 
# Daughters of Sin Box set: Her Gilded Prison, Dangerous Gentlemen, The Mysterious Governess

## Beverley Oakley

Copyright © 2017 by Beverley Oakley

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

### Contents

Author's Note

Her Gilded Prison

Dangerous Gentlemen

The Mysterious Governess

# Author's Note

**Her Gilded Prison** is the first book in my intrigue-filled _Daughters of Sin_ Regency romance series. If you love your Regencies with a twist and spiced with scandal, I hope you'll enjoy this exciting family saga.

It features lovely, lonely, Lady Sybil and her two daughters: sweet, innocent Hetty, who is desperate to find the love of her life, and vain and spoiled Araminta, who is determined to marry well. At any cost!

There are five books in the series. The first three can be read as stand-alone stories, however, a central espionage plot—involving two handsome, dangerous gentlemen, and Hetty and Araminta's illegitimate half-sisters—an actress and a governess—runs through all five books.

Scandal, mystery, intrigue and passion are the order of the day! That, and a good dose of vengeance and betrayal with an uplifting happy ending for those who deserve it. Sounds like a Regency-era _Dynasty,_ doesn't it?

That's what I think, anyway, but here are some of the things reviewers have to say about **Her Gilded Prison** :

> "The theme was so very clever and so novel."
> 
> "I was kept guessing most of the time and loved it."
> 
> "Oh my! What a great read. The characters were extraordinary and believable. I couldn't put it down."
> 
> "A well written, good read and not your usual Regency romance."
> 
> "An entertaining period romance with a twist."
> 
> "The storyline is almost insane...a great entertaining book."
> 
> **And, about the series:**
> 
> "The best written time pieces I've ever read."
> 
> "Exquisitely written so you'll feel transported to that era. Romance, evil dealings, scandals of all proportions, lies to name a few."
> 
> "...lies, misdeeds, treachery, and romance. What an impressive story! Ms. Oakley has a unique way of telling her stories, bringing unknown heroes/ heroines into the spotlight, as they navigate a world of espionage, and intrigue, all while trying to survive and find their HEA. Magnificent and mesmerizing!"
> 
> "Full of secrets, murders, intrigues and you feel you know the characters and want to strangle some of them, especially Araminta!!! I have since read all in the series... This is a series I will read again and again."

And, my word, it was a series I loved writing!

> **Below is the order of the books:**

  * _Her Gilded Prison (#1)_
  * _Dangerous Gentlemen (#2)_
  * _The Mysterious Governess (#3)_
  * _Beyond Rubies (#4)_
  * _Lady Unveiled:The Cuckold Conspiracy (#5)_

So please, relax and immerse yourself in the dash and glitter of the Regency era where wheeling and dealing behind fluttering ivory fans at balls and promenades ensures a most **_un_** predictable ending!

I hope you, too, enjoy the _Daughters of Sin_ series!

* * *

**_Beverley Oakley_**

# Her Gilded Prison
# Chapter 1

### Monkton ~ June 21

"He's launching in, for God's sake! Look at him!" The Earl of Barston's heir shifted on his knees, his breath hot on Stephen's arm as the three men gazed, rapt, at the amorous adventure playing out on the gossamer web before them.

Warmed by the drawing room fire that crackled merrily a few feet from them, Stephen watched with satisfaction the elaborate arachnid courtship ritual playing out before their eyes, just as he'd foretold.

His host, Sir Archie Ledger, laughed coarsely. "You say he knows his reward is death?"

Stephen nodded, pleased that his boyhood fascination had earned him so much positive attention when he'd simply been glad of a comfortable bed for the night. A friend had warned him against taking up Sir Archie's offer of hospitality but Stephen thought the young baronet a capital fellow.

Sir Archie darted a glance at his wife who sat calmly embroidering at the far end of the drawing room, and lowered his voice. "The Paphian jig of eternal damnation, eh? I reckon that's what I got," he muttered.

It was no secret Sir Archie had been pressured into marriage following an indiscretion with the lovely but sharp-tongued Miss Julia Preston.

Lady Julia—as she now liked to call herself—raised her head at the commotion, her voice cutting crisply into the schoolboy game Stephen was orchestrating. "I say, gentlemen, what's more interesting than paying some attention to the ladies? Mr. Cranborne, I want you to please take a seat by me and tell me all about your new benefactor."

Ignoring her, the three young men huddled closer, eyes still fixed on the spider's web just below the window. "Take cover, gentlemen, here she comes." Sir Archie's tone soured. "No, it's no good. She's found us. Story of my life. Fun's over."

Stephen, still on his knees like the rest of them, blinked to see first Lady Julia's well-turned ankle and then, as she bent down, her lovely face. As her lively green eyes locked with his he wondered at Sir Archie's discontent. She was a diamond of the first water.

"What is so fascinating, gentlemen?" Her intimate murmur sounded as if it were just for him. Her gaze was certainly focused on him as her mouth curved in a secret smile.

Stephen sucked in a breath and found he was quite unable to answer. Since he'd come back from war he was unused to mixing in such elite company, though he remembered frequenting houses like this when he was a boy before his mother's decline.

Just when he assumed she'd solicit her husband for information, she brushed his hand with hers, the smile that was just for him still in place.

Good God, he thought he'd imagined it before. Now, with Sir Archie still on his haunches to her right, reluctantly in the process of rising, Stephen was quite clearly being conveyed a secret message. Lady Julia admired him. He forced himself to breathe evenly as his groin hardened. He could not rise now, for God's sake. He must keep them watching at least a few seconds longer while he remained crouching.

"She's going to devour him." The urgency in his voice had nothing to do with the mating spiders.

"Nothing happening." Archie sounded bored as he groaned and gripped the table edge to heave himself up. Stephen had wondered at a match between the spindly-legged, chinless baronet and the ravishing debutante conducted in such haste the season before. He'd not thought about the lovely Miss Julia again until news spread that the couple had been blessed with twin boys within a barely timely eight months of their nuptials.

Now Lady Julia looked as dewy fresh and desirable as she had when Stephen had admired her in the ballroom as a young man experienced in battle but completely unprepared for London society. His mother had left him little of the vast fortune she'd frittered away through drink and gambling but enough to at least deport himself like the gentleman he'd been born.

He managed. Just.

"No, nothing happening," muttered Barston, also rising unsteadily. "I'll wager a thousand monkeys you're all hot air, Cranborne."

Lady Julia, who'd straightened, bent at the waist to peer again at the scene that had so excited the gentlemen. "Oh, my goodness, the spider jumped!" she squeaked, twisting round so suddenly she tripped over her husband and fell full length upon Stephen.

For a second he just lay beneath her, eyes wide with shock as her soft curves molded his hard—very hard—contours.

"Get up, Julia. Cranborne, do you accept the wager?" Archie, who sounded as if these were everyday occurrences, took his wife's elbow and hauled her to her feet. But not before Julia had slanted a knowing and very provocative look at Stephen.

"What? Er, yes," Stephen mumbled, paying only half a mind. He rarely gambled these days. He had only to recall his wretched, fatherless youth and the antics of his feckless, beloved, wager-mad mama.

"Good fellow!" A hearty handshake followed as Stephen rose. He took refuge behind the back of the Egyptian sofa and forced a strained smile at his hosts.

"I do love an unusual wager." Lady Julia adopted a pose of rare solidarity beside her husband. "So this big, bold, female spider—obviously a prime article in the arachnid world—has just suffered the amorous attentions of her tiny, boring, timid, ineffectual husband?" Her words were heavy with emphasis as she enunciated each one. It was impossible to miss her meaning and Stephen could only wonder that Archie didn't bristle at the obvious allusion to their own marital situation. She stroked Archie's arm while asking Stephen in silky tones, "You're the celebrated man of science in the room, Mr. Cranborne. Please explain in...explicit terms...the courting rituals of the spider world."

Stephen flicked a glance at Archie. Fortunately he appeared to be his usual good-humored self—and just as keen for information as his wife.

He cleared his throat. "The male spider will court the female and...and then after he..."

"Impregnates her?" Lady Julia supplied with an inquiring smile.

"That's correct, yes, the female will devour him." Stephen let out his breath in a low whistle as his erection finally subsided. God, he hoped Archie hadn't noticed. Lady Julia might be a diamond of the first water but she was dangerous and Stephen wasn't in a position to alienate the few advantageous connections he'd made since his unexpected elevation in the world.

"Nonsense!" Archie let out a guffaw. "The male of every species is infinitely superior in every respect and I'll wager the insect world is no exception. Cranborne, if this pretty boy spider is still safely in his love lair, gazing raptly at his lady love in two hours, then I've won the wager."

Stephen quirked an eyebrow, the fog which clouded his brain starting to clear. He'd not realized what he'd agreed to. Honesty and fair play won over though the temptation to take advantage of Sir Archie was great. "I'm happy to call off the wager, old chap. It was foolishly done in the heat of the moment, for one can't bet against the laws of nature. The study of spiders was my childhood hobby. As sure as the sun rises in the east this puny male will have been devoured by his mate by two a.m."

"The wager stands." Archie grinned. "I'm willing to bet that a female is no match for a male—in any arena." He glanced at his wife. "Don't I prove that time and time again, dearest?"

Lady Julia's smile for her husband was limpid but when she slid her eyes across to Stephen he read calculation in their depths. Arousal slammed through him and he lowered his head to hide the guilt that burned his cheeks. If Archie were to intercept the silent messages she was sending him, the young baronet would go wild. Particularly if he knew the effect they were having on Stephen.

Stephen had drunk more than usual yet he was not addle-witted. When he rose from his bow, his three companions were looking at him. He shrugged helplessly. Tomorrow he was to meet Lord Partington, his new benefactor. He wanted to be in top form. On the other hand, he'd need to stay to see his wager translate into a thousand pounds, an enormous sum but one that seemed neither here nor there to Archie.

Archie was now bending over again, peering at the web beneath the table. "Can't say the housemaids are up to snuff in this place but it's good for a lark. Nothing's happening. Reckon the old boy's going to turn tail and run in a sec. Now, 'nother drink, old chap?"

"Thank you," Stephen replied, though his bladder was full to bursting. He moved to the door. "Call of nature," he mumbled. "Please excuse me."

He drew in a lungful of air as he headed up the passageway to the privy. He'd have to return in the next few minutes to keep an eye on his booty though he'd much rather have gone to bed. Still, he couldn't afford to lose the wager. It would be some time before he became the next Viscount Partington and could enjoy the financial benefits that came with the title.

He was just returning, issuing into the corridor, pausing to adjust his breeches, when a whiff of familiar orange-water scent assailed his nostrils.

"Good Lord, I beg your pardon." He stepped back as if stung from the connection of his forehead with Lady Julia's pert breasts as he straightened. Half expecting an outraged slap, he was astonished by the warmth of her expression as she raised her candle.

"You are a very handsome man, Stephen." There was no mistaking the intention, conveyed by the calculating gleam in her eye and husky whisper.

Her delicate fingers curved around his wrist and she gave a gentle tug. Obediently he followed her, assuming she wanted to show him something, though not really knowing what to expect.

And certainly not expecting the door of a small closet to be closed behind him, plunging them into almost total darkness save for the candle she set upon the windowsill.

"Lady Julia—"

His words were cut short by the touch of her lips, soft yet demanding as they covered his half-open mouth. He knew he should resist, and indeed he'd half turned to withdraw from the store room and save them both from temptation.

But then surprise coalesced into desire, fierce and potent as her deft little fingers fumbled with the buttons of his breeches and closed around his pulsing manhood.

"Oh God," he croaked, sucking in a breath when her tongue breached the seam of his lips and her grip upon him tightened. Self restraint was impossible. "Oh God," he rasped again as, this time without hesitation, he responded as she obviously intended he should by touching her, his hands roaming over her pliant, yielding body, all hard angles and soft curves. "What about...your husband—?"

"Too busy watching the spider," she murmured, suckling his lower lip then biting it gently, her gleaming eyes dancing wickedly before him when he blinked open his own lust-dazed lids.

Reality slammed through him.

"My wager," he said, drawing away, quickly. He had go to. This was one bet he could not afford to lose.

"Oh God," he groaned again, glancing down now at the top of her shiny blonde head. She was kneeling, both hands circling his erection, glancing up at him with those knowing eyes full of promise and mischief.

Mesmerized, he watched as she parted her lips, moistening them slowly with the tip of her tongue.

"Do you really want to beat such a hasty retreat, Mr. Cranborne?" Her voice was husky, languid with promise.

He swallowed then made a slightly strangled noise as, slowly, she touched the tip of her tongue to his swollen member. Her eyes glinted, disappearing from view as she dipped her head to the base of his shaft.

"Oh God," he muttered again through clenched teeth. He thought he'd explode, his need for instant sexual gratification now greater than it had ever been with the Spanish whores and French camp followers who'd been his usual sparse bedroom fare until now. Indeed, Stephen Cranborne was rising in the world in all respects.

Never had he ever been so desired. The lovely Lady Julia wanted him.

He closed his eyes and moaned softly as she took him deep into her mouth. There was no need to answer. He was no longer of this world. Nothing mattered except his sensory gratification at the hands of this exquisite woman.

Slowly she slid him deeper until his hilt was buried deep down her throat while her hands played lightly with his balls.

Every nerve ending quivered as she slid him out then in, the friction of each thrust nearly driving him to distraction. He was going to come any second and he'd die of pleasure.

She must have sensed he was on the edge and wanted to prolong their lovemaking, for still gripping him, she rose to her feet so that her head rested just beneath his.

Her arms went around him and she wriggled her body tight and hard against his almost painful erection, whispering, "Lift me onto the table, Mr. Cranborne, and let's see what you're really made of."

He did not need to be invited twice. He hoisted her onto the ledge, then rucked up her skirts, his hands skimming her smooth, shapely thighs. The candle flickered perilously.

"Careful, Mr. Cranborne, or you'll engulf us both in the fires of Hell." She gave a throaty chuckle.

Wasn't that where he was going for taking his fill with another man's wife?

The thought was not enough to stop him. If the exquisite Lady Julia wanted him, he'd take her anywhere.

He stepped back, preparing himself, her parted legs offering a tantalizing view of glistening folds.

And all his for the taking.

"Come, Mr. Cranborne." Her voice was hoarse and rough with desire. "Show me how a real man satisfies a woman. I get little enough pleasure in the marital bed. No, don't be afraid. Archie is already so befuddled he won't know if we've been gone five minutes or an hour."

A flicker of concern over his wager made him hesitate but was banished when her hand closed over him to guide him into her.

The rapture in her expression was too much to resist. She was gorging herself on him and after so many years in hellholes across the continent, fighting for king and country, it was rare to feel such a prize with the ladies.

"Oh...Lord!" he croaked as the tip of his member touched her sex.

"That's right, my lovely," she crooned as her tight opening closed around him. "My, but you're so much bigger than my Archie. Why, I want to eat you all up."

Something in her words sparked a momentary alarm but as she jerked her body forward, plunging him into her hidden depths, her legs closing around his waist, his thoughts were consumed by one thing only.

Release.

It had been a long time since he'd not had to pay a woman for sex. This one wanted him. Lady Julia wanted _him_.

And she had a body to drown in.

Tucking his hands beneath her bottom, he squeezed, pulling her hard against him, as he plunged into her.

"Touch me." Her soft breath against his cheek curdled his soul. What had he been thinking? Only of himself, clearly, for she had done all the taking and he'd been happy to be led. "Yes, oh, yes, there."

With his thumb and forefinger he pleasured her as she requested. No, demanded. Her eyes were glazed and her movements jerky as she threw her head back, offering her body up to him like she was the most exquisite morsel he'd ever had. And she was.

For the first time, Mr. Stephen Cranborne made love as a gentleman of the ton in a poky closet off the corridor of a home grander than he was used to gracing and not as grand as he was about to inherit.

The world was at his fingertips and he'd never felt so on top.

"Oh yes, Mr. Cranborne!" With a cry fit to bring the roof—and Sir Archie's fury—crashing down upon them, Lady Julia convulsed in a final outpouring of pleasure. There was no mistaking the force of her orgasm, which fueled the ferocity of his, the pulsing of her silken canal in which he was so gloriously sheathed, sending the blood roaring to his extremities.

"Oh God, Lady Julia!" he gasped, spilling himself into her, clasping her to him and clinging on for dear life so they didn't both tumble dangerously to the stone-flagged floor.

It's where they ended up, regardless, in a tumble of petticoats and half-buttoned breeches, exhausted, spent and unable to move.

In the silence all he could hear was their ragged breathing. It was a full few minutes before she struggled out from under him to lie against his side and whisper languidly, "Oh, Mr. Cranborne, you are so much more the athlete than my frogspawn, Archie. You can be my houseguest anytime."

Sir Archibald. Stephen froze. Sir Archie was in the next room, or as near as made no difference. How long had they been gone? How long before he'd come searching for his missing wife...who'd disappeared in the wake of his missing houseguest?

"Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Cranborne," she whispered, as if reading his thoughts. "Archie will be snoring by now. He can't stay awake beyond midnight. Not much sport for poor me. Won't you stay another day?" Her tone was cajoling. "Perhaps we could do this again tomorrow."

His pulse skittered like a nervous schoolboy's. He'd like to do it again tomorrow. He'd like to do it again every day. He gazed down at her with desperate fondness. No woman had ever wanted him like Lady Julia. In that moment they were as star-crossed lovers. Impulsively, he said, "You must come away with me."

She cocked her head. "Come away with you? Where to?"

The ludicrousness of his words was brought home to him—he had no home. The army had been home for years. His father had departed this mortal coil when he'd been a boy. His mother had died when he was eighteen. In the time since then he'd drifted, making do on his paltry allowance of four hundred pounds a year. Good fortune had favored him on a few occasions at the horse races but he'd been burned and he'd learned his lesson.

Oh God, his wager!

She must have seen his panic. Leisurely she extended her hand, fondling his balls so that he hardened instantly, despite himself.

He closed his eyes, hardly able to believe that this lovely woman wanted to do this all over again with him.

After years as a young boy spent dodging his mother's creditors while their well-connected friends dwindled, followed by a series of unexceptional liaisons while in the army, Stephen had been conscious of his shaky foothold on society's ladder.

Tonight in the arms of Lady Julia, he'd been admired as a man and embraced by quality. One day he would be a viscount. In two short weeks his world had expanded, offering him unlimited horizons.

In a burst of adolescent daydreaming, he imagined pulling her up in front of him on his white charger as Sir Archie grasped ineffectually for its mane. Stephen the conqueror had claimed Lady Julia as his woman.

He was conscious of her reaching down to adjust her garter.

He glanced at her. She did not wear the love-limpid look he'd expected.

"Let's see what that spider's up to, shall we?" she suggested as she tickled him playfully under the chin. "If you've won the wager, I think I deserve a present, don't you?"

He blinked, his throat dry. This was not how it was supposed to be in the aftermath of grand passion.

"Come, Mr. Cranborne, let me smooth your hair and put you in order. That's right, now... Goodness, we were awfully near the drawing room, I hadn't realized. I hope Archie doesn't mind. You're right—if he suspects he'll be awfully cross with me." She put her finger to her lips. "Our secret, eh, Mr. Cranborne?" Her eyes danced with seductive allure but this time Stephen didn't respond. Couldn't. He had no idea what to think.

Archie turned as Stephen entered the drawing room. "Ah, Cranborne... Sorry, old fellow, but you owe me rather a few monkeys." He beckoned to him from the escritoire. "There's the old chap, still loyally by her side." He pointed. "Admittedly, she tried to best him." There was gloating in his tone. "But he soon had her in order. As I maintained before, the male is the superior species, in every sphere. Ain't that right, Julia?"

"Of course, darling," she replied. " _You_ certainly rein supreme in this household."

From his chair by the fire, the earl of Barston nodded gloomily as he corroborated his host's pronouncement. "Sorry, old chap."

It took a few seconds for the full import of Sir Achie's words to sink into Stephen's fuddled brain. He shook his head as if to clear it, picturing the mismatched spider couple. "But...I've seen it time and again. A male that tiny always becomes prey to its mate. I saw the way she moved. She was preparing to attack just as I was leaving."

"You were gone quite some time," Archie said, pointedly before resuming his mournful expression. "So unless you want to watch the two of them smelling of April and May until the morning..?" He indicated the apparently honeymooning arachnid couple, yawning.

Barston was already snoring gently, his head rising and falling on his chest from each breath.

Lady Julia moved forward to stroke Stephen's arm, murmuring words of comfort. "Poor Mr. Cranborne. Still, you'll probably win that and more as soon as you take up residence with your rich relations. Perhaps you can ask your uncle — or, second cousin, isn't it? — for an advance on your inheritance."

Stephen looked down at her face, pert with bright assurance. His stomach flip-flopped. He truly was all at sea. "I...I don't see what choice I have but to ask Lord Partington," he muttered, assessing the parlous state of his finances. His new coat was, literally, the most he'd outlayed on anything.

Sir Archie raised his tumbler of whisky. "Or perhaps you'll find yourself in parson's mousetrap allied to Lord Partington's lovely daughter, Miss Araminta. She comes with a sizeable dowry. You could be wed before the season's over and then it won't matter how long His Lordship kicks around on this mortal coil."

Lady Julia gave a snide laugh and said under her breath, "Designing little minx, that one." When Stephen turned startled eyes upon her, she added unrepentantly, "Miss Araminta caused quite a scandal last season. Had to be shipped home early, though it's not my place to gossip about what crimes she may or may not have been guilty of."

"Indeed not, my dear," her husband cut in dryly, "in view of your own clever ploy in getting me to the altar."

Lady Julia dismissed this with a toss of her head. "I'd say you are a marked man, Mr. Cranborne. Why, Miss Araminta told me with her own lips that she intends to be mistress of The Grange, the home she grew up in." She laughed, adding, "At the time, her cabbage-headed cousin Edgar was her father's heir, so of course her wish was implicit upon marrying him, and you never met a greater ninnyhammer."

"Oh, Edgar wasn't that bad," drawled Sir Archie. "I won a few wagers against him."

"Edgar was utterly bacon-brained." Lady Julia ruffled her husband's hair. "Do you remember how you gammoned him over that story of your pointer, Benny, darling? You said the dog had disappeared during a shoot but was discovered a year later, turned literally into stone."

Sir Archie sniggered. "Oh yes. I told him the story at my club and he demanded to see the evidence. Said he'd wager two hundred I was lying. It only cost me a few guineas to have a stone mason craft me a reputable copy of Benny, which we positioned by the river." He grinned. "Well, cabbage-headed Edgar said he couldn't refute the evidence when I took him to see it. Paid me on the spot, in fact."

Stephen didn't share in the hilarity at the expense of his poor distant, departed cousin Edgar. He was beginning to suspect he'd been set up the same way.

Lady Julia's laugh seemed to hold an edge to it, her quick glance at him suggesting that indeed he had.

"A good thing for the whole family that poor Edgar took a bullet at Corunna, eh?" she said. "You must be awfully pleased too, Stephen. Otherwise you'd not be next in line for the title and chances are we'd never have had such a jolly time this evening."

Her dancing green eyes searched his, her pretty white teeth bared in a smile.

And Stephen did not respond with the rush of adrenaline to the groin he had earlier in the evening when she'd focused her attentions so singularly upon him.

# Chapter 2

### The Grange, June 22

Sybil, Lady Partington, clasped her hands in her rabbit-fur muff as the congregation filed into their pews.

With her thirty-eighth birthday looming, she felt old as she watched proceedings through clouds of frosted breath. Particularly today. Old and superfluous. A failed wife. A failed mother.

Araminta had been dismissive of her well-meaning attempts to reassure her that the disgrace of her curtailed London season would not dash her chances of a good match. No, Araminta already had her mind made up in that regard. She knew exactly who she was going to marry, and had done since she was twelve.

There'd been an exchange of words before they'd walked to church. Or rather, Araminta had flounced off ahead while good-natured Hetty had stayed back to keep her mother company.

Sybil slanted a sideways look at the two girls now, neatly turned out in the family pew beside her. Araminta looked proud. Expectant. Sybil repressed a sigh. That's all she'd been doing lately. Sighing. But perhaps everything would all turn out for the best.

Beside her, Hetty smiled at several new arrivals.

Nobody noticed her.

On Sybil's other side, her husband made a remark about the floral arrangement. Too flamboyant, he thought.

Sybil nodded distractedly. Nothing seemed to please Humphrey unless he was with his beloved mistress, she thought bitterly, slanting a surreptitious glance across the aisle to see if Mrs. Hazlett and her family had arrived yet.

They had. She snapped her attention back to her neat rabbit-fur muff.

At least Humphrey had pledged to play the dutiful host and mentor when Cousin Stephen arrived.

The heir apparent.

Not that young Mr. Stephen Cranborne's imminent arrival was anything to get excited over. It merely reinforced Sybil's sense of superfluity through her failure to provide Humphrey with an heir. Or rather, a spare, since the death of their darling boy, George, from the measles four years ago.

In those interim four years, Humphrey's nephew Edgar had been next in line. Humphrey had refused to recognize him. Edgar was a clodpoll, he said, and the mere fact he was Humphrey's heir was incentive for Humphrey to live to one hundred so he could outlive his cork-brained nephew.

Sybil supposed the bullet that had knocked poor Edgar out of the succession was rather fortunate for everyone, not least this unknown Mr. Cranborne. But really, it changed nothing for her. She was still the unwanted wife and, as far as Araminta was concerned, the superfluous mother.

Thank goodness Hetty still needed and appreciated her.

A rustle went through the congregation. Sybil opened her hymn book and stared unseeingly at the lines designed to bolster her joy in God's world. Once again she tried telling herself everything would work out. Humphrey would take a liking to young Stephen, young Stephen would be the perfect match for Araminta, and wedding bells would ring out by the end of the year, a lusty son cementing the succession nine months later.

On painful joints, Reverend Bicklefield climbed the steps to the pulpit while old Mrs. Henshaw shuffled in on her handsome nephew's arm. Sybil glanced up at the whiff of camphor and glimpsed the flare of interest Hetty sent the young man from beneath her sandy lashes as she focused attention upon her hymn book. Poor Hetty, for it was Araminta, sitting beside her, that he was looking at.

Araminta. Sybil sighed. Araminta was, without doubt, the most arresting young woman in the region. She'd turn anyone's head, however the man who won her would have a tussle on his hands from the outset. Araminta was only happy when she had her own way.

She wondered what kind of man Mr. Stephen Cranborne was. She knew nothing of him and had had little time to prepare for his arrival.

Reverend Bicklefield cleared his throat and hymn book pages rustled. Glancing at her youngest daughter, Sybil did not miss the smile Hetty flashed at Ned Hazlett in the pew almost directly across from them. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement before his stern young countenance refocused on his own hymn book.

As far as Sybil knew, the young people had never spoken, although they crossed paths each Sunday.

A chill of foreboding made her shiver and she touched her knee to Humphrey's.

Could Hetty...know?

Yet when her husband glanced across at her, she could not put into words her fears.

Ned and his two sisters were Humphrey's children by his mistress Elizabeth Hazlett. That made Ned Hetty's half-brother yet surely Hetty had no idea that the Hazletts, who sat quietly and modestly through Rev. Bicklefield's sermon every Sunday, were her father's "other" family.

Further study of Hetty reassured Sybil, even after Ned, looking up and locking eyes with the girl, grinned self-consciously.

Ned Hazlett would know, of course. Perhaps he was consumed by impotent rage, knowing Hetty and Araminta, his half-sisters, enjoyed an easy, privileged life while he and his sisters, as Lord Partington's sideslips, must navigate a hurdle-strewn path, denied social acceptance. How could he not be outraged if he knew—as he presumably did—the reason he was not Lord Partington's heir?

Sybil sighed again. She'd gladly have given up Humphrey if she'd known what unhappiness would result from their ill-advised union.

She caught young Ned's eyes upon her and quickly looked away. No doubt, his mother would have told him that his father had buckled under family pressure and reneged on his marriage proposal to his mother, Miss Elizabeth Hazlett, a mere solicitor's daughter. When Humphrey had unexpectedly inherited the title days before the secret marriage he'd planned with Lizzy, a severe talking to by his father had led to him marrying the more "suitable" Miss Sybil Green.

That was Humphrey. Easily led.

Easily led, yet stubborn and, in his own way, loyal. Though not towards his wife.

Sybil glanced down at her hymn book then across at her nemesis. Lizzy Hazlett had survived the heartbreak and the betrayal and, twenty years later, was still Humphrey's secret mistress.

Two generations had suffered the unhappy consequences—and always would. It was of no account that Humphrey had regretted his marriage almost immediately, or consolation to Sybil when he'd told her it was not her fault he was unable to show her the husbandly devotion she deserved.

She glanced at her husband's impassive profile. Hard to believe they'd been married so long and produced four children, two of whom had died. Both sons. One stillborn, the other, George, only fourteen. It had been four years since that terrible day but the pain still sliced through her with the rawness of lemon in a fresh cut.

She took a trembling breath as she prepared to expound upon her blessings in song with the rest of the congregation who were getting to their feet.

Despite the fact Humphrey had no heir, he'd not come to her bed for a full three years. And then, only after Sybil had pleaded with him and reminded Humphrey that without a direct heir The Grange and the fortune that went with it would go to his nephew Edgar.

Detested Edgar.

She turned the page of her hymn book, aware of Hetty's concern as Sybil's voice broke. Damn the memories.

Knowing that Stephen Cranborne was due sometime that day had reminded Sybil of Humphrey's eventual reluctant visit to her bedchamber three years after they'd buried George.

What a debacle it had been—Humphrey plied with drink, mumbling that he felt like an adulterer as he tried to coax his unresponsive nether regions to perform.

It didn't work. Nothing did, including Sybil's extensive efforts to entice him with her dubious charms before she'd resorted to some crass pumping of Humphrey's flaccid member.

Oh God, this was not a reflection for church, but the embarrassment of being woken by her husband's drunken snoring just as her maid had come in to draw the curtains still burned.

Sybil glanced at Araminta as they all sat. Perhaps it helped to have no heart, she thought, immediately chastising herself for her uncharitable thoughts. Araminta was still so young. She'd learn.

Besides, Sybil had every comfort she could wish for. Except love. But, wasn't love a necessary comfort? Didn't it feed the soul, nourish the mind?

Humphrey didn't love Sybil but he'd been kind in his way and he'd tried to spare her discomfort. Not pain, for nothing could erase the hopelessness of knowing one would never know the love of a man.

Nor could Sybil hate Lizzy Hazlett although on more than one occasion she'd wished her dead, wondering if perhaps then Humphrey might be able to form for Sybil some small affection.

It had taken many years before Sybil realized Humphrey would never love anyone but Lizzy Hazlett. Perhaps Sybil ought to have admired the solicitor's daughter. After all, Miss Hazlett had eschewed the respectable marriage she might have made and, despite Humphry's betrayal and his promise to make her his wife, she'd become, instead, Humphrey's mistress.

Didn't that suggest true love? It must, for she'd have known that social ostracism was her fate and that her actions condemned her children to the opprobrium meted out to bastards.

Sybil glanced at Ned's two sisters. The older, dark-haired girl was so like Araminta in appearance it made Sybil shiver. Yet perhaps Sybil was the only one to notice, for the girl's serious, almost grim demeanour made her seem a Puritan in contrast with Araminta's flirtatiousness.

The younger Hazlett girl — blond, vivacious and with a roving eye — was much more like Araminta in demeanour but nothing like her in looks.

But both girls were bastards. Unlike their half-sisters, Araminta and Hetty, their marital prospects were bleak.

No, Sybil wasn't the only one to suffer.

A ripple of interest stirred the congregation and Sybil turned her head as the door blew open to admit a new arrival. He was a stranger, she realized, taking in his large bulk. A dark, faceless cut-out against the sun, which lit him from behind.

As he progressed down the aisle, he paused as if suddenly uncertain, and a shaft of sunlight from one of the side stained windows lit up his face.

It was a handsome face, sensitive and finely rendered rather than rugged. Although young, he had creases near his eyes denoting both good humor and experience. Active service perhaps. That turned a boy into a man, and this young man seemed both as his mouth, which had been pressed into a diffident straight line, curved up in recognition upon seeing Humphrey.

She stiffened.

Stephen Cranborne. It could be no other.

The young man bowed, his broad shoulders filling out his sober dark coat nicely; certainly in Araminta's opinion, it would seem. Sybil registered the girl's sudden awareness, the flare in her eye as she locked glances with the stranger, who was now looking directly at them, the first family of the district sitting according to their station in the front pew.

And at the expectation in his eye Sybil's heart began to beat rapidly while her breath caught in her throat. Humphrey was staring, a wary smile of welcome softening his features. It was impossible to determine his thoughts, even though he'd invited the newcomer here.

Stephen Cranborne, Humphrey's heir, had finally arrived, having been summoned from the other side of the country after much searching.

And on first impressions he did not disappoint.

Sybil released her breath in quiet relief. She didn't usually worry about Araminta but this was the young man Araminta had pinned her hopes upon. Araminta would marry Stephen and so remain mistress by proxy of the family estate where she'd grown up and which she would have inherited had she been born a boy.

She'd declared it since her twin George's death and she'd declared it when she'd been hustled home from her first season after the terribly distressing affair that no one spoke of. "If I cannot _be_ Papa's heir I shall _marry_ Papa's heir."

Araminta's famous saying. Everyone knew it.

Now Araminta was staring into the eyes of the most attractive young man Sybil had seen in a while and the look in his was wary, uncertain, and, yes, very interested.

Sybil heaved another sigh of relief.

All would go well now.

The organ ceased, the shuffle of parishioners settling in to listen to another fire-and-brimstone sermon and the church door was again firmly closed.

Sybil returned her attention to the front, following a sidelong glance to gauge Humphrey's reaction.

His expression was inscrutable, as usual. Never once in twenty years had Sybil ever intercepted a look between her husband and Lizzy Hazlett that suggested they spent almost every evening and many nights together.

Lizzy's children were equally well trained.

Sybil lowered her eyes and pretended to pray while she dreamed of sinking into a tub of hot bath suds as soon as they returned. A megrim was coming on and she needed to ease the tension from her limbs. All she'd done since Humphrey had come to her bed three months ago for a repeat performance of the debacle three years after George's death was worry about the future.

# Chapter 3

"My dear Mr. Cranborne, of course it is nonsense for you to put up at _The Wren_." Lord Partington patted him on the arm after they'd dispersed from the church. "Did I not say it in my letter?"

The letter had been such a bombshell Stephen had refused to completely believe its contents until it could be confirmed, in person, by Lord Partington.

Some of the tense, wound-up feelings he'd bottled up inside for the past few weeks relaxed.

Lord Partington hadn't said how long he was to remain his guest and Stephen had wondered if in fact he'd been summoned _on spec_.

Fortunately it seemed he passed muster on first impressions. Lady Partington had been gracious, Lord Partington enthusiastic and judging by the gleam in the lovely, raven-haired Araminta's eye, he could look forward to some mild flirtation.

He forced back an image of Lady Julia, determined to conduct himself with the utmost propriety, saying conversationally as they were borne over the rutted roads in the most comfortable conveyance he'd enjoyed since before his mother died, "I remember meeting you when I was a lad and you were both little girls." He smiled. "And now you are beautiful young women."

Yes, he would conduct himself with propriety but he could afford to flirt. Lord Partington was riding on the box with the coachman and the ladies had made clear their welcome.

Cousin Araminta smiled. "Nor are you the shy young lad I remember who preferred to catch tadpoles rather than play with your cousins, Mr. Cranborne," she said coyly, perhaps for her mother's benefit for her eyes flashed the subtext for which he'd been fishing. "I remember not all our dolls, dressed for the occasion of your visit, could entice you, although we tried to interest you in the elaborate rig-outs of one-eyed Miss Lilly Vanilly and bald Lady Jane Tremain. I hope you will be less interested in tadpoles this visit, Mr. Cranborne. Or should I say Cousin Stephen?"

"Of course you should," Lady Partington interjected. Araminta, beside her, fixed him with her curiously feline smile as she smoothed the folds of her dress. She managed to combine sexual allure with enough girlish innocence to please all parties in the carriage, for clearly her mother was unaware of the lures she was casting.

"I shall try to be less disappointing," he replied. "Ten-year-old boys understand far less than young girls about what's important but now my vocabulary is sufficiently broadened to be able to remark that your eyes are reflected by the color of your gown, whose fashionable name I believe is Pomona green."

With blinding clarity he recalled the candlelight catching the lustrous folds of Lady Julia's Pomona-green gown in their trysting closet and confusion washed over him.

What had she been about? Stephen had left their home rather as a street urchin who'd been invited into the inner sanctum and after supping and being cosseted like a princeling by a lovely queen had been booted out into the night—but with promises of similar delights in a nebulous future.

This feeling was distinctly assuaged by the interest in Cousin Araminta's assessing green eyes. He recalled Lady Julia's remarks about the girl.

Could Araminta really have marked him out?

"Very clever, Cousin Stephen," she murmured. "Where did you learn that, for you have no sisters?"

"I'm not a complete novice when it comes to ladies' attire," he responded.

"Where were you when you got the letter, Mr. Cranborne?"

Although it was the first question Cousin Hetty addressed to him, her mother caged her daughter's hand and murmured, "It is not polite to be so direct, Hetty."

"I'm not embarrassed by directness, Lady Partington," he assured her, transfixed by Miss Araminta's full, enticing mouth rather than her homely sister who was waiting for an answer.

He caught himself up and transferred his attention with difficulty. "To answer your question, Cousin Hetty, I had recently returned from Spain and was staying with an aunt in Dorset."

"You were in Spain?" Hetty's hazel eyes widened and she looked almost pretty with the light burnishing her chestnut-brown hair. "That's where our poor cousin Edgar died of a bullet wound."

She gave a little hiccup of distress and Lady Partington patted her hand, adding by way of explanation, "Hetty was very fond of her cousin Edgar. They were great playmates when they were children. His death came as a shock to everyone."

He registered the curious look in Lady Partington's eyes and the tightness of her mouth and shifted awkwardly.

How did Lady Partington regard the young usurper, Stephen Cranborne, whose arrival reinforced the absence of her beloved late son, George? Of Edgar?

"I am very sorry for your losses, Lady Partington," he murmured, resisting the urge to stroke her lilac-gloved hand. It was true he seemed to respond with instant attraction to women with flashing pomona-green eyes but gentle-natured, doe-eyed women like Lady Partington and her younger daughter appealed to the chivalric part of his nature.

When the carriage drew up in front of the steps, Lady Partington left the young people chatting on the front portico before departing to ensure Stephen's room had been satisfactorily prepared.

"I'm so sorry to leave you like this but I have the most terrible megrim and Araminta will look after you. The reverend's fiery pronouncements have done nothing to improve my aching head," she'd said by way of parting.

As the front doors closed behind her, Stephen indicated the well-kept grassy slopes and roses bushes. "Perhaps we could take a turn about the garden since the weather has turned so agreeable," he suggested, not being disposed to drawing room chatter when he'd much rather get a sense of the dimensions of his future domain.

He glanced across the verdant green lawn toward the beech woods that bordered the manicured gardens. Shooting parties in August? A spear of anticipation shot through him as the young ladies readily agreed to his suggestion before hurrying upstairs to fetch shawls and change their clothes with the promise to meet him in five minutes.

Stephen wandered out into the center of the lawn and gazed up at the Queen Anne façade of The Grange. How could it be improved? A conservatory? A new wing? Perhaps a tennis court. He'd never imagined being in a position to put his own stamp on things.

Hetty's girlish giggles made him turn and he smiled to see the two young ladies crossing the lawn toward him. Cousin Hetty fairly galloped. Beside her, Cousin Araminta had perfected the regal glide. With her glossy dark hair and her proud eyes she looked like no other member of her family.

Hetty pointed at The Grange. "So, Cousin Stephen, do you like our home?"

Araminta immediately quashed Hetty's high spirits. "Cousin Stephen is surveying the house that will be _his_ after Papa meets his maker." Her look was pert. "Isn't that right, Mr. Cranborne?"

Hetty wasn't the only one whose spirits were quashed. Stephen managed a brittle smile. "You must resent that The Grange passes out of the family because you have no brothers, Cousin Araminta."

"I refuse to resent what I cannot change, Cousin Stephen." Araminta tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Let us walk and I will answer everything I can about our family and the estate."

Gallantly, Stephen offered Hetty his other arm. He'd seen her uncertainty. "It will be many years before you must worry about your home passing to me," he assured them. "Your father is in excellent health and has merely asked me here because he is a wise man who plans ahead."

"What would you like to know, Cousin Stephen?" Araminta reeled him back to her. "No doubt you have questions that must have kept you awake since receiving Papa's letter."

Stephen met her challenging look with a smile. So there was resentment after all. "I had no idea Edgar had died," he said with complete candor. "Not once did it enter my head that I should one day inherit and become the next Viscount Partington."

"Please, don't speak of Edgar again. I can't bear it," said Hetty. "For months I've prayed he'd turn up unexpectedly on our doorstep—"

"Well, that's a nice thing to say to Cousin Stephen," Araminta snapped. Composing her smile, she asked conversationally, "So where did you spend last night, Cousin Stephen?"

After an uncomfortable pause, Stephen replied, "I was the guest of Lady Julia and Sir Archibald." Adjusting his suddenly too-tight high collar, he directed an enquiring look at Araminta, who'd burst into shrill laughter.

" _Lady_ Julia!" She emphasized the title with heavy scorn. "Is that what she's asked you to call her? Why, she's the most designing brownnoser I've ever come across, the daughter of a wool merchant who spared no expense in seeing she was tricked out to make a good catch, though she likes to pretend she's an earl's daughter."

Hetty tugged her sleeve, looking worried as she reminded her sister in an undertone, "Lady Julia—or rather, Lady Ledger—is a friend of Cousin Stephen's."

Araminta tossed her head. "Surely Cousin Stephen is a friend of _Sir Archibald_. Sir Archie and Lady _Julia_ —as she would have us call her—have been married such a short time and only because—" She broke off, clearly reconsidering her words. "Ah well, you're right, Hetty. It's not my place to tell Cousin Stephen what he already knows and what you have no need to know."

As they negotiated a small dip in the path, Stephen was glad that Hetty took umbrage at her condescending tone. He'd very much like to know what he supposedly already knew.

"Why ought I not know the reason they married, Araminta? I shall be coming out in a few months. You're not that ahead of me."

Araminta slanted a sly look at the pair of them. "Miss Julia's eyes are as sharp as her nose and she knows how to sniff out a sure thing. She proved _that_ when she fainted into Lord Clairmont's arms at Hatchard's Bookshop the day after she took up Laetitia Milbank's challenge that she couldn't inveigle herself into his carriage."

