings from her to someone else, and she was upset for no longer being the one he loved. It was absurd since she did not even love him. Curse vanity. He was engaged and she would be happy for him.

Her eyes caught his as she danced past where he stood with Caroline at his side. A crowd stood around them, wishing them happiness. It was as it should be, she told herself, and looked away. Then why did she feel so wretched? She missed a step and her partner caught her. She apologized and they returned to the line.

Nicholas was watching her. She could feel him looking at her and when she passed him, their eyes met again. She smiled at him but she wanted to cry, and she knew she had to leave soon. Dear Nicholas, she thought, and wished suddenly only to see him smile at her again as he used to.

She laughed aloud but it sounded more like a cry of despair and her partner watched her strangely. He was a tall, thin gentleman with a kind face and seemed genuinely concerned when she stumbled again, catching her arm to steady her.

"Perhaps we should retire this dance," he said.

She nodded and he led her off the floor, then bowed, and left her standing there. It was a snub, a mean and public one.

Mr. Gordon materialized at her side and led her to a table of refreshments and handed her a glass of lemonade. She drank it greedily, trying hard not to fall apart. People were watching her and their glances had become more hostile as the night wore on, she realized. Rumors of her identity had spread and it seemed they had not come out favorably for her.

"Why are people so willing to inflict pain on others?" she wondered aloud.

Mr. Gordon smiled sadly. "They are all silly and ignorant. Don't let it affect you so."

It was kind of him.

"You don't pay them any attention," she said.

"I assure you that I am to be envied for at this moment I stand with the most beautiful and mysterious young lady here. Every gentleman wishes to be in my shoes and every woman in yours. I am nothing but content and so should you be."

She studied him, wanting to understand the man who had surprised her so often already and continued to do so. He was the enigma, not her.

"Tell me, Mr. Gordon," she said. "Why did you feel the inclination to become a man of God?"

"Why, indeed. Then you believe me to be a man of God despite my arrogance and fine clothes," he asked, teasing her.

"I believe it to be only a part of who you are," she said. "Will you answer?"

"Where shall I begin," he said and led her across the room to a more secluded spot. "I believe it was something my dear father imparted to me that influenced the decision greatly."

"Well, what was this chief inducement?" she asked curiously.

"He said to me," as he lowered his voice to imitate his father, "'Son, you will join the church and become a minister.'"

"You mock me," she laughed.

"I have made you smile again," he said, pleased. "I feel an inclination to hold you to your promise of a dance."

She danced two more reels, both with Mr. Gordon, who paid as little attention to the gossip surrounding them as she did. Dancing with the same partner twice was to call attention to oneself. Doing it one after the other was to flaunt convention entirely, and leave one open to ridicule, but she was beyond caring. She still held the upper hand because they did not know whose name to attach to their small-minded grievances.

She was aware that the time was fast approaching when all masks would be removed. At the end of their second dance, Mr. Gordon led her from the dance floor and sighed as Dorothea approached them.

"She looks concerned," he said to her softly.

"No, indeed," Georgiana replied. "It seems we are to be reprimanded."

"I would take a thousand reprimands to be by your side," he smiled.

Dorothea frowned at Mr. Gordon. "I believe you are forgetting yourself, Reverend."

She emphasized the word "Reverend" and Georgiana had the idea that Dorothea was more annoyed that he was forgetting her, not himself. Dorothea dropped her fan, on purpose, and Mr. Gordon bent to pick it up and in so doing, let go of Georgiana's hand. By the time he had risen, Dorothea had insinuated herself between them with her back to Georgiana, who could not help but admire the maneuver and thank her, for it gave her the chance to slip into the throng and disappear to the next room.

From there, she made her way to the great foyer and, reclaiming her cloak, she walked quickly out the front door, and down the stairs, forcing herself to walk and not run. At two minutes to midnight, her slippers found the gravel of the drive, and she made her way down the line of coaches waiting for their owners. Peter and Harry would be at the end as they had agreed. She heard footsteps behind her, and turned to see Major Price at the bottom of the stairs walking toward her, his face set with determination.

Blast the man. She also saw Mr. Gordon's figure appear at the top of the stairs, and she turned and picked up her skirts and ran. Harry saw her coming first and also noticed the men following her. He sat up suddenly and taking up the reins, he slapped them hard, almost unseating Peter who slumped next to him. The horses jumped forward, and she lunged for the door as it passed her, yanked it open, and jumped in.