"But Lady Julia didn't marry Lord Clairmont." Hetty frowned. "Not that she'd want to. He's in his dotage!"

"Just over forty and definitely in need of a wife, though clearly Miss Julia thought she could do even better than Lord Clairmont after she'd won her wager. Anyway." Araminta rolled her eyes and resumed her tale. "Quite by chance, it seems, Lady Julia was in Hatchard's when Lord Clairmont walked in, whereupon she promptly fainted right into his arms. He had her carried to his carriage whereupon his lady friend's vinaigrette quickly had her up to the mark."

Hetty appeared let down by the story. "So she didn't receive a marriage offer from him, then?"

"No, but that wasn't what the wager was about. It was about money and clearly a stepping stone to more of it. Lady Julia used her trickery to get herself into Lord Milbank's carriage and won her wager, which Miss Laetitia Milbank had to hand over that afternoon when Miss Julia called upon her with two witnesses and, believe me, that was worth a tidy sum."

"How big was the wager?" asked Stephen, feeling distinctly green around the gills.

"It was _big_." Cousin Araminta looked up at him, her eyes gleaming. "Miss Milbank's pearl choker, would you believe? A small fortune, but then Miss Julia will take big risks for big stakes." In an undertone she added, "Word is she took the biggest risk of all to snare Sir Archie but was then awfully miffed to discover his prospects weren't at all as grand as she'd been led to believe."

Stephen cleared his throat. "They appeared a very devoted couple," he lied. He was conscious of the lack of conviction in his tone and not surprised Araminta seized upon it.

"Of course! _Lady_ Julia didn't get where she did without being a consummate actress. Now, Cousin Stephen, I'm glad to note you're nothing like our other cousin, poor Edgar, who was next in line after Papa. You're tall and athletic and very handsome while Edgar was dumpy with sandy hair and freckles and couldn't talk about anything except hunting and shooting. Quite frankly, poor Edgar was a clodpoll." Miss Araminta said it as if it were the last word. She seemed the kind of young lady who liked having the last word on everything.

"How can you say such a thing?" Hetty's expression was murderous.

Stephen could not resist a smile. "Your loyalty is to be commended, Cousin Hetty."

"It wasn't me who said it." Miss Araminta looked smug. "It was Papa, if you must know."

"Papa?"

Stephen patted Hetty's hand, understanding her betrayal amidst the undercurrents. "I'm sure he didn't mean it. I'm sure Edgar was an excellent sort."

"He was my best friend." Hetty looked away, silent as her sister changed the subject, pointing to the house.

"There's Mama's wing, to the right," Araminta said. "Papa's is on the other side. Hetty and I are at the back with no view at all while you will have one of the guest bedrooms that run between them, perhaps even the room the late King George stayed in."

"You are very proud of your home."

"I love it more than anything." This was spoken with quiet fervor.

"The footman is about to take in my trunk." In the distance Stephen saw the carriage that had obviously been dispatched to fetch the last of his belongings draw up in front of the portico. "I have a present for you, ladies, which I would like to give to you now."

They retraced their footsteps to the house, the young ladies gasping with pleasure at the caged canary Stephen presented them with a flourish.

"Does it have a name?" asked Hetty.

"A very grand name," said Stephen. "Lady Zena, in fact. She belonged to my aunt who had to give her away after she took up residence with her daughter who couldn't abide Lady Zena's singing."

"Lady Zena sings?" Hetty's plump face flushed with pleasure.

"Not only that but she'll sit obediently on your wrist and eat breadcrumbs from your hand."

"Really?" Hetty's girlish squeal gratified Stephen in a way he was quite unused to. Genuine girlish enthusiasm was refreshing, he was surprised to find—but Miss Araminta's scorching green-eyed gaze above Hetty's head as the younger sister fiddled with the latch of the birdcage promised so much more.

It was not hard to interpret her meaning. Had she really picked him out?

Heat prickled his skin and he licked his lips. Fixing his attention upon the tiny mole to the right of her mouth, he imagined running his tongue over the contours of her satin-smooth skin. Miss Araminta loved her home and she clearly was not immune to the charms of the newly summoned heir.

If she had picked him out, he could think of a lot worse ways to spend his future than leg-shackled to such a diamond of the first water.

"Oh!" Hetty's shriek punctuated his appreciation of the lovely Araminta, who was returning his look with transparent interest. "The bird! Oh no, she's flown away!"

Hetty leapt to her feet, her mouth open with dismay as they all watched the canary alight upon the ivy-clad windowsill of one of the upper casements. It tilted its little head jauntily and immediately broke into song.

"Careless girl, Hetty!" snapped Araminta. "She'll make a tasty meal for the nighthawks, won't she?"

Her sister began to cry, great, gulping sobs that made her face red and blotchy.

"She'll come to me. Don't cry, Cousin Hetty," Stephen assured her, assessing the distance to the first floor. Grasping the thick ivy, he found a firm foothold and hauled himself up.

"Oh no, Cousin Stephen, you'll hurt yourself."

The fact Hetty was more afraid for his safety than the loss of the canary, which just minutes before had been the greatest tragedy, determined him. He _would_ get the bird back.

Stephen was fit and agile. He'd climbed the Andes like a goat and sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar without even casting up his accounts, so hoisting himself onto a sturdy ivy root, reaching for a secure piece of trellis and hauling himself up one story was no major feat.

"Ooh, careful!" The gasps of both young ladies was balm to his youthful ego.

"Come, my pretty. Come, Lady Zena." Carefully, he extended his hand toward the bird.

After some contemplation, the little bird decided to make him work for his reward. When she hopped onto the sill of the farthest casement windows, Stephen had no choice but to follow.

This involved a heroic full-body thrust followed by a hasty snatch at the stone ledge. With heart hammering and very conscious of his audience below, Stephen hauled himself across the wall, securing one foot on the buttress. Victory was in sight. Lady Zena hadn't moved position for some minutes and soon he'd pop her onto his shoulder and descend to the rapturous cries of the young ladies. It would be a just recompense for what, he realized looking down, was a rather risky ascent after all.

Eyeballing the canary, he whistled softly. She hopped daintily toward him then hopped backward. Clearly she was enjoying the game.

Stephen growled, hoping this dance of seduction was not going to become prolonged.

It was only the merest flash of something in his peripheral vision that made him turn his head slightly to the right. There was certainly no intent to peep through the misted windows. Yet the shock of seeing a shapely pair of thighs connected to a round, ripe naked bottom as its owner bent down to pick up one stocking was completely unexpected.

Sucking in a breath, he put his head closer to the pane, not pausing to consider it an act of prurience. He was simply riveted to the spot by such a tantalising sight, wondering what else the lovely creature had to offer in the way of fleshly delights.

The bird fluttered by his ear but he ignored it. Instead, Stephen squinted to see better. Rising steam indicated a bathtub to the rear of the room from which the lady in question had just risen. In fact, steam still swirled in eddies that partially obscured her until she discarded the linen she'd been using to dry herself.

Vaguely, he was conscious of the young ladies below calling to him but he was rooted to the spot, desperate to see what more this as-yet-unintroduced female had in the way of sensuous charms.

Who could she be? A house guest? A cousin of the family?

He couldn't make out her face, but her light hair rippled to below her waist and her pale limbs, the color of whipped cream, were well turned. He tried to gauge her age for she walked with calm, fluid movements, like one who has grown used to her body without realizing how lovely it is.

"Cousin Stephen! Lady Zena is right by your left hand!" Hetty's voice contained a note of desperation as it floated up to him and Stephen forced himself to acknowledge her—and the bird which hopped away, this time right onto the window ledge in front of him.

It provided him with just the justification he needed to refresh his view of the scene though he made a half-hearted attempt to reach for the canary.

But Lady Zena was the least of his concerns right now. He simply could not pull his gaze away from the woman as she made her way languidly from her bathtub towards the bed. It was a large, intricately carved tester covered in a sumptuous white counterpane, edged with white velvet, and as she lowered herself onto it her lustrous golden tresses swirled about her waist.

Golden tresses!

Last night's breathless, clandestine encounter with Lady Julia in the small closet returned with all the intensity of a full immersion in bilge water. He shuddered and closed his eyes. All day he'd experienced surges of the utmost remorse for his actions for they had certainly not been those of a gentleman.

Because of him, Lady Julia had committed adultery. And, despite Stephen's other self-confessed failings, adultery was one of those sins he most despised having experienced the terrible effects faithlessness had had on his own young life.

What on earth had attracted him to Lady Julia? he wondered, when her behaviour ran so parallel to the behaviour he'd most despised in his mother.

"Cousin Stephen! Lady Zena is right there! Can't you see her?"

It was only when opening his eyes and seeing that the mist had dissipated that Stephen suddenly realised with the most enormous shock the identity of the woman upon whom he was spying.

Surely not?

He shook his head as if to clear it, and looked again.

Dear God, it was true. The naked woman in the bedroom was the quiet, modest woman who'd welcomed him here. He'd barely noticed her in the carriage with her hair covered by a blue silk bonnet and her manner almost deferring to her eldest daughter, who certainly wanted to put herself forward.

This was Lady Partington.

Torn between the desire to scramble away as fast as he could and to strain his eyes for one final look, fascinated desire won out. She was exquisite.

Stephen watched as she flicked aside the curtain of her hair to reach for a stocking, raising her leg to put it on so that he was treated to the most intimate view a newly arrived heir no doubt had ever received of his benefactor's wife, the lady of the manor.

He swallowed. He had to go. Glancing over his shoulder, he met the expectant looks of both his cousins far below him. Sweet innocent girls who held no interest for him.

But this woman, so close through the glass, yet so far away... He turned his head as if for closure, half wanting to see her clothe herself and so firmly put an end to this sensual extravaganza to which she was treating him.

Instead, Lady Partington eased the stocking onto her ankle then, in a seemingly unrelated act Stephen could not at first explain, she hooked her ankle over her knee and placed her head on her thigh. Then she raised her head...

And looked him squarely in the eye.

At first he did not move. He registered the flare of shock in her expression, quickly followed by confusion. She stood up quickly, her hair frothing about her waist, one hand moving to cover the fluff at the juncture of her legs, the other to conceal her full, heavy breasts. From this distance he could see the sheen of moisture from her bath and the faint marks left by pregnancy on her soft and rounded body.

He'd been with women who'd given birth to children but never one who'd shied away from him with such outraged horror.

As was only to be expected. Lady Partington preserved such delicacies for her husband and Stephen was guilty of gross voyeurism. He ought to be ashamed of himself yet he was curiously aroused in a way he'd not expected. Against her vibrant eldest daughter she'd been a soft little pouter pigeon, clucking her welcome. Now she'd stepped into a different league altogether.

Lady Zena chose this moment to hop onto his shoulder and Stephen deemed it timely to beat a rapid retreat. With his heartbeat roaring in his ears, he descended in record time, leaping the last six feet and going over on his ankle, surrounded by the young ladies—Hetty who gripped his arm and Araminta whose regal self-possession was nevertheless disturbed by the violence of his fall.

"Did you hurt yourself, Cousin Stephen?" she cried.

He was about to dismiss their concerns when he checked himself. "I might have twisted my ankle. Perhaps if we retired indoors you'd be so good as to administer a soothing poultice."

Araminta read his meaning at once, offering him her shoulder to lean on, which he made good use of, and the close proximity. She was worldly enough to know he'd hardly make a fuss over a minor injury and she would be flattered that he'd use the opportunity to gain access.

Yet while her perfume teased his senses and her ministering touch was gratifying he could not get out of his mind the lush, ripe nakedness of Lady Partington's unexpectedly desirable body.

Limping into the house, he realized how terribly embarrassing the episode would be for Lady Partington once she understood he was blameless. Hopefully she could dress it up as an amusing anecdote to share with Lord Partington as they cozily discussed the day's events—something Stephen was looking forward to doing with his own wife when the time came.

Simple pleasures.

Lord Partington had done well in his marriage, even if he didn't have a living son. The demure façade presented by Her Ladyship was clearly very different from the reality.

Sybil didn't know how she had the courage to enter the dining room that evening. Should she tell Humphrey? How would he take the fact that his highly anticipated heir was a peeping Tom? That he had spied on her in her bedroom and leered at her naked. For he hadn't looked away in shame. Oh no, he'd continued to stare right at her.

Her stomach roiled. At his contempt? His disgust? When he addressed her in future he'd think only of her old, ugly body while he pretended the requisite courtesies.

She knew she should face him with regal hauteur but her embarrassment was too acute.

"Mama, come and look at Lady Zena." Hetty leaped to her feet when Sybil entered the drawing room. "Isn't she a darling?" she demanded as she ran across the Wilton carpet to drag Sybil to the corner where Araminta—and, lord forbid—Cousin Stephen were crowded 'round what looked to be a bird's cage.

Sybil could not meet his eye. She should make clear her indignation and outrage but she lacked the courage. Was he embarrassed that he'd been caught peeping? Or did he imagine her such a mouse that she'd say nothing?

Running a hand across her heated brow, Sybil forced herself to attend to Hetty's prattle while acutely conscious of the young man's strong, lithe body only feet from her. Her brain whirled with questions. Why had he spied on her? And—not that it should matter, but...how badly had he been repulsed?

"We were quite certain poor Cousin Stephen was going to break his neck," Araminta said, casting a surprisingly warm glance at the young man. "Then Hetty wanted to run into your room to see if we could help him through the window as it was your sill he was clinging to."

Sybil stiffened. "What did you say, Araminta?"

"Mama, you are so vague," Araminta huffed. "I said that Cousin Stephen rescued Lady Zena, the canary he gave to us this afternoon, after it flew out of its cage and landed on your windowsill."

"He was so daring and insisted the bird would come to him if he could get close enough," said Hetty. "He climbed right up to your bedchamber. I'm surprised you didn't see him."

"But he was in such a hurry to climb down again he twisted his ankle when he landed," said Araminta.

Cousin Stephen cleared his throat. "All's well that ends well and no damage was done, I assure you, Lady Partington."

Oh dear Lord, he was looking directly at her, a faint smile playing about his beautifully formed lips.

What was wrong with her? He certainly didn't look disgusted. In fact...well, the very opposite.

"I hope you didn't object to my surprise, Lady Partington."

"No, I—" Sybil could utter nothing coherent, she was so overcome with confusion. Her embarrassment only increased when Mr. Cranborne added, "I mean, to my giving the girls a bird."

Oh, Lord. Did he imagine she'd misinterpreted him? Well, she had...for just a second. "A bird?" she croaked. "No, of course not. No objections, nothing to object to, that is—is there?"

"I hoped you'd feel that way."

His response was so soothing. Meanwhile she was acting like a flustered peagoose whose feathers were being gently stroked.

With unexpected relief she welcomed Humphrey, who joined them in the drawing room, saying, "I trust you had a pleasant afternoon, Stephen, and that the ladies have entertained you."

"I've been vastly entertained, my lord." The young man bowed, glancing at Sybil as he raised his head. Was he making fun of her? A young man seeing a woman more than ten years older than himself in such a state? No, she was imagining it. He was looking at Araminta beside her. How could she have imagined he'd even bother making fun of a woman old enough to be his mother? Well, nearly old enough.

Smoothly, he continued the conversation he'd obviously had earlier with Humphrey. "I should enjoy joining you for an afternoon ride tomorrow, my lord. Riding is one of the things I like best, in fact."

"Excellent, excellent." There was an encouraging degree of enthusiasm in Humphrey's tone.

Sybil knew how relieved he was that Stephen was so unlike Edgar. Stephen was strong, tall, handsome and apparently capable. Levelheaded and considered. Unlike chuckle-headed, indecisive Edgar.

"Cousin Stephen, there is something I'd like to show you." It was Araminta, using her voice like a lure.

Sybil wondered by what method she'd honed her considerable powers of attraction when her mother had none. Sybil could not even entice her husband into her bed to try for another son.

The young people drifted over to the window seat, Hetty's presence like a gooseberry, it soon became clear.

Humphrey chuckled as he took a seat beside Sybil near the fire. "Araminta is clearly delighted with her cousin."

Sybil smiled. "They look a fine couple. What man would not fall in love with Araminta? Cousin Stephen looks taken with her."

"A good thing since our young lady has her sights set on him. And Araminta always gets what she wants." The warm gaze Humphrey directed at their daughter was some solace. He looked very at home leaning back against the blue silk upholstery and she was struck by how rarely he inhabited this domestic domain, amongst his legitimate family.

Impulsively, Sybil said, "Our daughter is very lovely, Humphrey. You must be proud of her."

She closed her eyes to enjoy the warmth of the fire then opened them again to gaze about the handsomely decorated drawing room with its Chippendale furniture, oil paintings and sumptuous Aubusson carpet. Any mother of two healthy marriageable daughters—who was in good health, herself— would consider it a domestic dream come true.

All that was missing was love.

And respect.

"Proud indeed. Now, about this evening, my dear." He turned the subject and Sybil's heart thudded to the pit of her stomach when he said, "I'll be out late so don't expect me at breakfast."

"But Humphrey, it's Stephen's first night—"

"And he's had a tiring day so will sleep late. We've made arrangements to go riding the day after."

The dinner gong sounded. "Of course, Humphrey," she said, beckoning to the girls then, as the most senior lady, taking Stephen's arm so he could lead her into dinner.

Her spirits were so weighed down she could barely put one leg in front of the other.

"I hope I am not the reason you look so downcast, my lady," she heard Stephen whisper and was surprised at the kindness in his expression. The fine, arched eyebrows that she imagined could deliver such disdain—and surely such a handsome young man delivered that in spade loads—were angled above eyes that were warm with compassion.

Two footmen threw open the double doors and Sybil raised her head like the lady of the manor, which for most of her life made her feel like such a sham.

With surprise, she registered the light touch of Stephen's hand over hers in what seemed almost, though not quite, far too familiar a gesture under the circumstances. "I'm sorry to have discomposed you, Lady Partington. Please don't be angry with me."

Heat rose in her cheeks. "Of course not," she murmured, wondering how anyone could be angry with him as she held his look for just a second. He was lovely.

Araminta obviously thought so too as she waxed lyrical about the original manor house, which had been added to over the centuries, the fine library of books—most of which she intimated she'd read, which was nonsense, of course.

To his credit, Stephen appeared entranced so that by the end of the evening, when the ladies and gentlemen reconvened in the drawing room, Humphrey cornered Sybil in a dark corner and said, "What a satisfactory evening, my dear. Araminta turned on the charm like I've never seen before."

"Then you don't see enough of her." Sybil knew there was no point in shaming him, so she added, "And Stephen appeared taken."

Humphrey dismissed her comment and went on in his usual distracted manner, though to discuss their eldest daughter, which was a change.

Araminta was seated near the fire and had elicited Stephen's help in winding a skein of wool into a ball she could work with. From time to time the rhythm was broken either by the inexperience or deliberate offices of her cousin, and Araminta, with an arch look, would stop her winding to untangle the wool from around his fingers. This obviously involved a degree of surreptitious intimacy, which brought amusement to Humphrey's eyes.

"That girl is tempting fate," he remarked. "Sybil, you'll have to talk to him."

"Me?" The idea of broaching the topic to which he alluded was horrifying at the best of times and now was not the best of times.

Humphrey frowned. "It's hardly something _I_ would discuss with Stephen, my dear. Araminta needs to tread carefully. Have you heard whispers as to why she cut her season short?"

Sybil shook her head.

"Really, Sybil, you have your head in the clouds. Isn't that an essential role of a mother? To have one's ears to the ground for the first sign of trouble?" Irritated perhaps by Sybil's blush of shame more than anything else, he went on, "There are whispers that the only reason young Inglesham's heir shot himself was because Araminta turned him down—"

"But Humphrey, that's perfectly obvious. I knew that."

"If you would let me finish." Humphrey was never angry with her but his regular irritation was a thorn in her flesh. Forcing herself to patiently accept his inevitable censure, Sybil waited.

"Word is that his pockets weren't deep enough for Araminta's ambition." He raised an eyebrow and nodded as if Sybil had already corroborated his horror. "Indeed, word is that Araminta boasted she'd not accept anyone with under a hundred thousand or who wouldn't build her an exact replica of The Grange."

Sybil gasped and would have said something to defend her daughter, whom she knew was probably entirely guilty of such charges, only Humphrey cut her off. "Apparently our daughter had returned to this nonsense of hers about seeing if she couldn't whip Edgar into shape. Edgar! Can you imagine Araminta marrying that dweedlenap? Lord knows I shouldn't speak ill of the dead but I'm glad he—"

"No, Stephen, you mustn't say it."

Humphrey snorted but changed the subject. "It's your duty to warn Stephen to take care. Tell him he must adhere strictly to the gentleman's code. That is, unless he intends to make Araminta an offer sooner rather than later, which may be entirely possible since most men seem unable to resist the girl's charms."

Sybil nodded miserably. "Yes, Humphrey."

"Good." He rose, then, and moved toward the door, saying over his shoulder, "In fact, I've already mentioned you'd like to speak to him on a private matter."

Sybil felt like she was shrivelling up inside in horror at the mere thought of such a thing.

The only person who could possibly know how she felt was Hetty. Plump, ungainly Hetty, who always tried too hard was a younger version of herself, Sybil thought sadly as she studied her youngest child, deep in conversation with Lady Zena. Who else was there to talk to, after all? A great surge of tenderness welled up in her breast as she contemplated Hetty's prospects during her forthcoming debut in just a couple of months.

The girl's dowry was not insignificant. She'd in all likelihood find a husband but it was unlikely to be one who'd offer her his heart with the same enthusiasm he offered her marriage in expectation of the financial rewards that would come his way.

The idea of vibrant, enthusiastic, loving Hetty living a life like hers—a life without love—was almost too hard to bear.

Sybil turned away, afraid of being unmasked in this vulnerable moment. It was time to make her exit and leave the young people to themselves. They were cousins. They should get to know one another.

As she rose to leave, Araminta called from across the room. "Mama, are you going to bed? I forgot to tell you that I saw Mrs. Wilcock in the village today. She asked after you and says Mrs. Hazlett is selling Bunty. You know I've always loved that horse. I thought you could suggest to Papa that he buy her for me."

Clearly misinterpreting Sybil's look, she went on impatiently, "You know who I'm talking about, surely? Mrs. Hazlett with the fine brown hair, who lives in the house closest to the bridge."

Could Araminta really not know?

Sybil damped down her horror. "Why should she want to sell Bunty?" It was a rhetorical question. All Sybil wanted was to make a hasty exit and never have to hear about Mrs. Hazlett ever again.

"She's going away. Mrs. Wilcock said she was suffering fainting and dizzy spells and the only cure for such a malady was nine months' rest."

Sybil fixed Araminta with a beady look. Was her daughter taunting her? Was she saying what Sybil thought she was saying? Surely Araminta was not so naïve?

It appeared she was. Certainly it appeared one could be a minx and a jade without knowing a thing about the realities of life.

Undaunted by her mother's lack of enthusiasm, Araminta went on, "Mrs. Hazlett is going away for nine months, according to Mrs. Wilcock, and taking her eldest daughter with her so they're selling that lovely bay. Do you think if I ask Papa he'll buy it for me?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure he will if it'll benefit Mrs. Hazlett," Sybil said with more venom than was wise. "Good night Cousin Stephen, girls." With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and hurried up the passage.

Mrs. Hazlett's lack of feeling up to the mark was something Sybil could empathize with. Her fainting spells and nausea were another thing altogether. Maladies Sybil herself should be suffering—if only Humphrey would let her.

She cast herself onto the bed as soon as she gained the privacy of her room and began to sob.

Humphrey had deemed an heir from another line of the family preferable to intimacy with Sybil. Not even the familiarity of twenty years could overcome his aversion. She was a repugnant old woman who couldn't even tempt a husband desperate to beget an heir.

Mary came in a few minutes later and helped her mistress out of her clothes and into her nightdress. Though she made soothing noises in response to Sybil's obvious recent tears and told her there'd be better days ahead, she could not understand and Sybil was too proud to make a confidante of anyone, even a trusted retainer who'd been with her for more than a decade.

She was just drifting off to sleep when a cursory knock was followed by the door being pushed open. Araminta drifted across the carpet and sat at her dressing table, looking at her reflection rather than at her mother as she said, "Cousin Stephen is very nice, don't you think? Much nicer than Edgar." She shuddered. "I'd have hated to marry Edgar but now I'll have a dashing husband and still call The Grange home and live here as mistress of the manor. You'd live in the gatehouse once you're a dowager, of course."

Sybil listened to Araminta's excited prattle and through bleary, tear-filled eyes, watched her confident daughter uncoil her hair as she extoled the many virtues of the "next Viscount Partington", who it never occurred to her wouldn't see her as the best candidate for his viscountess.

"Perhaps your Cousin Stephen is already attached, Araminta, dear," Sybil suggested almost diffidently.

Araminta just shrugged her shoulders and replied, "Well, he's not married and that's all that counts."

Finally the girl rose, her sigh of satisfaction suggesting that all was nicely in order in her world, and Sybil heaved a sigh of relief that she'd soon be able to close her eyes on this perfectly awful day.

But Araminta wasn't done yet. "Mama, you will remember to tell Papa he must buy Mrs. Hazlett's mare for me, won't you?"

# Chapter 4

By day three Stephen was still reveling in the excellent horseflesh beneath him as he tore through the woods that would belong to him someday.

Life was full of surprises but it would be hard to beat his elevation to all this. He cast his eye around the sweeping fields of golden corn, the beech wood to the east; there was the glistening lake with its picturesque rotunda and boathouse at the bottom of sweeping lawns and the squat but handsome house, now about half a mile away, which he would one day call home. Not to mention the young lady of the manor.

It was clear Araminta had set her sights on him. While he had to acknowledge this was on the basis of his recent expectations, there'd be few men not thrilled at such an alliance. She was exquisite.

Exquisite and willing. It seemed the ideal solution. His courtship would be short and straightforward and there'd be no surprises. He would sire sons who would inherit all this and he'd grow old in comfort. Respected and revered.

An uncomfortable image of his encounter with Lady Julia returned. Not his proudest moment yet for a few minutes he'd genuinely deceived himself into believing his feelings for her went beyond lust. Now, although he tried to erase her from his mind he couldn't shake his shame. He'd been a fool. Anyone could see that. Hopefully only he would know it. But the inner shame went deeper. What gentleman would have behaved as he had?

The only mollification was: _What lady would have behaved as she had?_

Then there was the debt. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to settle that—or explain it to Lord Partington.

Although generally genial, His Lordship was at other times distant and aloof. How would he react when he learned that his heir was all but dunned?

Lady Partington, on the other hand, was like a sweet little peahen, always running an anxious eye over her daughters. Hetty, in particular, he noted. It was quite clear Cousin Araminta could look after herself but anyone could see Hetty would not make a similarly confident entrance when she was introduced to society.

He must remember to keep an eye out for potential fortune-hunters of the heartbreaking variety, for Hetty and Lady Partington were birds of a feather—tender-hearted creatures who needed extra bolstering. They reminded him of his dear cousin Annabelle, who'd made such a disastrous match.

The sudden flap of wings as a partridge burst out of the gorse in front of him turned his thoughts from peahens to the richer game he'd soon enjoy as the future Lord Partington. Like hunting parties in August for which he'd be renowned as the most generous of hosts with the most desirable wife.

Turning his mount for the home that would be some years in coming, he was again struck by his immediate pecuniary obligations.

Before his two-week visit ended he'd have no choice but to broach the subject with his benefactor.

It was with interest and more than a little curiosity that he was told upon arrival that Lady Partington desired to see him on a private matter "at his convenience" some time that day.

As he changed from riding dress into a new coat with boots zealously polished to disguise their age, and trousers he'd bartered from a colleague, he hoped his appearance sufficient to inspire confidence.

Confidence was required in any interview that dealt variously with money or marriage, and he rather suspected Lady Partington had something of importance to say upon one of these subjects.

Mary, the viscountess' lady's maid, eyed him with some concern when he presented himself, adding dubiously that he could wait in Lady Partington's private sitting room while she sought out Her Ladyship.

So Stephen lowered his lanky form onto a delicate gilt sofa and was studying the amateur water colors done by Lady Partington, when a rustle made him glance up at the paneled wooden door that led in from the passage. Waiting was always a tedious business when there were so many more interesting pursuits on offer, and The Grange offered an abundant supply. He could never be bored here. His Lordship had offered to take him on a tour of the estate later this afternoon after he'd returned from wherever it was he spent his mornings, and Stephen was looking forward to learning how to run things properly.

To his surprise, Lady Partington entered from a doorway hidden near the bed. Clearly unaware of his presence, she made her way directly to her writing desk, seated herself and then took down her inkpot.

Stephen was about to declare himself when her next action rendered him indecisive.

With a heart-rending sob she leaned back, covering her face with her hands. When she dropped them and raised her eyes to the ceiling, her expression was desolate.

She must have heard something for she jerked her head around, crying, "Cousin Stephen!"

In a trice he was on his feet and covering the short distance between them, his hand upon her shoulder, aware this was the second time he'd caught her at a disadvantage. "Lady Partington, forgive me but I was told to wait in your sitting room. Please don't be angry." For the wide-eyed horror she fixed upon him indicated the extent of her wounded pride.

He stopped when he realized he was gently stroking the back of her neck. Far too familiar an action under the circumstances but instinctive when he'd seen her distress. For Stephen, who'd seen so much pain and death on the battlefield, and who'd craved the tender caresses of a mother too self absorbed to acknowledge him for the most part, it was a rare privilege to be in a position to offer comfort. "I know you must deplore the reasons I am here," he said, assuming her unhappiness must be related and transferring his rather desperate look from her face to her mahogany night stand. "It is not easy to see everything go to a virtual stranger because you have only daughters, but despite my reputation, I intend to be as diligent in my duties toward the estate as your husband is."

She exhaled bitterly. "If my husband were as diligent as you suggest, he might have his own son to whom he'd pass everything, but he has no wish to deal with me."

Stephen glanced at her, uncertainly, as she heaved in another shuddering breath. Her eyes looked luminous in her pale face. From so close, he could see the dampness on her pale lashes and had to resist the urge to wipe her tears away. Stephen had witnessed women whose distress made their faces blotchy in their hysteria but Lady Partington had a self-imposed regalness about her that made her fragility something precious and beautiful.

"I'm sorry, pay no heed," she continued, gathering herself and pulling away. "This is very irregular. You should not see me like this."

"I should not," he agreed. "And I should not have tried to capture Lady Zena on the ledge either," he added, casting caution to the wind as he alluded to that which had caused her such embarrassment. "However I did and as you have no reason to be ashamed I hope you will forgive me."

He thought she might turn her back on him and show him the door with an imperious wave. Clearly she was contemplating it. Stephen stared at the veins standing out on the back of her hand as it gripped the edge of the escritoire and realised such tenseness must be one of many devices she used to bottle up her emotions.

Then she relented and met his determined, bolstering smile with an unsteady one of her own. Her hair was loose and he noted the rich gloss of it. Earlier, he'd thought she'd intimated that Lord Partington was insensible to her physical charms. But that could not be true. Such a beautiful, dignified woman would have no shortage of admirers.

"That is in the past," she said with brittle formality. "Thank you for your concern but if you'll excuse me I must dress for dinner. We can discuss the matter I intended to broach with you at some other time."

Obediently he turned toward the door, hesitating to remark, "If you'll forgive the impertinence, Lady Partington, I strongly recommend bold colors, which I believe would be more flattering to your complexion."

He indicated the pale pink gown her maid had laid out on the bed. "The color and construction are decidedly matronly for one of your youthful looks."

With a final bow, he excused himself, his mind running wild over what transgression or failings Lord Partington was guilty of in the eyes of his distressed wife. No heir? That must obviously be Lord Partington's fault in the physical sense and not for want of trying.

Lady Partington was exquisite.

The household whiled away the hours after dinner in pleasant conversation with their guest and close neighbor rear admiral Hopton, whom Humphrey had felt obliged to invite. Their fathers had been testy comrades and as the rear admiral took a paternal interest in Humphrey's affairs, the arrival of the heir-apparent was more than a passing social interest.

"Good strong chin," the rear admiral wheezed into Sybil's ear. "Not like that namby-pamby Edgar. Good thing Corunna took care of him."

Sybil didn't reply. She was ashamed that she tacitly agreed with the sentiment that her nephew's death during the bloody Peninsular campaign was a godsend for Humphrey and The Grange.

The admiral's next sentence heated her cheeks. "Bit peremptory of your husband to bring in reinforcements when you should be able to provide one of your own." The rear admiral had been raised in a more down-to-earth era and no doubt considered the implication of his sharp-eyed study of her middle region not at all ill-mannered.

Sybil managed to swallow her Madeira without making any unladylike noises before murmuring, "My husband wanted time to groom Mr. Cranborne for his role in case—"

"Aye, that's right, in case he went the way of his old pater."

Sybil did not comment. Humphrey's father had drowned when in his cups at the tender age of forty-five.

"Not likely. In fact, your husband would do better if he were more like the old pater. But this Mr. Cranborne. Will he go his mother's way? That'd be more my concern. Little strumpet, Miss Bessie Brayford was in her day. Aye, no credit to her sex, that's what my mother said, but we don't always listen to our mothers, do we? Your Miss Araminta doesn't and I'll warrant it won't do her a jot of harm."

The warmth of his glance as he gazed upon the young woman he'd dandled on his knee as an infant sent a pang of some unidentified longing through Sybil. Araminta, seated by the window, was holding court, Stephen appearing like a rapt disciple as he lounged against the wall and listened. Pride—and something else—raged through Sybil. Her daughter's beauty was breathtaking, as was her ability to take what she wanted in life without thought for the consequences. While Sybil wanted nothing but happiness for her eldest daughter, Araminta was not going to get Mrs. Hazlett's gray mare. Sybil was determined upon it.

The rear admiral's look was as admiring as Stephen's. "The girl knows how to get what she wants. Thank the lord she's not playing up to that sapskull Edgar, which she would be if _he_ were here being groomed for the role of heir."

"Araminta wants to make a good match this season," Sybil murmured. "Mr. Cranborne would be a very good match."

"Two months ago he wouldn't have been. No, Miss Araminta has an eye to the main chance, and good on her. Let's just hope Mr. Cranborne knows what's expected of him. Young man's been around. He knows how to please the ladies, no doubt about that," the rear admiral observed.

Sybil squinted at the young pair. Was her neighbor suggesting Mr. Cranborne wasn't genuinely smitten?

"No need to fluff up your feathers like a protective mother hen," chuckled the rear admiral. "Mind you, with your eyes so bright and in that gown, you're a fine sight to behold."

A tremor of pleasure ran through her. It was the first time she'd been complimented in years. Her red silk gown was one she'd had made in a fit of daring the year before but never worn after Araminta derided her for trying to appear in the first stare "when surely you're old enough, Mama, to know how positively sad it is to look like you're trying to compete with your daughters."

Since then she'd reverted to the simple, safe and matronly pastels she'd always worn. Mr. Cranborne's comment tonight had emboldened her to select the dress.

"And no need to gape as if you don't know it's true. You're a damn fine-looking woman, Sybil, only Humphrey don't appreciate it." He took another sip of his drink, staring down his claret nose to add, "Araminta's not the only beauty in the family. Now, as you're clearly not used to compliments and your husband is looking this way, I shall bid you good evening and go and speak to my old neighbor."

Sybil closed her mouth, returned Hetty's smile—she was kneeling by Lady Zena's cage whispering to the bird—then resumed watching Stephen and Araminta.

What had the rear admiral meant? Mr. Cranborne was like every young man who met Araminta. He'd fallen completely under her spell. The only danger was if proceedings went awry. After the curtailing of her first season, no breath of scandal must touch Araminta.

_No, let all proceed quietly to plan_ , prayed Sybil. Mr. Cranborne was the new heir and Araminta, since the death of her brother, had been determined to marry whomever she needed to become mistress of The Grange.

It was Sybil's duty, however, to warn Mr. Cranborne, subtly, of Araminta's expectations so as to avoid any potential misunderstandings.

Stephen was enjoying the attention of his lovely female audience as he leaned against the wall and listened to Araminta spout a string of deriding comments about all the ape leaders with whom she'd been forced to rub shoulders during her first season.

Clearly she'd despised everything as much as she'd enjoyed it. "Miss Clara Doyle only stood up three times at Almacks the first night I attended. She has more than ten thousand a year, but imagine a gentleman having to get past that nose of hers."

"A large nose is an impediment to anyone, even those with ten thousand a year," he agreed.

She sent him a wary glance before relaxing with a smile that twisted with derision as she went on, "And then there was poor Miss Myrtle, who might have been pretty had her guardian not insisted on dressing her like she'd been dragged out of a fashion plate from _The Lady's Magazine_ ten years ago. Why, the rig-outs—"

"One's dress is vital to one's success." Stephen nodded, glancing at Lady Partington who looked, he conceded, mighty fine in hers this evening. One might even argue she looked a good ten years younger than her real age, which he calculated must be around thirty-six, given that the earliest she could have given birth to Araminta must have been seventeen. Perhaps she was older though he doubted it. Yet what did it matter? Age had no meaning—and nor should beauty—when it was what was in the heart that counted.

He watched Lady Partington say something to the rear admiral, a worried frown creasing her brow, but a disarming remark from her companion brought on a spontaneous laugh that lit up her face, making her in that moment exceptionally lovely. Lovely in quite a different way from Araminta, whose shrewd eyes narrowed as she intercepted his gaze.

"Poor Mama's trying too hard again, I see," she remarked. "I told her never to wear that dress. She's far too old."

"I don't think so."

Araminta stared at him. Clearly this was not the kind of thing she was either used to or had been expecting.

"Mama is practically in her dotage," she insisted, leaning forward and looking past Stephen to frown at her elderly parent still deep in conversation with the rear admiral.

"No, she's not."

"She's too old to provide Papa with an heir," Araminta rejoined, spitefully.

Stephen said nothing to this but naturally he did wonder at the veiled allusion Lady Partington had made earlier that day that would refute this.

Yet surely if Lord Partington considered it safe to call Stephen here and pronounce him the new heir it was because they were unable to produce one themselves. Perhaps Lady Partington had been unable to have more children after her last child. He reflected on her unhappiness and wondered if it stemmed from the fact that she refused to accept her barrenness.

"If Mama's trying hard now, she left it too late, didn't she?" Araminta's scornful look softened as she transferred it to her father talking to the rear admiral.

At Stephen's quizzical glance she muttered, "Papa has no desire for Mama's society. As soon as he can get away, he does. He hardly ever spends the night here and only returns for luncheon."

Stephen was shocked both by the charge and the veiled accusation. "And you consider that your mama's fault?"

"Well, it's not mine." Araminta replaced her glare with a beauteous smile. "But let's not talk about dreary old Mama, Cousin Stephen. Let me hear all about yourself and your daring exploits."

Stephen participated in the lighthearted banter that followed, though Araminta seemed to take most of what she told him a lot more seriously than he did.

Nevertheless, it was a novelty to be the focus of attention from a beautiful young woman, even if she was a trifle self-absorbed. She was also young and no doubt she'd be softened by a more maternal side when the time came. Like her mother, whom he did not consider dreary at all.

If Araminta had marked him out as her future husband, he could do worse. It was time to claim a wife and with possibly years to wait until his inheritance, there would be definite financial benefits.

It was on the subject of his pecuniary and, he hoped, only temporary embarrassment, that he finally got up the courage to approach Lord Partington.

There was no point in beating around the bush, Stephen decided, as he accompanied His Lordship on horseback around the grounds of The Grange with an almost lung-bursting sense of pride. In all his wildest dreams he'd never imagined a future as glittering as the one that had opened up before him.

"Where do you live when you're in town?" his Lordship asked as they followed a meandering brook through a pretty meadow.

"With my grandmother while I look for something more suitable," he replied.

"In that case you'll stay at the Grange until something else is arranged." His Lordship squinted toward the hills to the east. The columns of smoke from the village could be seen above the trees. "Besides, you'll need to spend some time here so you can understand the responsibilities you'll be required to undertake one day. Obviously you'll want to spend a good deal of time in town. You're a bachelor after all." He hesitated. "Though perhaps not for long."

Stephen ignored the questioning look in his eye but obliged him with, "I think I'll find myself quite content to molder in the country for at least a few more weeks." He sent his benefactor a knowing look and the viscount chuckled. "Be wary, my boy." He opened his mouth to continue, hesitated, then went on, "My daughter is a vixen who knows how to get what she wants and if you have other ideas you'd better state them now."

Stephen grinned. "I'm quite partial to vixens," he said. "Especially the green-eyed variety."

Lord Partington slapped his thigh as he stared out over the beech forest before fixing Stephen with a gimlet look. "She'll lead you a merry dance and don't say I didn't warn you, but it's a satisfactory situation all 'round. Her dowry is generous but you'll need money in the meantime. I'll arrange for a small stipend that'll keep you until...something more formal comes to pass."

Stephen saw his chance. "My lord, I've one outstanding debt that needs attending to."

His Lordship swung round in the saddle, his expression none too pleased. "Dunned, are you? But of course, why did I not expect it? You're your mother's son after all."

"I hope I favor my father," Stephen said stiffly. "However last week at Sir Archie Ledger's house party I was prevailed upon to make a foolish bet."

"Foolish, eh?" His Lordship raised his eyebrows.

After some hesitation, Stephen finally admitted, "I bet a thousand on a spider and lost." The flush that stole up his neck burned as he stared straight ahead. Put like this his folly seemed extreme.

"A spider! Pity you weren't an expert on the subject of arachnids, then, boy."

"With respect, my lord, I consider myself quite an expert. The outcome was astonishing and, I believe, engineered in Sir Archie's favor. Nevertheless, the fact is that I lost the bet and I owe Sir Archie a thousand pounds."

Stephen cringed at Lord Partington's incisive stare. He'd never lost so much in a single wager but he'd been so sure of a victory that would have helped him repay a loan from his grandmother. Not that he intended mentioning that to His Lordship. Fortunately it was a trifle in comparison.

His Lordship settled back into his saddle and said in a resigned tone, "I'll have my bank arrange a letter of credit. You're an expert on the subject of arachnids, then, are you? A passing fancy of last week?"

"No, my lord." Stephen forded a small stream in Lord Partington's wake. "For some unexplained reason I've been fascinated by spiders since I was a child. I had a collection, to my mother's horror, which I studied endlessly. Therefore I was convinced that, having observed the mating spiders, we would soon see the newly impregnated female devour the male. Sir Archie said this would not occur, that the male sex was dominant in every arena and he would wager this was another example." He saw that Lord Partington was listening and went on. "We remained to watch what would transpire, however I was detained for some time by Lady Julia and when I returned half an hour later the male spider appeared to be making a judicious exit, sated and quite intact. I, however, was suspicious of what I judged to be tampering of the web. Nevertheless, Sir Archie prevailed and I was declared the loser of the bet."

Lord Partington's complexion had grown florid. "Sir Archie Ledger," he muttered. "Floppy Ledger's son. The little weasel sounds like his father." He clicked his tongue and urged his mount over a fallen log, shouting back over his shoulder, "You'll invite him here and prove your theory sound."

Stephen drew level and his cousin twisted in the saddle, warming to his theme as they continued at a leisurely canter. "A male arachnid, especially if it's small, always comes off second best. You were cheated. Indeed, I'll not hand over such a sum if your version of matters proves true."

"Oh, it's quite true, and I'd happily see you invite him here, my lord, to prove it."

"We'll need examples so the boy can see with his own eyes that he can't bamboozle us. Ask Araminta to start gathering a collection."

They laughed. Amusement, however, turned to admiration after they returned to the house to propose the idea and Hetty rose to the challenge. Araminta declared roundly that she'd do so only on pain of death.

"Not even to please me?" Stephen asked with a suitably cajoling smile.

"You have a lot to learn, if that's how you think you'll win me," she declared with a sly look beneath lowered lashes as she demurely plied her needle.

Nevertheless, Stephen was satisfied by her response. Araminta had all but stated how things stood. In a few days the time would be right. He'd ask for her hand and all would be settled in his world. Even the debt was no longer a niggling boil that needed lancing.

Returning later that afternoon from _The Slippery Green Toad_ after a couple of pots of porter, Stephen was reminded that not everyone was as fortunate. The evening was still light and he was in the east paddock closest to the house when the sound of weeping interspersed with the soft, snuffly noises of a horse caught his attention.

Stephen stepped quietly round the corner of the barn and peered across to where a hitherto unknown gray mare was nuzzling the neck of, if he wasn't seeing things, the mistress of Partington Hall.

Lady Partington was in evening dress. She must have left the house on a sudden whim before dinner. A strangely compelling desire indeed, for as he drew nearer, Stephen saw that her silk slippers were completely covered in mud and filth.

An owl hooted and the horse startled. In the moonlight Stephen saw how horse and mistress seemed to settle each other.

"Lady Partington?" he called out impulsively, only realising as the words cut the silence that she may wish for privacy. However, her forlorn stance demanded that he step forward to render what assistance or comfort he could. "Is anything the matter?"

When she merely raised a baleful eye from above the straggly mane of the gray mare he added, self-deprecatingly, "Of course, I realize _something's_ the matter otherwise you'd not be crying or have ruined your evening slippers. Whose mare is this?"

"Her name's Bunty and His Lordship bought her this afternoon for Araminta. She's not yet seen it but it will be a mighty fine victory for her."

He wondered at the bitterness in her tone. "Miss Araminta already has a fine mare. Does she need another?"

"That's of no account when Araminta wants something. My husband will deny her nothing and now he has bought her this, which belonged to someone who has had to go away. It's an insult to me. A cruel blow though Humphrey does not see it that way. He'd consider such talk hysterical. He's always thought me overstrung and yet I've maintained my dignity in the face of his continual denigration."

Her words became muffled as she buried her face in the docile mare's flank. It seemed she had no wish to censor what she said but would drown her words instead.

Stephen was not unused to comforting weeping women. In fact, this was a favored ploy usually resulting in said weeping woman throwing herself into his arms. Stephen was generally quite happy to render his assistance. However he now stood before his benefactress. In the half-light with her hair ruffled out of its careful coiffure and the utterly desperate vision of misery she presented, Stephen couldn't help himself.

He crossed the churned up ground to put his hands on her shoulders and drew her round to face him. "My dear Lady Partington," he murmured, frowning into soft, doe-brown eyes that bore soulfully into his. "I'm sure your husband had no intention of causing you such heartbreak. If you wished for a mare of your own why not just ask? His Lordship is a generous man."

Lady Partington rested her forehead against his chest. "Generous, indeed!" She trembled. "Loyal would be a better way of describing him yet in this case it is not a compliment to me." She drew in a shuddering breath and raised her face to his. "Had I known his heart was engaged elsewhere when he offered for me, I'd never have agreed to the contract."

The evening twilight and the lack of formality in their surroundings added to the sense of unreality. This was neither a conversation for the drawing room, the great outdoors or one to be had by two people in their requisite stations. But Lady Partington had clearly cast convention to the wind.

For now anyway.

With a great sigh she twisted out of Stephen's embrace. She seemed neither embarrassed nor inclined to invite his confidence. Just unutterably weary as she gazed about at the stables behind her and The Grange before them. "I'll have to attend to my appearance before I present myself for dinner."

Stephen rubbed his chin, unsure what to do next. "Perhaps you should plead a megrim, ma'am, in view of your distress."

She gave him a wry smile. "Distress is a general state for me." She seemed to register Stephen's lack of surety and put her hand to his cheek as if to return the gesture of comfort. "I think you are kinder at heart than I gave you credit for. Perhaps you will be good for The Grange and for Araminta—if that is what you want."

In the semi dark, Stephen stroked the mare's flank as he watched Lady Partington walk slowly toward the house. She carried herself with grace, the skirts of her crimson dress frothing around her ankles, and a sudden image visited him of her dark-gold tresses swinging around her hips. A surge of some identified feeling for her rose up in his breast, truncated by the sound of running footsteps from the opposite direction.

"Bunty! Oh, you darling horse!" With a cry of joy, Araminta threw herself upon the horse's neck and kissed the mare rapturously. It was a moment before she realized she was not alone.

"Cousin Stephen!" she cried, smiling, taking a step towards him, one hand still on the horse's flank. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard your mama's distress over this animal. I believe your father bought her for you this afternoon."

Dimples appeared in Araminta's cheeks. "Isn't she beautiful? The finest in the county, I believe."

"Your mama doesn't share your enthusiasm."

Araminta made a noise of irritation. "If Mama were cleverer—or prettier—perhaps Papa would want to spend more time with us instead of giving horses and no doubt other gifts to the ladies he prefers."

Stephen studied her in amazement. Did she know what she was saying?

Which was? Quickly he went over the aspersions suggested by Lady Partington.

"Your father gave this horse to another lady?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes. Mrs. Hazlett, who's apparently had to go away." Araminta lifted her chin proudly as she transferred her attention back to the horse. "Anyway, that's according to the apothecary's wife in the village, who told me Mrs. Hazlett was looking to sell darling Bunty."

"If you suspect your father gave Bunty to this Mrs. Hazlett, aren't you concerned at the thought of upsetting your mother? I'm sure I wouldn't like to think of my wife bestowing such generous gifts on another man."

Araminta swung round from her enthusiastic petting of Bunty with a glare. "Don't you see? It's _why_ I did it." In response to Stephen's look of confusion she went on, "I had to teach Mama a lesson. If she wants to keep Papa here with us she must try harder. She's such a little dormouse, isn't she?"

Stephen found himself actively revolting against her sentiments. "I don't think so."

Araminta's jaw dropped. Deciding against arguing, she dropped her hand from Bunty's flank and stepped closer. Only a foot separated them and they were hidden from the house. Her eyes danced as she nibbled her bottom lip. "You can kiss me if you like, Cousin Stephen."

She tilted up her chin and closed her eyes. Tendrils of desire snaked through him yet his heart wasn't in it, even though he rested his hands on her shoulders for he was not about to refuse her invitation. He'd already decided he'd marry her.

When Hetty called from the back step he wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

He drew back before Araminta did. "I shall have to be patient, shan't I?"

"And you shall be well rewarded for it, Mr. Cranborne," she promised in a whisper, giving his hand a quick squeeze before turning toward the house.

Through a haze of misery, Sybil observed the budding romance between Stephen and Araminta. Araminta made no secret of her feelings—that she wanted to be the next lady of the manor. She thought, too, that Araminta's desire for the young man was genuine, which took the edge off her misery.

Humphrey's thoughts echoed hers when he remarked after dinner, "How fortuitous that Araminta's lofty ambitions will be grounded in true love." Then he surprised her by adding, "Yet I wonder if Stephen is as smitten."

"Why, Humphrey, I thought you imagined all men were in love with our daughter." She liked to refer to Araminta like this, reinforcing the bond between them.

Humphrey toyed with his drink as he reclined in his usual leather wingback chair in front of the fire. "Oh, he'll make her an offer before the end of the week," he predicted. "Yet he seems distracted."

"By her beauty."

"No, something else."

Sybil stared. It was unusual for Humphrey to notice anything going on around him at the Grange. A bitter knot lodged in her throat. Of course, his mistress had departed, exhausted by a condition which "only nine months would cure". It was why he was at her side so late this evening. Humphrey would be chafing at the separation, however he'd soon invent an excuse to leave his family.

She didn't respond at first. Then, forcing a smile, agreed. "I suppose we are all a little distracted. Events have not run their usual course, have they, Humphrey?"

His expression was quizzical. They never referred to his mistress, even obliquely, so he chose to discount any possibility of a reference to Lizzy Hazlett, saying instead, "Yes, and he doesn't disappoint, does he?"

Sybil concurred without hesitation. "He is as charming as he is handsome. And he's kind, too, Humphrey. Surprisingly kind for a young man so used to having the ladies presumably throw themselves at him. I think he's had a harder life than we'd imagine."

"Now you're going overboard, my dear. I merely was comparing him with ghastly Edgar, who might have stood in his shoes had he not come out so badly at Corunna."

"I doubt he would, the way Araminta's looking at Stephen."

Humphrey's mouth twitched. "No, I doubt Araminta would have looked at Edgar with quite such soulful eyes." He studied the pair. Araminta looked dazzling in her white muslin gown with its green sash and matching emerald earrings. Her dark, glossy hair had been swept up into a becoming cluster of curls that fell from a topknot.

She looked very innocent and very desirable, surely a heady mix, thought Sybil, wondering what elusive qualities enticed a man. Certainly Sybil had never possessed the right ones. In all her thirty-seven years no man had ever looked at her twice.

Humphrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But she'd have been standing there with exactly the same intentions had it been her cousin Edgar. We both know that."

Was that admiration? Sybil tilted her head. "Are you suggesting that Araminta's ambition is greater than her discernment?"

Humphrey chuckled. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting. I say 'good on her' for exercising all her wiles if that avenue will bring her happiness. Life would be a misery if we simply accepted our lot."

Sybil nearly spilled her drink. With a suspicious look at her husband's empty glass, which the footman was currently refilling, she murmured, "You sometimes surprise me, Humphrey, with your profound comments."

"Do I, my dear?" He glanced at Sybil, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. A spasm of some tiny fondness for him jerk to life deep within her.

Sharply truncated when he said, still kindly, "As a boy my pater thought I'd surely grow out of my adolescent mooning and accept that duty was the only mantra. I was young, lacking experience of myself and of life. I knew no better. If that's what pater believed, then surely it was true." He sipped his drink, both philosophical and melancholic. "Sadly for both of us, I accepted the pater's edict." He patted his chest. "For this loyal heart was not made with room for you, Sybil, and for that I've always felt a trifle guilty."

Oh Lord, was she going to cry?

She'd give her all right now to be able to respond, to pour out her desire for a love she was powerless to grasp and perhaps get something in return. Any love. Even an apologetic gesture of friendship. How dried-up, stale and superfluous she'd become. Here was not the place and no doubt Humphrey had chosen to speak here for that reason.

So she was relieved when he broke the mood by saying in an uncharacteristically complimentary tone, "You look mighty fetching, Sybil. I don't know what it is but you're looking finer than I've seen you in a while. What have you done to yourself?"

It certainly wasn't happiness that had improved her appearance. Her spirits were lower than they'd ever been but she realized she was favoring bolder colors and styling. Why? Purely because Stephen Cranborne had complimented her?

She fanned herself at the memory of their encounter that first day. No man other than Humphrey had ever seen her without her clothes.

Stephen should have recoiled with horror from the sight of an old woman's decaying body yet he'd been the opposite of either embarrassed or dismissive. He'd been positively charming.

Recalling this, she raised her eyes just as Stephen glanced over at them. He looked both young and very self-assured as he offered a half bow in acknowledgement, his eyes creasing into a smile, and Sybil, to her astonishment, blushed and was even more embarrassed when Humphrey remarked, "I see you have won the admiration of our guest. He certainly speaks well of you while I, to my shame, just nod my head and agree. I take for granted the good works you do and the excellence with which you run the household, Sybil. I was surprised when Stephen himself observed you were quietly competent and efficient while asking nothing of those around you, as we took a walk the other day."

Pleasure made her sit straighter.

Humphrey put down his drink. "Of course, he has only his dissolute mama with which to compare you. Now, shall we retire and leave the young ones to while away a few more minutes without censorious eyes?" Sybil rose with him as he added, "You must call Hetty away too. I believe Stephen has something of importance to say to Araminta."

"But it's only been a week." How could Humphrey know more than she? Besides, it was much too early. The furious beating of her heart and the cocktail of shock, surprise and...yes, resentment, took her by surprise. Her hand was shaking as she put down her glass.

Humphrey looked knowing. "I spoke to Araminta this morning and said she had two choices: to throw herself into her next season and try to snare a duke, which I told her she surely would with her looks and dowry. That would mean she'd be going to London in another month but that if she was prepared to remain a lowly viscountess at The Grange, she'd have to forgo London revels."

"Excuse me, ma'am." Porter, the butler, stood in the doorway. Sybil raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on, wondering what might have happened at such a late hour.

"Well, what is it?" Humphrey sounded suddenly tired and grumpy. He was like that when he'd had enough of Sybil's company.

"There is a visitor..."

"What do you mean a visitor? At this hour?"

Porter cleared his throat. He shifted his feet and seemed reluctant to speak until Humphrey said even more testily, "You know we don't receive callers at this hour, Porter."

"My lord—" Porter's Adam's apple leapt up his throat. His complexion had darkened and his eyes darted from master to mistress as if he were unsure what to say, which was quite unlike their implacable retainer of more than twenty years.

"Well, spit it out, Porter!" Humphrey was clearly losing patience. "Unless old Boney has given his jailers the slip and is advancing over the hill with an army behind him I think we can hear what you have to say if you think it's worth saying."

Still, the butler looked dubious and suddenly rather old and feeble. Which is exactly how Sybil felt when he replied in a quavering voice, "My lord, it's...Master Edgar. First I thought I was seeing a ghost and didn't believe my eyes. But the truth is, Master Edgar is as alive and as well as I ever saw him. And he's waiting to see you."

# Chapter 5

"Edgar?" Sybil's hand flew to her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to bring all attention upon this side of the room. "Oh, my dear Lord," she whispered, her head reeling, while Humphrey choked.

He seemed unable to offer Porter any coherent response as to what should be done so Sybil managed, "You'll have to show him in, of course."

For what else was there to do?

The intervening moments before he appeared were like a ghastly nightmare. Suddenly the future of The Grange and its inhabitants seemed like a boat tossed upon stormy seas. Edgar had not the brains to _ever_ know how to run an estate properly or the understanding to treat his position with the care and respect Humphrey showed. Humphrey might not love his wife but he was utterly committed to his duty in ensuring the future of his inheritance.

Footsteps rang out in the corridor. Humphrey looked at Sybil as if to garner courage.

Then the door was flung open and Edgar appeared beside Porter, pushing his way in with the careless familiarity of youth, saying cheerily, "Uncle, Aunt..."

For the moment both Sybil and Humphrey were rendered mute.

Rising from his bow, Edgar's myopic blue eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "You thought I'd copped a bullet and slipped off this mortal coil, didn't you, eh, wot?" His vacuous grin—at least, that's how Sybil had always thought of it—was twisted with pleasure at having "gammoned" them—his favorite term—as he sauntered forward with the unconscious confidence that everyone must be delighted to see him.

"Edgar!" cried Hetty, bursting off the sofa in a cloud of muslin skirts, the ends of her pink silk sash flying behind her as she threw herself into his arms. "We thought you were dead! Why, what a marvelous dream come true to see that you're not!"

Sybil and Humphrey exchanged glances and in that rare moment it was clear that both were of one mind.

Never had such a disastrous day befallen the Grange and its inhabitants.

A guest room was quickly prepared. Stephen excused himself as discreetly as he could, Araminta leaving five minutes later after an obviously forced greeting with the cousin she'd believed dead. Of course Edgar did not notice. Edgar was only ever conscious of the pleasure people evinced at seeing him, preening at their compliments and laughing at the results of his painful attempts to make others laugh.

Which was why Hetty and he had always been such fast friends. Since they were toddlers of the same age they'd enjoyed silly jokes and antics. The only difference was that Hetty had grown up.

Still, she was clearly just as devoted, Sybil realized with rising desperation as she gazed from her window at the pair the following morning, strolling across the lawns, heads bent, deep in conversation.

And the longer she watched, the more her heart weighed her down like a stone, for there was Araminta coming toward them, smiling as Sybil had never seen her smile at her "detestable" cousin before.

_Surely not_ , she thought. Surely Araminta could never compromise her heart to that extent? Not even to become mistress of The he Grange, when with her beauty a season in London would snare her an elevated match.

Helplessly, Sybil scanned the expansive lawns in search of Stephen. Poor Stephen had nothing, now, when until last night the world had been his oyster.

But Sybil could see no sign of Stephen. No, Araminta was striding purposefully toward her sister and cousin and even from this distance Sybil could see the care with which she plastered on her smile, for indeed, her pleasure in Edgar's company did not come naturally.

She steeled herself for Hetty's inevitable letdown, more conscious of Hetty's reaction than anyone else's, as Araminta insinuated herself into their cozy pairing, taking Edgar's arm and ever so subtly tugging him away from Hetty.

For a moment Edgar and Hetty exchanged looks. Confusion was written on both faces. But too quickly Edgar's attention was fully claimed by Araminta. He laughed at something she said, his fickle nature swayed, as ever, by such a convincing show of interest. Hetty's silent devastation was profound, Sybil could see it, and not for the first time did she rail silently and impotently against the injustice of life. Hetty deserved so much more than she would ever get. For every victor, someone gasped the pain of defeat. In this case Humphrey, Araminta and Edgar had the world at their feet.

And quite literally this was because Sybil, Stephen and Hetty lay there, the vanquished byproducts of their pleasure.

So, the dream was over.

The morning breeze was chilly as Stephen looked dismally at the grand, squat building before him and contemplated not what might have been, but what lay before him.

Pragmatic by nature, he was glad he'd had only a short time in which to weave the fairy tale shattered by the sudden arrival of Lord Partington's _no-longer-dead_ closest male relative. Even during the first few weeks after he'd received His Lordship's letter, he'd not truly believed in his good fortune.

So really, he tried to console himself, it was only in the week since he'd been at The Grange that he'd begun to harbor the aspirations he now must temper. Not sufficient time to allow his dreams to soar. He'd get used to his new reality and make the most of future opportunities. In the past year he'd learned to live more frugally and the creditors weren't beating at his door.

Remembering his debt to Sir Archie brought his spirits crashing down. Would Lord Partington still be of a mind to assist him? After all, he was nothing but a distant relative now.

He was surprised to see Lord Partington make his ponderous way across the lawn toward him, the large man leaning heavily on his silver-topped cane. A twitch at the curtain in Her Ladyship's boudoir made him look up. Was she watching, and if so, with relief or disappointment? Stephen knew young Edgar had been viewed with disfavor and not considered a suitable candidate to replace his uncle. After what he'd observed last night, Stephen could understand why. The boy was a nod-cock. But a nod-cock who would inherit all this. He'd have money and advisors—if he'd listen to them.

"What are your plans now, Stephen?" Lord Partington's voice was heavy. The exertion of crossing the wide expanse of lawn had taken its toll and he held his hand to his chest. "My heart is murmuring its displeasure," he added. "Never been strong but last night's unpleasant surprise did it no favors."

Stephen stared at Lady Partington's window as he replied, "I'll leave tonight, of course, my lord." He found himself distracted by his thoughts of Her Ladyship's feelings regarding his departure.

Then remembered he had bigger disappointments.

Araminta.

Strange, he'd barely thought about her this morning, or the inevitability of losing her when she'd so nearly become his wife.

"You've had no time to organize where you'll go or what you'll do. You can't possibly leave tonight."

Stephen shifted his gaze to His Lordship's concerned one. "When Edgar learns that I've been here in his stead he'll want me gone yesterday."

"Edgar is not lord of the manor." The viscount did not trouble to hide his scorn. "If I could organize it any other way, he never would be. I'd go to my grave sanguine, at least at this stage, to know you were the one carrying on my legacy." He snorted. "But that buffle-head doesn't know the difference between a feather and a fountain pen."

"Araminta will explain it to him. At least you have that comfort. She's a clever girl." Stephen was surprised he did not suffer the regret he'd have imagined. "Her ambition will ensure Edgar doesn't gamble the estate away."

Lord Partington glowered. "She's throwing herself away. Besides, the boy's in love with Hetty. Always has been. Now Hetty's about to be thrown onto the pyre of my eldest daughter's ambition."

"Championing the love match?" Stephen spoke flippantly.

To his surprise His Lordship responded, carefully, "In my old age, yes." He rubbed his chin. "I'm fond of Hetty. Always have been. Reminds me of my favorite aunt. Dear Aunt Dotty. Completely hopeless romantic, never married. Died last year, but utterly wonderful to me in my mama's absence. Mama was admired by many but she was a terrible parent."

He gave a small laugh. "I'd like to see Hetty marry Edgar if it'd make her happy but of course Araminta won't have it. No, she's determined to marry the heir. You must be disappointed."

Stephen shrugged. "Not as much as I'd expected. In a way it comes as a relief, though I'd have uncomplainingly been led to the altar. Araminta is impressive. We'd have made a good match—her forcefulness and ambition and my contentment to be allied to a beautiful, determined woman who'd allow me my pleasures within reason."

"Not if they ran counter to hers," His Lordship warned.

Stephen shrugged. "Araminta clearly loves The Grange and I think I could spend the bulk of my time in the country if I had an agreeable wife. I like the insects here," he added as an afterthought. "Odd, I know, but I think I'd have been quite content to study them instead of wildly pursuing London revels. I shall be quite the eccentric in a few years."

"Come now. You have more ambition than that. You're a clever man. But Araminta would have demanded you take her to London on her terms. You've been spared that, at least." Lord Partington deliberated before adding, "You'll have to stay another ten days at least."

"Why's that?"

"The house party. It's been arranged. Floppy Ledger's son and some of his cronies will be coming to stay." At Stephen's frown he went on, "To run the spiders, of course. You need to pay your debt or prove it's he who owes you a thousand. Given your knowledge of our arachnid friends I'm looking forward to watching young Ledger hoisted on his own petard." He looked serious. "I want to see you leave here in the best possible position now that you're out on your ear thanks to Edgar's luck in dodging the bullet that should have got him."

Never had Sybil so desperately desired anyone to extend their visit—a far cry from when Humphrey had first announced his plans to introduce the "new heir".

Stephen had represented her failure. But to be replaced by caper-witted Edgar now threatened the fabric of existence.

And Edgar's greatest crime? He was breaking Hetty's heart.

Sybil was spying on them from the Long Gallery, sitting on the cushioned window seat, pretending to read a book but surreptitiously studying the young people in the distance.

Of course it was wrong, but she was desperate that her youngest daughter find the happiness she so deserved. If only Edgar were stronger and realized Araminta would have him for breakfast. Instead, right there in front of her, Hetty's disillusionment was turning into utter devastation.

The now familiar scenario was being played over again. In the walkway below the Long Gallery Sybil watched Hetty and Edgar gravitate naturally toward one another. She saw the easy pleasure in their greeting and their amiable manner in taking a seat to chat in the arbor between the ornamental pear trees.

She'd not realized she'd exclaimed aloud until Stephen made his presence known.

"Spying, Lady Partington?" He sounded amused, so while she was aware of her blushes she was able to smile back at him.

"A concerned mama will afford herself any opportunity if she's able to justify it as that...rather than prurient interest."

"I think most of us are guilty of both from time to time." He took up position at her left shoulder and together they watched Araminta join her sister and cousin, her smile directed at Edgar.

Hetty, who had until then been the focus of Edgar's animated chatter, turned at her sister's intrusion. Her smile was in place but her worried expression revealed her feelings.

Stephen lowered his head and asked Sybil softly, "Do you think Cousin Hetty understands what's happening?"

Sybil was surprised by his perspicacity and his boldness in articulating such a question. Now, he was going and she was sorry for it, though he'd have no idea just how sorry.

"I'm surprised your comment concerns Hetty when I thought Araminta was the daughter of most interest to you." She raised her eyebrows inquiringly. "Surely you consider yourself a more enticing candidate than her cousin Edgar?"

"Oh, I know I am," he answered with assurance. "I'm sorry to see my inheritance go and if I thought Miss Araminta's ten thousand would make me happy I'd do all I could to persuade her out of her determination to become mistress of The Grange at any cost."

Sybil's heart was already in the process of disintegrating when he added, "She's too young to see that she'll make them all unhappy: Hetty, Edgar and not least, herself. You do know, of course, that there's no way Hetty will win this. Araminta will succeed in wresting Edgar's affections from Hetty with the merest crook of her finger. It's clear Edgar is that kind of man."

Sybil nodded sadly. "Edgar is not very clever and he's terribly susceptible to flattery." She rubbed her eyes. "Araminta will marry Edgar before two months is up, I know it. She was prepared to forgo the season to marry you, Cousin Stephen." She blushed then added, "Perhaps that was premature since you'd not offered. Yet you gave every indication. Are you desperately disappointed?"

He angled his body closer. Very close, she noted, but then he'd always seemed very comfortable with her. "I'm desperately disappointed not to be inheriting all this." He gave an expressive sweep of his arm. "But I'm not desperately disappointed that I'm not marrying Cousin Araminta." He hesitated and Sybil considered what a strong, determined jaw he had in contrast to his sensitive mouth and the depth of feeling in his eyes right now. "I would have, though, and happily enough, if that's what she wanted."

"So your heart is not engaged elsewhere? I was afraid Araminta completely overlooked the possibility, that you had perhaps met a worthy young lady in your travels but decided the benefits of marrying Araminta outweighed those earlier considerations."

"No, no, I'm not the kind to put ambition above the workings of my heart. That said, I've never really been in love, I don't think. Nevertheless, I have admired many women. You included, Lady Partington."

She didn't think she'd been more surprised in her life and was conscious of her virtual squeak as she responded.

It seemed to amuse him and he went on, "You don't, of course, do yourself the justice you deserve. Araminta wouldn't be nearly so desirable if her self-confidence were stripped away. It's poor Hetty's problem. Did you notice how pretty she looked when she was talking to Edgar?"

Sybil nodded sadly and Stephen added with a shrug, "My mother was a confident beauty. More confident, perhaps, than beautiful, but men are drawn to women who believe in themselves."

"You seem older than your years," Sybil murmured. She studied the young man beside her with renewed admiration.

"And you seem younger than yours."

They laughed and Sybil felt she was watching from outside herself as she deliberately placed her hand over Mr. Cranborne's which was resting against the window pane. It was meant to be a gesture of solidarity for the difficult position in which he found himself. "You'll surprise us all. Indeed, Cousin Stephen, I imagine you'll go far. Humphrey will secure you a position in London. He was talking about it—that's if you're interested. I'm sorry I dismissed you as no better than the rest when you first came here."

"Did you?" He turned towards her, his fingers curling around her hand. She hadn't expected that or the frisson of electricity that skimmed up her arm. "Thank you, Lady Partington, for your support. I may need it one day. Indeed, your husband has been good to me. He's having a house party in ten days to invite some people to whom I owe money. He plans to use the occasion to reverse my debt."

She used the excuse of surprise to change the subject as she discreetly she withdrew her hand. "You'll just lose more." Forcing herself to sound censorious she nevertheless acknowledged that he was young and no worse than most men.

"Please don't sound so disappointed in me, my lady."

"Not in you." She floundered. She _was_ disappointed but not for the reasons he surmised. "So, you'll leave in ten days? Perhaps, in the interim, you'll persuade Araminta of your address over Edgar's."

"I doubt I'll do that, and in fact, nor do I want to. The debt, by the way, involves no outlay on my part, for your husband is determined that this will vindicate me and merely settle a score."

At her look of inquiry, he went on, "I was cheated when the outcome of a pair of house spiders' mating ritual was engineered."

This made her blush but she hurried on, "Humphrey is quite the man of science. It would appeal to him to recreate the experiment, if it could be done." Warmly, she added, "I'll keep my eye out for courting house spiders."

Mr. Cranborne moved closer and to her extraordinary surprise put his hands on her cheeks and kissed her forehead. "That would be much appreciated, Lady Partington."

The touch of his lips could be felt long after he'd gone.

She sat, staring at him—stupidly, no doubt—while her heart beat an irregular tattoo.

Was this the way he'd take his leave of a favorite aunt? That must be it, of course.

It seemed Humphrey shared Sybil's considerable concern over the new situation with regard to their daughters. At any rate, she assumed this must be the reason he joined her for tea several days later. It was a lovely afternoon and she'd had the servants take table and chairs onto the lawn so she could relax beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat and survey the world. Ten minutes later Humphry took the vacant chair opposite hers and began to converse with her quite amiably.

"Where is everybody?" he inquired, stirring the cup of tea she'd poured him.

He'd barely finished the question before they were disturbed by animated voices and the young people rounded the shrubbery, traversing the gravel path that circled the rose bushes about twenty yards away.

Humphrey's gaze narrowed over the top of his tea cup. "Do you think Araminta will succeed in her quest?" He sounded grim.

"She has always been determined to reign over The Grange."

"But at what cost?"

Sybil was surprised at his vehemence. Humphrey never criticized his eldest daughter. Now he was championing his youngest, which was rare.

Humphrey shook his head. "Hetty's worn her heart on her sleeve for years. She pined for Edgar when he went to war and she was still grieving for him when he came home. I saw the joy in her face when he walked through the door, a feeling I can tell you I was far from sharing. Just look at Araminta now. Why, she's shameless."

Araminta had tucked her hand into the crook of Edgar's arm and he was mooning at her like the most devoted acolyte. Behind them trailed Hetty, looking miserable and superfluous.

A flicker of hope ignited in Sybil's heart. Humphrey never spoke so vehemently about anything regarding the family—except when he'd expressed relief at news of Edgar's supposed death. The following day he'd begun his search for Stephen.

"There's nothing we can do, Humphrey," she said patiently, wishing it weren't true.

"I don't know why young Stephen can't satisfy her," he grumbled. "He's dashing and charming and seemed taken with the idea of having Araminta as a tenant for life."

Sybil knew he was well aware of the answer but she replied anyway. "He won't make her mistress of The Grange and nor is he swimming in lard, Humphrey. Araminta is used to getting what she wants and Edgar is easy prey."

Humphrey glowered as he replaced his cup in its saucer with a loud chink. "God help us all, for an unhappy lot we're destined to be."

# Chapter 6

_W hat an unhappy lot we're destined to be._

Sybil couldn't get her husband's words out of her head. She watched the young people disappear into the house. Stephen was nowhere in sight. The knowledge he'd be here a few days more would have been comforting had she thought he had a chance of winning Araminta over.

The sad truth, however, was that Stephen had not enough affection for Araminta to be fired by the chase and Araminta...well, Araminta was determined and stubborn. She wanted to become mistress of The Grange, and that was that. Sybil rather suspected that Araminta liked the idea of being wed to someone weak and pliable like Edgar whom she could thoroughly rule over.

It was also clear that Araminta was succeeding nicely in winning Edgar's heart, which he was now wearing on his sleeve. Throughout dinner his attention skipped to his alluring elder cousin every time she made a remark.

With the eagle eyes of a concerned parent, Sybil did not miss the consequent slump of Hetty's shoulders.

When Araminta voiced a learned opinion on the prime minister, Edgar's echoed, "Yes, dreadful man, Lord Liverpool," would have been comical had it not been indicative of how easily led the boy was. It boded ill for all of them and the future of the estate.

Stephen kept his thoughts to himself. Perhaps he'd schooled his expression so as not to betray the contempt which Sybil saw on her husband's face. Hetty wore a mask of despair. She'd never been able to conceal her feelings and Sybil's heart bled for her youngest. Edgar might not have been the husband she'd have chosen for Hetty but at least they might have made one another happy. Together, Araminta and Edgar would be a disaster.

After dinner the party broke up and the young people went to the billiard room.

Again, Sybil was surprised when Humphrey joined her in the drawing room after he'd had his port and coffee. He'd been a far better companion since Lizzy Hazlett's departure.

It was a bolstering thought.

"Well, my dear, we're living through interesting times," he remarked as he led her to her seat. "My guess is there'll be an announcement before the week."

"My guess is sooner. Oh, Humphrey." Sybil sighed as she sank into her chair and sent him a searching look. "What can we do? I deplore the situation as much as you do. When Stephen first arrived I admit I was angry and upset. Here he was, taking George's place. Now I'm utterly devastated that his position has been usurped." She reflected on how the young heir-in-waiting had conducted himself. With thoughtfulness and dignity, despite what had happened to cause Sybil such embarrassment. She put her hands to her cheeks to ensure there was no betraying warmth there before she added, "At least with Stephen holding the reigns you'd have had the comfort of knowing you left the estate in good hands."

Humphrey hovered by her side. How rarely Sybil enjoyed the attentions of her husband, and how sad that this magnificent room with its intricately worked plaster ceiling and sumptuous furnishings was used so little.

Stephen would have made excellent use of it. He had taste and soul.

And kindness.

She wondered where that thought had come from. And then wondered at Stephen's uncertain destiny. He had taken his change in fortune with remarkable fortitude.

Humphrey began to pace in front of the fire. With a start, Sybil noticed that his shoulders appeared more stooped. Had he grown older without her noticing? Hardly surprising since she saw him so little.

He grunted. "Stephen is so like his father Reginald, my cousin, an excellent man. A little wild in his youth but a good, steady fellow with a clever head on his shoulders. Reginald's biggest mistake was his eye for the ladies." His own glittered when he glanced at Sybil. "The crafty piece he married tricked him into it. Stephen's mother."

At least Sybil was not guilty of such a charge. It was Humphrey who'd tricked her into believing he'd at least try to play the role of husband.

Her husband went on, "I feared Stephen might have taken after her which was behind my initial reluctance to seek him out. However once I met him I realized he'd inherited his father's traits. You're right, he'd have made an excellent job of managing the estate, both in my dotage and when I die."

Moving to the sideboard, he poured them both another drink. "Now, Edgar has returned, threatening to destroy everything my forebears worked so hard to build up. Even with Araminta guiding him, he won't know how to curb his impulses. Indeed, I'm not sure I have that much faith in Araminta's level head. No, it's a disaster all 'round."

"And Hetty," Sybil added sadly. Hetty's bruised and broken heart concerned her as much as the matter of the estate.

"And Hetty. But there you are. There's nothing to be done." He spoke with the finality of one about to excuse himself for the night. In a sudden burst of bravery, Sybil detained him with, "We could try one last time, Humphrey."

His puzzled frown in response to her words and the arm she extended towards him suggested he wasn't sure what she was saying.

She felt herself color up as she whispered, "I'm not too old to have a child, Humphrey. We both know that."

What remained unsaid was that they both knew how difficult it was for Humphrey to do what was necessary. When he began to dissemble Sybil knew the time had come for plain speaking.

Studying the openwork design on her skirts, she said carefully, "The last time we tried, Humphrey—three months ago, as I recall it—you said the fault lay with you and there was little point in trying again. But I can be as patient and forgiving as you like if it'll provide an heir that will remove Edgar. Mrs. Hazlett has gone away to have a baby. No, there's nothing to be said. I know it's scandalous of me to mention it but I have to say my piece if I believe it's for the good of the estate. If Mrs. Hazlett can have your baby, Humphrey, surely you can bring yourself to try..." She swallowed, stared desperately at his closed expression then burst out, "Surely you could try and give me one too."

Clenching her hands, she waited, expectation rising alarmingly within her as her husband stared at her. Nothing was more important to Humphrey than the future of the estate. Surely he could bring himself to sufficiently overcome his aversion toward intimacy with Sybil to at least _try_ for such a practical solution?

The regret in his face was almost more than she could bear. Sybil had been rejected many times in her life but this was the most painful.

Swallowing down her tears, she rose, feeling suddenly like an old woman as she walked towards the Argand lamp. "I will not let you see me cry—again," she whispered as she dimmed the light, unable to face him again as she whispered, "Do I disgust you _so_ much?"

He understood the depth of the pain he inflicted on her. She could hear it in his voice though she still could not look at him. He was not a bad man but in that moment she hated him, a feeling quickly tempered by sorrow. She could never truly hate Humphrey, who now said in a low, almost emotionless voice, "You have never disgusted me, Sybil. Other men have complimented me on my lovely, easy-tempered wife and their admiration has always fuelled _my_ self-disgust, for I'm not insensible to what I've denied you." He sighed and a note of tenderness crept into his tone. "But I cannot bring myself to regard you as other than a companionable helpmate. My affections were engaged before I met you and I find myself utterly unable to perform as a husband to any other than the woman I fell in love with. The fault is not yours. Please, Sybil, don't cry. I can't bear it."

Wearily, she returned to her chair and put her forehead into her hands. Her burst of hopefulness—both that she might provide the longed-for heir and a solution to all their troubles as well as a possibility that she need not always feel so useless—turned to dust. So, that was that. "Then, I'm to grow old, watching Edgar drive the estate into the mire, denied love because of your loyalty to your mistress." She heaved in a breath; almost remained silent, then asked in a low, desperate whisper, "Is that any way to live life, Humphrey?"

Clearly he could take no more such talk for he rose to his feet. On his way to the door, however, he hesitated by the back of her chair as if he might reach out and touch her. He did not but his words were thick with regret. "I'm sorry, Sybil. I wish it were different. I wish you could find happiness in the position to which I condemned you."

She swallowed painfully, glad she could not see him. "I cannot even take a lover, though lord knows I've never been tempted since all I ever wanted was to be a good wife to you."

Upon the threshold, he turned. "If George had not died I'd have had an heir and yes, Sybil, I'd have sanctioned a liaison that would have made you happy. It's what you deserve and I know your loyalty prevents that, just as my loyalty is my own noose. But we cannot change the situation in which we find ourselves." He turned the door knob, adding under his breath, "God knows, I wish we could."

After Humphrey had gone Sybil remained in the dim drawing room. She could hear the laughter of the young people in the next room. Had she ever laughed like that? Had she ever once believed she might find happiness with a man? Of course she had. She'd not loved Humphrey but she'd been told love grew with time; that love was duty's reward. And she'd not been one of those foolish misses longing for romance and believing it a necessary precursor to marriage.

No, Sybil had been far more pragmatic. A dutiful daughter. It was the greatest compliment she'd ever been paid.

She'd been brought up to be hopeful. On the eve of her marriage to Humphrey she'd had the naive belief that through mutual duty, happiness would come to both of them.

A log sputtered in the fireplace sending a shower of tinders onto the hearth. Some sparked upon the Aubusson rug, threatening to singe it if the cinders were not swept up in time.

Perhaps in marriages around the country the husband would have been on hand to attend to the matter.

Instead, Sybil went down upon her knees and attended to the matter herself. Then, like an old woman, she hauled herself to her feet with the help of chair before wending her way through the corridors toward her private apartments.

* * *

In the Long Gallery, she stopped by the casement and stared out into the darkness, her candle casting a soft glow over the red plush cushions and the heavy brocade curtains. Along the walls, portraits of Humphrey's proud forebears seemed to glare their disapproval.

What would they make of all this?

Edgar, a simple, stupid boy was to become custodian of the small empire they had built. He would squander it all. Humphrey had acknowledged that. And Edgar would do his worst while breaking her youngest daughter's heart.

Meanwhile, Sybil's own heart was breaking. She had sacrificed happiness to do her duty by the man with whom her parents had contracted her in marriage all those years ago.

And all for nothing, it would now appear.

She turned at the sound of a soft footfall.

"I did not mean to disturb you, Lady Partington."

"Stephen." She forced a smile. For some strange reason it seemed important to make an effort for him.

He stopped a few feet from her. "I thought you were Hetty until I got close up. After watching her this evening, it seemed your youngest needed some comfort." His eyes were kind. "Now I see it's you and, if you don't mind my saying, I think _you_ look a little in need of comfort."

How commendable that he saw beyond the limits of his own disappointments. Nevertheless, she bypassed this as she tried for a flippant note. "So you thought I was Hetty until my haggard visage came into the light."

"I don't know why you disparage yourself, Lady Partington." There was both amusement and censure in his look. "When you are really quite lovely."

"Quite lovely!" She'd not meant to exclaim it as if she wished for confirmation or to hear his words again.

"It would appear you are not in the habit of receiving compliments."

"A woman of my age no longer receives compliments, Stephen." She put her hand to her heart, which was doing silly palpitations, and smoothed her dress. "Nor did I receive them when I was younger."

"Lord Partington married a beautiful woman and I've heard him compliment his daughters. Both of them. Perhaps you misinterpret his veiled form of flattery."

"I do not think the mistake is mine." Best to change the subject. She tried for briskness but the weight of her troubles could not be disguised. She sighed. "You're correct in surmising the state of poor Hetty's heart. She is bereft and I don't know what to do."

She was keenly aware of Stephen's nearness. He'd closed the distance between them. She put her hand to her face, hoping he'd not notice her heightened color. He'd scorn her if he knew what his close proximity did to her. An old woman. He must think of her as he would his mother.

"I wish I could help, Lady Partington." He shrugged, transferring his gaze from the severe visage of Araminta's paternal grandmother to Sybil's own. "Araminta is the most determined young lady I've met but as I've said before, I have no wish to change her mind."

"I wish you did." Sybil's tone was bleak. She suspected her life would be a great deal easier if she could settle her eldest daughter quickly and respectably. Araminta's beauty and headstrong nature had the potential to become a combustible combination.

But then, did she _really_ want Araminta allied to Stephen?

He quirked an eyebrow. "Why would you wish to promote a match between your eldest daughter and a penniless cousin? I have nothing to recommend me."