"Faster," she yelled and glanced out the window to see Major Price catching them up. He jumped onto the back of the fast moving coach, and she heard Peter scramble across the roof. There was a struggle, then Major Price fell to the ground, and they were free, the horses galloping down the drive and out into the road. She sat back in relief, trying to still her racing heart, and removed her mask. That had been entirely too close, she thought, then laughed.

When they arrived back at Ravenstone, she thanked Peter and Harry, then made her way back through the kitchen and up the back stairs. She opened her door and fumbled her way in the dark to her dresser where she had left her candle. She lit it from the glowing embers in her fireplace. She straightened and turned around, only to stop short. Lying on her bed, his coat discarded next to him, his hands behind his head and his ankles crossed, was Nicholas Markham.

"I trust you had a pleasant evening, Georgiana," he smiled.

#

"Nicholas," she said, her voice strained. "What are you doing here?"

The question, although valid, was completely ridiculous, given the circumstances.

"Beholding a miracle, I imagine," he said, and rose from the bed to stand up and approach her.

He circled behind her and she remained still under his scrutiny, completely at a loss as how to proceed further. It really wasn't up to her, she supposed. He came to stand in front of her.

"May I ask, Georgiana, is there some aspect of your character which is real or are you all deceit and willfulness as your mother claimed?"

She flinched at his words.

"I wasn't sure at first," he said. "I watched you up there above the dance floor, thinking myself beyond help that I had begun perhaps to imagine every beautiful woman was you. But you tilted your head so prettily and bit your lower lip as I have seen you do a thousand times. Still I doubted myself, and so approached you thinking it was impossible. I spoke to you, knowing I was surely going mad for you were not capable of such grand deceit and so resolved, I walked away. But it was in your amusement, your very laughter, that I knew it was you."

He gave her a look of such severe disappointment as to make her cringe. Turning away from her, he ran a hand through his hair and walked to the fireplace. Lowering himself on his haunches, he picked up the poker and stabbed at the dying embers.

"Congratulations on your engagement," Georgiana said after a while, not knowing how else to proceed and leading with her worst instinct.

He turned suddenly and threw the poker into the far corner of the room with such violence, it dented the wall before falling to the ground.

"Why?" he said, his voice raised and his face angry. "Why the deceit? Why torment me further, and on this night of all nights?"

His eyes blazed such loathing she turned away from him removing her cloak.

"I wanted to go dancing," she said. "I wanted to enjoy myself like everyone else."

He grabbed her and threw her on the bed. She cried out, frightened as he pinned her to the bed, holding both her wrists in one of his hands, and pulling the blond wig from her hair. It hurt as the pins pulled at her and she cried out.

"Stop it, you are hurting me," she panted.

"Hurting you?" he said incredulous. "You would have to be human to feel pain and that, madam, is not something I believe you are. You cannot posses any scruples and had I known you for the malicious character that you are I would not have devoted so much thought to you."

"I don't have to listen to your insults," she said angrily. "Get out."

Angrily she struggled to be free, but he refused to let her up. "I will have the truth."

"It is the truth," she snapped. "Get off me."

"Why? Are you not enjoying yourself anymore? It must be because it is not at someone else's expense."

She spat in his face, and regretted it instantly as she saw his anger boil over to complete madness. He covered her mouth, forcing himself on her.

She had sworn she would kill anyone who forced himself on her but she could not kill him for he was Nicholas, so she opened her mouth and kissed him back. It greatly surprised him, for he let her go and pulled back to stare at her in confusion. Lifting her head and taking her victory, she kissed him again, pulling him back down to her.

He groaned and settled his body on hers. She kissed him, closing her eyes, surprised that her blood could rush so quickly through her veins. She had never known desire before, and she so desperately wanted to forget her past that she gave herself wholly to the moment, to him.

She tore his shirt from his body and ran her hand over his hard chest almost crying at how different he felt, and hating that she was even thinking about her father. She was frantic, as she pulled down his breeches, but his hunger matched hers, and he did not see her desperation for anything other than desire.

She could feel tears welling up but forced them away, and helped him take off her dress. She kissed him hard and felt him respond. Then they were naked, and he was straddling her and she moved to pull him down, but he paused, pulling his mouth from hers to look at her, his eyes blazing with such intensity it made her shiver.

"Do you have any idea how much I have wanted this moment," he said softly, his hand stroking her face.

"Please, Nicholas," she begged, her fingers pulling tight around his arm. She was not sure how much longer she could hold off the images that threatened to break through her defenses. She was afraid she would splinter into a thousand pieces if he stopped.