"Except a handsome face and a kind heart." Impulsively she put out her hand and touched his arm. "I did not properly appreciate you when you first arrived. I'm sorry." To her confusion he closed his hands around her wrist. Startled, she realised he stood so close she could feel his heat. And was aware of the scent of him: a mixture of bergamot—perhaps the soap he used. Or was it hair oil?—leather and brandy. Instantly she berated herself for delving so deeply into its components. It suggested far too great an interest.

"I know." He grinned down at her, she was still seated demurely on the windowsill but feeling more at sea than she could remember. "Does it take a lot to persuade you out of your prejudices, Lady Partington? You were wrong about me and you are wrong in your self-assessment, though it seems I cannot persuade you otherwise." While he spoke his thumb caressed the underneath of her wrist. It seemed he'd not noticed. Perhaps he was used to addressing desirable women in intimate situations like this. Perhaps he truly did think _her_ desirable. Hardly likely. The dim light had caused him to imagine her a generation younger.

"I've been made very welcome since I've come here. I only wish there was something I could do to help the family."

_Something I could do to help the family._

A thought that had lain repressed and dormant burst inside her head. He was voicing his desire to find a solution. She'd been mulling over solutions, Humphrey having dismissed her most practical and surely the simplest. Stephen was charming and handsome, the heir Humphrey had wished for. That is, if he could not bring himself to sire his own heir. And Stephen did not find Sybil repugnant.

In the instant before her careful self-censoring shutter closed upon her lips, brazen courage forced itself out of her depths. She whispered, "But there is."

She checked herself. Dear Lord, had she really uttered those words?

She must have for his head was tilted and his expression was one of inquiry.

She hesitated. No, she dare not say the words that trembled on her tongue, ready to spill out and brand her a faithless harlot; albeit a loyal wife.

One who now trembled with the brazenness of what she'd nearly proposed. Or did her sense of desperation stem from something quite different?

"You were about to say something, I believe, Lady Partington." His tone was measured. There was nothing to suggest he had any inkling of what she'd nearly said.

And yet his eyes danced with subtext. A suggestive smile tugged at his lips.

"It was nothing."

He nodded and she rose and half turned to look through the window, keenly conscious of him so close, now unable to look at him.

"So you are and Lord Partington have accepted that Edgar will be next to assume the role of custodian of all this."

"I don't think _accepted_ describes our feelings at all!" she burst out with rare energy, turning to find him regarding her with amusement.

Her shoulders slumped. "Resigned ourselves, perhaps."

"To the fact you are no longer able to provide his Lordship with another heir." Now, there was no amusement in his tone. The moment for playful suggestiveness had passed as he misinterpreted her meaning.

Fury, disappointment...a myriad of emotions coursed through her. She pressed her lips together but the words would not remain unsaid. "I could if only Humphrey—." A sinful admission no faithful wife should utter. But surely a faithful wife would do whatever was within her power to protect her husband's legacy?

She slanted a look at him and, seeing his frown of enquiry, went on in a rush before she could lose her nerve, "It's true, the only way to prevent Edgar from becoming the next heir is if I were to provide one." She flicked her tongue over dry lips. "We all know what a disaster having Edgar holding the reins would be."

Stephen nodded. He took a step closer, putting out a hand to tuck an escaped tendril of hair from behind her ear. Such an intimate gesture.

She froze, staring at him as he met her look, his eyes blazing with something she must be misinterpreting for if she'd had any experience of looking at desire, this would surely be it. Suddenly there seemed not enough air for the two of them. She put her hand to her throat and sucked in a breath, saying in a whisper, "If I am carrying the possible next heir, Araminta will relinquish Edgar and Hetty will be happy." Her heart thundered in her ears as she extended her arms towards him in her agitation. "If I am carrying the next heir the future of The Grange will be secure." She swallowed painfully, hesitated then burst out, "Will you help me, Stephen?"

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry—hysterically, of course—at the look on his face.

Dropping her hands, she stepped back quickly, "I have embarrassed you. I apologize. It is late and I do not know what I'm saying."

His hand shot out and he grasped her wrist, pulling her to him within the arc of his arm, cupping her face and lowering his head to within inches of hers, as if to study her better. To her astonishment, he smiled. Then, tilting his head, he asked in a slow, suggestive, sinful drawl, "Is that a proposition?"

Embarrassment washed over her, replaced by relief that he'd repeated the question, giving her the opportunity to withdraw with dignity. Thank God for his clear thinking, for she had never spoken more rashly in her life. Propositioning a younger man? What must he think of her?

Yet when she tried to snatch away her hand and draw away, muttering that she had no idea what had come over her, he would not relinquish her. A potent cocktail of mortification and fear churned in Sybil's belly, not eased when Stephen said softly, tugging her still closer and ignoring her babbled refutation, "If that is a proposition then the pleasure of it alone would be most enticing."

Sybil's upper teeth bit down hard upon her trembling lower lip. No, this was wrong. She wasn't even sure how she'd reached this point but it seemed he sensed she'd lost courage, for suddenly he was all tenderness, even though he did not release her. Gently, he put his finger to her lips and said, "With all due respect, Lady Partington, I was led to believe you were unable to provide His Lordship with an heir. It is of course the reason, I surmised, that I was invited here."

Sybil swayed, her eyes fluttering closed for a second as the blood rushed from her head to feel Stephen's arms about her shoulders, keeping her upright. Her world was tilting on its axis and there was a roaring in her ears as as she forced out the words, "Humphrey has kept a mistress since before we were married." She gathered her wits and straightened, staring at the stony faces of the forebears of the man whose family she had married into. All those portraits bearing Humphrey's traits. How ironic that history would judge _her_ for failing the continuation of the family dynasty. "Together he and I have had four children but when we tried for another child after George died, Humphrey was unable to...to..." She shrugged, unable to finish. Misery and shame washed over her. "This afternoon I begged him to try with me again." She looked down at her trembling hands, clasped across her stomach, conscious of the pity that must be so apparent on Stephen's face. Yet, when she did venture a glance at him his eyes crinkled with kindness, it seemed, before he nodded, slowly, for her to go on.

"He was very kind and apologetic," she murmured, "but made it clear it was quite out of the question. It seems the idea of being intimate with me is clearly so distasteful—"

She broke off as she felt Stephen's breath stir the hair at her temples. Gripping the tasseled edging of the green velvet curtains that swathed the window, she could barely believe what she was hearing.

"The idea of being... _intimate_ with you, Lady Partington is the very antithesis of distasteful." There was clear enjoyment in the way in which he relished the words. Even more so in the heavy emphasis of his next question. Raising one finely chiselled eyebrow above his fine gray eyes, he went on, "If that is indeed what you were suggesting?"

She could not break the lengthening silence.

He was giving her the opportunity to retract her proposition while making clear he liked the idea.

_Fire and brimstone_ , thought Sybil, feeling consumed by it as she closed her eyes, while at the same time the heady thrum of need and want pulsed through her. What did she have to lose? Nothing, surely? And everything to gain...if she only had the courage to follow through. She gripped the curtain tighter as a maelstrom of emotions swept through her, chief among them: hope.

Stephen offered her hope. Hope for the future. Her future, the _family's_ future.

She opened her eyes when Stephen cleared his throat. She was conscious of the warmth emanating from him. Once again, the scent of bergamot and horses assailed her nostrils; a pleasant, manly scent she recognized with a rush of familiarity from the occasion he'd comforted her over Lizzy Hazlett's mare.

He showed no trace of embarrassment and seemed only to want to clarify the matter. "So if your hopes for entering into this unusual coupling are realized, have you thought how you might explain an apparently immaculate conception to your husband?" He seemed both amused and concerned.

Sybil shook her head and avoided his eye, now wishing she could turn back the clock. How could she have been so bold? Nevertheless, she said truthfully, "I believe Humphrey would prefer anything rather than hand the reins to Edgar." She smiled grimly. "Anything, that is, except do his duty with me."

She'd barely finished before Stephen had both her hands in one of his large ones and the other clasped round her waist. Highly irregular yet the most exciting compromising situation she'd ever been in.

"I can see you wavering, Lady Partington, so am spurred on to encourage you not to lose heart." She saw the excited anticipation swirling in the depths of his warm gray eyes; warmer and more encouraging, even, than hitherto. Sybil could not believe it. He actually looked as if he'd been promised the greatest of gifts. "I believe it is an excellent idea, and I accept with the greatest delight—on one condition."

It was hard to breathe. She winced from the pain of her fingernails digging into her palms and her heart thumped even harder as she wondered why she didn't cast everything to the wind and simply take to her heels like a coward. Instead she whispered, "What is your condition?" as his face filled her vision and his gently curved lips drew nearer.

"That you regard this...solution...as more than just a conscious act of duty."

An act of duty. That's exactly what she'd intended it.

A tremor ran through her as she closed her eyes, relishing the light caress of his hand over her hair. Her body tingled with expectation; so that she could fully pledge her commitment when he added, brushing her lips with his fingertips, "And that you respond to me accordingly."

# Chapter 7

Stephen followed her into her bedchamber before she could change her mind. She was sweet and shy and his desire was raging. Lady Partington was no innocent debutante playing coquetry with no real knowledge of the consequences. He'd had plenty of those. They were diverting cameos played out in a public place and while he'd enjoyed these flirtations, this was the real thing. His breathing was labored, his erection painful.

In front of him, the hesitancy in Lady Partington's step suggested she was reconsidering but Stephen guided her forward with one hand gently on her rear; a pert, charming rear, he decided.

At the door, she turned. She looked so desperately concerned when she stammered, "I don't make a habit of inviting young men into my boudoir," that he nearly laughed.

Instead he simply smiled and touched his lips to her brow. "If I thought you did, Lady Partington, I wouldn't be as excited as I am." He closed the door behind them then led her gently but firmly toward the four-poster. "Now unless you've changed your mind about providing a solution that will make your husband and ultimately both your daughters happy, let us proceed."

Her maid had already prepared her for sleep and a candle on a low table added to the glow of the one she held.

He was conscious of his voice, intimate and full of promise—and hopefully of reassurance—when he murmured, "It sounds like you've had a lonely time of it in this room. Unlikely we'll be disturbed, eh?"

He was glad she kept her head held high rather than slumping from the inference of her husband's lack of interest. It affirmed the impression he had of her, that she was no frigid matron; that beneath her delicate, vulnerable exterior there flowered a woman with all the yearnings and hopes that might be brought to the fore with the right handling.

Stephen might be young and he was well aware he could be brash but he was sensitive, too. An interest in nature—animals and insects—had given him an insight into the cause and effect of certain behaviours. He knew that, when frightened, his horses and dogs responded better to soothing words than barked orders and the whip.

If he'd not studied women with the same dedication that he'd studied arachnids, that was because he'd not had to. Women seemed to find him attractive.

But now, strangely, he was fired up as he never had been before by the challenge of nurturing the suppressed passions of this lovely, undemanding woman with the beautiful soul and kind and deserving nature.

With brittle pride, Lady Partington stared at him, one hand clinging to the carved bed post, the other nervously smoothing her silk skirts. "Humphrey has visited me less than half a dozen times in this room during twenty years of marriage. No, we will not be disturbed."

She bent to blow out one candle, turned to regard him with a long, considering look, then seemed to banish all indecision. Nothing in her gestures now suggested this was anything other than a purely practical solution to the collective family's problems as she made to undress.

"Please turn your back, Stephen. Oh!"

She had obviously not expected to find him standing so close. Or to be taken in his arms. He was disappointed she didn't go limp but he did manage to chase some of the steel from her spine as he gently massaged the nape of her neck. Still, he wanted her to throw herself into the pleasure of it. This would be no fun at all if he was unable to bring her to rapture at his touch.

"No, don't blow out the other candle," he protested mildly, arresting her hand, which he placed on his heart. "Do you feel it racing?" He'd thought to place it further down to reassure her that he truly found her desirable, however he feared she might find that too confronting.

"But, I—"

He removed the candlestick from her grasp and set it on the table, aware she was shivering when he slipped his hands beneath the silk of her shawl to hold her.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he drew her onto his lap.

"Put your arms around me," he instructed softly, tucking her head against the hollow of his neck. "Now," he murmured, "you didn't answer my question." Again, he took one of her hands and rested it against his heart while he stroked the nape of her neck. "Do you feel how fast it beats?"

She glanced up at him, then dropped her gaze as if she couldn't bear to face him. "Anticipation for what is about to happen will affect any man like that—except my husband," she whispered.

"Your husband clearly has no discernment." Lowering his face, he touched his lips to hers, then drew back, surprised. He'd not expected the frisson of sensation that fizzed through him. He hardened even more while his anticipation notched up several levels. Lord, she truly was desirable. Much more than he'd thought, even when he'd accepted her proposition with such alacrity.

She did not respond. That is, while she seemed to offer herself pliantly, obediently enough, her lips did not part with passion and she did not cleave to him. He thought quickly. In order to make this an encounter to remember he needed to fuel her with the same desire, he felt otherwise it was worth nothing. While his skin burned and his body roared with sensation when she touched his cheek, she seemed to feel nothing.

Rising quickly, he scooped her up and gently lay her upon the mattress. Obediently, she'd kicked off her slippers and now she lay on her back in her simple gown, the swell of her breasts a tantalising marker of the delights that were in store.

Yes, delights that he was determined she'd enjoy equally as much as he.

When she sat up suddenly, saying almost briskly, "Please don't trouble yourself with all this, Stephen. I'm very capable of undressing myself," he gripped her wrist and then was startled by the sudden confusion, almost fearful look she sent at him.

"Grand seductions do not include desirable women undressing _themselves_ ," he told her sternly but with a smile tugging at his lips as he allowed her to rise to her feet. The bed would still be there but she needed to be drawn there at her own pace. "Surely you know that!"

"Oh..." Uncertainly, she turned and let him unbutton the back of her dress, her self consciousness clearly growing by the second as he peeled off her evening gown, watching it pool sensuously about her ankles before he turned her to face him. He contemplated her with genuine curiosity and warring desire.

"You really are not used to this are you, Lady Partington? Well, now I'm going to have to ask you to help me. Please extend your right leg and point your toe. I'm going to remove your stockings."

"I'm perfectly capable of doing that—"

"I've no doubt you are but you surely aren't going to spoil my fun, are you?"

She stared down at him, looking fragile and innocent in her thin chemise beneath her short stays, while he, still fully clothed and kneeling at her feet, smiled at her doubt and confusion as he slowly contoured the arch of her foot.

He chuckled at her gasp when he kissed her instep but his amusement turned to heightened desire when he turned his attentions a little higher. Clearly, Lady Partington wasn't used to feeling a man's tongue exploring the contours of her shapely thighs, cooling the sensitive skin behind one knee in an attempt to elicit at least a sigh of pleasure.

He rose slowly, contemplating his next move. She wasn't throwing herself into this with the abandonment exhibited by all the other women in his life, he thought, and then was ashamed at the reminder of some less than noble encounters. Most notably, Lady Julia's seduction. Though, to be fair, it was she who'd seduced him. Stephen had gone over that evening enough times to have convinced himself he would never have even dreamed of intimate relations with another man's wife had he not been bosky and tricked.

Yet, excuses aside, what he had done had been wrong. And he had to atone.

Though, agreeing to Lady Partington's request was hardly atonement. It was pure, undiluted pleasure.

"Back to bed, I think," he whispered, scooping her up once more to set her upon the counterpane before caging her with his body, gently kissing her throat, her collarbone and finally, once more, her lips. Tentatively she kissed him back but she still held herself aloof, as if terrified of succumbing to the base, elemental desire that was fast beginning to consume him.

His enjoyment grew. The seduction of a sweet, shy older woman who needed to be taught that love at any age was worth celebrating was more exciting than any previous hot and sweaty encounters where enthusiasm was high from the outset.

Her skin was smooth and dewy, her breasts full and firm beneath the sheer fabric that clothed her.

Studying her with fascinated lust, he slowly loosened the laces of her short stays, then untied her lace-edged chemise and slipped his hand beneath the fabric. Her faint exhalation of surprise echoed his as he closed his hand over one of her glorious breasts. He began to massage the small peak until it hardened. He himself was so hard it was almost painful.

"Please, Stephen, you need not go to so much trouble."

He stilled. "You're not enjoying it?"

"Too much, but you are not obliged to pretend for my benefit." Her words sounded as if they were forced from her, her eyes closed as if she could not look at him.

Guilt? _Was_ she frigid? He didn't think she was.

She whispered, "All I ask is that you join me beneath the sheets and we get this over with."

Offended, he climbed off the bed and stood, tidying his rumpled garments. "So this really is just duty for you?" He knew he sounded like an injured schoolboy but he couldn't help himself.

"Stephen, you don't understand—"

"I understand very well. You want me to give you a child but you want nothing more from me." Breathing heavily, he promised, "If I am required to...perform without us both gaining any pleasure from the bargain then I withdraw my services."

"I am more than ten years older than you and...certainly no beauty."

"Not a beauty?" He sat heavily on the bed and looked at her. In the candlelight her eyes looked luminous with fear and his anger and hurt suddenly dissipated. He reached for her hand. "You've been conditioned to believe it. And by whom? Your husband, who's never looked at any woman save his mistress. No doubt Araminta has picked up her father's contemptuous attitude. The little jade thinks she's too pretty by half, and I'll admit she has spirit you'll never have—a most engaging if infuriating commodity—but your looks are far more pleasing to me than her smug self-assurance." At her shock he went on, "Now, I'm tired of trying to make it clear to you that I've been dreaming wicked, carnal dreams since I unwittingly spied on you through the casement. By God, you were a luscious sight and I want to enjoy you now."

At her tremulous smile he laughed and threw himself onto her, demanding, "Now kiss me back or I refuse to partake in this bedroom sport."

After that it was easy. Sybil's reserve had never been so fully withdrawn within such a short time. No one had ever tried to cajole her into anything beyond the dry, formal relations that were the preserve of the drawing room and which, in her case with her husband, persisted so very rarely into her bedchamber.

She'd been married at seventeen during her first season. There'd been no flirtatious encounters with potential suitors beforehand. Humphrey had proposed and that had been that. He'd been handsome and charming and he'd easily won her heart. During their six-week bridal tour in Cornwall he'd visited her once a week, performed the marriage act efficiently and in silence, and while her heart had reached out to him her body had been left cold by the experience. He'd not touched, kissed or caressed her. Ever.

Only as she grew older did she realize there was more to the act itself. Other women occasionally offered some oblique reference to what went on in the bedroom which sometimes caused others in company might blush or titter. Sybil had no idea what they were talking about although they reinforced the suspicion that this "something more" she craved from Humphrey was a physical manifestation of the affection a loving husband had for his wife.

It took her many years to resign herself to the fact that Humphrey felt no physical attraction toward her and that as it would not be forthcoming from her husband she'd have to live without it.

Now, when she'd made her suggestion to Stephen on the wildest of impulses, she'd been determined to treat it in the same manner Humphrey had gone about his bedroom encounters. It was the end result that was important, not the process and she was just a foolish old woman if she thought it could be otherwise.

Yet slowly, with the sweep of Stephen's hands over sensitive places, a well-placed kiss, and yes, Stephen's increasingly believable show of genuine pleasure in her body, Sybil was finally losing her reserve.

In the shadows of her bedroom, as Stephen's hand skimmed the line of her body from breast to hip, she allowed herself a tiny sigh of pleasure.

"My first victory," he murmured against her lips, contouring her bottom and squeezing her against him. Against his jutting erection.

She jerked back as if stung but he just laughed and pulled her over, closer against him, whispering, "Desire is nothing to be afraid of, Sybil. Don't you feel it too?"

And she did. In every nerve ending, in every secret place where pleasure had lain dormant her body was reveling in the slow but steady re-emergence of new life. It fed into her veins, sending out signals to her brain to relax, just relax and enjoy what this handsome young man was offering her, which was so much more than she'd asked for.

They hadn't made it under the covers. Sybil had planned for all the mechanics to take place in darkness and under the sheets; so when he reached down and grasped the hem of her chemise, she gasped. He raised his arm, tugging the light linen shift with it, exposing her knees.

"Please don't," she begged. "I don't want you to see me."

As an older woman she at least knew how to articulate her preferences once matters had been set in motion. She remembered that as a new bride she'd been mute with the terror of it all: the quick fumbling, Humphrey's knee between her legs and the sharp thrust of his manhood into her unprepared entrance. Each time, she'd had to brace herself for the cruel irony of receiving him in this most intimate manner, knowing how much he resented her for requiring him under the terms of their marriage contract to perform.

A more congenial familiarity with one another had only been established after George had been born some years into their marriage. With the required heir, thankfully in robust health, finally installed in the nursery, Humphrey had fulfilled his dynastic requirements and no longer had to force himself to perform the despised act with Sybil.

"I've already seen you," Stephen argued as he gently tugged her chemise up past her thighs. His face gleamed. She saw that he meant what he said. "You're beautiful. That's why I want a closer look. Now assist me, please. Raise your arms."

And lie before him, naked? With the candle guttering behind her?

Resigned, she closed her eyes, her own desire fast evaporating. What she had to offer could not stand up to scrutiny. Humphrey had made his offer on the barest acquaintance and look how disappointed he'd been when forced to become intimate.

She was not prepared for Stephen's enthusiasm. "Oh, you are delectable, Lady Partington," he sighed, cutting short his praise with an almost boyish gorging upon her right breast.

"What are you doing?" she squeaked.

Breasts were not for suckling by grown men. Surely this was not...right. Yet with his warm mouth closed over her nipple, desire was suddenly in the ascendant. It swamped her, embarrassed her with the flow of moisture between her legs and she shifted awkwardly, remembering that she'd felt like this once before and that it had embarrassed her then, this manifestation of her own prurience, for respectable women didn't lose control of their bodily juices.

As she glanced down she intercepted the wicked look in his eye. She realized that he'd assumed control. He'd not stop and explain every clever trick.

It was then she decided to throw self-control to the wind. He was clearly enjoying himself, so why shouldn't she? Within reason. She could do this. Enjoy herself, for it was the letting go that was so hard. She must simply close her eyes and give herself up to physical abandonment, let him dictate the pace and procedure. He knew what he was doing. He was the expert and neither was expecting each other's hearts. She ought to be used to the sexual act when no deep emotion was involved.

And yet the sensations that ravaged her almost virgin-like body when his hot, devouring mouth licked and suckled, and when he skimmed his hand up her thighs, were devastating.

She tried not to waste her breath gasping with embarrassment or objecting when his thumb and forefinger found the juncture between her legs and began to massage that damp, highly sensitized and most intimate of places. This was obviously what he meant by giving and receiving pleasure. He certainly seemed to enjoy her responses when she squirmed and moaned softly.

"Now I have you where I want you, Lady Partington. Completely naked and completely mine." The devilish glint in his eye was gratifying in the extreme, as was the enormous length of his shaft when he finally divested himself of his clothes and once more caged her with his lean, handsome body.

This was male perfection like she'd not witnessed at close quarters. Ever.

She even found herself grinning back. An extreme paradox, for she was the last person she'd ever imagine participating in such wickedness—and enjoying it so much.

"Your wish is my command." His lips grazed her neck, his hand toying with her nipple, leaving her with an empty, deeply unsatisfied feeling in her lower belly when it fell away to stroke her belly.

When she hitched her hips he gave a low chuckle of understanding but growled, "Not yet, my beauty. There is a great deal more pleasure to be had before I do the business, if I might speak so plainly."

Sybil was glad the bedcovers had already been turned back by her maid, for when without warning he slid down the bed and ran his tongue the length of her entrance, she shrieked with horror and drew the covers over the sight. This was not right.

And yet the wicked sensations were like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

"Mama..."

Heady desire turned instantly to horror at the sound of Araminta's voice, filtering in through the doorway with the light of the candle she held. Sybil froze and held her breath as she silently demanded her breathing become more regular.

_Araminta._ She'd never thought...

Araminta placed her candle onto her mother's dressing table at the far end of the room and lowered herself onto the stool.

"You didn't knock!" It was all Sybil could say. Thank God Stephen was beneath the covers, albeit also between her legs.

The heavy carved post of the bed and three yards of floor space diluted visuals. Fortunately, Araminta didn't seem particularly concerned about her mother, who knew that her complete nakedness, including lack of nightcap, and disordered hair, might ring alarm bells. That is, if Araminta were not so self-absorbed.

"I was afraid you wouldn't hear," Araminta excused herself. With a sigh she added, "Oh Mama, I _do_ so want to marry Stephen."

"What!" It was a croak at best. Sybil registered Stephen's horror too, somewhere in the darkness beneath the bed covers and yes, between Araminta's own mother's legs.

"Yet how can I, now that Edgar has returned and is heir? Stephen is handsome and charming and he makes my heart beat faster and I know he is madly in love with me." She gave another gusty sigh. "But with Edgar alive, Stephen has nothing. Does he, Mama?" She spoke as if desperate for her mother to refute it.

"I...I don't know very much about Stephen's situation, my dear." Sybil shifted, careful to keep the sheet up around her neck—and not to smother Stephen. Lord, she'd never felt so desperately cornered. "Araminta, it's very late. Perhaps we should have this talk in the morning."

"Mama, what do _you_ think about Stephen?" Araminta clearly considered her mother's desire to talk in the morning of no account.

"What do I think of him?" It was all Sybil could do just to repeat the sentence. She didn't know if she could possibly answer it in such a situation.

"Yes, what do you really think about him? Do you think he's handsome?"

"Yes, he's very handsome, Araminta, but—"

"And do you think he'd make a good husband?"

Sybil swallowed. "I think he's a very kind man. I didn't think that at first. I thought he was young and callow and very much like so many other young blades who like to sow their wild oats and behave badly."

"So you don't think he's the kind of young man to sow his wild oats and behave badly? I _think_ I know what you mean."

Sow his wild oats? Isn't that what he was doing right now? At Sybil's behest? Right here in Sybil's bedchamber? Oh Lord, she had to get Araminta out of here.

"I think Stephen understands matters more than you think, Araminta. He knows you won't—can't—marry him now that Edgar has returned."

"Do you think he will forgive me?" Araminta sniffed. "After all, I've broken his heart, Mama. He barely caught my eye this afternoon and I was all but begging him to understand that we must be forever rent asunder by the tragedy of this altered situation."

"The tragedy being that Edgar survived that bullet after all." Sybil's tone was dry. She was fast losing patience.

Of course, Araminta had never understood irony. Now she said, dolefully, "I daresay Edgar's the only one who's really pleased about the situation but the rest of us must make the best of it. I tried to explain that to Hetty but she refused to speak to me. She's being awfully churlish. Please will you talk to her, Mama, and tell her not to be so selfish?"

A muffled, choking noise emanated from beneath the covers. Araminta looked up, her brow wrinkled, and Sybil coughed violently. "It's late, Araminta, and I was in a deep sleep. We can take a stroll in the morning and talk about it then, if you like."

Araminta rose with obvious reluctance. "I've promised to meet Edgar for a walk around the park in the morning." She narrowed her eyes at her mother. "It looks like you've had a nightmare, Mama. Your eyes are quite wild and your face is all flushed. You really look quite gruesome. Shall I wake Mary and have her make you up a cordial?"

"No, Araminta!"

Araminta shrugged. "Just as well, I daresay. Mary gets quite crotchety when she's disturbed in the middle of the night." She picked up her candlestick and moved to the door. "Good night, Mama," she said.

"Good night, Araminta."

The moment the door closed behind her, Stephen's head emerged. Sybil put her hands to her flaming cheeks. So she looked gruesome? And poor Stephen had been stuck under the covers in close quarters with her nether regions for nigh on five minutes. He'd not be able to get away fast enough.

"Oh Lord, Sybil, she's a minx sent to try you." He drew in a deep lungful of air, gasping between laughter. "And this has only confirmed what a lucky escape I've had." He collapsed on his back beside Sybil and rested his hand companionably on her stomach. "You handled that consummately." He rolled over onto his side. "And now that I'm quite confident she won't return, I think it's time to proceed. Where were we?"

Sybil hadn't thought she could possibly return to the intimacy that preceded Araminta's visit. She'd not thought Stephen would have the stomach for it either. Didn't it reinforce what pure folly it was?

Stephen, however, seemed to regard the disturbance as hilarious and even more so when Sybil began to rise, feeling hot and flushed and increasingly distressed. At first he didn't notice but as she reached for her shawl, he leapt after her and grasped her by the shoulders.

The shawl slithered to the floor. Her heart followed. Araminta's criticism had cut deep.

"What's wrong?" He wasn't laughing now. He really didn't know and yet he really wanted to know.

She glanced away from his hard, young body, gleaming and desirable in the candlelight. He was unaware of his magnificence.

"I hardly imagine you'd want to continue this farce with a gruesome-looking old hag like myself with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. You don't strike me as _that_ charitable, Stephen."

"Good Lord, that little piece knows where to strike, doesn't she? You mean you really believed her?"

_I'm not going to snivel_ , thought Sybil, clenching her fists and tensing as he wrapped his arms about her and held her tight.

After a moment he put her away from him, tipping up her chin with his forefinger so that he could observe her better. Slowly he traced the outline of her lips. Sensation roared through her and she closed her eyes.

"That's better," he murmured, scooping her up once more and depositing her on the bed. "You're beautiful and I intend to make sure you know it before tonight is over. Now, make room for me. Ah, that's right."

Gently he eased her thighs apart. She felt the probing tip of his member and suddenly she was very afraid.

Soon he'd fill her with himself but the sheathing would change her in ways she could never have imagined. She foresaw this and stiffened with the knowledge of how much her actions ran counter to the natural order of things.

And yet did they?

Stephen was looking down at her. In the depths of his eyes she saw the effort his self-restraint cost him, followed by the curve of his smile as he whispered, suddenly relaxing beside her, "I think we're going just a little too quickly, Lady Partington. This one's for you."

Then his clever, deft fingers were coaxing her into sensations she'd never experienced, filling her mind with soaring hopes and her body with rapture as he stroked the slick nub of her desire.

Heat prickled the back of her neck and her scalp, sensation journeyed to her nerve endings and she closed her eyes against the kaleidoscope of color that filled her vision.

His words were soothing and tender as he softly encouraged her to do nothing more than enjoy what he could do for her.

What no one had ever done for her.

She swallowed and drew in a staccato breath as the tension rose within her, both terrifying and exhilarating and hitherto completely unknown.

Stephen kissed her—on her lips, nose, eyelids and brow—as his sensitive fingers continued to stimulate her. When she opened her eyes briefly his smile was warm before he touched his lips to hers, tracing the seam with the tip of his tongue. With a shuddering sigh she surrendered to the next wave of pleasure that engulfed her. Her body had been taken to a higher plane, dragging her mind with it, and awareness coalesced as, with mind and body finally as one, she prepared for the inevitable launch into the abyss.

"Surrender to it." The warmth of Stephen's breath seeped through her, giving her courage and permission to do just that and her body moaned its delight as it opened itself up to the first man who'd ever wanted to give it pleasure.

As she lay gasping in the aftermath, cradled against Stephen's warm, hard body, she realized that he truly had meant what he said. This had all been for her.

She opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her. "I can send you on another journey like that one, Lady Partington," he whispered, playing with her nipple, sending messages directly to her groin. "And this time go along for the ride, but if you want to change your mind, I must remind you it's your last chance. If you beget a child you'll have your husband to answer to and your actions will change the course of the succession. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that? I'm in it for the pleasure only, Lady Partington. _I've_ got nothing to lose."

She swallowed, wriggled a little against his straining member and in that faintest of movement sealed the fates of all of them.

Stephen chuckled and got down to business. She was all soft curves, a disarming mixture of naivety and wisdom. She knew so much more of the world than he, of the disappointments and the cruelties people inflicted on one another, yet he could show her how much pure lust and unadulterated enthusiasm could go towards salving those wounds.

In mere weeks he'd be back to wooing innocent virgins with handsome dowries.

Twined in the arms of sweet Lady Partington was novelty like he'd not known. Pure, unadulterated fun—or rather pure adultery, he supposed—like he'd not expected when he'd responded to her extraordinary proposition.

Once she'd cast aside her inhibitions and accepted responsibility for her actions she burst out of her chrysalis with the abandon of a butterfly joyfully taking flight.

Oh, he was going to enjoy taking her on the flight of her life.

Every thrust brought an increase in the breathiness of her response, the breadth of her smile, the unequivocal enjoyment she took in accepting all of him. He was not used to such unfettered delight. The gratification alone spurred him on.

He loved the way her breasts quivered and her cheeks went pink. Her glorious hair was spread out over her pillow like a shawl of the finest fiber and her skin was surprisingly soft and satiny. It was as if her enforced all-but-virginity had preserved her in some odd way. And yet as he rolled her nipple on his tongue and again massaged the slick nub of her sex, he seemed to be bringing her to life from the inside. Her eyes grew brighter and her translucent skin flushed to a deep, rich glow. He thought he'd never seen a more beautiful woman and his desire, which had been borne of pleasure alone, took on a new dimension.

This was not going to be the last time he made love to sweet, adorable, luscious Lady Partington.

# Chapter 8

Humphrey looked up over the newspaper, across the breakfast table, a strange gleam in his eye.

When he said nothing, Sybil shifted in her seat, telling herself yet again that he'd not suspect and even if he did, she had nothing to be ashamed of. Not with regard to Humphrey, nor Stephen nor even herself. No, she would not draw him out. Always she had played the dutiful wife, asking him if everything was to his liking. Now he could just read his newspaper or get up and leave without a word if he chose—for he often did that, so consumed was he with thoughts of his absent true love, no doubt.

Perversely, Humphrey didn't seem to like Sybil's silence. He dropped his paper and peered closely over it until she asked, almost crossly, looking up from her smoked haddock, "Well, Humphrey, have I a fishbone sticking out of my nostril?"

She was irritated with him for disturbing her delicious reminiscing of last night. No, she didn't feel guilty. She would not.

"My dear, you look..." He struggled to articulate the sentiment. "You look different, somehow."

"Really." She would not blush and she'd pretend disinterest. Strange how that seemed to inspire him to speak words she'd never expected to hear.

"You have a glow about you. Really, you look quite lovely this morning."

She dropped her knife and fork abruptly. "Why, Humphrey, I don't think you've ever said anything so nice to me in your whole life."

Emotions roiled in her stomach. Somehow it seemed wrong to be confronted with the first suggestion of admiration from her husband after her night spent with another man.

Immediately he raised his newspaper so she couldn't see him, muttering something incomprehensible about how she must be losing her memory for that could not possibly be true.

After a moment of contemplative silence, he sighed, put down the news sheet and faced her once more across the table. "Edgar came to see me last night."

"Oh, Humphrey." The sigh took all her energy with her. She hadn't expected this so soon.

He nodded, corroborating though she'd said nothing to indicate her feelings on the matter. They were both very much in accord with regard to an alliance between Edgar and Araminta, she was glad to note by the gloominess of his expression.

"I tried to put the boy off. After all, that's all he is. A boy. What's more, I've heard a few disturbing whispers about his conduct on and off the battlefield." He cleared his throat, hesitated, then said in a rush, "More than whispers, in fact. Sybil, I'm ashamed to call him my nephew. He was not distinguished by bravery. He disappeared, seemingly having died a hero, but he did not. No, Sybil, he did not."

Sybil's mouth dropped open. Humphrey's eyes bored into hers. He waited for the maid to refresh the tea and leave the room then said in a low voice, "Apparently the matter has been hushed up—seemingly for my benefit, or so it's been suggested."

When he seemed unable to go on, Sybil prompted in a whisper, "You mean...he deserted? Was _that_ the reason for his disappearance? Is that how he was lost in battle?"

The horror of it was stark in Humphrey's bleak expression. He gave the smallest nod of acknowledgement and his eyes shifted to the doorway before returning gravely to her. "There was talk about a court martial. Indeed, that may have come to pass had not an old friend of mine been on the committee deciding Edgar's fate." His shoulders slumped and he muttered with curled lip, "I would to God that justice had been done, for I take no pleasure in seeing The Grange go to a coward. A coward that, it would seem, has all the credentials for winning my daughter."

"We can't let it happen, Humphrey." Sybil had never been more fired with the rightness of her decision to secure the succession with someone other than Edgar.

His look was hopeless. "What choice do we have?"

* * *

Later that morning, when Humphrey declined Hetty's suggestion of a walk with the excuse that he had an important appointment he could not put off, Sybil did not experience the usual jab of pain. The fact that he was going to see his "other family", which suggested Lizzy Hazlett was back in town, seemed unimportant. No, Sybil had at last found a diversion that meant her lonely heart no longer relied on Humphrey.

With the weather so glorious a picnic was planned in the small rotunda perched on a hill surrounded by a small lake about half a mile away from The Grange. On a clear day, from the bedroom windows of the south wing, the lake could be spied invitingly in the distance, at the bottom of the sweeping lawns and just before the beech wood.

Servants were sent ahead while the picnic party had arranged to take a meandering walk through the wood.

Araminta and Edgar led the way. Araminta carried herself proudly, as if aware of her magnetism. Edgar, from the rear, looked at pains to engage her in what, doubtless, he considered light and sophisticated banter.

Sybil, who'd hung back so she could observe the young people, watched with a surge of warmth as Stephen offered Hetty his arm, telling her brightly that she was "looking charming". Poor Hetty. Even Sybil knew her daughter was going through her least charming phase although she had every hope that once Hetty had lost some of the generous flesh that coated her young body and gained in confidence she might yet be considered charming.

_I must teach her how to graciously accept a compliment_ , Sybil thought, listening to her daughter's stammered response, before realizing that she was, in fact, watching a younger version of herself.

They had been following a well-worn bridle path when the road came into view for a short while. In the distance a carriage approached, on its way toward the village. It was a hired post chaise therefore excited little interest until Hetty cried, "Why, isn't that Papa?"

Sybil glanced up in time to see three occupants in the dim interior. The older male was indistinct as he quickly turned his face the opposite direction as they passed. The two young ladies she recognized from church though she'd never met Lizzy Hazlett's daughters and it had been some time since she'd seen them this close. The younger girl stared, open-mouthed at them, brushing back her rippling fair tresses which were loose beneath her bonnet. She truly was a beauty, Sybil noted with a stab of pain.

The elder sister's look was disdainful which made her look even more astonishingly like Araminta although Sybil had seen the strong resemblance every Sunday in church for years.

She held her breath in case someone else remarked upon it, turning her head to follow the carriage and noting that there was a mournfulness, too, in the elder girl's large and luminous eyes compared with Araminta's whose sparkled with devilry.

Yes, _sad eyes_ , thought Sybil before remembering that this girl had nothing like as much to be sad about as Sybil's daughters, whose father neglected them in favor of his base-born brood.

Sybil was unable to tear her gaze away from the disappearing carriage, relieved that no further comments were passed after Araminta declared that it could not have been their papa else he'd have stopped.

"Don't let him break your heart, Lady Partington."

Stephen's warm breath on her neck sent her heartbeat skittering. He'd dropped back and his head was bent to her ear. The others were ahead, sauntering with careless abandon, Edgar expounding upon some theory that had the attention of his cousins.

Sybil turned and intercepted Stephen's interested gaze. His mouth curved suggestively. "What's good for the goose is good for the gander, eh?" When she didn't reply, his expression sobered and he touched her arm. It was the briefest of caresses for he was obviously careful not to excite attention but it was enough to make Sybil conscious of the power he had over her. The breath caught in her throat while heat stung her cheeks.

"You're very lovely when you don't know what to say." He grinned, matching his pace with hers and staring straight ahead at the backs of the young people some distance ahead of them as he went on conversationally, "You were certainly very lovely last night. I enjoyed myself immensely and if it helps you solve your problems I'm more than happy to offer myself up on the altar of your need any time." His voice gentled. "No, I'm not mocking you, my lady. I understand more than you think. Your husband has never given you the love and attention you deserve. It _was_ Lord Partington in that carriage, wasn't it?"

Sybil nodded. She blinked back tears while her throat ached from the effort of keeping a check on her feelings. "I enjoyed last night too," she said. "But you'll be gone in a week. It's too dangerous to repeat—"

"Hush."

She caught her breath once more at the light touch of his hand upon her lower back. Sensation speared through her belly as he slid it lower to lightly cup her bottom.

"A week can be a long time when one is careful to make use of every opportunity."

She twisted her neck and caught his wicked glance trained upon her breasts.

Immediately he raised his head, took a few strides and called ahead, "How far to our destination?"

"Perhaps twenty minutes," Araminta called back, breaking her conversation with Edgar in order to glance over her shoulder. With a provocative look at Stephen she curved her lips into her most seductive smile. "After such a distance we'll need to be well fortified when we reach the lake."

"I certainly intend to be," Stephen murmured into Sybil's ear, sliding his hand around her right buttock as Araminta turned back to Edgar. "I intend to take you into the forest, my lovely Lady Sybil, and find some delightful little dell so that you can have your wicked way with me. I'd wager you've never rutted under a clear blue sky or a canopy of trees, have you?"

Sybil blushed, but whether that was because of his coarse language or the sudden desire that slammed through her, she couldn't say. His hand was now rubbing itself insinuatingly up and down the valley between her buttocks. Heat rose between her legs, and at the same time she longed for the adventure he promised, she also shied away from it.

"I hope there will be strawberries and cream," Stephen called out to the others ahead.

He grinned as Hetty's chirpy, "I picked them myself this morning," rang back.

Touching his lips to Sybil's earlobe he said, "Hmm, not as tempting as you, Lady Partington. Goodness, you look...skeptical?"

Before she could respond he'd taken her by the wrist and whisked her off the path and in amongst the trees.

"Gracious, Stephen, what are you doing? You can't possibly mean—"

Her shock was cut short by his mouth upon hers as he pushed her up against the trunk of a very broad elm. But her objection died in her throat as his tongue parted her lips and his knee parted her legs. Sensation quickly engulfed her as his erection, large and insistent, pressed against her stomach.

They were shrouded by foliage, a little uphill from where they could see the party wending their way farther down the path.

He dragged his mouth away from hers long enough to say, "They won't miss us for just two minutes and you're the first to agree we must make hay while the sun shines."

Already he'd hiked her skirts up about her waist while she was fumbling with his breeches, excitement roaring in her ears and fizzing through her veins. She thought she'd die of it, for never had she been so gratuitously wicked or risked so much.

Sybil wasn't fuelled by a desire for revenge against the husband who had passed them by in a carriage that contained his two illegitimate daughters. She was merely drunk on the extraordinary notion that not only was pleasure like a drug when it was mutual, and the fact she'd never been happier.

* * *

So, by God it was worth the risk, she decided as she inserted her hand through the opening of his breeches and grasped his member, hot and heavy.

He exhaled on a small sigh, his own hands busy, turning her so that she faced away from him, bracing her with her two palms above her head, the bark rough against her sensitive skin adding another layer of sensation.