Her own desire was new to her and she did not want to hold back. She wanted this night, wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything, and she wondered if he could read all that on her face. He must have for he smiled at her, and then moved into her, pushing gently, and she arched up to meet him, feeling her whole body shudder with the pleasure she found with him.

He kissed her, swallowing his own name on her lips as he rocked into her, then pulled out and then pushed himself further into her wet warmth. Her wanting only seemed to grow, and she moved with him as he moved faster until their movements were frantic with need. She felt herself splinter as she had feared, but instead of pain, she felt a great pleasure. She cried out and raked his back with her nails, surprised that pleasure could be felt so violently.

He moved into her and arched his back, and she watched him as he came inside her, completely lost in his own pleasure. Then he sank down on top of her, and lay still while she struggled to catch her breath. He pulled slowly away, and lay down next to her on his stomach, his head turned to hers. He smiled at her and she felt both dizzy with amazement and exhaustion. He reached up and drew a finger across her parted lips, and she kissed it, and he rested his hand on the side of her face.

He pulled himself onto his right elbow and leaned over, kissing her gently and pulling her body next to his. His hand brushed lightly up and down her arm and she glanced down at their entwined limbs and marveled at how white and frail hers looked compared to his brown, strong limbs.

He kissed the top of her head, and she tilted her face up to his and he kissed her mouth, hungry again. It was a deep dark kiss filled with promise, and it was her turn to groan. He finally pulled away and smiled, deeply satisfied. She laughed softly, as his other hand stroked down and cupped her bottom. She arched into his caress and he said her name softly, and moved down to take her nipple in his mouth, biting it gently.

He explored her body with his tongue, taking his time, licking the sweat from her belly, then spreading her legs and using his tongue on the wet softness between them. She arched her back and threaded her fingers through his hair as sensations exploded throughout her body. He took his time now, tasting her, and then moving up her body. He kissed her neck, bit her gently there as she opened her legs to him again, and he slid inside her. He was so hard, she thought, drowning in him.

Everything about him was exciting: the musky smell that clung to him, the sound of his wet skin sliding over hers, the feel of his hardness inside her, his hand pinching her nipple and the taste of his mouth as he pushed his tongue into her. Her senses had never known such a feast, and she craved more, as if she were starved. He seemed to feed on her need, driving ever harder into her.

This time it took longer and she reveled in his control as he drove himself ever deeper into her, his face a mask of desire. She met his every thrust, her hands on his haunches as she drove him on, sensing that he hoped to wait for her. She wanted him to come, wanted to watch him again as he lost himself in his need for her, and she arched up, driving the rhythm faster until his body went taut and he buried his face in her neck, his hands holding onto to her.

She smiled to herself, satisfied that she had the power to bring him to this moment. After a while, he folded her into the curve of his body, and they lay side by side. He lay still behind her, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep, knowing it must be late. But then he ran a hand down the side of her body to her hip, resting his hand there.

"You bring me to madness, Georgiana. You have always had that power," he said softly, kissing her shoulder. He sounded so sad. She took his hand in hers, and threaded her fingers through his.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Sorry for what?"

For dancing at his ball and taking advantage of him. For the lies she had told and the ones she would tell. For not being who he needed her to be.

"For all of it," she said.

He was silent for a while then said, "I feel like you are talking about circumstances I know nothing of."

She did not reply.

"I am not your first," he said slowly. "I wanted to be."

She stiffened, unable to stop her body from reacting so, and she knew he could feel it.

"You like your women pure?" she said harshly. "Paragons of virtue, perhaps. Well, I'm married."

He said nothing, only watched her and she feared he would see her for what her father had made of her. She hated the shame she felt, for it burned inside her and made her bitter.

"Why mislead us all to believe you cannot walk?"

She hesitated in answering for she had to be careful.

"You are thinking about how to answer that, aren't you?"

"I don't want to lie to you."

"Then the only other option left is the truth."

She feared alienating him further for she could only provide a version of the truth, and he was far too astute to be satisfied with a partial truth.

"I was paralyzed until about a year ago when the feeling came back to my legs, only I declined to inform anyone."

"Why?"

"I wanted circumstances to stay the way they were."

"And how were circumstances?"

"Safer."

He traced a finger along the scar on her wrist.

"And who are you hiding from?" he asked.

"A world which forces me to be someone I am not."

"It's not such a frightening place anymore, is it?"

"Then you have never sat through an afternoon with the young ladies of society or had a certain miss regale you with her ideas on how to lead a good Christian life."