"Oh," she gasped, as he stroked a finger along her slick entrance before positioning himself. She tensed, readying herself at the tentative touch of the tip of his member against her highly sensitized skin before thrusting out her bottom to impale herself.

The suddenness took him by surprise and he gasped, his fingers working all the harder to bring her to a rapid climax that would coincide with his.

He filled her completely, his thrusts deep and even, his breathing increasingly rapid as he rested his chin upon her shoulder and his pleasure took over. Yet still he pleasured her and Sybil felt again the extraordinary sensation of rising to a higher plane, and yet higher, until suddenly the earth seemed to stand still before she shattered around him.

He collapsed against her and for a couple of futile seconds she clung to the tree in a vain attempt to stop them both from sliding down the rough bark into a heap at the base.

Laughing when they did this, nevertheless, he raised his head from her stomach and gave her a smacking great kiss when she was least expecting it.

"Lord, that was good," he declared, tidying himself, and her. "And the others won't even miss us." He extended his hand and pulled her up. "Was that good for you, Lady Partington?"

Sybil couldn't help herself. She giggled. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself so much, Stephen. For what it's worth, I did too. Your enthusiasm is worthy of the most ardent schoolboy."

To his credit he didn't pout, nor did he release her hand. Instead, he scratched his chin and regarded her quizzically. "No one has ever likened my prowess in any arena to that of a schoolboy." He grinned and she knew he was making a poor attempt at a joke when he said, "The jades and misses I've made up to have been infinitely more complimentary than that." He took her hand and led her back to the path.

"And no doubt there were many."

He looked contemplative. "Not so many, actually. And none of them virgin misses which is what you remind me of with your sweet vulnerability and genuine enthusiasm—as if you've just been initiated into a great surprise." He turned to rake an appreciative look the length of her as they returned to the path. "You should be exceedingly flattered, Lady Partington. I find you and your lovely creamy body far more exciting than any of the ladies I've known in the biblical sense."

"I'm not sure if that really is particularly flattering, Stephen."

"Well, you're not setting out your wiles to entrap me. You've offered me a proposition—which is entirely to my benefit —and we're cramming as much fun into the next few days as we can. I can't remember ever having had such a jolly good time."

She walked beside him, enjoying his complete honesty, happier and more carefree than she could remember. "I certainly never have, either."

Stephen squeezed her hand as he glanced down at her. "Six more days, Lady Partington. Six more days," he reminded her. "You're more daring than you look, I'll grant you that. Let's make the most of it and see how daring you really _can_ be."

Luncheon was an interesting affair. They ate 'round a table already laid for them in the center of the circular rotunda, its elevated position affording them a glorious view of the lake and far distant fields surrounding The Grange, with the boathouse and beech forest a short distance across the glittering water.

After lunch, they rowed back to the jetty, which extended in front of the boathouse, and while the others amused themselves Sybil relaxed in a cane chair Stephen had positioned near the shore. As she watched the servants tidy away their recent meal, transporting the empty plates into the second boat still moored at the base of the rotunda, she could hear every word of the young people, who pretended to fish from the jetty. Edgar considered himself an expert on the sport and he graciously assisted Hetty and Araminta with their lines.

Even from a distance he looked ridiculous as he officiously demonstrated the most rudimentary process, taking every opportunity to push his ungainly body closer to Araminta. Once, Sybil caught a glimpse of Araminta's face as his arm brushed the length of hers. A spasm of the utmost distaste marred her pretty features as she turned away so he could not see. Clearly her aversion ran deep, which Sybil could well understand. The more _she_ observed her nephew the more she disliked him.

_I mustn't think so badly of him_ , she thought. Nor, she thought, of Araminta, whose behavior hardly reflected well on her. Perhaps in her own naïve way, Araminta too was acting for the greater good of the estate. Perhaps it wasn't all motivated by self-interest.

She heard Edgar remonstrate with his youngest cousin. "No, no, Hetty, you mustn't jiggle it around so much. You'll scare the fish. You need to entice them." He slid his eyes across to Araminta and his hand brushed across hers as he took Hetty's stick in demonstration. "You must learn the art of subtlety, Hetty. Araminta is the queen of subtlety, eh, coz?"

Araminta looked a little startled at this before her smile took on the usual cloying cheerfulness, entirely forced, which she reserved for Edgar's inane remarks.

"Araminta knows exactly what she wants and what's good for her but does she show it? Oh no. Ladies who can demonstrate subtlety will get further in life. _You_ wear your heart on your sleeve, Hetty, but you must learn the art of subtlety. None of this jiggling about trying to get instant results. It don't work, you know, old girl."

By now Sybil's maternal instincts were on full alert. She bent forward, poised between giving Edgar a well-targeted setdown but also wanting to know how her girls responded.

Araminta's cool, "Edgar's right, dear," was not what she wanted to hear though it was sadly predictable. "You're so transparent and that's not at all the right way to win over the gentlemen. Is it, Edgar?" Hetty's trembling lip and blanching of color was, however, like a red rag to a bull.

Stephen, just returning from a solitary ramble in the woods, heard the end of this exchange. He put out an arm to stop Sybil from launching forward to intervene.

"Allow me, Lady Partington." He arched an eyebrow. "Edgar has just stymied my grand opportunities for the station in life to which I'd aspired but he lacks the charm I have with the ladies, I think you'll agree."

"You think highly of yourself, Stephen, my love," she murmured. "However I give you leave to turn on the charm for my daughters. I trust you provided I can see you."

He'd already taken a step forward. At this he swung round, his eyes suddenly dark and instantly Sybil regretted the remark.

"Do you really think I might abuse my position should my charm win over hearts?" He lowered his head, gripping both arms of Sybile's chair for support as he put his face close to hers. "Do you really think me so careless of the feelings of others that as long as I am pleasured and gratified they don't matter?"

His words found their mark. Sybile's breath left her in a whoosh. She opened her mouth to speak but had to try several times before the words came. "I'm sorry, Stephen." She cupped his face in an entreaty for forgiveness. "I spoke carelessly. I did not mean to insinuate I don't trust you. For I do. It's just—"

"Just what?" He straightened, clearly not prepared to let it go.

Desperation warred within her. She struggled to answer. "You're a handsome young man with youth and virility in your favor and natural urges for beautiful women to love and admire you." Sybil shrugged, palms outward as she appealed to him for understanding. "You have an old woman to admire you. One with two fresh young daughters, the eldest of whom is clearly in love with you and who turns every head whenever she walks into a room, and the youngest who dotes on you like...I hope...a brother."

"Like a brother, yes. Hetty is sweet but as you know completely no threat to you, Lady Partington, and Araminta, while she is one of the most exquisite creatures I'll admit I've met, is also the most designing debutante I've ever come across and I consider myself to have had a lucky escape. You, on the other hand, Lady Partington, are in a completely different league. You're a grown woman with nothing missing. You have wisdom and beauty and kindness, a potent combination." He leaned over her and for a moment Sybil thought he was going to risk the unthinkable: a kiss when they were not ten yards from the other young people. Though whether this was as unthinkable as what they'd just engaged in was a moot point.

Then he rose to his full height, his indignation not fully erased. "I might be a young man aware of his attraction and equally attracted to attractive women but please credit me with integrity."

Turning on his heel, he marched down the river bank, clearing his voice so that the girls raised their faces in welcome. Edgar was not so forthcoming.

"Hetty, if fishing is not as exciting as Edgar and Araminta clearly find it, perhaps you'd like to walk with me along the riverbank?" He enjoyed the pink rush to her cheeks and the way she held her hands together to stop them trembling. Yes, he did have a way with the ladies, even when he had no prospects with which to entice them. At least he could be assured he was desired for his natural assets rather than his pocketbook, however the thought of what he was going to do when the week was over was depressing at best.

And although he managed to appear lighthearted he was still wounded by Lady Partington's words. He was not the base Johnny-take-all she had suggested though he had enough understanding to accept that a woman unsure of herself was far more likely to strike out like that.

With exaggerated gallantry he offered Hetty his arm. "Let us tiptoe through the daffodils—or find some equally pleasurable equivalent," he suggested, causing her to titter and, he was rather pleased to notice, Araminta to twist her neck around with a look of unmistakable envy.

Edgar grumbled that she must pay attention and Lady Partington smiled with such genuine pleasure that Stephen felt ridiculously gratified.

# Chapter 9

The next two days passed in a rapturous blur of lust and rutting. Lady Partington had risen to the challenge in seeking out novelty and he'd risen to the challenge with her. In the butler's pantry while ostensibly seeking a particular vintage when the servants were at church, Stephen had taken her from behind. In the tower room, while the young people were playing croquet, Sybil had waved to them while Stephen, lying on the floor, had wickedly pleasured her before pulling her down and impaling her upon his never-flagging member.

She was as insatiable as he and he gloried in her abandonment and in her sweet, moist, pliant body. Her face haunted his dreams, taking precedence over all the women he'd ever known, including of course that jade Lady Julia, with whom he'd fancied himself passionately in love for five minutes. He wasn't sure how he'd regard her when she and her husband attended Lord and Lady Partington's house party at the Grange in a few days' time.

No, Lady Partington was the most sensuous, beguiling, intriguing piece of womanhood he'd met in his twenty-four years and he didn't want to think about when it ended. His life beyond the following Sunday was a lonely void.

"My Sybil." Alone, in the beech wood he whispered her name, dropping her title like a lover, wishing she were with him.

Right now, though, Lady Partington was entertaining the vicar who'd come to tea and Stephen had found an excuse to avoid both Araminta's and Hetty's separate requests for his company.

Owing to the heat, he'd stripped off in a secluded leafy arbor, taken a plunge in the river and now lay on his back, eyes closed, enjoying the heat of the sun on his naked skin. Enjoying, too, recreating the sensation of Sybil's ministrations as he grasped his own member and played it like a fine instrument—though not with the finesse she'd perfected.

"Yes, that's right, my beauty, just like that," he murmured, reveling in the buildup of tension within him, remembering the damp mud beneath him and Sybil's own dampness as she'd sheathed herself upon him when they'd made love here the day before.

"Oh yes...yes!" With a final jerk he came, opening his eyes to see the spray of ejaculate raining down upon his stomach. He groaned, closing his eyes. No point in thinking beyond the next few days when his life would be a barren wasteland once more, and this his only relied-upon means of gratification.

For it would be hard to return to meaningless sex after sex with Sybil, though a man had his needs, he supposed.

He deeply regretted having to leave The Grange. It wasn't just losing out on a title and the money that went with it. He'd lived without that for as long as he could remember and he'd made do, having a jolly enough time along the way.

As the damp earth turned his warm skin chilly, mournfulness impregnated his soul. In two days' time there would be no Sybil to tumble and make love to, to laugh with and make him feel like a naughty schoolboy and the world's greatest lover in equal measure.

"Cousin Stephen?"

A rustle in the bushes and Araminta's familiar girlish accents sent shock and horror rocketing through him.

"Er, just a moment, if you please..." He leapt to his feet and grabbed his clothes, nearly overbalancing in his haste to don his shirt and breeches.

Never one to wait, Araminta sidled into view before he was finished. "Did you enjoy your swim, Cousin Stephen?"

Her look was far too knowing to put him at ease and he blurted out, "Forgive me, Cousin Araminta! You caught me unawares. I was swimming—"

"Oh, you were doing more than swimming, Cousin Stephen." She'd stepped up close. Too close.

He took a step back, swallowed and pretended ignorance. "Nearly time for tea," he said, fumbling for his timepiece, which he remembered he'd left beside his bed.

"Cousin Stephen!"

Shocked by the insistency in her voice and the firmness of her hand upon his sleeve, he looked down. He didn't want to hear what she had to say.

She sighed, toying with the loose material of his unbuttoned shirt as she prevaricated with artful coquetry. "You know I don't love Edgar." She raised limpid eyes to his, as if appealing for understanding. For something more from him than he could give her, but he could not step away. She was clinging to him.

"You must know my feelings for you," she went on.

Her lips glistened, moist and inviting. Except that he didn't find them inviting at all. Not even when she gripped his arm tighter and added as she raised herself on tiptoe and tilted up her chin, "I saw what you were doing. I'm not so innocent, though it's not a thing a man wants to hear. That is, a man intending to take one as his bride, but you're not intending that, Cousin Stephen." She sighed again and said with commendable emotion, "I do so wish Cousin Edgar had died after all. You can't imagine how much I wish that so I didn't have to marry him but was free to marry you instead."

Stephen shrugged. "No one's forcing you to do anything." He felt quite unaffected by her machinations. All he wanted to do was return to The Grange and see Sybil's face light up as he entered the room. His mind took it to the next step. They'd find some excuse to leave—either separately or together—and then they'd throw themselves into and onto each other. That's all that mattered. Sybil.

"It's my duty toward Papa." For once she looked deadly earnest. So much so that he actually believed she was sincere in considering it her duty to her father to marry her bottle-headed cousin.

"Papa once said to me, years ago, that I'd have made a fine master of The Grange. Even better than poor George. Now that Edgar is going to inherit, I will at least be able to keep Edgar's foolishness in check and be the mother of the next viscount, even if I can't actually be lord of the manor, so to speak, in my own right. Do you see?"

"Your loyalty to your father is commendable." Stephen tried to disentangle her hand from his wrist but was unsuccessful. Her gaze grew more wistful, her grip more urgent. A little light filtered through the tree canopy, dappling the earth, but it was far too secluded and dim a location for Stephen's comfort. He tried to take another step away but she held him fast.

"Cousin Stephen, I told you, I am not the innocent you think me."

He resisted the urge to cut her off and say he didn't think her an innocent at all.

"You may have heard rumors about the reason I had to cut short my season. Have you?"

"I believe a...young gentleman inflicted some damage to himself."

"My suitor, Cousin Stephen. A worthy enough gentleman. Indeed, he was most insistent that I become his wife. That is, after..." She blushed and Stephen thought it was genuine. After all, regardless of what she'd done, she _was_ an innocent by most standards.

"We went for a carriage ride. I was without a chaperone and he became quite amorous. Indeed, I myself got carried away and..." She shrugged. "Suffice to say I realized I may well be ruined and he was determined that I must become his bride. But time passed, I realized I wasn't quite as ruined as I'd feared and the idea of spending the rest of my life leg-shackled to the gentleman was not my idea of happiness. Only, when I told him so in the nicest possible terms he took offense and...blew his brains out."

She brandished a tiny square of muslin and dabbed her eyes. "Oh, Cousin Stephen, I've studied you so often when you haven't noticed, and my heart has cried out for you."

Suddenly her arms were around him and she was pressing her small, fragrant body against his mostly naked one, her face upturned, her lips slightly parted in open invitation.

Coolly, he said, "I will not snatch clandestine kisses, Miss Araminta, when you are all but betrothed to another man."

"Another man who means nothing to me." She pulled his head down, murmuring against his lips, "When my soul craves you, Cousin Stephen. You can have it all: my heart, my soul, my body. All Edgar will have is a marriage contract and a wife in name only."

Sickened by her naïve ramblings, Stephen was in the act of drawing back and telling her in no uncertain terms what he felt about her words, when a scandalized voice broke in.

"Araminta? Stephen?"

He turned to find Sybil's shocked eyes upon them. Not only shocked but hurt too.

Araminta looked down at her feet. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came.

_Oh God_ , thought Stephen, he was going to have to find an excuse for this one, alone. Araminta would think he was defending her but Stephen was devastated by what his real lover, whose good opinion meant everything, would assume was the greatest betrayal. And, indeed, it would have been if there'd been a grain of truth in what she believed she'd seen. "Lady Partington, it is not the way it appears."

She drew herself up to her full height. "Araminta," she said, coldly, not looking at her daughter. "You may go now."

Dismissed, Araminta hurried out of the clearing and Stephen watched her head toward The Grange while he waited to defend Lady Partington's natural charges.

_Better to meet this head-on_ , he thought. Sighing, he took her hands and lowered his face, speaking only when he was assured Araminta was out of hearing. "Araminta found me after I'd been swimming." He indicated his dishevelment. "It obviously aroused some latent feeling for me as she's just professed her preference for me as her husband while still steadfastly maintaining her intention to marry her cousin Edgar."

He waited, the growing silence reinforcing how desperately he needed Sybil's understanding. God, if she sent him packing it would mean yesterday was the last occasion he'd glory in her luscious body and rest his head against her beautiful, pillowy breasts. Quite frankly, he couldn't bear it.

For a long moment she allowed him to hold her hands in his. He hadn't realized how soft they were. Soft and girlish. Like the rest of her. In the shade of the forest glade he could see no sign of crease or mark to indicate her real age. She was lovely, truly lovely with an inner depth he'd never found in all the women of his intimate acquaintance. She could laugh with him as if they were of the same generation, make fun of him yet still fill him with the sense that his physical strength and sexual prowess were important to her but that there was more about him she valued.

"Araminta was spying on you?" It was a whisper. Questioning, rather than accusing...he hoped.

He wanted to see her smile, not look at him with such suspicion, as if he were Beezlebub himself, slyly seducing her daughter behind her back. Lady Partington was a queen among women and he wanted—no, needed—her high regard.

But Sybil didn't smile. "Araminta told you she _loves_ you?"

Stephen nodded, not sure why her mouth was trembling until, withdrawing her hands from his grasp to cup her cheeks she cried, "In that case what we are doing is outrageous. If Araminta _truly_ loves you we must do all in our power to persuade her to give up this foolish notion of marrying Edgar merely to become mistress of this pile of old stones."

Abruptly she turned on her heel, ignoring his pleas to return, not even raising her hand to acknowledge them.

Stephen stood in the glade, wretched, and watched her proud, stiff exit, desperately hoping it was not forever.

During dinner Sybil watched Araminta with covert suspicion. There was a hectic flush to the girl's cheeks and she seemed to have lost her appetite. Of course, Humphrey would not notice that the servants removed her untouched plate after each course. But a mother deeply concerned with the happiness of her daughter would.

And clearly Araminta was...well, as wretched as _she_ was.

She glanced at Edgar, who sat between Araminta and Hetty, attacking his beef with gusto, talking about his hunting exploits with his mouth full, raking his hands through his curly hair and thrusting out his chest. Not long out of the army, he was already growing stout, taking all he could get without any real appreciation for it—the food, drink, women, attention...as if it were his due.

On the opposite side of the table sat Stephen, well built, handsome, kind and capable. Deserving. So far he'd said nothing the entire meal.

Humphrey, misinterpreting Stephen's silence perhaps for preoccupation with his uncertain prospects following the house party that would signal his departure, said, "I've contacts in the Foreign Office, Stephen, which might be useful. You're a bright young man. If you could distinguish yourself there—" He gave a forced laugh. "Find evidence to call that traitor Sir Aubrey Banks to account before he tries his charms on my girls when they go to London."

"You're very kind, my lord. I shall leave you a forwarding address."

His words sent a pain like a lance through Sybil's heart. Suddenly it all seemed so final. The image of Araminta locked in his embrace caused another wave of anguish. She shifted in her seat, her hands going to the napkin that slid from her lap. Surreptitiously she contoured her belly. What if Stephen had already planted the seed that would oust Edgar from his position, yet what if Araminta, in relinquishing Edgar, left Edgar free for Hetty?

Oh God. She licked dry lips. It was still possible that Hetty might make a match with Edgar, whom she truly loved. And if Sybil _were_ with child, she'd have then denied Hetty the chance to become mistress of The Grange. Instead, Hetty would be living with Edgar in decidedly more modest lodgings.

"My dear, are you all right?"

It was unusual for Humphrey to be so solicitous. She raised her anguished eyes to his and nodded. He really had been much kinder to her lately. More thoughtful.

He reached across to pat her hand and she froze. Humphrey never touched her. Never engaged in physical affection of any sort. His mistress had been gone a few days, perhaps? She'd not been in the carriage at any rate and Sybil had been under the impression she'd left the village when her pregnancy had become advanced, and only returned for the occasional night. To see Humphrey.

But that had not been for a while, obviously. A sickening thought occurred to her. Perhaps Humphrey would, in fact, come to Sybil's room that night. Or the next. Perhaps abstinence and the absence of his mistress had persuaded him that he really could transcend his aversion for physical relations with his wife in order to sire the next heir.

The rightful heir.

Everyone was looking at her. Curious, concerned, confused by her odd behavior. Sybil generally smiled through any pain.

"I...I'm afraid I'm not feeling myself," she said, preparing for the first time in her life to quit her position as mistress of the dinner table pleading ill health when the truth was, not for the first time, dismay, anxiety and the deepest unhappiness.

"Don't go yet, Mama." It was Araminta, putting down her knife and fork and looking at her with an expression of odd defiance and sudden determination.

A ghastly premonition visited Sybil. She caught her breath.

Araminta squared her shoulders and looked around the table, her gestures indicating that what she was about to say was of the greatest importance. Sybil didn't miss the almost petulant tilt to her chin as her gaze rested briefly on Stephen.

"Mama...Papa...everyone—"

Unable to bear what she was about to hear, Sybil drew in her breath in an audible gasp, drawing attention away from Araminta, her mind racing but not fast enough to keep up with her mouth. For the words spilled out before she had time to process the good sense in saying, "The reason I am feeling unwell is..." She gulped in air and tried a new tack. "Doctor Marsh was here this morning and I am very happy to announce, everyone, that he has confirmed what I have long suspected. I am to have a child."

Her announcement was greeted by stunned silence. This was not a simple instance of the patter of tiny feet a few months hence. This had ramifications for everyone. Oh, she knew it very well.

Which was why everyone was lost for words except Hetty who did not factor in ramifications in her simple pleasure at what most people would consider a joyous occasion.

"Oh Mama, so that's why you're not yourself! I've been watching you all through dinner." If Hetty thought it a most singularly odd manner for her mother to drop such a bombshell she did not say it.

Gathering her wits, Sybil forced a smile at Araminta. "I'm sorry to cut you off like that, Araminta, dear. What was it you were going to tell us?"

She noticed that Edgar had gone white around the gills and that his grasping fingers were rejected by Araminta, who all but croaked, "It was nothing, Mama." She looked for a moment as if she were about to be ill. "Congratulations to you and Papa on this...astonishing news."

Sybil excused herself as quickly as she could and was not surprised to be visited by her husband in her private sitting room a short while later, his expression unreadable, though his voice shook.

"You are with child, Sybil?" His shadow appeared long and ominous, draped over the counterpane and up the wall as he stood over her while she reclined upon the chaise longue, a flannel across her brow, which her maid had dampened for her.

Wearily Sybil raised her hand to prevent him saying anything more. "Humphrey, I'm sorry for lying. Dr. Marsh didn't visit but I simply had to say something to stop Araminta blurting out in front of everyone that she and Edgar were betrothed."

She had her eyes closed and when the silence continued, opened them, shocked as Humphrey let out the first genuine guffaw she'd heard since they'd been married.

"Oh, my dear girl," he laughed, wiping the tears from his eyes as he lowered himself beside her, putting his arm about her. "That was inspired! Did you see Edgar's expression? Oh, Lord, what a picture! Young Stephen dealt with the hobbling of his ambition with a great deal more dignity than _that_ young ninnyhammer. Hoisted on his own petard, eh wot? If what you said were true it'd be rusticating in the Cotswolds for young Edgar, who's no doubt been rubbing his hands the past four years at the thought of taking on all this." He made a sweeping gesture before hugging Sybil again.

Sybil, acutely aware of the rare sensation of Humphrey's arm about her, held her breath, hoping to ward off the plethora of extraordinary mixed feelings that consumed her in this unprecedented moment of comradeship with her husband of twenty years.

Was that desire for him that churned in her lower belly? She intercepted his familiar, uncomplicated smile.

No. It was hard to desire a man who'd shackled her to an emotional wasteland for all her adult life.

But there was gratitude for his kindness and pride in having impressed him.

_Kindness?_ She nearly choked on the bile of injured self-respect. She was a grown woman, not a fawning puppy dog who'd do anything for a kind word from her master.

Tempering her thoughts, she acknowledged her duty. He was her husband, she was fond of him, she'd actively tried to entice him into her bed for years. Now it appeared that tonight's charade had made him more conscious than he'd ever been of the need for an heir to displace Edgar. Furthermore, with Lizzy Hazlett gone more than a week, it was possible he mightn't find the idea of conjugal relations with Sybil quite as unpalatable as before.

The trouble was...

_The trouble was..._

She put a hand to her heart and closed her eyes upon the image of Stephen gazing into her eyes, pushing back the distinctive, light-brown cowlick she loved to twine around her finger.

Oh God, what had she done?

The sound of footsteps in the passage caused Humphrey to rise.

"Enjoy your rest, my dear." His expression was enigmatic and he grasped her shoulder and gave it a squeeze, his eyes glowing with hidden meaning as he added, "Your inspiration has filled me with inspiration of my own, my love. And pushed me into a greater understanding of my duty."

# Chapter 10

_Y our inspiration has filled me with inspiration of my own, my love. And pushed me into a greater understanding of my duty._

Sybil lay silent and tortured in the darkness of her lonely bedchamber. Humphrey had visited her here on the rarest of occasions. This was the scene of her greatest humiliations. Never more acutely did she understand her failure as a wife than beneath the covers of the large, empty bed that cocooned her restless body.

Now she was in her night rail and ready for bed.

But not ready for what the night might bring.

When the discreet scratching at the door was followed by the spill of light across the carpet, she turned on her side to face the opposite wall, trembling with a despairing resignation that was almost painful.

Light footsteps sounded. She squeezed shut her eyes and fisted her hands as the mattress dipped. This was followed by the touch of a hand, light and tentative.

_Not_ belonging to Humphrey. She exhaled on a sudden gasp of surprise and...reprieve. Sybil would know Stephen if she were bound and blindfolded. The gentle pressure of his lover's touch and the bergamot and equine smell of his strong young body never failed to thrill and delight her.

"My lady, I know you're angry with me but hear me out before you send me away."

"Stephen! You mustn't be here!" Sybil jerked into a sitting position as he reached for her hand. He'd placed his candle on the chest of drawers and in the glow he looked earnest and desperately young.

Her heart beat erratically and despite herself she returned the squeeze of his hand, even though she knew how important it was to discourage him.

"I'm not angry, Stephen." She wasn't, either. Just filled with a deep sadness that everything they'd shared had been reduced to dust by the latest developments. She'd joined herself with Stephen through duty. Now she must rend herself asunder—and apart from him—through duty. She put her lips to his palm as she reassured him with desperate earnestness, "Stephen, you must know that I believe everything you said about you and Araminta. Nor am I jealous." She lowered her eyes and added painfully, "Though I wish I were twenty years younger and free to marry—like her."

"For then you'd marry me!" In a burst of feeling, Stephen leaned over the bed and swept her her into his arms.

Despite the answering passion in her breast, Sybil held him at bay, unclasping his hands, which bound her tightly to his chest, but holding them bound in hers as she gently chafed them, staring into his confused and troubled eyes.

In the tense silence, he shook his head and Sybil longed to smooth away his troubled frown as he asked slowly, staring deeply into her eyes, "If you're not angry with me then what must I do to convince you that what we have together is pure and good and right?" He cupped her right cheek, and stroked her brow, his expression quizzical. "I feel nothing for Araminta. I've told you more than once I would not marry her, even if she has no mind to wed Edgar following your decidedly extraordinary announcement. But Sybil, now that you've said you're with child, it's..." He checked himself, his smile growing slowly as if he were only realising, now, the answer to what troubled him. "It's your duty to follow through." His eagerness grew as he stroked her arms, her breast. He cupped her face and brought his own close. "Sybil, I have two more days here. We must make the most of every opportunity." Then, as if realising that perhaps this made him sound more like a schoolboy capitalising on opportunity rather than a man in love, added, "We must find _whatever_ opportunity we have to be together, not just now but in the future."

She let him touch her, allowed him to whip up the deepest passions only he could evoke, knowing she should push him away. But the warmth of his caring touch was so welcome after so many cold, loveless years. She acknowledged her love for him was forbidden—and certainly of very limited duration—but surely she could bask in his fleeting caress for just these five minutes?

Closing her eyes, trembling at the feel of his lips on hers, she wondered how he would think of her when the time came for him to return to his old way of life; to make his own way in the world, surrounded by fresh, beautiful young women. Would he be horrified by what they'd done? She doubted he'd be indiscreet regarding their affair. There was that comfort, at least. Stephen had integrity and was certainly too fond of her and aware of the potential danger of a misplaced remark that might cause harm to her reputation. No, he was simply a young man enjoying the novelty of an older woman who, for her own reasons, had offered him unfettered access to her body—for what that was worth.

Finally, with an effort that tested the utmost limits of her self-control, she pushed him away and sat up. "Stephen, we cannot do this anymore."

Oh God, how she hated the finality of those words. His disappointment as his hands dropped away cut deep. Of course he was disappointed. What libidinous young man wouldn't be disappointed at the withdrawal of sexual relations?

Forcing herself to sound strong as she tidied her hair and clothes, staring at the green patterned wall paper rather than at his face, she said, "Humphrey's interest appears to have been aroused once more by the prospect of siring his own heir."

Stephen's expression, when she turned to face him, was a picture of horror. Well, he _seemed_ genuinely disappointed and that was some comfort, she tried to console herself.

She swallowed and twisted the fabric of her skirts about her fingers, awkwardly. "You're a wonderful lover, Stephen. You've been very kind—"

"Kind!" The explosiveness of his words suggested she'd just delivered the greatest of insults.

He drew her up upon her feet and suddenly she was once more pinioned against his chest, his mouth working in anger—for she could feel it against her cheek, which was pressed beneath his chin—as he ground out, "Kindness had nothing to do with everything we've had together. Sybil! Don't you understand? I want you. _You!_ I'm not here because of some perverse pleasure in siring the next heir to this...this pile of stones. Not because of the free sex. I'm here because of you! I love _you_ , Sybil. I don't love anyone else. I've never loved anyone else like I love you. You made me realise that." His voice trembled and his words came out low and tortured against her cheek. "I want _only_ you."

Despite the comfort of such sentiments, she tensed as he stroked her breast, unleashing once again the carnal desires she thought she'd successfully reined in. The carnal desires she dared not act upon. Hot wanting curdled in her lower belly and she squirmed at the rush of moisture between her legs.

"And _you_ want _me_ ," he whispered, his mouth barely moving against hers. "Otherwise your body would not respond to me like this."

She moved into him, despite herself. "Humphrey will visit me tonight."

Stephen registered her words in silence, still gently cradling her breast.

Slowly, thoughtfully, he conceded, "I known it's Humphrey's right to sire his own heir, of course." He hesitated, drew in a labored breath, then added, "But if he refuses to give you what is _your_ right...if he cannot take the trouble to bring _you_ pleasure in the process, then I can do _that_ very nicely." He kissed her earlobe, his fingers plucking at the ribbon that tied her night rail as his voice gained force. "Without putting you in any danger of conceiving a child." He paused, adding in a tone both proud and vulnerable, "Unless you wish to end... _everything_...now."

"Stephen, I—" Her sentence was truncated on a groan as Stephen's hand skimmed her inner thigh.

"So you _do_ want me."

She almost laughed in a burst of abandoned joy at his near-adolescent satisfaction as he dipped his fingers into her moisture, withdrawing them and presenting them to her in the glow of the candlelight as if it were proof.

His grin broadened, he drew himself up like a proud young buck. Then, whisking her onto his lap, he slid a finger inside her once more and began to massage the slick nub of her sex.

"Stephen, please!" she gasped, jerking at the wicked sensations.

His mouth was on her earlobe, his breath warm as he kissed her, sending spirals of desire skimming through her nerve endings. She clutched at him, even as she wanted to push him away. Needed to.

"Please?" he echoed, almost wickedly as he pulled briefly away from the kiss. "You want more? I _knew_ I could make you want me."

"That's never been in any doubt," she gasped as she arched against him, her breath shortening as she fisted her hands in his light curls.

"And this is to show how much I want you to _really_ want me." It came out as a strangled whisper. "Even if now is the last time we're ever alone."

She felt his departure from her side like a terrible loss before she was gently pushed back upon the bed, his fingers skimming her thighs as he rucked up her nightdress.

Though she couldn't see him, his face, which had been by her earlobe, was now between her legs, his mouth burning her flesh as he trailed hot kisses upward. Higher, he went while she squirmed in both pleasure and alarm. She must stop him. She must. The sensations were too wicked, the tension within her building dangerously. This clandestine meeting with Stephen should have afforded her the opportunity to assert control.

To put a stop to the dangerous currents that threatened to rip her from her safe albeit passionless existence.

Instead, something inside her burst into renewed life as his tongue flicked across her entrance and his fingers intensified their rhythmic pleasuring. Electricity shot to her extremities, her whole body snapping into tense awareness.

"Stephen, I—"

He ignored her strangled gasp. She tried again, the words truncated on a feeble croak while his sighs of pleasure as he feasted on her mingled with her short, sharp, increasingly desperate breaths.

She gasped again, a deeper, more desperate sound. And bucked again as his tongue swept her, explored her, penetrated her, his concentration focused only on pleasuring her.

"Stephen—" She barely knew what she meant to say. Her control was slipping, even as she uttered his name. The pressure was almost too great to bear. Painful. She was connected to safety by the merest thread. She fought to reel herself in. Fought to regain her equilibrium. "Oh Stephen!"

Again he ignored her, the final sweep of his tongue her undoing.

Sensation exploded within her, violent pleasure swamping her in waves so intense it was all she could do to stop herself from crying out as her body convulsed in great shudders that rocked her to the core.

To the depths of her soul.

She realized she must have been beyond rational thought, beyond consciousness of the present, for the sound of her name penetrated as if he'd been saying it for some time.

"Sybil? Sybil?" He was lying beside her, still fully clad in his evening clothes, his cheek against hers as he stroked her face. "Did you enjoy that?" he whispered, twisting his head.

Weakly, she nodded, and he grinned, nibbling her earlobe. "If I'm not needed to sire an heir I hope you'll call on me for my services in this department any time you wish, Lady Partington."

"Oh Stephen..." She laughed softly, feeling the tears gather behind her eyes. "You are wicked. See what you have reduced me to? I can barely move. What will I do when you are gone?"

"Find ways and means so we can meet, of course," he said, as if he really believed it.

She rose up on her elbows and gently kissed him.

He was lovely and considerate and she'd never felt so desirable and appreciated.

But she was conscious of the time. The lack of time.

Humphrey had indicated he was ready to sire an heir. As his viscountess her most important role was to provide him with one. Her only role. It was why she'd lived with him for twenty years. Their marriage contract stipulated that in return for his protection and the lavish comforts he provided, she must be his vessel. If she reneged she was less than nothing. If she refused Humphrey she risked losing everything.

It was the tread of footsteps in the passageway and the sound of her husband clearing his throat that provided the impetus for what she could not do alone.

They registered it at the same time, jerking apart.

"Pretend you're asleep," Stephen whispered, hastily pulling the covers up over her. "I'll leave through the window."

"No, it's too dangerous," she hissed but with a final kiss he was gone and she was left with the terror that if she had to live with the life of her young lover on her conscience then her own life was worth less than nothing.

The door opened. There was more noisy, self-conscious throat clearing. She smelled....

Whisky.

"Ah, you're awake, Sybil." Swaying, Humphrey indicated the candle on the drawers as he placed his own next to it and removed his banyan as if this were his everyday ritual. His breathing was labored and she recoiled from the strong spirits on his breath.

"It's not often you visit me, Humphrey," Sybil remarked, hoping her voice did not betray the fierce hammering of her heart. She concentrated on his large feet, which he was heaving onto the bed after the rest of him.

He grunted. "Tonight brought home how foolish I've been to allow my natural disinclination to prevent me from doing my duty."

She twisted her face to look at him. Good God, he was smiling at her as if he didn't realize how wounding his words were. _Natural disinclination?_ Why, this was the most callous rebuttal of, not just her major role but her worth as a woman.

"You were very clever to play for time, Sybil." He chuckled as he settled in beside her. His words were slightly slurred. "Now that Edgar is proving worse than we'd feared, I saw that whatever it cost me, I had to do my duty...get you with child." A spasm crossed his face. "And there's only one man who can do that."

The touch of his hairy ankle against her leg made her jerk away. _Whatever it cost me?_ he'd said. What about what it cost her?

She'd always been a good wife. A loyal wife but what about her loyalties to her own heart? To the man who valued her? Her young lover. Did they really count for nothing?

Humphrey raised one eyebrow as he obviously registered her less than enthusiastic welcome. "Should I kiss you first?" he asked. He looked almost revolted by the idea. "To help you relax?"

Sybil raised her chin, inching every piece of herself away from even the warmth of his large body. "Actually, Humphrey, tonight is not a good night for you to visit." She was careful not to betray her rising fury. "I'm sorry if you've had to ply yourself with whisky just to make the idea of venturing in here even possible. The fact is, I have the most terrible megrim."

He digested this in silence. Then, grumbling, heaved himself out of bed and put on his banyan, swaying almost dangerously and looking decidedly displeased. "Well, that's grand timing. After all, it was you who suggested—"

"I suggested that unless you were content for Edgar to succeed you one of us had better do something about it," Sybil cut him off. "However tonight is simply not convenient."

If he hadn't been foxed he might have questioned her unprecedented response, the crispness of her tone, her clear aversion to him. The fact that she would even reject him.

He stumbled as he gave the final, almost indignant tug to secure the tie of his banyan and it occurred to Sybil he may well not have been able to perform in any case. But the thought was too repugnant to dwell upon and she simply lay back on her pillows and nodded politely as he grunted his intention to depart.

The moment he was gone Sybil flew to the window.

_Dear God, thank you for sparing Stephen_ , she whispered silently when she saw no sign of his broken body on the gravel far below.

She strained for a glimpse of him, anxiously scanning the broad expanse of lawn that disappeared towards the woods with the lake beyond, and her breath left her in a low, relieved sigh.

Right now nothing else was more important than ensuring no harm came to Stephen. She owed him everything. She put her hand to her chest where long-latent feelings of joy and hope had been brought to life. It was the greatest gift she'd ever been given.

The following day Sybil attended to her duties as lady of the manor, with her brain barely engaged on issuing orders for the rooms for tomorrow night's guests to be made ready.

Humphrey made his usual appearance at breakfast. Usual in that he'd been there every morning since his mistress had departed. He seemed unperturbed by the previous night's exchange, merely nodding to her over his news sheet. Sybil's heart weighed her down like a heavy stone.

"Young lady's here to see you, my lord."

Humphrey raised his eyebrows at the message brought by Mary but Sybil did not miss the almost clandestine look in her direction before he replied, "Tell her I'll see her in the drawing room." He hesitated, adding to Sybil, "You must have more of the bacon, dear. It's very good."

Sybil was not going to be fobbed off like that but she waited a moment before making her own appearance in the drawing room two minutes later.

She was just in time to hear her husband say under his breath, "You know it was wrong of you to show your face here, Larissa, but I shall come." At her arrival the pair drew quickly apart.

He glanced at Sybil. "Miss...Miss Laurence is asking if I'd be patron of the new school in the village and I've agreed."

Sybil nodded at the large-eyed creature who'd stared at them from the passing carriage on the way to their picnic spot a few days ago.

"A new school? What a novel idea." Sybil smiled, inviting the young lady to sit, but Miss Laurence declined after a fleeting look at Humphrey.

Her father.

Sybil watched the exchange. Anguish clawed at her and she longed to inform Humphrey that she knew exactly who Miss Laurence was.

The girl was looking at her with interest. There was boldness, even dislike in those enormous green eyes of hers. Sybil felt like shouting, _Yes, look around you! Look all you like! You think_ you're _the one who's been hard done by through my husband's philandering?_

Instead she merely inclined her head, saying softly, "I should like to be informed of its progress...Miss _Laurence_."

Humphrey hadn't even dared use her real name. Hazlett!

When she overheard Mary and Betty whispering in the cold room that Mrs. Hazlett had been seen in town disguised beneath a heavy veil and with her belly nearly as large as her brazenness, Sybil had to swallow down her rage and use every ounce of her inconsistent willpower to remain silent.

Later that day, Stephen intercepted Sybil near the wall of the vegetable garden a little distance from the house. She looked upset.

One of the maids was scraping out a saucepan of gruel for the chickens so he beckoned Sybil to follow him a short distance away and out of sight.

Although he had no claim on her, rage needled him at the thought of the previous night's activities once he'd departed through the window.

Roughly, he asked, "Tell me—" but she cut him off and her look was so sorrowful it took all his willpower not to seize her to his chest and be damned with the danger of exposure.

"Humphrey was inebriated." She turned her head away and bent to examine the curled frond of one of Humphrey's hothouse specimens. "Nothing happened." Changing the subject, she added as she straightened, "Humphrey's 'other' daughter has just visited."

He assumed a sympathetic expression but was overjoyed at the knowledge that Humphrey hadn't laid a finger on her. "Sybil, your husband has sired three side-slips with his mistress. You owe him nothing. Certainly not your loyalty." With a surreptitious look over his shoulder, he ran his hands quickly over her curves. God, he loved her body. He couldn't wait to have her naked and all his again. "Come into the beech wood with me."

She shook her head. "Do not forget I am lady of the manor. I have a great deal to organize before tomorrow."

"If you're worried about conceiving I've already shown—"

"Stephen...no!" She sounded stricken.

"You didn't enjoy last night? You want nothing more to do with me?" Now he was the one stricken.

"Stephen, I'm consumed by you," she whispered, gripping the lapels of his coat. "It terrifies me but our arrangement was because of my husband's apparent...aversion. If his enthusiasm to at least try has returned I'm in no position to refuse him." A look of utter desolation crossed her face. "And... I cannot be sharing my bed with two men. I just can't."

"You may already be with child," he reminded her as jealousy speared him.

She closed her eyes. "Or I may not. Oh, Stephen." Her voice hitched. "I'm duty-bound to my husband."

"You owe him nothing after the way he's treated you." He knew the defense was lame. That the law was on Lord Partington's side and Sybil spoke the truth. But he couldn't accept that he was losing her so soon.

At the sound of servants approaching, Sybil put out her hand to squeeze his shoulder as if that might comfort him. "I hate it as much as you," she said. "However we must part now. I fear for you in case suspicion is even raised."

"For _me_?" He gripped her wrists and put his lips to her palms, even though the voices were getting close. "Do not worry about the risks I take. I'm wild for you, Sybil," he whispered between kisses. "I'd take any risk to be with you. We have two nights to be together. Let me be with you one more time? _Please_ , my love?"