He smiled. "Miss Prudence Chase."

"So you have," she smiled. "And did you not want to stab yourself in the eye just to stop the pain of that voice droning on about the benevolence of her society to alleviate the pain of the poor by way of embroidering white tablecloths for their tables to give them some joy."

"It's a lot of trouble to go to just so you don't have to sit through tea."

"I have a deep prejudice toward society, Nicholas. I find it exceedingly dull and in return, it finds me lacking. After my fall I was banished from sight and what a joy it was to me for I was finally free of the constraints placed on me."

"I am not convinced by this account. What is the real purpose for this ruse?"

"Protection," she said softly.

"From?"

She pulled away from him but he wouldn't allow it, his arm holding her tight.

"I know your father beat you when you were children."

"You did?" she asked, surprised.

"The first time I saw you, you had a black eye. You were ten and I fell in love with you when you looked at me, as if daring me to pity you."

"I always wondered how your father managed to make my father give us up for so long."

"He blackmailed him. Threatened to have his friends pull the financing your father was using to back his ventures. It would have destroyed your father."

"Your father was good to us," she said turning her head to look at him. Lord Markham had died of a heart condition three years ago.

"I miss him," he said sadly.

"I'm sorry," she said and kissed his shoulder.

They lay for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Does Charles know?"

"Yes," she said. "He found me out."

He said nothing and she turned to look at him again.

"Nicholas, can you not make it right with him?"

"I will never forgive him for letting you marry someone other than me."

"It wasn't his choice," she said. "It was mine. I would have declined your proposal even had he forbidden my marriage to Edward."

He pulled his hand from hers and left the bed. She noticed then the scars on his back, long thin lines caused by a lash. He took those lashes for her brother and again she felt guilt rise up inside her. She watched him dress in the dim light of early morning that was already entering the window.

"Will you keep my secret?" she asked.

He gave her an annoyed glance as he looked for his boots, but did not answer her.

"Nicholas?"

"Why was marriage to me not acceptable?"

"I am the one unworthy, Nicholas. Please accept that did you know the reasons you would see it as the truth."

He swore under his breath and angrily pulled on his coat, studying her. Then he leaned over the bed and gave her a deep kiss that made her feel dizzy again. When he finally pulled away, she looked at him pleadingly.

"I understand your need to escape your father's cruelty but he's gone now and it's a lot of trouble to go to only to avoid society, Georgiana," he said softly. "I find you have a great talent for deceit and secrecy, and fear what your real motive could be for such a grand scheme as this. I had not wanted to believe you so changed, as you had professed to be, but I was wrong. I see that now. I have misjudged you greatly and believe perhaps I was fortunate in your rejection of me. I will keep your secret, and now ours as well in the hope that no more hurt arises from your game."

He left her then, opening the window and stepping out into the night. She stared at the space he had occupied only a moment ago, wishing for a bottle of champagne to drown out the doubt and shame she felt clinging to her skin.

***

The days passed with excruciating slowness, and Georgiana cursed Nicholas, blaming him for time's sudden change of habit. She had pushed Bella over many miles in the last few days, trying to rid her mind of the devils that played in her head.

During the day, she worked on the estate accounts, and watched the boys play in the garden while she played with baby Sarah. In the evening, she found herself reading poetry, only to become disgusted with the flowery language poets used to describe love, and tossed the book across the room.

At night, she dressed in her breeches. If they were not moving contraband with Mr. Gordon, then Peter had them training. When she asked why they were training, he said simply: trouble. They staged mock fights in a clearing in the woods and she was bruised from being thrown to the ground countless times. She lost every fight. As the weakest member, the others did not respect her, and she was treated to ridicule and jokes.

Determined to change the situation, she had Harry and Peter meet her at night to train her away from the others. They showed her how to throw a punch that would hurt and how to avoid a punch. She learned how to throw someone off who grabbed her from behind, and how to get up and keep fighting, even when the breath had been knocked out of her.

Peter drove her mercilessly, and when she complained she was tired and had enough for the night, he pushed her on. He bullied and angered her until she realized he did it on purpose because with her anger unleashed she was finally able to get the better of Harry. She had him on the ground with her foot on the back of his neck, his arm twisted up and behind his back until he could not move. Peter clapped her on the back and she let go of Harry, who shook her hand and grinned at her.

Only when she had mastered a new skill would Peter allow her to slip back into her room and fall on her bed, exhausted and bruised. She always hoped the exercise would fatigue her to the point of forgetting Nicholas and the night they had spent together. But every morning, she awoke and her first thought was of him, and she would groan in frustration.