Closing her eyes, she wilted against him. "We dare not, Stephen. The risks are too great and...and..."

Miserably he finished for her, "And your husband has first claim on you." He took a deep breath and tilted up her chin. He couldn't believe this was the end. It was too soon. For a long moment he gazed into her serene, blue-gray eyes. Her face was the sweetest he'd ever seen. Goodness was reflected in her deeply sympathetic expression. She'd be beautiful forever.

_Beautiful in a timeless way, beautiful in her heart._

"Sybil, after I go away, regardless of whether you are with child, will you have me back? Can I see you again?" He swallowed past the lump in his throat. In all the wild and wanton escapades he'd enjoyed he'd never felt such craving; never felt the desire to give more than he received, or the all-consuming, almost helpless yearning to be everything to his true love. Yes, Sybil was his true love. The difference in their ages was nothing. He realised he didn't want a young woman of appropriate status and, yes, age, if it meant he couldn't have Sybil. Having tasted the fruits of a deeply satisfying union with a woman who gave him so much more than physical pleasure, he no longer had any heart for participating in the marriage mart when he returned to London, as soon he must. "I need you." He looked at her helplessly. "I want to be with you. Now. Tomorrow. You think I don't know my own heart, but I do. And I want you now, and forever. Sybil, you make me the best I've ever been."

Sybil stared at his departing back, barely attending to the scullery maid's deferential greeting. Her heart, which had weighed her down so heavy just moments before, was lighter though sorrow lurked in its depths.

For the first time in her life she felt like more than just a woman fulfilling her prescribed role.

For the first time in her life she felt truly loved.

# Chapter 11

Humphrey had made various veiled remarks alluding to his reasons for inviting the unknown Sir Archie and his wife to The Grange. Something about "putting the boot on the other foot".

Whatever this really meant, Sybil's role was to attend to the practicalities of having three houseguests. There was much work to do, such as organizing rooms to be made up, consulting with Cook to decide upon the menu, and the butler with regard to spirits and wine. Humphrey was so rarely at The Grange she'd taken on most of the roles normally undertaken by the master of the house. When he did instruct her to organise a weekend house party she generally assumed there was some business matter at the heart of it. Humphrey was not naturally gregarious and had few true friends.

However, he did understand the importance of keeping in tune with various important personages and nurturing connections. Sybil had wondered if this Sir Archie might have an influential position in the City that could in turn assist Stephen. He'd hinted at investigating options for Stephen in the Foreign Office.

But as she worked and her mind wandered, she realised the reasons for the weekend's visit had not been fully explained and nor did it really matter.

All that mattered was that Stephen was leaving The Grange immediately afterwards and, once he was gone, her life would return to the barren wasteland it had been for nearly twenty years.

It was while selecting some hothouse flowers in the conservatory that she spied Stephen through the glass. He was near the gardener's hut, amidst a collection of jars.

With a quick glance about to ensure no one was about, Sybil picked up her muslin skirts and hurried round the back of the house, excited and nervous.

"Good lord, Stephen, you look like you're participating in the black arts. All these spiders? Is this for tomorrow night? Is Sir Archie a collector, too? Humphrey mentioned something about your fascination for the insect realm. But these spiders. Are they really...necessary?"

He regarded her seriously as he looked up from dropping a spider into a jar. A number of tall, glass jars were lined up on a long tabletop, each containing a single black spider.

"Yes," he said simply, and for a moment it looked as if he were about to reach over from the other side of the table and take her hand.

Instead, he glanced up at the sky. It was overcast and there was a heaviness about the air.

A heaviness in the atmosphere between them.

Sybil's heart felt as if it weighed double as she regarded the lovely man before her. He looked tired and handsome in a stark, ascetic way, very different to the carefree young Stephen Cranborne Sybil was used to dealing with.

Stephen's normally mobile expression was grim. The habitual pleasant smile that played about his lips, affording him that charming, genial air that made him so attractive to Sybil—to women in general—was nowhere in evidence.

When he locked glances with Sybil, there was a desperate, hunted look in his eye which was borne out in his voice as he muttered, "God Sybil, I hate the idea of leaving you." He drew in a breath. "It's strange...but when I first learned I was Lord Partington's new heir, I was excited only for what that meant in terms of elevating myself in the world." He closed his eyes briefly, then refocused them on Sybil with an intensity that made her heart shift dangerously. More so when he added, "Only after I met you did I discover what I really had to lose."

The shrubs afforded privacy. Sybil glanced longingly at them. Stephen had proved himself a young man of passion and spontaneity but he was being careful today. Or had he accepted Sybil's earlier rejection of his idea to slip away to the beech wood as affirmation that their affair was at an end?

Suddenly she wished she had it within her to boldly initiate something more between them. To leave it like this made her feel so...hollow.

"Let me introduce you. To the spiders," he said after a long silence. He sounded reserved. As if he were reluctant to acknowledge what had been between them or to let her closer and pain speared her. He cleared his voice, his tone now business-like. "In this jar we have Lady Julia. See how large and glossy and self-satisfied she looks? She's a prime article and she'll gobble up her prey in a heartbeat, believe me."

Sybil laughed uncertainly as she leaned closer, struck by foreboding, suddenly. "It sounds as if you're well acquainted with Lady Julia." She peered into the jar. "She clearly doesn't like the look of me. Look how she's reared up and bared her fangs."

When she glanced at Stephen and saw the set rigidity of his mouth, her instincts went onto high alert. _Lady Julia? Was there more meaning to this?_ Before she could say anything, he went on.

"Ah, she's jealous of you. She sees how it is. That I have eyes only for lovely Lady Sybil and that no one else will do. Beware of Lady Julia. She will strike when you least expect it and her bite is lethal." He moved over to the next jar while Sybil decided she'd keep an extra vigilant eye on this Lady Julia now that she'd reassessed her opinion of her being a placid, homely baronet's wife.

"Now here is Irresistible Araminta. She is quite innocent by Lady Julia's standards but don't be deceived. Her bite is just as lethal. She just hasn't learned the art of sizing up her quarry. She makes mistakes. The gentleman spider who courts her may or may not come off second best. Lady Julia, on the other hand, is used to being victorious."

Sybil looked longingly at Stephen's strong, gentle hands and wished they clasped hers rather than the glass jar containing Irresistible Araminta.

"Ah, look!" His lips quirked as he held up another jar. "This is Miss Hetty. See how shyly she meets our eye? She's not one to fear. She'll not devour the man who wins her, like her bold sisters. We shall not put her forward in this contest for she's too sweet to make a meal of anyone."

"So you and Sir Archie's great interest in spiders is behind this house party?" Sybil queried. "You and Sir Archie both share a passion for spiders? Humphrey mentioned something about a wager?"

Sybil tried to gauge from his response what might be involved. To see if this was more than just about the wager involving some house spiders she'd learned about.

In an unrelated conversation, Stephen had told her of the female spider's propensity to devour the male after he'd impregnated her, adding that only males of unusually large size lived to tell the tale. He enjoyed telling her interesting facts about the world of nature, and Sybil enjoyed listening.

Now, he bit his lip, took an audible breath, and said, "I behaved foolishly while Sir Archie's guest." Indicating the spiders with a sweep of his arm, he went on, "I was enticed into making a rather large bet—yes, your husband knows about it and it's through his backing that this event involving Sir Archibald and Lady Banks is taking place."

"Oh Stephen, I'm sorry." Sybil reached for his hand across the table but he closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.

"I don't deserve your sympathy," he muttered. "I was in my cups and I wagered what I did not have to lose. My behaviour was deplorable and all I can say to excuse it is that hope—and admiration—went to my head." He raised the glass jar he was holding and stared at the spider within? _Lady Julia?_ "Having been convinced the puny male would not survive the night with his much larger female consort I was reluctantly persuaded to bet a thousand pounds." He sighed heavily. "I lost the wager but I suspect I was the victim of a...a hoax. And so does Sir Humphrey. He's as determined as I am to restore justice."

Tentatively, Sybil asked, "Are you looking forward to this weekend?" She paused. "To seeing Lady Julia again?"

"God, no!" With unexpected force, Stephen set down the glass jar. "I wonder if they even know what this is about, they are such a smug pair. They probably assume this is a sign they are coming up in the world."

"But they will when they see the candidates you've gathered for a repeat of the wager. Well, it shall be interesting. Now tell me, is there a Lady Sybil?" she asked to change the subject, for Stephen was looking distinctly downcast and Sybil did not want to press him on what, exactly, had occurred at Archibald Ledger's home.

He gave her an assessing look. "I'm not sure." He moved down the line of jars and looked into the next one then shook his head. "No, this one's deadly." At the final jar, he lifted his head, saying uncertainly, "This one could perhaps be a Lady Sybil."

Sybil moved closer. She caught the warmth of his expression and the irregular beating of her heart picked up speed, even though he made no attempt to close the distance between them.

Then he smiled and after holding her gaze for several long seconds, reached for her hand across the table and brought it to his lips for a brief kiss.

Sybil had to force the words and her voice was unsteady as she whispered, "Why?"

He lowered his face a fraction, moved around to be close to her, and whispered back, "She's loyal and she'll do anything to achieve what she thinks is right." His lips were so close to hers. So close. His eyes bored into her face as he went on in a murmur, "Even if it means hurting those she loves."

Sybil breathed through the tightness of her chest. Trembling, desperate he'd follow up the kiss on the back of her hand with more, knowing she must not succumb if he did, she asked upon a thread of sound, "Do you think she will be victorious?"

Stephen studied the spider. Then her. "Victorious in what? Happiness? Are spiders ever truly happy?" Amusement crossed his features and he gave her hand a squeeze. "I think she's set herself up for failure. Even in the best of situations she can't succeed." He drew in a deep breath. "But she can be happier than she is. She will of course have to submit to the male. That is her duty. It is the law of nature that she must procreate. Nature is depending upon her." He held her gaze. "But she has choices."

Sybil made a derisive noise, which he silenced when he touched his forefinger to her lips.

"She is desirable." He put his head closer and she closed her eyes, reveling in the warmth of his breath on her cheek. His words were like a caress. "So very desirable. She has suitors vying for her favors but she holds the trump card."

Unconsciously, she leaned into him as he said softly, "The card of choice. She is in a position to choose the mate to sire her offspring..." His voice trailed off in a whisper full of desperate-making suggestiveness. "And who's to know?"

Sybil swallowed. Then she gathered her wits and forced herself to smile, breaking the spell. "Poor, conflicted spider. If she is _loyal_ there is only one choice to make." She shrugged. "But I fear she is a foolish spider. I fear she has allowed her heart to get involved." She bit her lip. "Doing the inevitable will be difficult."

Stephen regarded her a long moment. Then he shrugged, also, releasing her hand. "So she plays the loyalty card." He became brisk. "Well, it had to end. You told me that. I just didn't want to believe you."

"Stephen, when you go to London, it's inevitable—"

"That I find someone else? Someone younger?" He shook his head and touched his heart, his flash of anger turning to sorrow. "No, Sybil," he murmured, "age has nothing to do with what happens here."

He slept badly that night.

Impotent rage made him thrash on his mattress as he attempted to conquer the demons that plagued him. Namely Lord Partington, to whom he owed a great debt of gratitude for staging the show that would see Sir Archie and Lady Julia given some of their own medicine. Furthermore, for welcoming him as the next heir before reluctantly conceding his patronage would have to take another form following the advent of Edgar.

When he awoke, he felt as if he'd been running all night from the hounds of hell. Emerging from his bedchamber, he cast around for Sybil, desperate to rest his eyes upon her, for that's what it would be—a peaceful release as he allowed his gaze to dwell on something good and wholesome and real.

A search of the gardens did not yield her so he went to his lair behind the conservatory, where he'd dubiously held out just a little hope of finding _her_ looking for him. Instead, he found her undeserving husband.

His Lordship thought it a great joke and chortled when he saw the specimens Stephen had collected. "Oh, my lad, you're thorough. I like you far more than I thought I would and I only wish I were handing over the reins to you instead of that sapskull nephew of mine." Then obviously remembering the phantom child Dr. Marsh had erroneously confirmed, he added, "Of course, Edgar's nose is greatly out of joint. He's barely addressed any of us since the news Lady Partington is expecting but it's early days yet." He sighed, looking gloomy and Stephen felt the bristles on the back of his neck rise.

Was Lord Partington dwelling on what he considered an unpleasant duty when he visited Sybil tonight? The thought of the two of them fumbling and grunting—well, Lord Partington, at any rate—on the marital bed made him sick to the stomach. A bitter irony that the act was so distasteful to each of them though sanctioned by the Church, whereas the same act between Sybil and Stephen, who felt so deeply for each other, was a sin.

"Still, there may not be another child and if Edgar inherits, I fear for the future of this place."

Together they turned their attention from the gardens to the fine old house where Stephen had just spent the happiest days of his life and which contained the woman who had had the most influence over him. The woman he loved.

"The ladies will miss you. Lady Partington in particular. I think she has quite a soft spot for you."

Stephen searched for any sign of a double entendre and was satisfied. Daringly, he said, "She has been very good to me. I was eighteen when I went to war. By the time I returned, both my parents were dead and my income was low, just like the standards I accepted for myself. Lady Partington has reminded me how important it is to...aim high."

Low standards. Yes indeed! He was visited by an image of Lady Julia's sharp-eyed, speculative look as she took him in her mouth in the little pantry at her home. It made him squirm, but not so the memory of Lady Sybil spread-eagle beneath him, her sweet smile lighting up her face as she offered her luscious body to him. That had been real.

His heart felt heavy in his chest just thinking of what he could now never have but he wanted to talk of her, even if it was to her husband. "Lady Partington is a good woman who clearly loves The Grange. A wonderful model for her daughters to follow." He slanted a look at his cousin. "She is both dignified and dutiful."

Lord Partington made a dismissive sound. "We must all do our duty."

"And she is beautiful too."

Lord Partington narrowed his eyes. "Your mother was a beauty!" he exclaimed, insinuating that his own wife was not.

"As is Lady Partington," Stephen declared, quashing the urge to call out this man. Instead he damped down the anger, squared his shoulders and channeled his energy into more positive action. Pointing to the spiders, he said, "I must take these to the house."

But the house offered him nothing, now. The title and estate had always seemed too good to be true. Ephemeral. Finding love with Sybil had been real _and_ true.

But now there was to be no more Sybil to caress. Only a vacuous weekend of dodging the gambits of the conniving Lady Julia.

A taunting reminder of his misspent youth. A reminder that since coming to The Grange he'd raised his standards.

Never again would Stephen be the callow young blade he'd once fashioned himself.

# Chapter 12

Lady Julia greeted him with unsurprising coquetry as her husband handed her out of her carriage. Stephen was part of the welcome party at the bottom of the steps to the house, in company with Hetty, Araminta and Edgar, whose eyes nearly popped out of his head as the vision of loveliness offered him her hand to kiss. He brightened for the first time in two days.

"The heir to The Grange himself," she tittered, cradling her hand as if to revere the spot he'd kissed before turning to Stephen. "Poor Mr. Cranborne," she said with mock sympathy. "What will you do now?"

Stephen contemplated her question without correcting her assumption that Edgar's position was as rock solid as before. "I have no money, of course." He smiled. "Perhaps I shall have to resort to lightening the load of those who do...return to my old gambling days though I'd sworn off wagers following one I had no right to lose."

She cast an edgy little smile at the group in general before following the lady of the manor up the steps and into the enormous flagstone hallway, clinging to her husband's arm. Sir Archie had so far evaded Stephen's eye but was voluble in his brief private conversation with Lord Partington by the carriage. Stephen wasn't sure what the exact wording of his cousin's invitation to Sir Archie had been though he knew Lord Partington had hinted that it was connected with Sir Archie's recent position in the Foreign Office.

"Mary will show you to your room, Lady Julia," said Sybil, handing her guest over to the maid, following the requisite courtesies. "We will be waiting for you in the drawing room when you're ready."

It was clear Sir Archie and Lady Julia were not used to being entertained in such grand style. Their eyes darted to every fine accoutrement and Stephen harked back to their modest country manor, which he'd thought so fine.

He glanced at Lady Julia with her razor sharp prettiness, her pert nose and plump lips he'd once plundered—and the thought made him ill as he watched her surreptitiously run her hand over the plush upholstery of the fashionable Egyptian sofa upon which she sat, as if to assess its worth.

No doubt she imagined a thousand pounds was nothing to Stephen with such relatives. It's why Sir Archie and Lady Julia had entertained him, of course. Money. Or lack of it. They were punting on the River Tick and they saw him as fair game. He should have realized it when Lady Julia took him into the pantry with such determination upon such flimsy acquaintanceship.

It was why she tried her luck again when she accosted him in the passageway as the party broke up to dress for dinner. He mightn't be in line to inherit now but he was close enough and certainly plump enough in the pocket with possible connections her husband could trade upon. And he'd proved very easy to win over once before, hadn't he?

"Have you missed me?" she purred, taking his arm as they rounded the corner into the older part of the house. Disused closets and bedrooms abounded, he realised fearfully.

But now, he was repulsed by her and the idea of trading in any form of passion unless it was with Sybil.

"Please don't be offended but if you wish the truth, I've enjoyed my time here too much, Lady Julia, to spare you a thought."

Her flare of outrage was quickly replaced by a determination to prove she was irresistible. Or at least that what she offered was irresistible.

They were alone. The passage was gloomy. Her hand darted to his crotch and her fingers curled around his flaccid member as she brushed up against him.

"You lie," she said, pretending coyness.

To his mortification, he felt himself harden, her soft, victorious chuckle compounding his shame. Quickly he stepped to the side, breaking contact at the sound of voices approaching.

"So you have missed me," she whispered over her shoulder, gloating as she disappeared around the corner. "I'll see you later this evening, Mr. Cranborne."

He didn't like the promise in her tone.

But there was no time for a rejoinder since Lord Partington was suddenly at his side saying in conspiratorial tones, "All's in order, lad. We'll show those upstarts that two can play at their game."

Stephen noticed the edge had been rubbed off His Lordship's usual sartorial elegance. Closer observation revealed that one of the buttons of his coat had not been done up but before Stephen could say anything, Hetty appeared round the corner, her plump face flushed as she cried, "Papa! Araminta and Edgar have had the most flaming row! I heard him accuse her of all manner of terrible things—all of which are quite true."

"You look quite gleeful, Hetty," Stephen remarked. "I daresay it's not often the lovely Araminta's perch is rattled. With all due respect, my lord." He glanced quickly at His Lordship.

"True enough. I think young Hetty and that dandiprat Edgar are far better suited." He patted his daughter's shoulder. "Now you go off and persuade him so."

Lord Partington raised his eyebrows at Stephen's obvious surprise once Hetty had gone, explaining, "I once made the mistake of telling Araminta she'd be a better mistress of this place than her brother. George was like Edgar, though I hate to say it. Well, Araminta was young and she immediately elevated the idea to glory status. Truth to tell, Hetty would be a far better match for young Edgar. Araminta would go her own way and Edgar would simply turn to drink and cards, just like his father. Hetty, on the other hand, could manage him and this place a good deal better than I think anyone would credit."

"But if the child Lady Partington is expecting is a boy then Edgar is of no account."

Lord Partington harrumphed. "There's a long time between now and when that time comes." He sighed and muttered, "Fact is, at this stage I have to assume Edgar will inherit and quite frankly I'd have more faith in entrusting the reins to my head stable lad than the bacon-brained nursling who is currently my heir." Abruptly he changed the subject. "Now do we have all in hand for this evening?" He fixed Stephen with a pair of bright, inquiring eyes as he bared his yellow teeth in a collaborative smile. "I'm sure everyone will thoroughly enjoy the entertainment I have planned."

However when the party assembled for dinner, the atmosphere heavy due to Araminta's tiff with Edgar and Edgar's obvious rebuff of a red-eyed Hetty, Stephen wondered how anyone could enjoy anything tonight. He was sure he must feel the most miserable of the lot, despite the possibilities of the wager. He'd be parting from Sybil tomorrow. Perhaps forever.

He also dreaded his next encounter with Lady Julia.

What if she forced herself on him? She was wily and determined and he was, quite frankly, terrified. Not of Lady Julia herself but of her underhanded tactics. That said, there was not a chance in hell Stephen would allow himself to be alone with the woman for even one minute.

It was Sybil he was most concerned about. Several times, Stephen locked eyes with her, long enough to convey a silent message that he hoped she would interpret as solidarity. She looked edgy and unhappy. As well she might. God, she loved _him_. They'd shared so much during the past ten days. They were lovers in the first throes of infatuation yet right now she'd be anticipating a visit from Humphrey to her bedchamber because she'd decided to play the duty card. He understood it. It was part of the reason he loved her. But his mind and body revolted at the thought of his dearest Sybil succumbing meekly to the attentions of a man she did not love when the man she did was waiting, so willingly, and so desperately, just down the passage.

Once the ladies repaired to the drawing room, the gentlemen were left alone to their port and coffee.

Sir Archie appeared very much at home. The arrogant tilt of his weak chin and the way he pursed his small mouth as he smoothed the hair back from his receding hairline made Stephen physically ill.

Earlier in the evening he'd muttered under his breath in passing, "A bet's a bet, Cranborne. Don't think your benefactor can bamboozle me into going soft. He's full of juice." His lip had curled as he raked Stephen from head to toe. "You, however, don't pass muster anymore now that you're rolled up. Tonight I'd better be assured I'll get my blunt. You thought you were a cut above but now you're on the rocks."

A less assured Stephen might have crowed that Archie's wife had been very happy for Stephen to dip his wick during their last encounter and showed every enthusiasm for repeating the experience.

Instead, he merely smiled. He'd provided Lord Partington the props but His Lordship, a legendary practical joker in his youth, had insisted upon managing the rest of the action.

Stephen had no great hope of success. It was highly doubtful Sir Archie would bet the same way, in which case the whole charade was useless.

He watched the servants clear the table, weighed down by the increasing sense of inevitability that this was not going to end well.

Now, as he drained his coffee cup while Lord Partington, Edgar and Sir Archie drained the port decanter, his cause seemed very hopeless.

"Gentlemen, the fairer sex has departed, but I wonder if we are any the better for it." Lord Partington steepled his fingers and smiled expansively at them. "Edgar, you're looking very down in the mouth, boy. I think you're only too glad to see the back of a certain young lady. Have you been bested?"

Edgar glared and Sir Archie looked surprised. Lord Partington turned to him, the corners of his mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. "Poor Edgar has, I fear, been bested by my minx of a daughter, Araminta. But, Sir Archie, perhaps you think the male of the species the superior of the sex in every way and that it's not possible to be bested by a mere female, eh wot?"

Stephen chuckled and Sir Archie swung round to face him, his cheeks blooming. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion but as an answer was required, turned back to Lord Partington, muttering, "Males are superior to females, there's no doubt of that, my lord."

"That glossy wife of yours looks like she leads you a merry dance."

Archie bristled though his eyebrows shot up in surprise. This was not the kind of talk he'd have expected from the ageing Lord Partington, no doubt. Pushing back his shoulders, he countered, "Lady Julia is spirited but she is biddable. She'd not dare do something not countenanced by myself."

"Good to hear. Like my Sybil. Can't allow these ladies too long a rein, can we?"

Although Stephen was grateful to His Lordship for helping him overcome his pecuniary difficulties, his hackles rose at these words and he was glad when Lord Partington indicated they should repair to the drawing room to join the ladies.

When they did they were met by a mixture of curiosity, excitement and revulsion, for, already lined up on a low table in the center of the room, were four glass domes, each containing a web with two spiders.

Sybil greeted the newcomers with pleasure. "I see you have some unusual fun arranged for us!" she exclaimed, stepping forward, clapping her hands. "Stephen, didn't you collect these yesterday? Oh yes, and Hetty helped. Look! Aren't they quite superb? You won't find these in every drawing room but my husband is quite the man of science and I've become used to the odd things he likes to display. Do you like spiders, Lady Julia?"

Stephen wished he could hug his darling Sybil. Lady Julia had a greenish hue to her skin and her eyes skittered between her clearly uncomfortable husband, His Lordship and Stephen.

"No, my lady," Lady Julia replied with a shudder, following Her Ladyship back to their chairs at the other end of the room. "I wish they were not so prominently displayed. In fact...in fact..." She put a hand to her forehead. "I don't feel at all well."

Lord Partington went to the table and picked up a glass dome, which he eyed with satisfaction. "We'll take them away shortly but first we're going to stage a little bet. Naturally I'd not have thought to do so in front of the ladies but Lady Partington thought it would be a lark. So please, indulge her just this once." He fixed Sir Archie with a gimlet eye. "I know you're a betting man, Sir Archie. I am too. Who's going to come off second best? The large, glossy female? You agree that it _is_ a female?" He paused meaningfully. "Good, good. Or will the male display to advantage? You declared the male could never be bested."

Archie raised his chin. Clearing his throat, he declared, "I believe there are occasions. In fact, I'd bet the opposite tonight."

However, the smug grin plastered on his face soon disappeared as the double doors were opened to admit the young Earl of Barston.

Stephen, seated near Lady Partington, let out his breath in a low, admiring whoosh. The Earl of Barston's heir. Stephen had mentioned Barston's presence only in passing to His Lordship, knowing that Barston was an ally of Sir Archie's and would never champion Stephen. However, Lord Partington was obviously more influential than Stephen and had seen the main chance.

Now, here was Barston, looking very down in the mouth. He'd sat in on the supposed invincibility of the male spider wager when Stephen had been entertained by Lady Julia in a closet just up the passage, and it was clear that he was now here on sufferance. Had Lord Partington used threat or inducement? It seemed His Lordship was adept at having matters arranged just as he liked them, Stephen thought bitterly as he inclined his head in greeting.

Barston returned the civilities with a fair degree of incivility but he nevertheless took the seat he was shown.

Stephen cast his gaze about the assembled group of people with interest. Clearly, Lord Partington intended to use whatever means he had to hand that would see justice prevail and even though Stephen thought little of his cousin in many respects, he at least owed him some gratitude for what he was doing tonight.

"You'd declare the opposite of your recent vociferous protests, would you, Sir Archie? I don't think that's wise, do you?" There was a warning note to Lord Partington's caution before he turned his attention to Barston. "Stephen, I think you mentioned you were in company with young Barston at the home of Sir Archie and his fair wife the evening you wagered a large sum in similar circumstances. Now, Sir Archie, which way did you say you were going to bet? Surely you'll bet the same way you bet before? That the male is superior in all species. This will be most interesting. Stephen, you bet the opposite? The odds? A thousand? No, no, let's make it two. As for myself, I shall refrain. So it's just you two gentlemen for the best out of three. It couldn't be fairer, now could it? Another drink? It might be a long night."

# Chapter 13

As she sat quietly sewing at the other end of the drawing room surrounded by her daughters, Sybil was struck by the incongruous feeling of being torn between two men; she who for twenty years had known she'd never owned the heart of even one.

Watching Humphrey conduct proceedings like a puppet master, she was conscious that her life, too, had been managed by him in just such a fashion—purely for his convenience and satisfaction. He wasn't a bad man or an unkind man. He just hadn't loved her. And for a woman like Sybil, who'd always suspected how much she'd missed out on for not having known the love of a man, the realisation of what she was now about to give up forever was almost more than she could bear.

Humphrey and the gentlemen were in consultation near the fireplace; and though she pretended a preoccupation with the careful stitches she was working in her sampler, her attention was fully on Stephen. How strong and self confident he looked as he handled the niceties—which she gathered weren't so nice. How young and handsome he looked.

Of course she was a fool to have imagined he would ever be hers for more than a few days. A few days for him to sate himself and move on as a much younger, more vigorous man surely would.

Yet that's not he saw it, she knew.

Not now, at any rate.

Glancing across at Humphrey, she acknowledged that he had a certain presence about him. He took on the role of master of the house with quiet confidence. He'd managed the estate in a way that had earned him the respect of his tenants and neighbors.

He'd dealt fairly by everyone but her. No, it wasn't enough that Humphrey had readily acknowledged his mistake in acceding to his parents' wishes by forsaking Lizzy Hazlett to marry Sybil.

Not when in all their marriage a few words of regret were all he'd offered to ease Sybil's burden. They meant nothing compared with his neglect and the fact he spent every possible moment with Mrs. Hazlett.

Where did that position Sybil?

As nothing more than a pliant, miserable, doormat of a wife. The clothes she wore were fine enough for a woman required to reflect a man of Humphrey's station, yet what pleasure did they afford her when she was constantly derided for wishing to experiment with colors and styles she hoped might suit her?

Why she should want to bother was another matter.

She'd only ever received one compliment from Humphrey and she didn't care to dwell on what had prompted that.

Yet Stephen's value of her was like a pain she couldn't bear. A joy that could never be fully realized.

Edgar's coarse exclamation brought her back to the present.

"Gad's teeth, she's set upon him! That's the second one!"

Sybil raised her hand to prevent Hetty rushing from the cluster of comfortable seats around the fire to the scene of action at the far end of the room, while Araminta said testily, "I can't imagine why you allowed such a distasteful charade to be played out in the drawing room, Mama."

Sybil was glad Lady Julia had just left pleading a megrim for she was now able to agree, mildly, "Yes, it is quite a charade, Araminta," not looking at her daughter as she continued with her needlework. "It is not, however, the most outrageous charade being conducted under this roof, I'd like to point out. Look at you and Edgar."

She raised her head at Araminta's gasp of outrage.

"Come now, Araminta, you know very well you felt nothing for that cousin of yours, yet you persisted, despite the pain you knew it would bring you both in the future, not to mention the pain suffered by your sister." She arched an eyebrow, adding with quiet directness, "Why?"

Araminta's color had grown very high. Her bosom heaved. "How dare you, Mama?" she said under her breath.

Sybil returned her attention to her sewing, aware that Hetty was staring at her, open-mouthed.

"I haven't dared terribly much over the years," she admitted. _Lord_ , she thought, she'd been the most _un_ daring, undemanding of wives. _What an easy time of it Humphrey had had._ "I've simply allowed things to happen because I thought I had no choice in the matter. I've always considered myself the rather ineffectual wife of a rich and influential man; that as a woman I have no say in how my life is directed."

Araminta and Hetty were looking intently at her. It was rare she had their complete attention. She was not about to squander her opportunity.

"As women it is true we have little influence." She paused significantly, resting her work in her lap as she locked eyes with them. "But where we are in a position to exercise our rights to _do_ right, it is our duty."

Araminta leapt in self-righteously. "It was duty that directed me to engage Edgar's affections. I did it purely for the good of the family."

"You did it with no thought for the sensibilities of anyone else other than yourself, Araminta. You did it for your own power and ambition." Sybil's tone gentled. Araminta was young. She had no idea of the pain she was inflicting but if a few words of caution could redirect her she might in fact find happiness and in doing so leave the way clear for her sister to do the same. "All I'm asking is that you be true to yourself."

Araminta glared and her nostrils flared. She looked as if she were about to rise out of her chair through an excess of outrage. "Mama. I was prepared to sacrifice everything—my own happiness included—for the sake of this family!"

Sybil held up her hand. "For this family's sake? Or for your sake? Because of the glory and power you thought it might bring you in years to come? Your motives might have started out well enough but you ignored your heart, Araminta, and you persisted in making Edgar fall in love with you, despite your scorn for him, despite knowing it was going to break your sister's heart and despite the fact that you harbored feelings for _Stephen_."

Araminta's breathing had become very rapid. Her eyes were like pinpricks of malice. Sybil thought she'd never been as hated in that moment and yet she felt no regret at having spoken so frankly.

Hetty looked distinctly shaken. And tongue-tied.

After a quick glance at the men, busy settling their wager, Araminta leaned forward. "What about you, Mama?" she hissed. "If you believe everything you've just said, what does that make you? You don't love Papa. He certainly doesn't love you! Yet you live under his roof and spend his money and entertain him and his friends with...cloying civility." She looked on the verge of tears. "Now you're to have a baby. You hate Papa! Yet you call me names and accuse me of hooking my claws into a man I don't love just because it suits me. I think you've some hide, accusing me of behaving _exactly_ as you have yourself. You order me to be true to myself. When were you ever true to yourself?"

Sybil stiffened. She hadn't expected Araminta capable of a defense that would hit home like that but before she could defend herself—if indeed that were even possible—Humphrey and Stephen stood before them, their expansive beams proclaiming the fact they'd enjoyed the past half an hour a great deal more than the ladies.

"Sir Archie and young Barston are feeling a little the worse for wear," Humphrey reported under his breath, with a sideways glance at the two men approaching them; as it turned out, to offer their excuses and retire to bed.

Edgar remained staring gloomily at the jars on the table. For the first time Sybil felt a small stab of compassion for the young man. It was not his fault he was stupid, or perhaps even cowardly. He was just a very young man who had not had the advantage of a good example, as evidenced by his dissolute mama and papa. Araminta would have been a disastrous match but if Hetty believed she could make something of him and be happy in the process, Sybil would never stand in the way, and she doubted Humphrey would either.

"Victory, my boy!"

Stephen nearly lost his balance, so fiercely did Lord Partington clap him on the shoulder.

"You might be leaving The Grange tomorrow without the grand expectations you harbored when you arrived—and for that there's none sorrier than I—but at least you leave a thousand pounds richer with a position all but promised in the Foreign Office."

Stephen managed to return his smile. There was some small consolation in what His Lordship said but his heart was suddenly as heavy as a stone at the reminder that tomorrow signified a break with all he held dear.

"I'm grateful to you, my lord," he said, flicking his tongue over dry lips. He'd not drunk much but he was consumed by a sudden desperate desire for the comfort of his bed. Of course, the comfort of Sybil's arms would be much more agreeable and he'd happily forgo the sleep he craved to enjoy that. He cleared his head of the scandalous thought as, smiling politely, he declined Lord Partington's offer of another brandy.

A thousand pounds the richer. He felt very much poorer right now. And distinctly green-eyed as he darted a parting glance at his benefactor and wondered if Lord Partington was right now preparing to go to his wife to do his distasteful duty—if Sybil's assessment of his attitude to conjugal relations was to be believed. God knew how any man could not think himself _in alt_ when enjoying the delectable offerings of the lovely Sybil.

He was glad Lord Partington did not accompany him up the passage though he took his Lordship's, "I'll just have one more to fortify myself," distinctly ill, with its apparent reference to bolstering himself for unwelcome bedroom duties.

In fact, Stephen was still seething when, from behind the curtains in the Long Gallery on his way to bed, Lady Julia suddenly appeared in the halo of light supplied by the candle sconce above her.

"If you've lost your way I believe you'll find your _husband's_ chamber in that direction," Stephen said, pointing back the way he'd come, not even hesitating as he passed her.

Of course, Lady Julia was not one to be so easily fobbed off.

"Why, you're jealous, Stephen!" she crowed, stepping in front of him, arresting his progress with both hands, palm outward, slithering over his shoulders.

Grasping her wrists, he put her away from him and continued walking. She hurried after him and gripped his sleeve, forcing him to halt.

"Stephen, my husband doesn't know anything. Not about us, at any rate." Her catlike eyes danced with as much confidence as ever as she stepped in front 0f him.

"About us?" Stephen invested the phrase with derision as he quirked his eyebrows.

"About the fun we had." There she was, like a thorn in his side, rubbing her body suggestively against his and although Stephen swallowed past the lump in his throat there was—thank God—no answering lump growing in his breeches.

"Go to bed, Lady Julia," he said, and this time she could not mistake the coldness in his tone or the revulsion in his eye.

She dropped her hands and took a step back, nevertheless still blocking his path, her glare combative. "You're a coward. You're afraid of Sir Archie, aren't you?" she taunted in an undertone. "Suddenly you have no position in life while my husband has everything and you're jealous."

Stephen gave a short, strangled laugh. "Jealous? Of your husband?" And there was such scorn in his tone it was little wonder Lady Julia stamped her foot and tossed her head.

He stepped past her, but to his surprise and chagrin she followed him for her parting shot.

"So you want it to end like this, do you? Well, perhaps you'll be more interested in eight months' time when the twins are joined in the nursery by their far more handsome sibling who _won't_ have Sir Archie's weak chin and sloping shoulders."

For only a second did Stephen hesitate. Outrage at her insinuation—and his own stupidity at following her into that closet a month ago—made him say over his shoulder, "If your husband is so distasteful, I suggest you cast your wiles at someone more receptive than myself. Like Barston, or that easily led dandiprat young Edgar, who's still on leading strings. I saw him wandering about in the moonlight looking very forlorn. Or is he not of interest since I doubt he'd show you the sport you're after?"

Without a backward glance he strode angrily on, almost glad he didn't have time to dwell on her words, for he was arrested by a hiccupping sound at the far end of the Long Gallery.

It came from behind the curtain and Stephen, fueled by the most powerful burst of exultation and desire, pulled it aside, expecting to see Sybil seated on the cushioned window ledge.

Instead Hetty raised her red-rimmed eyes to him.

The tragedy in her doe-brown eyes found their mark.

"Hetty, what is it?" he asked, pushing aside the gold ringed curtain and sitting down beside her, not minding a bit when she rested her head against his shoulder and began a fresh burst of quiet sobbing. He stroked her hair and thought how much she reminded him of her mother, which led to another terrible longing for Sybil, whose room was not too far from here.

"Is it Edgar?" he tried again.

She nodded, raising her head, the bleakness in her eyes an echo of what he felt. "I know I'm young and that heartbreak is something I'll have to get used to—especially since I don't have Araminta's looks." Her nose was streaming and her face was blotchy. Yet there was some indefinable sweetness about her that tugged at Stephen's heartstrings. In the hands of the right man, he decided Hetty would flourish.

And Edgar was definitely not that man.

Stephen handed her a handkerchief. "Hush," he said, pressing a finger to her lips. "This is not about Araminta. And the fault is definitely not yours. Edgar's the one who's allowed his head to be turned by Araminta's flattery. As for you, Hetty, you'll be as lovely as your mama someday. I'd guarantee it."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

He smiled at the hope in her voice. "You have beautiful, thick hair like your mother's, which ripples down your back when it's loose. Every man loves to run his fingers through that kind of hair."

She did not seem to take into account the slightly less gentlemanly allusions inherent in the remark. "But Araminta's is so fine a color and much shinier."

"And very attractive, no doubt, to a gentleman who likes artifice. You, on the other hand, Hetty, are wonderfully natural."

"And gauche. Araminta tells me I'm terribly gauche and I'm just lucky I have a decent dowry, else no one would look at me twice."

"Sisters are not known for being terribly kind or bolstering, I'm told. And it's true that foolish young men can easily have their heads turned by especially confident young ladies who cast them a lure." He patted her shoulder. "But fortunately a lot of young men grow up and realize that what is real is what is important. That people like you and your mother are far more desirable for the fact that there is no artifice and that they offer their affections freely and from the heart."

"I've offered Edgar my affections freely and from the heart but he doesn't want them." Hetty spoke sadly. "He only wants Araminta, who now doesn't want him because he mightn't be heir after Mama has her baby."

"That's Edgar's loss, then." Stephen smiled. "Remember, Hetty, you haven't even had your first season. In a few short months you'll meet lots of far more agreeable gentlemen than your cousin Edgar."

Hetty exhaled on another heartfelt sigh. "But I love Edgar."

"Then tell him."

"He knows it."

"Does he?"

Hetty's eyes widened. "He'd have to be stupid if he didn't."

Stephen chose not to address this. Instead, he suggested, "Why not take Edgar aside and tell him, very clearly and precisely, what you feel?"

Hetty's mouth trembled. "Do you think it might make a difference?"

"It certainly couldn't hurt." Stephen patted her knee. "And now it's time for my bed," he said, rising. "At least if you talk to Edgar you'll know you've done everything you could."

# Chapter 14

This was worse than her wedding night.

Sybil, frozen beneath the counterpane, lay terrified as she anticipated the quiet opening of the door and the soft tread of slippered feet across the carpet. Ironic that for ten years she'd lain tense and hoping for just this. Now, with Humphrey's visit inevitable in view of their previous encounter and discussions with all its allusions, she felt physically ill.

What choice had she but to submit? She was his wife. The mother of four of his children, the only legitimate means by which he could sire an heir.

The wind sighed in the trees, a thin thread of sound. Sybil forced herself to relax. She'd been listening so intently for Humphrey she was conscious of the faintest rustle.

It was a clear, still night, the moonlight almost blinding as it thrust through the chink in the curtains.

_Dear Lord, give me the fortitude to bear what I must_ , she prayed silently.

She wondered if her actions these past few days constituted the kind of sinning that would be viewed with opprobrium when she had to account for herself at the Pearly Gates. The fact she'd committed adultery—even if she'd done it for the purest motives, initially, anyway—might not be regarded in the same light as she viewed it, she realized.

A creaking floorboard. Her body tensed. Her breath caught in her throat and she licked her cracked lips and ran her hands down her body, stiff as a board beneath the sheets. Humphrey had enough difficulty summoning sufficient desire to spill his seed in her when she was soft and encouraging and aching with the desire to please him. How would he manage now when he encountered such frigidity, for her every nerve ending recoiled at the mere thought of his touch?

"Are you awake, my dear?" His voice, soft but not imbued with the honeyed suggestion that he was here on a lover's errand, punctuated the darkness.

"Yes, Humphrey."

So businesslike. She tried to imagine Stephen addressing her like that and could not. Stephen was the lover consummate. Tender, thoughtful, kind and oh, so eager.

Carefully, she breathed past the pain in her chest as she moved into the center of the bed, giving Humphrey room to sit on the side. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as, wordlessly, he began untying his banyan. His heavy breathing indicated it had required great exertion to make it to this point.

"No megrim tonight? Lord, Sybil, but it's come to a pretty pass when you have to tell lies to deflect our headstrong daughter from marrying that dandiprat in such haste." He grunted as he tossed his banyan aside. "Prodded me into action, though, didn't it, wot?"

She was unable to share his amusement, instead saying drily, "I'm sorry you find it such a chore, Humphrey."

To her surprise, he chortled and reached out blindly into the darkness to touch her cheek. His stubby forefinger jabbed her eye and she gave a surprised cry of pain.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to start out so ham-fisted." This was followed by another great sigh and then, "Well, needs must..."

In the darkness his hand grasped her shoulder, clumsily heading south before gripping her breast. She squealed.

"Come, Sybil, let's get this over with, shall we? You clearly relish the idea as little as I do."

Sybil's mouth dropped open. Had he really said that? With such sarcasm? These words had actually spilled from from her reasonable though far-from-in-love-with-her husband whom she nevertheless had always considered felt a modicum of consideration? She couldn't believe it. Scrambling away from him, she jerked upright in the bed.

He must have realized his error for he said, into the dark, almost sheepishly, "Didn't mean to sound so ungrateful, Syb. I know you dislike the idea as much as I do but as it was your idea—"

"This was _not_ my idea!" She slithered away from his creeping hands. "No, Humphrey, you mistake me. Granted, I agreed an heir was required," she gasped. "For _your_ sake, Humphrey. For the future of this family. So Araminta wouldn't waste herself. So Hetty might be happy. So you might go to your eternal rest with the comfort of knowing you leave the estate in better hands than Edgar's."

She squeezed her eyes shut at the sound of Humphrey's heavy breathing. The smell of him was too intimate. She wasn't used to it. She was used to bergamot and horses. Of gentle caresses that whipped her body into steadily escalating eddies of desire. Humphrey's stolid determination to "do the deed" seemed wrong and...foul.

She felt rather than saw him digest this. He ran a hand across his forehead. Then let out another gusty sigh.

Quietly, he said, "We are bound by our contract. Our forebears demand it, our descendants will thank us for it."

"Oh, for God's sake, stop speaking such piffle!" Angrily, Sybil rose up against the headboard. "You hate the idea as much as I do. You were more than happy to see Stephen inherit if it let you off the hook. It's only because you detest Edgar that you've been prompted to come here." She heaved in a breath, making very sure he was well out of arm's distance. "Only a week ago you all but suggested you'd be more than happy if I attended to the business without your participation, for who'd be the wiser?"

"I did not." There was a whining quality to his defense before he added, "Anyway, you were hardly about to come up with a solution...so here I am."

"No, Humphrey! I cannot do it!" She could feel the rising hysteria and tried to rein in her emotion. Humphrey did not take kindly to emotional women. He abhorred it when she wept.

Trembling, she said softly, "For twenty years you've condemned me to a loveless existence. Then you all but thrust me into the forefront of finding a solution to our problem. Well, what if I did?" She drew a shaky breath. "What if I've taken a lover and so can't abide the idea of being touched by you, in exactly the same way you abhor the idea of touching me because you are, and always have been, in love with Lizzy Hazlett?"

The silence was telling. She felt him pulling himself upright, the exertion making him wheeze. "What are you saying?" His voice was quiet. Warning.

She could not back down now. "I'm saying I cannot do this. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever." She was close to tears, thoughts of Stephen's wickedly loving smile warming her from the depths of her being. "I want you to go. Please. Leave me."

She felt the mattress relinquish his weight, heard the outrage in his tone as he said, "I'll need an explanation in the morning, Sybil."

"You'll get one, Humphrey. You'll hear everything you need to hear, and more. Just know that tonight I cannot bring myself to do what you would have me do. I'm sorry I'm not Lizzy and I'm sorry you made the mistake of listening to your parents all those years ago, but that is not my fault and I do not believe I should spend _my_ entire life suffering for your lack of forcefulness."

# Chapter 15

He went. Without another word he retied his banyan, slipped his feet back into his slippers and departed.

The click of the door as it closed was the most welcome sound she'd ever heard.

But then followed the agonizing aftermath. How could she explain without compromising Stephen? How could she make her feelings known in a way that Humphrey would respect so she'd not be subjected to a repeat of this ghastly episode?

Or was she so addle-headed she didn't understand that the moment Stephen left The Grange, she'd soon revert to her obedient, long-suffering persona and pliantly, albeit with heavy heart, submit to the fate of all women of her station whose marriages were based solely on their requirement to procreate?

Anguished, she rose to tug close the curtain, which emitted the blinding moonlight, knowing she'd never sleep, even in complete darkness.

Her fingers gripped the fabric and she closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging. Could Humphrey cast her off for this? If not for her adultery then for her refusal to submit to his desire for conjugal rights?

What did it matter? Her heart ached for Stephen. Oh, to revel in the beat of his bold, youthful heart against her cheek. To be the recipient of his energy, enthusiasm, humor and kindness. He made her feel loved. Respected. Appreciated.

When she opened her eyes her world was still a haze of misery before her adjusting gaze but then she realized she was staring straight at a tall, youthful form striding out across the lawns. Her body jerked to attention, suddenly alive.

Stephen was heading toward the lake. She could see its glistening waters just beyond the beech forest.

Excitement tugged at her. She'd never behaved rashly. She knew she shouldn't go after him. Not because she feared his response to a foolish old woman flaunting her heart on her sleeve as she chased at his heels.

There was no doubt in her mind, now, about Stephen's feelings. He certainly didn't think that about her.

It was the vague fear that Humphrey, glancing from his bedroom window, might happen to observe Sybil in her nightgown, trailing her lover across the gardens, and so implicate Stephen.

But Humphrey was drink-addled. She could afford to risk it.

Snatching her shawl and nearly bursting from excitement and fear, not even bothering to find her slippers, Sybil left the sanctuary of her bedroom and embraced the frightening unknown of the lovers' dark night.

She found him when he was deep within the beech forest. He could have taken several paths and Sybil was lucky she chose the right one. For otherwise she might never again have felt his sweet breath upon her cheek followed by the passion of his kiss as he pulled her against him.

Wordlessly, he cupped the back of her head as he plundered her mouth, his ferocity leaving Sybil in no doubt as to the depth of his desire for her.

She'd wanted to go to him and seek the comfort of his arms, but the force of his passion quickly elevated her beyond the need for simple comfort.

"Humphrey came to visit me but...I couldn't do it. The boathouse is just through the trees," she gasped between kisses; and still clinging to one another with the passion swirling between them, they stumbled the final few yards, knocking against the beams and posts before tumbling into the curved bow of the boat.

Bergamot and horses. Essence to imbue her with strength and feed her courage to defy what duty demanded of her in the long years ahead—the sublimation of her soul.

The scrape of his soft cheek against hers represented his heady combination of youth and power. A young man thrusting defiantly from his cocoon into dangerous realms to claim his prize and to hell with the consequences.

For Stephen must know, as Sybil knew, that their actions threatened their existence. Humphrey had the power to destroy his wife's reputation in casting her off and to hobble Stephen's advancement. Stephen's future depended upon Lord Partington.

On soft cushions, with limbs exposed to the hard wood and splinters of oars, benches and crossbeams, they thrashed in each other's arms, each seeking the very last drop of sustenance from the other. It would be the last time. The last time they would make love and know that in one another's embrace they could expose everything and be the richer for it.

There was no time for gentle seduction. Preliminaries were cast aside in their need to take, to give. And for instant gratification. The piercing light of the moon gleamed on exposed flanks and breasts laid bare beneath fabric torn away in haste. A fine lawn garment was shredded so a heated, eager mouth could suckle at Sybil's breast. Two pairs of hands fumbled to release Stephen from his breeches. In the still night, an owl hooted and the lovers breathed sighs of rapture as they were carried away by their passion.

Nearby, the gentle waters lapped the side of the boathouse while the wind sighed in the trees, just as Sybil sighed in Stephen's arms as he found her entrance, slick with wanting, and sheathed himself in her.

Sighed with the heavenly rapture of being wanted.

And exhaled on the painful, inescapable knowledge that reaching the pinnacle of her desires signaled the very end of them.

Crickets thrummed in the reeds and a night hawk called.

"If your heart wasn't so noisy the silence would be deafening," Stephen joked softly.

Despite herself, Sybil felt the corners of her mouth tug into a smile. A smile for Stephen's attempt at levity in the bleak aftermath of such joy.

Transitory joy, for before dawn she must drag herself from his arms and return to her gilded prison. Stephen would be a brief flame of happiness she'd forever treasure.

"Did you hear that?" His breath tickled her ear. She smiled, thinking he referred to his own heart upon which he'd placed her hand. "Voices," he whispered, tensing.

She heard them too. A sensuous giggle, a faint hiccup. Female, though not one of her daughters, she noted with relief, relaxing until Edgar's unmistakable braying cut the air.

Edgar was just outside the flimsy boathouse. Sybil heard the faint thud as he lurched into side, evidenced by his strangled shout of pain.

She sat up, staring at Stephen, whose face in the moonlight reflected her own horror at discovery.

"Climb in, Lady Julia," they heard Edgar drawl over the sound of the other boat being dragged from its mooring. "Round two in the rotunda, eh wot?"

Lady Julia's drunken giggle issued through the thin walls of the boathouse. "And three and four, my soon-to-be Lordship. You can impress me with your sausage anytime." She laughed coarsely and Stephen and Sybil exchanged horrified glances, relieved when the thump of limbs and oars suggested both thought Edgar's idea a good one.

"We must go." It was Sybil who broke the silence with a strained whisper when Lady Julia and Edgar made it to the island, for Stephen and Sybil dared not remain where they were. Though they were well concealed by the beech trees that fringed the water's edge, it was highly possible Sir Archie might come looking for his errant wife.

Stephen helped Sybil to her feet, towering above her, before bending to drape her shawl about her shoulders, arranging it with tender care. Gently he ran his finger down the side of her face, kissing the path it made, lightly contouring her curves before pressing a final kiss to her collarbone.

In the moonlight the sincerity of his expression clutched at her heart. "No one has ever been more important to me, Sybil." His voice was taut with emotion. Full of longing.

Like Sybil, who put her lips to his warm chest, breathing in the healthy, familiar scent of him. "And no one has ever been as loved as you, Stephen."

He helped her out of the boat, holding her hand, leading the way to the beginning of the path that led around the manicured gardens to approach The Grange from behind. The sounds of grunting and squeals from the rotunda made it clear they were unlikely to be observed from that quarter, but they were silent as they navigated their way deeper into the forest until it was safe to speak.

They did not break the silence, however. Actions spoke for them. The trailing caress of Sybil's shawl as it slithered coolly across her chest. Quickly followed by Stephen's burning kisses as he went to his knees, his hands cupping her breasts as his warm mouth blazed a trail across her belly.

With her back against the tree trunk, she fisted her hands in his hair as he pleasured her until she was teetering on the edge and moaning his name, begging to feel him inside her.

One last time. One last time.

Except it would never be the last time. She would remember and she would treasure this time, and all those others, forever. Again and again.

Swiftly he rose to his feet, clasping her round her still slender waist to hoist her onto his rigid shaft, its hard, slippery length sliding into her depths while her breath left her in a gasp of pleasure and her heart thundered, her nipples and the whorls of hair at the back of her head conduits of exquisite sensation.

"Yes, my darling, come!" he urged, between a croon and a gasp. "Come!"

And in that earth-shattering second seemingly between self-destruction and ecstasy, they climaxed simultaneously, their cries of rapture calling to one another as they sank to the damp moss beneath the spreading beech.

Sybil curled into his side and Stephen cocooned her in his warmth. She felt safe. Happy. Satisfied.

For now...for a brief moment while she basked in the glory of their oneness.

Gently she skimmed the palm of her hand across his belly.

He broke the silence. "I love you, Sybil."

His words spread joy slowly through her veins, gently warming her from within. "I shall always love you, Stephen."

"And remember me? Always?"

Pain seared her. She strained to touch his lips with her own, raised her head and saw that he shared her pain. "I shall carry you in my heart. Forever."

"Perhaps you're carrying a piece of me...in your womb, right now."

She nodded slowly. "If I am, it's not why I have loved you. Now why I have given you my body. It came with my heart, you know."

"I know." He smiled, angling himself so he could reach her lips with his. Lingeringly, he kissed her.

She gave a little sob, drew a breath and said more calmly as she withdrew, "Tomorrow we must say goodbye. Perhaps forever. You have given me more joy in these past few days than I've experienced in a lifetime."

"Please don't make it sound like it was the last time, Sybil," he whispered. "I can't leave you, believing it is."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "You will go to your new life in London. Humphrey has already shown his support for you. He's made it clear you will benefit from his patronage. You are young, handsome. You will find love again. You will marry. I must accept that."

"No, Sybil. Not when I love you."

Sybil smiled. Suddenly he was the ardent young man, showing his immaturity. Or his kindness? "It is what happens. What _will_ happen. It is the way of the world."

Through clenched teeth he muttered, "I would marry you, if I could."

How world-weary and old she felt when she said, still smiling, resting her head against the trunk of the tree as she gazed at him, kneeling and intense, "But you cannot. We've had our moment. Do not feel guilty when time and distance have muted your memories of me and your heart is engaged by a candidate suitable in years, good nature and rank. I shall always think of you and I shall support your endeavors to the best of my ability— What was that?"

Tensing, they listened. Silence. About to relax, Sybil had opened her mouth to speak when the sound came again. Beech leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, which carried something else: an intense keening, rising in crescendo.

"Lady Julia's love cry?" Stephen grinned but it was not convincing. There'd been something unsettling about the sound.

When it came again on a fresh wave of anguish, Stephen rose quickly, helping Sybil to her feet. "Someone's in trouble." He took her hand and together they retraced their footsteps toward the lake as the sound grew louder. Another shrill cry. Piercing in its pain. It didn't sound anything like Lady Julia.

More like a wounded animal. Or a young girl, crying from fear and grief.

They reached the edge of the lake, gilded with moonlight as it basked in the glow of the full moon.

"Where is he? I can't find him. Where is he?"

Sybil reached her daughter first. "Hetty! What are you doing here? What's happened?"

Hetty was barefoot, standing in the shallows, staring across the lake. Not at the rotunda where Sybil's gaze immediately gravitated but at the dark waters between.

"What is it?" she cried again, this time more urgently, for Hetty looked transfixed, her eyes not on her mother whom she'd ignored.

But then she pointed, and Sybil saw the hull of the rowing boat upturned in the inky depths, illuminated by the moonlight.

Another shrill cry—not Hetty's—punctuated the silence, broken by the hoot of an owl and the gentle lapping of the water against the shoreline.

"Help me!"

Lady Julia's wail was drowned by Hetty's more urgent, "Where is he?" as she stepped forward, up to her knees now in water, still dressed in her evening clothes, her hair and eyes wild in the eerie light.

Stephen had cast off his boots and was already striding in, pushing Hetty gently back toward her mother as he launched in, making for the boat with strong, even strokes.

"Oh mama!" Hetty cried, jerking back to the present as if she'd been in a daze, before. "Edgar's in the water! Someone's got to find him!"

Sybil had to hold Hetty back from diving in after Stephen, soothing her as she put an arm about her wildly shaking shoulders, "He'll find Edgar."

"Save me, someone! I can't swim!" came Lady Julia's anguished cry as Stephen reached her.

Yet there was no sense of triumph as he delivered her thrashing body back to shore before he turned back. Edgar was missing still.

Sybil forced her attention to the water-logged young woman at her feet while Hetty kept vigil, her eyes peeled for a sign of the unworthy young man she loved.

Instead of comfort she could only mutter, "Quiet, Lady Julia! You are the one who's been saved!"

For in the next moment Stephen dragged Edgar's body from the reeds and placed it, ominously still and pale, beside the thrashing, hysterical Lady Julia.

# Chapter 16

It was Hetty's sobbing that wakened the house. That and her cries for a stable boy to be roused to fetch Dr. Marsh.

As if he would be able to do anything.

"We can't just leave him here!" Hetty had shrieked before Stephen had torn her away from her cousin's prone body, half carrying both her and Lady Julia, soaked and now silent with shock, towards to The Grange.

They'd done everything they could. They'd pounded his chest, Hetty had implored him as she'd shaken him, her hysteria rising, to wake up. But Edgar had gone. He was not coming back.

They stumbled up the stairs of the portico, hammering on the heavy oak front door, which miraculously opened when Stephen pushed it.

So much for security.

A flickering candle carried by a trembling housemaid was followed by a branch of candles brought by the butler, and then Humphrey, his gray hair sticking out from his nightcap, eyes bleary with sleep. Araminta appeared like a wraith by his side, the two of them staring silent, uncomprehending, at the sodden, bedraggled troupe at the bottom of the stairs before Hetty broke away from Stephen, screaming, "Edgar's by the lake. Fetch Dr. Marsh. He fell in and now he can't breathe. He wasn't under the water for long. Not so very long. Someone must summon Dr. Marsh."

It was Stephen who had the wits to soothe her while directing one of the servants to the stables. Thomas, the most trustworthy of the stable lads, was to be dispatched to fetch the doctor.

It was Stephen, also, who pushed Hetty before him toward the study, saying, "We need brandy," before ordering dry linen and hot drinks to be brought directly.

"Why was everybody at the lake except me?" Araminta trailed after them, her tone suggesting affront at the implied insult to her rather than concern for Edgar, though she added as an afterthought, "I'm sure if he wasn't under for long he'll sleep it off. Dr. Marsh will do something for him. Edgar loves to gammon everyone."

Stephen pushed Hetty into a chair, saying to Araminta under his breath, "There's nothing Dr. Marsh can do for Edgar. Now see your sister drinks this."

"Sybil...?" Humphrey followed them into the room. He looked very old with his hair disordered, wearing only his night clothes.

She turned, tensing for whatever was to come, glad to have Stephen in her sights, admiring his deft handling of the situation while reminding herself that neither through inference nor gesture must she incriminate him. She'd pay twofold for her crimes if it would protect Stephen. She had no idea how Humphrey might react to the truth.

"Yes, Humphrey?" She did not look at him, distracted, she knew, absentmindedly covering the front of her torn nightdress with her shawl as she hovered over Hetty, who was still convulsing with sobs.

Then with a sigh, Sybil straightened and forced herself to attend to Humphrey's obvious confusion.

When she finally met his gaze, it was like looking at a stranger. Who was this man who'd sought her bed two hours earlier? Yes, he was the man who'd fathered her four children. The man she'd dutifully loved for twenty years despite knowing he did not love her. The man she'd loved until she discovered what love really was.

Unconsciously, she traced her belly with her hand. If she were with child, she'd keep Stephen's identity secret if it killed her.

If it were necessary.

Again, as Humphrey's troubled, confused countenance blurred before her, she had no idea what to expect from him. Understanding? Compassion? Gratitude, even? Or rage. Simple rage.

She sighed again and touched the cool, smooth sleeve of Humphrey's silk banyan, as if to ground him as he came closer. "Lady Julia and Edgar went to the rotunda. I don't know what happened, Humphrey. I think Edgar must have fallen out of the boat as they were returning."

They glanced at Hetty, the center of Stephen and Araminta's attention as they forced her to drink the brandy. Everyone wanted to know what had happened. Such an extraordinary accident in the middle of the night.

"You must ask Hetty, Humphrey," she said. "I found her by the edge of the lake, up to her knees as she tried to retrieve Edgar herself." She lowered her voice. "She must have followed Edgar and Lady Julia there."

"And Stephen?"

Sybil flicked a glance at Stephen, glad he was still clad in evening clothes and that she was the only one dressed for sleep. It made her story as an innocent bystander more plausible. Really, she didn't care if she had to swing for all their sins, but she must for the meantime concoct a plausible account of all their actions to Humphrey.

Sybil shrugged. "No doubt he couldn't sleep. There was a lot of excitement this evening."

Humphrey stared. Distractedly, he rubbed his eyes. "Lady Julia and _Edgar_?"

Sybil nodded. "One can only imagine Hetty's distress. But perhaps you should ask Hetty. She'll be questioned by the magistrate, no doubt. There'll have to be an investigation. It's best if she's encouraged to tell us everything now."

They crowded round to hear her tale. Araminta sat on the sofa beside her and took her hand, stroking it, pretending sisterly solicitude, Sybil thought uncharitably. Araminta seemed more fascinated than shocked by the means of her erstwhile betrothed's death.

"You mean you saw Lady Julia following Edgar across the lawn after he'd pretended to you he was going to bed?" She sounded outraged. "Then what happened?"

Hetty explained how she had stood at her window, vacillating between quietly retiring for the night or following Edgar and confronting him.

"I decided I had to tell him how I felt," she said in a small voice. "Cousin Stephen had said it would be helpful—for both of us."

Araminta made a small, strangled noise in her throat before asking, "It did not occur to you that Lady Julia's presence might prove an impediment?"

Hetty dabbed at her damp eyes with a handkerchief. "I thought Edgar was heading for the lake because he was miserable about you, Araminta, and that Lady Julia might be thinking she could console him." She shrugged. "But then I discovered she was there to console him in other ways."

"What other ways? What else did you see?" There was a prurient gleam in Araminta's eye.

Stephen said hastily, "I don't think Hetty wants to go into too much detail."

"Since she'll be asked by the magistrate, surely it's best she recounts it first here?" Araminta objected. "Come, Hetty. You can tell us."

On a wail, Hetty replied, "They were on the grass outside the rotunda when I reached the edge of the lake. I could see them in the moonlight. They were kissing... _More._ " She shook her head. "It was horrible. I started screaming at them."

She looked scornfully at their house guest who was shivering in front of the low fire, rubbing at her sodden dress with a strip of dry linen the maid had just brought her. "But Lady Julia just laughed at me, then said to Edgar the fun was over and they should return."

Araminta squeezed her sister's arm. "So you waited, like an avenging angel, to greet them with the full force of your righteousness, only Edgar toppled into the water when he saw how angry you were." She seemed impatient for the facts.

Hetty ignored her. Her eyes and nose were streaming as she stared at her hands. "Edgar pushed the boat from the shore and then leapt into it. It made quite some distance but he was still trying to regain his balance when it was already halfway across. Then he just simply pitched forward. He didn't even try to save himself. At least, it didn't look like it. I didn't see him again after that. Not...not until..."

Araminta put her arm about her sister's shoulders. "Edgar was obviously foxed. He'd drunk a great deal and people often simply lose consciousness when they're bosky."

Sybil wondered how she was such an authority on the matter as her elder daughter went on with a sigh. "You did everything you could, from what I can tell," indicating Hetty's gown, sodden to the waist. "As did Cousin Stephen."

Sybil exchanged glances with him. She was expecting to be quizzed further on her role. "Araminta, please take your sister to her room," she said. "Summon Mary to help her out of her wet things and into bed. I shall be up shortly."

It was a tone that brooked no objection. Araminta had only to look at her mother's face, and the expressions on the faces of her father and Stephen to know she must obey.

"Lady Julia must be helped to bed also," Sybil said in an undertone to the men when Araminta and Hetty had gone. "How do you propose we tackle that?"

Humphrey looked at his shaking, uncomprehending houseguest with disfavor, indecision in his tone as he asked, "Should her husband be told or do we strive for discretion? She could be dried off and put in a spare room for the night."

Sybil looked inquiringly at her husband. "What do you do when your actions are contrary to what you'd wish your nearest and dearest to be privy to, Humphrey?"

Brushing off her comment with a grunt, Humphrey leaned over Lady Julia and spoke to her in loud, clear tones. "My wife will have her lady's maid attend to you, madam. It is perhaps wise to put your unfortunate condition down to an accidental dunking in the fishpond when you missed your footing during a stroll about the garden in the moonlight with Araminta, who wished to confide in you regarding a matter pertaining to her London season."

Stephen raised one eyebrow and Sybil marveled with heavy irony, "My goodness, Humphrey, one might imagine you were in the habit of concocting Bunbury tales to cover your tracks." She reached down and, with a brisk tug, helped Lady Julia rise. "I shall return shortly, gentlemen," she said from the door, one arm about Lady Julia's waist. "Hopefully Dr. Marsh will be here soon."

Lady Julia's fear was evident as Sybil led her along the corridor towards her room. "If Edgar has drowned the tale will be all over town," she whimpered. "What will be said of me?"

Sybil was reassuring. "We want as little scandal as you, Lady Julia. Edgar had drunk a great deal tonight and was clearly not responsible for his actions. This is not the first accident to claim a healthy young man when he's in his cups."

She returned to the others after a quick detour to her own room to change her torn nightgown and tidy herself.

Stephen and Humphrey had their heads together. They looked up at her entrance.

"Dr. Marsh is on his way, according to the stable lad, and Stephen will lead him to the lake," Humphrey said. "I have also reminded Stephen that in the event of Edgar's death, he reverts, once again, to being my heir." He cleared his throat and directed Sybil an incisive look. "That is, if we have no more sons of our own."

Sybil followed Humphrey's gaze, touching her belly as horror ripped through her, but before she could order her thoughts, the sound of Dr. Marsh's carriage could be heard rolling up the driveway.

As Humphrey strode forward to open the double doors of the drawing room, which opened onto the terrace, Sybil gripped Stephen's sleeve to detain him.

"Dear God, Stephen, what have I done to you?" she gasped, pulling him into the shadows of the heavy curtains that covered the deep window seat as Humphrey went onto the terrace speak to the doctor. "You are Humphrey's heir. Yet if you have succeeded in what I begged of you—to plant a seed in my womb—then I have blighted your future." She was close to tears. "Forever."

Stephen put a hand on her shoulders and tilted her chin up with a forefinger. His look was grave. So much smoldered in its depths—regret, adoration...and yes, doubt. But she could see no recrimination.

"You acted for the good of the family, Sybil...darling." Lingeringly, he trailed his finger across her collarbone. Closing his eyes on a sigh, he smiled when he looked at her again. "Only time will tell. But you mustn't blame yourself—whatever happens."

They could hear Humphrey conversing with the doctor in a low undertone just a few yards away yet Stephen took her in his arms like a lover. Although they were part hidden, Humphrey need only turn and strain his eyes to witness their forbidden embrace.

Sybil wilted against him, joy cutting through every other emotion as he declared, "If striding out there and announcing to His Lordship that I claim you for my own would bring us happiness, I'd do it." Passion limned his whisper and in the clouded depths of his eyes Sybil saw that he meant every word. He shook his head and the pain in his voice sliced through her as he added, "But an adulterous wife can be cast off by her husband too easily. Lord knows I'd gladly have you live with me—forever—but..." He shrugged and for the first time she saw helpless regret cloud his features. "I have nothing to offer you. No money and, if your husband were vengeful, no prospects." Painfully, he burst out, "God, Sybil, I'd die before I hurt you."

Rapture made her giddy. He was in love with her. She swayed in his arms, reaching her hands up to pull down his face for another kiss, murmuring against his lips, "I would choose happiness in a hovel with you, Stephen, any day over a loveless marriage in this house; in this...gilded prison." She drew back. Tenderly, she traced the beloved contours of his face, her heart pounding as she whispered, "But you are young with your life ahead of you. Possibly I have already blighted your prospects. If you are no longer to be heir you must at least be allowed to prosper and enjoy what is the right of every young man of courage and integrity: a position of responsibility and importance—and Humphrey can see that you are offered that. I will not hold you back."

Wonderingly, she traced his mouth, committing his lips to memory. For memories were all she would have, though the knowledge that she was loved filled her with bittersweet joy.

Loved where she'd never thought possible.

It was enough. Enough to sustain her through what she must endure in the next...five years? Twenty?

"You'll always know where I am." He winced as if her touch were too much for him to bear, even as he moved in to her. "And if you ever need me, Sybil, you have only to ask. If I am in Timbuktu or the Spice Islands, I will come." He broke off to glance back towards the sound of voices.

The stable lads had arrived and Humphrey had broken off his discussion with the doctor in order to direct them to lead Dr. Marsh to the lake.

Stephen's declarations became more urgent. "Sybil, I mean what I say. When I go to London, I want you to know I am only three hours' hard ride away and that I'd do anything, drop anything, say anything...if you ever need my help. You must believe that."

She nodded. She'd never believed anything more.

"And Sybil—"

"Hush, Stephen! Humphrey's coming."

He gripped her shoulders tightly and brought his face close. "Always know I love you, Sybil. _For_ always."

"Sybil? Stephen?"

Humphrey's voice intruded, loud and demanding. He was nearly upon them. Stephen drew her farther into the shadows, his arms sliding down her back and behind her head to draw her deeply into his kiss.

His final kiss.

Fire tore through her as she cleaved to him, glorying in the sensations only Stephen had ever evoked within her once-parched heart and soul.

With a shuddering sigh he broke away, then, taking a step forward, he managed to sound almost casual as he replied, "Yes, my lord," though he still held Sybil's hand tightly. He turned back and lowered his head, his whisper the final, flimsy thread she had to cling to. "I don't believe in hopeless farewells." He touched his chest, his heart. "This is where you will live, Sybil." Then he broke the contact as he prepared to step out from behind the curtain to properly respond to His Lordship.

On a second thought, he turned to once more grip Sybil's shoulders with even greater urgency. "Did you mean what you said, my love?" His eyes seemed to shred her soul. "About preferring poverty with me?"

She nodded. "I've never been more sincere—" She cut the words short, fear at his youthful impetuosity flooding her with panic. "No, Stephen, you mustn't."

He slid his hands down to grip her hands, pulling her with him from behind the curtain so that she blinked, dazed in the light. Exposed...

The doctor had followed the stable lads out of the room and now only Humphrey was there. He cocked his head, his expression was quizzical. Probably the events of the night had addled his sense of reality. Then, perhaps perceiving the flushed countenance of his reinstated heir and the agitation of his wife, he inquired slowly, his tone now laced with suspicion, "Mustn't what...my dear?"

Sybil shook her head. To utter a single word might condemn Stephen when he still had an opportunity to wriggle out of what he'd incautiously begun.

But Stephen paid no heed to the urgent, resisting tug of her hand. Retaining it in a vise-like grip, he straightened his shoulders and there was no trace of uncertainty in his tone when he replied, "My lord, I am in love with Lady Partington and I seek her happiness above all else—yet that can only happen with your approbation."

The widening of his eyes and apparent loss of balance was the only indication Humphrey had even heard. He opened his mouth to speak, transferring his incredulous expression from Stephen's brave, determined face to Sybil's no-doubt cowering expression before demanding, "Are you bamboozling me?"

Stephen cocked his head, bringing Sybil's hand briefly to his lips before saying, "With all due respect, it is common knowledge, my lord, that you've kept a mistress for the duration of your marriage." He cleared his throat. "I realize that I risk both Lady Partington's happiness and that of my own by approaching the matter with such boldness, and yet I had hoped to appeal to your generous...and liberal nature by making a clean breast of things. Skullduggery is not my favored course, and so I would ask you now to sanction a union between your wife and myself along the lines of the one you've enjoyed with Mrs. Hazlett."

Had Stephen really said that? Spoken so transparently of matters which were never discussed between even Sybil and Humphrey?

Sybil glanced fearfully at her husband, whose growing apoplexy in the lengthening silence didn't augur well. She put her hand on his sleeve and said apologetically, "I know it's a shock, Humphrey, and I did try to warn you when I mentioned I'd taken you at your word after you indicated a preference for handing the estate over to the head stable lad rather than Edgar—"

"I never did!"

"You did, Humphrey. And you were completely against the idea of siring your own heir, and since you'd taken such a shine to Stephen, I persuaded him to help me do what I thought would ultimately please you, and that would, I hoped, ensure Hetty's happiness—ensure Edgar was not going to be heir and therefore marry Araminta." She swallowed. She stared at her feet before casting an imploring look at his face. "Things got rather out of hand after that."

Humphrey shook his head, his mouth opening and closing as if he couldn't push out the right words. Finally he said, "Are you suggesting an heir might already be in the offing?"

Sybil glanced at Stephen as she unconsciously contoured her belly, then at her husband. "It's more than possible, and if so, I am fully sensible of the bitter irony in having thus blighted Stephen's prospects."

Stephen cleared his throat. "I bear Lady Partington no ill will, should that indeed come to pass. My most pressing concern, however, is if you will sanction a discreet union between your wife and myself." His impatience was clearly growing. "Araminta and Hetty will soon remove to London for the season and presumably their mother will accompany them. As we'd discussed this evening, a position in the Foreign Office seems not impossible. However, should it not eventuate, tonight's handsome winnings—thanks to your Lordship's generous machinations—will be sufficient to see me through the next few months, should you reconsider your generous offer in backing me."

Humphrey seemed suddenly to snap into renewed life. "Are you _really_ asking for my blessing? Asking me to sanction this scandalous...outrageous situation?" His eyes bulged and he had to grip the curtain to steady himself. "You've made a cuckold of me...yet you have the cheek to believe I may still offer you my patronage?"

It was rare Humphrey was so moved to anger, but it was a necessary catharsis, Sybil believed, in an all-but intolerable situation for her husband. "Humphrey, Stephen takes a grave risk in bringing this into the open when we could have carried on a clandestine affair and you'd have been none the wiser regarding the two of us and the paternity of the child who might one day inherit." She strove to sound soothing rather than combative. "You have every legal right to cast me off yet I ask you, what good would that serve? The scandal would be intolerable and if there were no child, or it were a girl, Stephen would still be your heir. For years I've begged you to lie with me so I might conceive another son."

At his bluster of embarrassed outrage she held up her hand for silence. "It seems that since George's death you've thrown yourself into being Lizzy Hazlett's husband to the extent you are completely unable to perform your conjugal obligations. Yes, Humphry, conjugal _obligations_." Humphrey's mounting anger was beginning to frighten her but for once she took the initiative instead of abjectly accepting whatever he chose to mete out to her. She pushed out her bosom and said with more force than she'd managed in twenty years, "Believe me, if you choose to follow the path of a publicly disgraced, cuckolded husband and discard me and cut Stephen off without a penny, I will disseminate every sordid aspect of our marriage and reasons behind its dissolution to the courts and to the world." She took a deep breath. "Do you really want that?"

Humphrey's telling silence suggested Sybil's argument had found fertile ground, yet when he suddenly burst out, "Is Stephen a complete and utter fool that he would risk his future for love of _you_ , Sybil?" she cringed at the denigration she was so used to.

Stephen drew in an outraged breath and would have spoken had Humphrey not continued, "If you are not already carrying Stephen's child further dealings with you all but ensure that he is throwing away any chance he has of inheriting the estate." He nearly choked on the words, "Do you think you're really worth the boy ruining his future?"

Sybil felt the tears well up behind her eyes as she shrank into herself. He spoke only the truth.

Rallying behind this new approach, Humphrey's tone became almost conciliatory. "Stephen, my boy. You're young. Only twenty-five. You don't know what love is." He clapped him on the shoulder, almost fatherly. "Sybil has enticed you into what was, no doubt, a well-meaning attempt to ensure Edgar didn't inherit and you've been seduced by the excitement and novelty of an older woman throwing herself at you—"

"With due respect, you misinterpret the situation, my Lord." Stephen spoke crisply as he drew back from Humphrey's touch. "I am no green boy. I understand very well the ramifications for my own future and I understand my heart and mind very well. I'm willing to take whatever risks—and precautions—necessary to secure Lady Partington's happiness, which runs in accord with mine. All I ask is for your...understanding."

"Understanding!"

Stephen nodded calmly, as if Lord Partington had repeated the word with approbation rather than in outrage. He went on, "I wish to pursue a career—and I believe my experience abroad equips me for distinguishing myself in the Foreign Office—at the same time as enjoying the domestic felicity with Sybil that you have enjoyed these past twenty years with Mrs. Hazlett." He spoke with quiet authority, adding, "We are both grown men who understand what is worth fighting for, but know, too, when it is wiser to back down."

His expression softened as he gazed at Sybil, tense with terror and expectation beside him, before confronting Lord Partington once more. "It is my understanding, my Lord, that you bitterly regretted the fact you allowed yourself to be influenced by your pater in the matter of your marriage to Lady Partington when your desire was for a union with Mrs. Hazlett." He paused before lowering his voice to add softly, "In that light, surely you can understand why I take such bold risks to secure _my_ future happiness?"

Stephen's closeness and his championing words were like a physical caress. _Dear Lord_ , prayed Sybil, _let Humphrey show the kindness of which I know he is capable_.

Tensely, she watched him battle the expected emotions he'd feel at this bolt from the blue—injured pride, incredulity, anger...

Terrified but desperate, she whispered, "You've never loved me, Humphrey. You've apologized for it for years. Please," she begged, "allow me just a little happiness. We cannot change what has happened. I may be with child or I may not. If I am, it may never be born or it may be a girl, in which case the succession remains unchanged." She reached for Stephen's hand and, gripping it tightly, added, "If I am not, we have every incentive to ensure I do not become _enceinte_ so that Stephen remains your heir—a situation, I might add, that you seemed perfectly content to accept when the idea of conjugal relations with me was clearly repugnant and against your notion of honor and fidelity toward Mrs. Hazlett."

Humphrey opened his mouth to speak, closed it again then turned away, shaking his head as he muttered, "God knows it was a sorry day I bowed to my father's dictates and wed you, Sybil."

Stephen stepped in front of him. "Then you cannot be surprised, my Lord, when I tell you that if you do not condone a discreet union between Sybil and myself that we will defy you anyway, despite the scandal which will cost us _all_ , dearly, and despite the pecuniary and other obstacles that you are in a position to throw at us."

He pulled Sybil close to him as if to protect her, adding fiercely, "You may feel you need time to think about this, my Lord, but we are not awaiting your decision—for ours is made already. Come, Sybil."

They were almost at the door when Lord Partington ground out, "Wait!"

They turned, the expectation almost more than Sybil could bear as she watched the anguished workings of her husband's expression. His unkempt gray hair added to his air of defeat—for that's what she recognized, and she was almost sorry for him as she accepted the pain his years at her side had caused him.

He glared at Stephen. "You are due to leave for London tomorrow. I've already written a letter of introduction on your behalf to my contacts in the Foreign Office." He paused. "I had intended giving to you before you left."

Sybil stalled down her desperate disappointment. Stephen's bold gamble had not paid off. Humphrey was going to cast Stephen adrift and Sybil would spend the rest of her life torturing herself with self-recrimination. With her role in her beloved's fall from grace.

Half way across the Aubusson carpet, with Sybil's hand held tightly in his, Stephen halted, and nodded curtly. "Then we go without your blessing, my Lord. For Sybil is coming with me. She will not remain here, a prisoner."

"A prisoner! Ha!" Lord Partington's tone was bitter. "I've been a prisoner for twenty years!" He scratched his stubbled jaw. "Sybil is not going with you, Stephen, for the scandal would ruin us all. But—"

Sybil returned Stephen's convulsive grip on her hand as she, too, tensed for what was about to come.

"But..." He exhaled on a great sigh and his shoulders slumped. "You leave here with my support and prospective employment on one condition."

Stephen's inquiring look was his only response before Lord Partington finished, "Sybil and I will continue this charade of a marriage for the sake of appearances, naturally. To do anything else would ruin Araminta's and Hetty's chances in the short term, besides, though it would appear your bold risk, Stephen, in pushing for an outcome here and now had not factored that into the equation."

"I believed it would be a matter _you'd_ factor into the equation, my Lord," Stephen muttered, staring first at the cream and gold design of the floor rug, then his benefactor's craggy face, "and fortunately it appears I was right."

Humphrey allowed himself a wry smile. "Perhaps you are a better judge of character than I thought." He seemed to deflate on a final weary sigh. "Go to London, my boy, and make a man of yourself. You can see Sybil when she takes the girls to town to launch Hetty in two months—not before."

He held up his hand for silence as Stephen gasped, apparently about to object. "Let us see what notions of fidelity a green boy can uphold when surrounded by the temptations of the city." He hesitated. "You may yet thank me for my goodwill in agreeing to your terms on the proviso of this cooling-off period."

Sybil's mouth dropped open. She glanced at Stephen and intercepted his expression. Where she might have seen hesitation she saw only unalloyed joy before Stephen moved forward to shake Humphrey's hand, saying, "Two months is nothing to wait if I know I retain Sybil's heart while I impatiently bide my time until I can see her again."

Sybil had never seen him smile so broadly. He turned his smile back to her. "Sybil is my angel. She will make me the best I can be. I know it." He spoke with such fervor Sybil's heart swelled and the tears prickled behind her eyelids.

"Thank you, Humphrey," she said simply.

"But discretion will be paramount," her husband said darkly, frowning, as he broke the handshake.

"Yes, Humphrey," Sybil whispered, thrilling to the fact that her delight was still reflected in Stephen's smile. Humphrey had imposed conditions but Stephen clearly felt he'd won a victory.

Humphrey turned on his heel, still glowering. "And now I have the matter of my nephew's body to attend to," he said, acidly. "In case you'd forgotten, Dr. Marsh will soon be back and there'll be an inquest. You'll have to come back from London for that."

He looked at Stephen, whose grin broadened as he answered, "With alacrity, my Lord."

Humphrey merely harrumphed before turning his back on them. Sybil and Stephen watched as he headed toward the door to look out across the moonlit lawns.

Then his voice, soft but distinct, punctuated the almost disbelieving silence as Sybil and Stephen held each other's hands and turned to gaze in one another's eyes.

"May you have joy of her, Stephen," he muttered. His words floated across the few yards that separated them and as Sybil looked at her husband's green-silk-clad back she nevertheless felt a stab of remorse for failing in her impossible duty. Lord Partington shook his head as if weighed down by the past. His look was sorrowful. "It's not her fault she's brought me little enough of it..." He sighed heavily, adding, "But perhaps she deserves what happiness you can give her."

Sybil was too used to backhanded compliments to be troubled. Being enfolded in Stephen's strong, fervent embrace before his mouth came down, hard and passionate upon hers, was compensation enough.

# Epilogue

**_T wo months later_**

It had been exciting enough whipping up his new bays as he left London to return to The Grange, but as Stephen dismounted in the stables and prepared to make his discreet entrance to the home where he'd been so warmly welcomed, he felt like a schoolboy on the cusp of his greatest adventure.

Yet he'd had adventures to last him a lifetime. The years fighting in the Peninsular Campaign had truncated his youth and brought him low for a spell yet, today, youthful optimism was in the ascendant as he trod purposefully over the cobblestones towards the kitchen door.

He wanted to arrive unobserved. If possible, he wanted to see his darling Sybil, alone for a few minutes, before anyone else knew he was here.

"Cousin Stephen! You're back already!" Hetty's girlish cry of excitement caused him to jerk up his head but his disappointment was short-lived as she hurled herself into his arms before he was even half way to the kitchen steps.

For her greeting was genuine; as if he were her most favourite cousin in all the world.

How could one not love a girl who flaunted her heart on her sleeve in such an artless manner?

"Oh, we've missed you so much, Cousin Stephen. And even mama looks all misty eyed when your name is brought up. Why, it's been so long. And you look so handsome!" She couldn't seem to stop talking as she took a step back and raked him with admiring eyes. Eyes that, when in the presence of someone trusted, looked bright and merry in her pretty face. Yes, _pretty_ was an apt description, he suddenly thought, for never more had she resembled Sybil with her sweetly pursed lips and her soft, rounded cheek hinting at the softness in her heart.

Still, she was prattling on—and goodness, but he liked to hear it for it made him truly feel a part of something bigger than himself; a part of a family that embraced him.

"And I hear you've already distinguished yourself in the Foreign Office and are working on some very important matters to keep our country safe."