A month after the ball, Mr. Gordon paid her a visit and she watched him carefully to see if he knew the true identity of Madam M. The society in the countryside was abuzz with speculation of who the mysterious woman could have been, and where she had disappeared to.

If he suspected her, Mr. Gordon did not let on, but held a polite conversation on the breeding of horses before they talked about their endeavor. She voiced her satisfaction with the money she was receiving, and he complimented her on Peter and his young gang who worked hard and knew how to keep their mouths shut. She guessed the trial period he had given her crew was over, and he had found them more of a help than the hindrance he had expected.

With Ravenstone restored to its former glory, Edward arrived from London with a few of his friends for a week of entertainment. The small staff was hard pressed to keep them in food and drink as they played cards into the small hours of the morning, with Edward losing great sums of money. He would ask her for more, not questioning where she got the endless supply to pay off his debts, probably assuming her brother gave it to her. The guests slept late, and then would take a turn in the now beautiful gardens, and after dinner return to their cards. They paid little attention to Georgiana, for which she was thankful.

One night on her way out to meet Peter and Harry, she climbed past one of the guest room windows, and almost fell to her death. When she had glanced inside the room, she saw a man kneeling in front of Edward, whose member was in the other man's mouth. Missing her footing, her body swung out over the edge but she had clung to the roof by one hand. She quickly reached up with the other, swung her foot back over the ledge and pulled herself up. She had to sit a moment on the dark moss-covered roof to regain her breath and wait for her heart to beat normally again.

Edward liked men. The revelation did not seem as surprising or shocking as it should have been. She climbed back down to the window for another look, for some aspect of the man kneeling in front of Edward had seemed familiar. Cautiously, she looked in the window to see the two men kissing, and recognized Mr. Madden. They were lovers.

She continued to watch for a minute more, transfixed by the sight of two men kissing passionately, then climbed back up to the roof and made her way across it to meet Peter and tell him the good news. She had found Mr. Madden.

The address Mr. Gordon had given her had proved false. Peter had been making inquiries as to the man's whereabouts for weeks but Mr. Madden had continued to elude them. He would show up to collect rents, only to vanish again.

Was he perhaps the spy Major Price sought? It would serve her needs well if he was. She had no proof and he had not joined the smugglers on any night to cross the channel or pass secret documents or letters. She had watched Mr. Gordon carefully during their nights out, and had failed to see him pass anything to his agent except money for contraband. The agent was Irish, she knew. She had found so far no sign of this spy Arnaud Rochette and she knew Major Price would not be patient much longer.

***

Peter and Harry waited for her in the dark shadows of the first trees in the woods. They walked wordlessly up the path that led to the ruins. The rest of their young gang awaited them there, sitting in a silent circle away from Mr. Gordon's men. No one spoke. Mr. Gordon had not yet arrived. He was late.

They joined their group and she sat on the ground with her back leaning against a stone, and pulled her cap low, pretending she had closed her eyes to sleep while they waited. She squinted under her cap and studied the small group.

Haskell was the oldest, at eighteen, but he looked older, his face scarred and marked by life and the pox. He was also the biggest, his body huge with muscle. He sat with his head down, not looking at anything in particular. He had been in prison twice for theft. Next to him sat Neville, born to be a gentleman except his father had landed in debtors' prison, and that was where young Neville grew up and learned his trade of forgery. He was caught and managed to escape his prison, but not without killing a guard. His sentence for forgery had been death, but now he had murder added.

Fleming played with his knife, tossing it into the air and catching it. Also seventeen, he excelled at theft and burglary and had never been caught. He was smarter than the other two.

Jack, the youngest, was watching her, she noticed. He was ten but seemed even younger because his body was small. Only she knew the steel that ran through his wiry little body, having been defeated many times from bringing him to the ground. He was fast and angry.

He used to be a chimney sweep, beaten daily, starved to keep him small and forced to climb up chimneys naked, only to emerge with his elbows and knees scraped raw until he had no skin left. After his brother became stuck in a chimney and was roasted alive, Jack ran away from his owner, who, wanting revenge, had accused him of theft. He joined a gang to stay alive in the streets of London.

Jack coughed in the stillness, a deep grating sound, making Georgiana wonder if he would live into adulthood. She had Doctor Milton sent to look at him, but he had given her little hope. The boy's lungs were filled with soot and he would slowly suffocate to death. To his credit, his labored breathing did not seem to slow him down, and she marveled at his spirit. She had never met anyone so determined to live.

Holm they all kept a distance from, for he smelled. The stink was truly awful and even now, he sat downwind from the rest. His skin was brown with dirt, his hair hanging in his face, filthy and matted. No one really knew how old he was. He could have been sixteen or thirty-six, it was impossible to guess, and he wasn't telling.

The last was Morris, sixteen, good-looking and popular with the girls. Never committed a crime, he said. He wasn't a thief, and he had not killed anyone. He was an orphan like the rest of them, and grew up in the streets of London. No one believed him. His speech was too cultured, his manners too good and his conscience too clean.

When Georgiana had first met them, she had her doubts, but Peter said they would do. No one else had been willing to leave London to work in her fields. They did work hard, she had to admit, and they followed Peter and were loyal to him.

She turned her gaze on Peter. He sat a ways off, talking quietly to one of Mr. Gordon's men. He was the one she had come to rely on and she followed him as easily as the rest of the crew. He carried himself with considerable confidence and was not intimated by Mr. Gordon or any of his men. He acted as a much older man might who was used to being deferred to, wearing his cloak of responsibility easily. She could not have done any better. She knew Mr. Gordon had come to trust Peter and rely on him. Only Mr. Gordon was not coming tonight.

She stood up and moved over to Peter and lowered herself next to him, being careful to move like a boy and not a lady, her movements purposeful.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"He's never been late," Mr. Gordon's man said, and shrugged.

"We need to meet the boats ourselves," Peter said.

"Not without Gordon," the other man argued, shaking his head.

"We have no choice," Peter said. "The bounders will sell the goods elsewhere and tell us they threw it overboard."

Mr. Gordon's men refused to go without him and left to return to their homes. Peter led his crew down the tunnel to the cove where they waited.

The small fishing boats arrived soon after, and Peter spoke to the agent but he refused to deal with anyone but Mr. Gordon. They argued for a while until Peter promised to pay him a third more on the next run. Greed finally won him over and the contraband was unloaded.

They were halfway through unloading the second boat, when a cutter rounded the cove and fired a shot from its cannon. The shot went wide but sprayed them with salt water. The second cannon shot thundered and this time the small fishing boat was ripped to shreds and wood splinters launched into the air, embedding themselves in flesh. The boatman screamed, his arm cut off at the elbow.

Georgiana was halfway up the tunnel with her load when she heard the first shot. Horrified, she dropped her goods and ran back down to the beach while Jack and Haskell passed her, running up the tunnel. She knew Harry was behind her as he had only just passed her, headed back to the beach. Peter would have stayed with the cargo as well.

On the beach Holm lay lifeless, his eyes staring at nothing, a gaping wound in his neck. Peter and Harry were lying on the beach and, at first, she thought them dead, but then saw Peter move. The two remaining fishing boats were trying to row past the cutter before they were blown out of the water. The ship was surrounded in smoke from the cannon, and it looked like fog as she ran toward Harry and Peter. Out of the smoke came two rowboats filled with soldiers, their guns raised to fire on the beach. She threw herself to the ground as a volley passed miraculously over her, and then scrambled up while they reloaded.

She reached Peter's side and helped him drag Harry across the sand toward the tunnel. Morris waited for them there, shouting at them to fall as the second volley was fired, and again passed harmlessly. They scrambled up and ran into the tunnel as the rowboats reached the beach. Morris took her place at Harry's side, leaving her free to run ahead.

They scrambled passed Fleming and Neville who waited for them to pass, then fired their pistols down the tunnel at the first soldiers. Together they turned and reached the top of the tunnel where Haskell and Jack pushed two huge barrels filled with water down the tunnel. Nobody waited to see what happened. Running up the stairs and through the tower door they reached the dark clearing, only to stop dead.

They were completely surrounded by soldiers, swords drawn.

"Surrender or die," a voice called.

Dear Lord, Georgiana thought, she was going to die because surrender had never been her option.

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# Acknowledgments

Most of all I'm indebted to Marian Jensen, whose smart advice, good humor, and endless patience have seen me through. Thank you for your incredibly insightful reads and always swooping in to help me focus. You are a wonderful friend.

My editor, Margaret Diehl: Thank you for your subtle hints and for cheering me on. I continue to strive for shorter sentences.

Much thanks to Luanne Thibault for the support and endless energy to get it just right.

Gratitude also to Vanessa Maynard: Thank you for an amazing cover.

Finally, thanks to the best people in the world: those who read my books.

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