He was glad she seemed able to focus on what was ahead rather than dwelling on her cousin Edgar's death. Bad business, all round.

"I don't know about that, Hetty," he said, fondly, allowing her to lead him to the bench beneath the apple tree rather than into the house. "Yes, there is work that occupies me and keeps me out of trouble—"

"Apprehending dangerous villains?" She sounded excited as she sat down, patting the seat beside her.

"Villains parading as gentlemen might be a better way to describe it—am I not right, Cousin Stephen?"

A shadow crossed over them as a velvety voice interjected and Araminta leaned over the back of the bench, unexpectedly kissing Stephen on the cheek. "Welcome home, Cousin Stephen. So...! You're daily occupied by _dangerous gentlemen_? Oh, do promise me you'll introduce me to any villainous suspects when we're all in London next month?"

Stephen glanced from sweet Hetty to her sister, as Araminta moved in front of them to rest her shapely form against the tree trunk. He wondered how the sisters could be related.

Wondered, also, how Araminta could be his darling, tender-hearted Sybil's child. Araminta had gained in self assurance in the two months since he'd been back.

Contemplating the beautiful young woman, he was reminded of the glossy arachnid he'd recruited for the summer's eventful house party; the glossy harbinger of evil who'd sunk her fangs into her mate when the poor puny spider had done as was required and was no longer of use.

But then, he thought, more charitably, that glossy arachnid had also won him his wager, plumped up his pocket book and restored his self esteem.

"I shall do no such thing, Cousin Araminta," he said amiably. "Your mother and I will be in London to ensure that you and your sister meet only eligible gentlemen. Not dangerous gentlemen. In fact, I can hear her now, exhorting me to ensure that not a single one of _those_ crosses your path. It shall be my mission to carry out such a properly motivated mother's wish," he teased.

Araminta sent him rather an odd look and Stephen realised the way he'd phrased his relationship with Sybil did make it sound rather odd.

Indeed it was. But it was right and with time it would only be cemented.

"I must pay my respects to Lord and Lady Partington," he said, rising, more eager than ever to find Sybil.

And to be alone with her.

"I'm afraid papa is not here so you'll have to make do with just mama's company." Araminta sounded bored as she plucked a leaf from the tree. "But she may be sleeping. She's been poorly the last few days. Perhaps we could go for a walk by the lake, instead, Cousin Stephen."

The last thing Stephen was going to do was endanger himself by taking up such a proposal. Dismissing it with as much charm as he could manage, he excused himself and hurried in search of Sybil, saying anxiously as he was admitted into her private sitting room and the door had closed upon them, leaving them alone, "My darling girl, I hear you've been unwell. Nothing too alarming, I hope."

Sybil opened her eyes at his entrance and the pure unadulterated joy he saw in their depths rocked him to the core. By God, this was real, he thought as he enfolded her in his arms, taking a seat beside her on the chaise longue.

With a deep sigh of what seemed to be happy satisfaction, she dropped her head onto his shoulder. He'd been anticipating a reunion charged with desperate passion but seeing Sybil pale and wan made him only want to comfort her.

"Stephen, my love, I have missed you desperately since you've been gone," she whispered. She snuggled against him, closing her eyes.

"So your ill health is nothing worse than a broken heart?" Relieved by her reassurance, he toyed with her ringlets and stroked her face but to his consternation a large tear rolled down her right cheek.

Anxiety churned in his gut. This was not like the stoic Sybil he knew. He gripped her hand and waited, tensely.

"Dr March confirmed yesterday I am with child. Between two and three months gone, he believes." She bit her lip and stared anxiously into his eyes as she fiddled with the silk tie of her dressing gown. As if she were nervous as to his reaction.

And indeed, it changed everything for him.

"That's wonderful news!" It came from the heart. He'd not have imagined he'd be so excited and it was his initial sensation before he understood Sybil's concerns. He squeezed her hands and brought them up to his lips to kiss. "I'm to be a father! Do you know how joyful that makes me feel? Together, you and I are to have a child. Isn't that the greatest of bonds?"

"But the ramifications for you, Stephen—"

"It was bound to happen sooner or later. I've no intentions of leaving you, Sybil. Not now, not ever. See, I've come back to say in person what I hope I've made clear in my letters: offer my pledge of eternal fidelity." He touched his heart. "You worry that the twelve or so years between us makes it inevitable our love is will run its course; that the time will come when I will want to marry and have my own family." He cupped her face and kissed her brow before reverently placing his hand upon her belly and his heart rate accelerated wildly. He was going to be a father! In a voice more soothing than the one shouting its excitement in his head, he went on, "But we will soon have our own family, Sybil. That's more important to me than anything."

"A child that possibly may cheat you out of your rightful inheritance because I insisted—"

"Cheat?" He shook his head. "It may be a girl, in which case nothing changes. But if it's not, I shall take the greatest pride in guiding our son towards manhood with a realistic notion of his responsibilities." Galvanised by this thought, he went on, "Don't you see, this is my chance to show him how to be a man in a way that I was not shown. My father was a wastrel with little concern for me and my mother cared only for pleasure. The more her beauty faded, the more destructive she became. I see all of that now, just as I see what we have—and are about to have—as the greatest opportunity to put right what has been wrong in my life." He offered her a smile and, indeed, it truly came from his heart. One full of hope and joy that he was part of something good and pure and meaningful. "You, darling Sybil, you have been my salvation, don't you see?"

He was pleased that his words seemed to cheer her. With a little more energy, she reached up and stroked his brow. "I did not believe love like this was possible," she whispered, another tear rolling down her cheek. "I'm sorry for being so sentimental. I think it's the baby's fault. I was always in good health with the others but hopelessly emotional and too full of worries for the responsibilities I carried. Shall you mind, Stephen?"

"Try me, and I think you'll find I won't." He gave a short laugh to jolly her out of her concerns and hugged her against his chest. "I like to have problems to fix so you just tell me your cares and worries and I shall enjoy having some worthwhile mission to expedite. What concerns you right now, my love? Other than the baby, that is, for the baby is _our_ concern but it is only a wonderful thing—provided you remain healthy."

Sighing, Sybil rubbed her belly through the thin silk of her peignoir. She hesitated, then said, "In two months, when Araminta and Hetty are launched, I may be less able to chaperone them and keep a watchful eye over them, than I'd like."

"Then I shall accompany them everywhere! There! Problem solved." He grinned. Truly, he wanted to leap up and dance a jig. Of course, he recognised that the physical between them would be curtailed but he was more than ready to embrace the compensations. He would be a father and, with Lord Partington's growing acceptance of the situation—which had been subtly communicated—Stephen would indeed be in a position to enjoy the conjugal and marital felicity with Sybil he craved.

"It's Araminta I worry about. She'll be a trial to you, Stephen," Sybil warned. "Hetty will wear her heart on her sleeve and, with her dowry, attract someone eligible if unexciting, I suspect. Someone I hope she can love. But Araminta is my immediate concern. She is reckless. She has the potential to create a drama that I fear...may embroil the whole family."

"I understand your concern," Stephen conceded, grim for a moment before adding as he helped her to her feet and led her to the bed, "But I've already told the girls, themselves, that I shall ensure that _no_ dangerous gentlemen cross their paths."

"Stephen, what are you doing?"

He looked down at her, surprised, as he tucked the bed clothes about her. "Making you comfortable. Looking after you and our child."

"You're not going to join me?"

Hesitating, he shook his head. "You're carrying a baby, Sybil."

"You surely don't imagine that means we can no longer..." To his surprise and amusement, she colored up, before clearing her voice and saying, "But of course, I hear some husbands can't bear the idea of—" Pressing her lips together suddenly, she stopped and, intrigued, he lowered himself onto the mattress beside her and took her hands lightly in his, his feet still firmly on the floor.

He was most interested to learn more about the realities of what he'd only assumed to be the case when a woman was expecting but first he asked, "You're embarrassed, Sybil. Why? Was it your reference to the word _husband_? For that is what I am to you, in all but name—Let's make that perfectly clear! But now, tell me what I need to know regarding the two of us in the bedroom department. I shall be guided entirely by you."

It was as if Sybil had finally received all the reassurance from him she needed for light and joy seemed suddenly to radiate from her. She shifted beneath the covers and Stephen saw that she was making room for him.

"Did you lock the door behind you, my love?" she murmured, a wicked look transforming her from concerned-mother-imbued-with-a-Madonna-like glow to intriguing vixen with some wicked plan up her sleeve.

"I shall do so right now!" he said with alacrity, covering the distance to the heavy oak-panelled door with determined, enthusiastic steps.

When he returned, a warm, welcoming space had been made for him upon the mattress beside Sybil. Not long after that, Stephen was enjoying an even warmer welcome than he'd anticipated for the two eternal months he'd been parted from his true love.

With welcomes like this to look forward to, he decided as he contoured Sybil's soft, womanly belly and buried his face in her fragrant hair, he would endure anything to protect the happiness he'd found at last.

**_The End_**

**Does Araminta embroil the Partington family in scandal? Or, does Hetty?**

**Read _Dangerous Gentlemen_ to find out.**

# Dangerous Gentlemen
# Chapter 1

Brushing beetles out of her cleavage as she shrouded herself in the fronds of a concealing potted palm was not how Hetty envisaged making her grand London debut.

Nor had she expected to feel quite so wretched watching Sir Aubrey ask her beautiful sister for the third dance of the evening.

Of course, she _had_ prepared herself for such an eventuality. All the gentlemen thought Araminta a prime article. She'd learned this, and many other interesting facts while in hiding.

"Have you seen Miss Henrietta? Her chaperone appears to have lost sight of her and was asking."

Hetty held her breath and stepped behind a tasseled green velvet curtain as a pair of young ladies, whom she recognised as Lady Knox's nieces, walked leisurely by.

"Have you seen _Miss Araminta Partington_?" the other young lady countered, her tone far from complimentary. Hetty was glad Araminta was not within hearing. Not for fear of Araminta's feelings being wounded; more for fear of the consequences of Araminta's pique.

The original speaker, a pretty redhead, dropped her voice as she turned to her cousin. Hetty froze. If she reached out her hand she could have touched her Pomona green silk skirts. "You'll never guess what I overheard, Mary. Well, I'll tell you! I heard Mr Freddy Tremain wager that Miss Partington would be a duchess before the end of the season and that he wished he were a duke so she'd consider him good enough."

Hetty considered this with more resignation than surprise. Araminta's ambition was nothing new. What _was_ surprising, though, was that she would show interest in a mere baronet. For as Hetty looked past the two chattering cousins towards the dance floor as the orchestra tuned up for a cotillion, there was her bold and beautiful sister clasping hands with Sir Aubrey, the handsome baronet whose brief kindness toward Hetty at the beginning of the evening had ignited a torrent of never-before-experienced sensations. Not only had Sir Aubrey returned Hetty's fan which she'd dropped, he'd said he hoped she was enjoying the evening as much as her sister clearly was. No gentleman had ever been so solicitous towards Hetty.

Hetty didn't mind that he'd barely glanced at Hetty as he'd spoken, since his gaze was firmly fixed on Araminta who was fanning herself and laughing. The fact was, that he had actually taken notice of Hetty and evinced interest in her evening. Hetty's chest expanded with joy at the memory. Sir Aubrey was the handsomest, most interesting gentleman she'd laid eyes on since she'd arrived in London the week before.

"I feel sorry for that drab little sister of hers," Miss Mary remarked. "I'm sure her chaperone needn't worry she's been whisked into a dark corner by any gentleman here."

It was as if a heavy cloud of cotton wool had suddenly smothered Hetty. She clapped her hand to her mouth to muffle her gasp. The fact that there was pity, rather than spite in Miss Mary Knox's tone was what nearly undid her. If she could have burst out from behind the curtain and disappeared into oblivion so she didn't have to ever walk through the crush of people in the ballroom, she would have.

Instead, she was forced to listen to Miss Mary's cousin say in equally sympathetic tones, "Mama says it's a shame Miss Henrietta is such a little brown peahen compared to her sister who's such a dazzling peacock by comparison. She can't see how Miss Henrietta will make a match this season or the next if her sister is in competition. The young men like a bit of dash but mama says that knowing what is just the right amount is what's important." She giggled. "Isn't it funny what our mamas will say, sometimes, Eleanor?"

"My mama never says anything half so scandalous as yours!" gasped Eleanor before adding in confidential tones, "Though she did agree with your mama about Miss Partington and her sister. She thought perhaps some cousin might take pity on the younger one though of course there are gentlemen who'll overlook anything when considering a dowry and Miss Henrietta is nice natured and has a very handsome dowry which is what some fortune hunters consider an ideal combination."

"Oh Eleanor, you are too dreadful!"

Hetty put her hands to her flaming cheeks as the ladies resumed their gentle perambulation. In their wake, Hetty's chaperone Mrs. Monks passed by, an anxious frown turning down the corners of her thin, bloodless mouth as she obviously went in search of Hetty. Hetty's shoulders slumped and the syllabub she'd consumed during supper sat heavily in her stomach.

So, apparently she didn't need a chaperone when none of the gentleman here even noticed her because they were so dazzled by Araminta.

A little sob escaped her as she gazed across at her sister who was now linking arms with Sir Aubrey as part of the dance set. Araminta looked beautiful in gold sarcenet with her blue eyes sparkling and her glossy dark ringlets framing her high cheekbones.

Yet for a few moments earlier this evening, dressed for her first ball in her lovely silk gown with its powder-blue sash, her light-brown hair tumbling in curls from a high topknot at the apex of a center parting, Hetty, too, had felt almost beautiful.

Then Araminta had swept her aside to admire her own gleaming reflection before the looking glass.

A frisson of hurt and anger coursed through Hetty as she stepped out of hiding. Gleaming and self-satisfied were appropriate epithets for her sister, though she knew she shouldn't be uncharitable. Araminta's first season had ended under a cloud and Hetty should be pleased her sister had caught the eye of a man as seriously handsome and eligible as Sir Aubrey who was set to inherit a viscountcy and vast estates in the north.

Oh yes, in the last week Hetty had learned all she could about Sir Aubrey for tonight wasn't the first evening he'd caught her fancy. It was the evening he'd cemented her adoration.

A few minutes ago, when he'd asked Araminta for the third dance, Hetty had still held out hope he'd at least ask Hetty for one dance. She didn't begrudge Araminta her looks or her success though it was hard to rejoice in Araminta's good fortune with Sir Aubrey when Hetty still felt the pain of her sister's dismissive, "I suppose you're up to the mark as much as can be expected" after Hetty had asked her opinion on her appearance.

Still, Hetty never suffered from the blue devils for long and the lively music soon had her tapping her feet, enjoying her seclusion by the supper table, now, and fascinated by the way the light caught the extraordinary streak of white hair that cut a swathe through Sir Aubrey's dark locks. Araminta, while pointing out the peculiarities of several gentlemen of interest, had told her earlier that it was a physical trait shared by all the men in his family.

The foot-tapping stopped abruptly when Hetty saw Araminta stumble, causing Sir Aubrey to tighten his hold.

Hetty was sure she'd done it on purpose, though perhaps that was not a charitable thought and being charitable and kind were several of Hetty's few good traits, she'd learned.

Living with Araminta, however, had opened her eyes to the fact that vibrant beauties could get away without being nice or charitable, and Araminta was certainly neither. But in all those years, Hetty had not known jealousy.

The corrosive poison had only started dripping into her veins ten minutes ago at the beginning of Araminta's third dance with Sir Aubrey. Of course, she was used to seeing her sister feted, admired and in continual demand. But it was hard to witness Sir Aubrey's interest, even though Hetty had told herself a thousand times it should not come as a surprise that rakish, handsome Sir Aubrey didn't notice debutantes like plain, plump and awkward Hetty.

Glancing past a group of guests, Hetty was relieved to see Sir Aubrey was no longer dancing with Araminta, though it was hardly consoling to see him partnering another beautiful brunette.

Especially when, in the midst of conversation, he brushed a lock of the young woman's hair back from her face.

The intimacy of the gesture, or rather the look upon his face, sent tendrils of pain and pleasure deep into Hetty's belly, though these hitherto alien bodily experiences turned to fright when a familiar growl warmed her ear at the same time as the speaker delivered her a playful slap upon the rump.

"Who, may I ask, Hetty dearest, has caught your discerning eye this evening? Tell me so that I might facilitate the joyful union before season's end. You know I've made it my mission to see to your happiness."

Hetty whirled 'round, blinking up at her cousin Stephen, unsure whether pity, amusement or—God forbid—scorn would be his response when she offered her almost guilty admission as to the object of her interest.

To her surprise, it was horror. Horror delivered with surely unnecessary force, given that all of London knew Sir Aubrey Banks was a prime catch. She'd heard him discussed in such terms by more than one designing mama.

Although, registering Cousin Stephen's antipathy, Hetty reflected that there had been some caveat about Sir Aubrey's eligibility whispered in an undertone by her mama's friend Mrs. Dobson.

Stephen's earlier good humor evaporated and he looked pained as he tapped the glass of champagne he was holding with some agitation. "My dear Hetty, lose your heart to _anyone_ but Sir Aubrey," he exhorted her. "Under no circumstances can he be a candidate for your affections." Suspicion laced his next question. "He hasn't spoken to you, has he?" Stephen put his hands on her shoulders, a troubled crease between his brows. What she'd thought anger was, she now realized, the gravest concern.

"He's never looked twice at me, Cousin Stephen, and why would he? I'm in no danger from his advances." Hetty sought for the word she'd heard whispered in the drawing room in the months preceding her come-out. A word she knew no innocent debutante ought to know. "Is he a philanderer?"

Stephen returned to his natural height with a look that was part wry amusement, part censure. "No, Sir Aubrey is not a renowned philanderer, but what he is must not concern you." He became brisk. "Since it would appear you are not taken for the quadrille that is forming, perhaps you'd do me the honor?"

A passing debutante being hurried along by her chaperone cast Hetty an envious look as Hetty slipped her hand into the crook of her cousin's arm. Her confidence was returning. Not only was darling Cousin Stephen the most amenable of men, he was extraordinarily handsome. Hetty wondered why, after all these months in London, his eye had not yet been caught by some dashing creature, though she reasoned he'd want to wait the few months until it was known if he'd remain heir to The Grange. That hinged on whether the child soon to be born to Hetty's mama, Lady Partington, was a boy, in which case the infant would displace Cousin Stephen.

But if Mama had a girl, it was unlikely at her age she'd have more children and then Cousin Stephen would remain Lord Partington's heir.

Hetty hoped that would be the case. If Cousin Stephen became the new viscount, he'd surely be charitable to Hetty during the long, lonely years of inevitable spinsterhood that stretched before her.

A great sense of security enveloped her when, with a brotherly smile, he patted her hand.

Cousin Stephen had caused quite a stir when he'd first arrived at The Grange a few months earlier, for Araminta had set out with determination to snare the affections of the heir to her ancestral home. She'd lost interest, however, when Cousin Stephen's future was thrown in doubt.

Or rather, Stephen had lost interest in Araminta.

It didn't matter now. Araminta was determined to make a glittering match, Stephen's future would remain unknown for some months and Hetty looked set to finish her first season in glorious ignominy, perhaps standing up to dance only when Cousin Stephen took pity on her.

As Hetty took her place beside Stephen, she sent her sister, who was partnering an aging and apparently gout-ridden peer, as smug a look as she dared, under the circumstances. The ballroom was crowded and Araminta, who was adept at swift revenge, would understand Hetty's inference. Araminta was the queen of set-downs and Hetty had to assert herself when she could.

She was amused and a little relieved when her sister puckered her full mouth in mock adoration of the poor specimen beside her. If Araminta was able to make a joke of it, perhaps her good humor would last through the evening and she'd be less inclined to harp upon Hetty's lack of success.

Perhaps Hetty might even find she'd enjoyed herself by the end of the evening too. It was, after all, the grandest occasion she'd ever attended. Hundreds of beeswax candles cast a lustrous glow upon the assembled finery and the music and the food were of the highest quality.

As they waited to perform their steps, Hetty murmured, "You have not said, Cousin Stephen, why I should be wary of Sir Aubrey. If you have any knowledge of young ladies, you'd know your cautions are likely to have the opposite effect to that desired. Surely any designing mama would be perfectly delighted to see her daughter waltz off with such a handsome, rich gentleman of consequence?"

Stephen linked elbows with her for the next dance sequence, his lips set in a grim line. "This is no time for such a discussion, Hetty. Sir Aubrey is not the gentleman he presents to the rest of the world. Pray don't concern yourself with a scoundrel like him when there's a roomful of eligible young men who'd be only too delighted to further their acquaintance with you."

This was hardly consolation, Hetty reflected. Good-natured Stephen had grown increasingly serious since taking up his position in the Foreign Office, though he clearly enjoyed the new responsibilities he'd assumed with the backing of his cousin, Hetty's father. Viscount Partington was obviously fond of Stephen and had pulled strings to secure a position he believed would engage Stephen's mind if he were to be ousted as heir.

"A scoundrel?" Hetty scanned the crowd for another glimpse of the gentleman who'd grown even more fascinating since Stephen's strictures. With an unexpected pang, she found him partnering exactly the kind of bold and strikingly pretty young lady she would expect. Her gaze lingered on his mouth, lips pressed together almost grimly until his features were suddenly reordered by a moment's animation, his dark- brown eyes lighting up and his lips curving to reveal good, strong teeth. When he brushed his hand across his elegantly chiseled sideburns to rake back his springy dark hair, cut short on the sides and worn longer and slightly brushed forward on top, Hetty shivered, completely in thrall.

Before she'd come to London, the only men she'd known were country squires and their uninspiring sons and...Cousin Edgar.

With sadness, she remembered her old playmate, kind but doltish Edgar, who'd died in a boating accident some months before. She'd believed the affection had been mutual until Araminta had lured him away with no more than the crook of her little finger.

"Surely I'm allowed to cast my gaze upon him?" She spoke softly and was ashamed at the longing in her voice as she looked up into her cousin's pitying eyes.

Stephen smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I can't stop you but perhaps if I entrust you with a great secret—one I would reveal to no one else—it might temper your adolescent fantasies." With a surreptitious glance at their neighbors waiting, like them, to perform their steps, he put his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Sir Aubrey is a suspected Spencean...a traitor to king and crown. If he's convicted, you know what penalty that carries."

Instead of rewarding this damning statement with the no-doubt horror expected, Hetty squared her shoulders. "Then why is he not awaiting trial?"

"Securing evidence is my job." Stephen looked uncomfortable. "If that's not sufficient to damn him in your eyes, then I must speak with a frankness I would ordinarily not employ when addressing an innocent debutante."

"Really, Cousin Stephen, you're sounding more and more like some pompous and important man of government than my cousin. I have no delicate sensibilities. I simply want to know how an apparently _persona non grata_ —if that's the right term—can be allowed to rub shoulders with the _haute ton_ and dance with...innocent debutantes like me. Surely if his reputation is so fearful, he'd have been forcibly removed by the very supercilious butler who greeted us?"

Stephen looked unimpressed. Lowering his head again, he muttered, "Don't shriek, then, Hetty, when I tell you that Sir Aubrey was married to a woman who became so fearful of him she ran away to seek refuge with her cousin, the new Viscount Debenham, as he's become known since his recent inheritance."

He gripped Hetty more tightly as he danced her down the room beneath an arch of fellow dancers' arms, emerging to add, "When Sir Aubrey went after his wife, Lady Margaret, she took her own life, leaving a letter outlining the full extent of Sir Aubrey's evil associations and crimes."

"Oh." Hetty swallowed. This was not at all what she'd expected. Distracted, she waited in line for the next part of the dance, her gaze returning to the dangerous gentleman who so fascinated her and who was now partnering his lovely consort beneath the arches. "Then why was the letter not sufficient to condemn him?"

Another look of discomfort flitted across Stephen's face. He cleared his throat. "It has gone missing. Lord Debenham, or Mr. George Carruthers as he was formerly, informed Foreign Office of the contents of his cousin's letter. He'd found it clutched in the late Lady Margaret's hand but said that after leaving the room to seek assistance, the letter had disappeared when he returned. He believes it was stolen by a retainer, perhaps ignorant of its importance, who planned to gain by it through blackmail."

Shaken, Hetty clasped Stephen's hand for the final steps of the dance. "And has that happened? Has he been blackmailed? When did Lady Margaret die?"

"Eighteen months ago. And no, to date there has been no sign of the letter." Hetty smiled but the force of Stephen's response tempered her smugness.

"Keep your distance, Hetty. I've told you only what I believe appropriate for a girl of your delicacy, but there's more." Coming up from his bow at the conclusion of the dance, he added, "Those who fall foul of Sir Aubrey have not all lived to tell the tale."

A traitor. The words chased themselves around Hetty's head as Stephen led her toward the lackluster Mrs. Monks, a youngish widow and, like Hetty, not possessed of the kinds of qualities likely to inspire the passion the late Lady Margaret clearly had inspired in her male admirers.

So when Araminta sidled up to her sister to mention in her usual patronizing manner that Hetty had what appeared to be a poppy seed between her teeth, Hetty was glad of the excuse to scuttle away to the sanctuary afforded by her friendly, luxuriant potted palm to pick at the elusive poppy seed—which she soon suspected never existed. Resuming her earlier occupation, she gazed from amidst the greenery upon Sir Aubrey, in earnest discussion with two gentlemen Cousin Stephen had pointed out as government ministers.

How handsome and urbane he looked; how charming his manner. The thrill that curdled in her lower belly was followed by suspicion as she reviewed Stephen's possible motives for damning his character.

Did he fear the man might break her heart? That Hetty was so bird-witted, painting him black would make inevitable rejection easier for her?

Sir Aubrey was everything Hetty would have thought she'd find repugnant in a man. He was immaculate with an edge of danger that unsettled her. Some might say his confidence verged on arrogance. He could not be more different from poor Edgar.

And yet for some inexplicable reason he set her pulse racing, made her throat dry and sent the heat to her cheeks every time he even looked in her direction.

Not that his few glances registered either his chivalry at the start of the evening or his painful disregard since. He simply looked right through her.

She was safely out of the gentleman's orbit and always would be. Sir Aubrey consorted with bold beauties he never married. Not pale, plump and wilting wallflowers like Hetty.

* * *

Eventually the night was at an end. Hetty had been counting down the hours as increments of torture, but Araminta was positively glowing with success as she climbed into the carriage beside her sister for their return home.

"It's a shame you didn't dance with Sir Aubrey as I did—three times—Hetty dearest, for that might have livened up your spirits. When you look as glum as you do now, I'm reminded of last night's roly-poly pudding sitting on my plate with two currants staring at me, just like your eyes." Araminta's pretty white teeth gleamed in the light of a street lamp above her ivory fan as she went on to reflect on her own success. "Mr. Minchin came to claim me for my second quadrille just as Sir Aubrey arrived to ask me. Well, you won't believe what happened."

Although Hetty evinced no desire to find out, Araminta breezed on. "Sir Aubrey said he'd waive the fifty pounds Mr. Minchin still owed him from a game of faro the night before if Mr. Minchin waived his claim to his dance with me."

Araminta's eyes glittered. "Of course, it wasn't very chivalrous of Mr. Minchin to agree, was it, though who would you have preferred to partner you, Hetty? Mr. Minchin or Sir Aubrey?"

It was a rhetorical question, Hetty knew. Araminta did not concern herself with other people's desires unless they ran counter to her own, in which case she was assiduous in trampling them. Hetty knew that to her cost. Still, like the dutiful sister she was, she murmured, "Sir Aubrey, I'm sure. He must admire you very much."

"Indeed he does." Araminta gazed thoughtfully at the carriage roof, unconsciously licking her lips. "He is a very good catch. Though only a baronet, he is in line for a viscountcy and set to inherit large landholdings in Wiltshire. His country seat would be the grandest for a hundred miles, I'm told. And of course, he's very handsome. I couldn't consider a husband who wasn't."

Bravely, Hetty said softly, "You didn't think Edgar was handsome."

She was not surprised when Araminta scoffed with no concern for her sister's feelings. "Edgar was going to be master of The Grange. It didn't matter what he looked like, for you know my greatest desire has always been to be mistress of my beloved family home." She sniffed, her expression suddenly tragic, and for a moment Hetty thought she was at least paying lip service to the grief she should feel at poor Edgar's untimely death. Instead, Araminta's tone was bitter. "Now Mama's _enceinte_ and if our new sibling is a boy then he will inherit. If we get a sister and Cousin Stephen inherits, Cousin Stephen's reluctance to marry me just because I'm his cousin forces me to make my way in the world as best I can." A satisfied smile banished her grief as she pronounced, "I just can't make up my mind whether to set my sights on Sir Aubrey or the new Lord Debenham."

Gloomily, Hetty reflected that Araminta was just the kind of dazzling beauty who apparently appealed to Sir Aubrey. "Sir Aubrey is not looking for a wife, I'm told." Hetty was suddenly combative. "He's said to enjoy dalliances, though."

"A handsome gentleman like Sir Aubrey is bound to be regarded with jealousy and to have detractors."

"Of whom Lord Debenham is one."

Araminta raised her eyebrows. "You know a lot for someone who only danced with our cousin." She settled herself more comfortably against the squabs and smiled. "If you're so good at ferreting out such information, perhaps you won't be entirely useless this season after all."

# Chapter 2

The life of a debutante is a busy one, regardless of how successful she is. Araminta was in demand for walks and shopping expeditions with various "bosom buddies" she'd made during her ten short days in London. Agreeing to all and sundry with enthusiasm, she informed Hetty and Stephen that her popularity with these young ladies was due to their hope Araminta's loveliness would draw the young men into their general orbit.

For Hetty, life was no less busy, as their chaperone Mrs. Monks decided Hetty's lack of success could be ameliorated by assiduous training in the art of deportment and associated graces.

So while Araminta shopped and promenaded, Hetty paced the drawing room with half a dozen books balanced on her head and a long wooden ruler inserted between her stays and her chemise.

Dubiously, Mrs. Monks finally declared Hetty as ready as she'd ever be for the grand ball that was being held to mark the debut of the lovely and vivacious Miss Felicity Pangbourne.

Hetty had, by this stage, lost all interest in the social events that inspired such excitement and confident expectation in her sister. They merely reinforced Hetty's inadequacy. Even the knowledge that Sir Aubrey's attendance was assured, since he was currently Mr. Pangbourne's houseguest, could not jolt her out of her gloom.

By the time the carriage drew up in front of the fine London townhouse on the night of the ball, Hetty's spirits were at their lowest ebb.

"What do you wager that either Sir Aubrey or Lord Debenham will ask me to dance three—no, four—times this evening?" Araminta asked coquettishly as the girls stepped out of the carriage and mounted the stairs toward the double doors being held open by two footmen.

"Neither will, for it's tantamount to making you an offer, which they won't on such limited acquaintance," Hetty muttered.

Araminta fanned herself languidly as she contemplated this. "Oh, I know Sir Aubrey well enough..." She could barely contain her secret excitement as she added, "But I intend to know him a great deal better before the evening is over."

Stephen, who had accompanied his cousins due to Mrs. Monks' taking ill at the last moment, looked dark as he stepped aside to let the girls pass into the ballroom.

Araminta, recognising someone, immediately hurried ahead.

"You be sure to convey to your silly sister that Sir Aubrey is one gentleman she must steer clear of," Cousin Stephen murmured in Hetty's ear. "You've heard all I have to say about the gentleman and I'm glad I've not seen him look your way, Hetty, at any of the balls to which I've escorted you. You'd be in the gravest danger of succumbing. As would your sister, too, it would seem."

"You'd better tell her, for she won't listen to me," responded Hetty as the warmth of the crowded room enveloped her, making her shiver with apprehension before her natural liveliness reasserted itself. This was the grandest ballroom she'd ever been in. The gilded ceiling seemed like the gates of heaven, with cherubs and clouds smiling down upon them. Perhaps fortune really would smile down upon her tonight, Hetty thought as she ran her hands over her skirts, nervously. She glanced around, looking in vain for Sir Aubrey while she contemplated if it might be possible he'd take pity on her for just one dance.

Cousin Stephen cleared his throat and when Hetty glanced at him, he was frowning. "I mentioned my concern to your sister in the mildest terms, for the last thing I want is to whip up Araminta's interest. She might take it as a challenge. Well, for once, Hetty, I'm glad you're not in any danger."

"Because I'm plain and frumpy?"

Ignoring this as he led Hetty towards her sister, he responded smoothly, "Shy and self-effacing, which is far more appealing. Sir Aubrey prefers bold young ladies like your sister and I wish I'd spoken earlier to Araminta as you're right, she's hardly likely to heed your warnings."

"Not where a handsome gentleman is concerned," muttered Hetty, fiddling with her fan as Stephen scanned the crowd, looking for Araminta. "I still haven't heard anyone else speak ill of him with the vigor you do."

"That's because I work for the Foreign Office and they don't." His tone gentled as he returned his attention to Hetty, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Please, Hetty, I want you wed to someone worthy of you. You are so like your mother." To Hetty's surprise his expression gentled even more and his eyes kindled with surprising warmth. "You need to be nurtured. I know things about Sir Aubrey I cannot tell you."

Hetty stared at the points of her dancing slippers peeking from beneath the rose- flounced hem of her cream-and-gold sarcenet, with its tiny gauze sleeves. She truly had felt like a fairy princess as Jane had helped her dress this evening. Pearls were woven into her hair and she'd thought her face more sculpted and her complexion improved since she'd come to London. Even in just two weeks, with the exercise she'd been taking and the cake she'd eschewed through nerves, she'd lost her lumpishness. When Hetty had asked if Araminta had noticed, her sister had commented that with her high color, Hetty was bound to soon develop fat ankles, so therefore Araminta had made it her mission to match Hetty with a worthy contender "before it was too late".

Meanwhile Stephen was warming to his theme as he procured a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter for himself, and orgeat for Hetty. "A traitor risks the gallows. Since our last conversation I've heard even more alarming stories."

"So Sir Aubrey would slit my throat if he regarded me as a threat?"

"Really, Hetty, now you're being childish." Cousin Stephen squeezed her arm in a brotherly fashion. "Lord Debenham has made these claims and Lord Debenham is a highly regarded politician. Sir Aubrey, by contrast, is a wastrel. He sought public office but no one would sponsor him. The reasons speak for themselves."

"Lord Debenham?" Araminta joined the conversation, adding in eager tones, "There he is dancing with Miss Pangbourne. I expect he'll ask me for one of the next, don't you think?"

"I'm sure he will if that's what you desire." Stephen quirked an eyebrow. "And you'd do well to snare him, though I've heard tell he has something of a reputation for playing fast and loose with feminine hearts."

"Oh yes, he was madly in love with his cousin Lady Margaret, who killed herself last year." Araminta tapped Hetty on the shoulder with her fan as she said in knowledgeable tones, "Lady Margaret was married to Sir Aubrey but Cousin Stephen warns we must steer clear of Sir Aubrey. Not that it's a concern for you, Hetty, however I really don't know what I'll say to put him off when he comes across and asks me to dance. After all, he danced with me three times at Lady Knox's ball."

"I dare you to refuse him," Hetty challenged. "Oh look, Lord Debenham _is_ looking at you, Araminta. And I think his _is_ coming over here."

Hetty closed her gaping mouth as she stared at the raven-haired gentleman whose severe black dress was alleviated by a snowy-white cravat. He looked the height of sartorial elegance, yet there was something sinister and unnerving about his arrogant bearing and the almost disdainful way he looked down his Roman nose at Araminta, whom he had clearly in his sights.

As he engaged her sister to dance, Hetty decided that a man who wore shirt points sharp enough to cut one's throat, and whose shoes, like his hair, were polished to the gleam of a raven's wing, was not to be trusted.

"So you'd approve of a match between Araminta and Lord Debenham?" Hetty asked, as Stephen led her onto the dance floor for the following dance.

"I think there are more amenable partners than Lord Debenham but Araminta would certainly be his match."

Discovering she'd mistaken the sequence of her dance steps, Hetty was relieved when Stephen seized her to polka down the center of the two rows of couples. However, her relief turned to disgust in the middle of her next dance with Cousin Stephen when she saw Sir Aubrey lingering near the entrance to the ballroom, an expression of rapt interest upon his face. For the person who was holding him in such thrall was none other than Araminta, looking more than ever like Sarafina the family cat. As the couple broke apart, Sir Aubrey bowed to Araminta whom he must have waylaid immediately after her dance with Lord Debenham. Then, after another gallant bow, he took his leave through the double doors, quitting the ballroom. So he wasn't going to dance with Araminta, after all.

Hetty wasn't sure if it was better to be deprived of at least the presence of the most enticing guest, or if she should take more comfort in not having to watch him making up to her sister all night. Nevertheless, it made for a gloomy couple of hours as she alternatively sat out the many dances where she was overlooked by the various eager young blades or jaded gentlemen here tonight, or was partnered by kind Cousin Stephen.

"Smile, Hetty. Please do," he now exhorted her in the midst of a dance. "You have such lovely dimples and such a pretty smile but I'd wager I'm the only one here tonight who knows it."

Hetty was just about to respond that he probably would only ever be the one to know it because there may never yet be anything to smile about again when a missed step at the end of their set caused her to squeal in dismay as she trod upon the hem of her dress. Clutching at the skirt, which had partly separated from the bodice, she sent her cousin a stricken look. "Look what I've done! And here's Mr. Woking, the only other person who's ever asked me to dance, coming towards us to claim me for the quadrille. Oh, do come up with an excuse, Cousin Stephen, for I'll be tongue-tied with embarrassment at having to explain what I don't know how to put into words."

Stephen smiled. "Poor Hetty, why, I'll tell him the truth, of course—that you must make a dash to the ladies' mending room. I hope the damage is not too severe."

"I think I'd rather spend the rest of the evening closeted in the antechambers where things are a little less exciting than here, where I'm out of my depth," she muttered as she took her leave.

Hetty had spoken only the truth, she decided when she was safely ensconced in a small room where she was attended to by a hunchbacked seamstress. The only other occupant was a young lady who lay facedown, sobbing on the chaise longue by the window.

"That's Miss Hoskings. Bin there all night," the old crone informed her when Hetty's concern failed to elicit a response from the distraught young lady. "'Parently the gennelmun what she thought was goin' to marry her has been makin' up to another young lady."

The girl gave a choking sob and half rose, before throwing herself back down upon the upholstery, wailing, "He's still going to make me an offer and it's not because he cares for me." She wiped her face with the back of her hand as she sat up properly and glared at Hetty, adding, "And I'm going to accept him though Mama says I could do better."

Hetty took in the girl's narrow shoulders and bad skin and felt sorry for her. Fortunately Hetty's skin was a glowing advertisement of her robust good health. Her once over-generous proportions, too, had continued to diminish to the extent that, though still plump, she'd had several gowns taken in during the past several weeks. Darling Mama had said that she'd been just the same when she'd been Hetty's age and was far comelier after a couple years of marriage than she had been when she was a debutante.

Bolsteringly, Hetty said, "Maybe you could wait a little." She settled herself on a chair opposite, wearing only her chemise and petticoat while the mending woman plied her needle. "I, too, expect to have an offer before the end of the season, for Papa has been generous with my dowry." She suspected it was the chief reason for Mr. Woking's interest and the thought gave her no pleasure. "Though I don't want to marry a man who's _only_ interested in my money."

"Better that than be an ape-leader. What could be worse than being an old maid for the rest of my life?" Miss Hoskings asked gloomily after several loud sniffs. With her red nose and blotchy skin, Hetty feared that was a very likely fate and not one she wished for herself under any circumstances. With another resounding sigh, Miss Hoskings, who was clearly not in a mood to be comforted, went on, "This is my second season and I have three sisters. If I don't marry soon, do you know how I'll spend the rest of my days? Tending Papa's gouty foot, dancing attendance upon my irascible grandmother and looking after everyone else's needs but my own. Well, I won't do it. I've seen the thankless existence my maiden aunts have endured and being an unpaid companion is not for me. Better a loveless marriage, I say!"

Hetty considered their respective situations and wondered if desperation would one day send her down the aisle with a man who cared only for her money and not a jot for her.

Miss Hoskings, who declared she was not going to emerge from the mending room until the night was over, bade Hetty a gloomy farewell once Hetty's skirt was mended but Hetty wasn't sure she felt like reentering the ballroom either. The only person of any interest had left and she had no wish to endure Araminta's preening self- satisfaction as she recounted her success with Sir Aubrey who, if he really were such a dangerous man, would consequently be of even greater interest to her sister, she supposed. No, Hetty had no chance.

"Make sure you turn the right way. The 'ouse is a fair rabbit warren of rooms and yer don't want to end up in the gennulmen's quarters that way." The old crone stabbed a finger up the stairs to the left. "Even that Sir Aubrey what's staying 'ere got hisself lost. Put 'is head in 'ere just afore you came to inquire as to which way was the lobby so he could order hisself a carriage."

Miss Hoskings straightened, her look suddenly interested. "Sir Aubrey is a houseguest, I believe," she said with a sharp look at Hetty. "Handsome gentleman, don't you think? And with that unusual hair."

Just the mere mention of him made Hetty's heart leap. So Sir Aubrey's room was just down the passage and up the stairs? She hesitated as the old seamstress closed the door behind her, plunging her into the gloom of the dimly lit corridor.

The stairs beckoned a short distance away.

What would be the harm in a quick look? No one would see her and she could always claim she'd lost her way. She'd be believed and besides, all the chambers would be empty since everyone was at the ball. The night was still young and no one would be returning yet.

Hetty, curious by nature, found this too tantalizing an opportunity to resist. With a furtive look around her, she hurried left and up the stairs, at which point two corridors at right angles disappeared into the gloom for only a pair of candle sconces shed any light. Choosing the one to the right, she found herself face-to-face with a series of closed doors.

Foolish, she chided herself. Of course they were closed and she could hardly open them. As she turned back toward the ballroom, a faint light shining from the crack beneath a door that was slightly ajar gleamed beckoningly.

With a furtive look over her shoulder, she approached it, then stood motionless, staring at the light beneath. The mending woman had said Sir Aubrey had left for the evening and the night was still young. Could the gentleman who occupied this room—Sir Aubrey, perhaps—have left a lamp burning?

That would be dangerous, surely? Hetty would only be doing her duty to ensure that a candle or light were extinguished to prevent a fire hazard.

She gave the door a little nudge with her foot and it swung open.

Excitement rippled through her.

"Hello?" she asked in a low voice. She took another step into the room. "Is anyone in here?"

Silence. An argand lamp stood upon the mantelpiece. A low fire burned in the grate before which was a table, against which were propped several items, including a familiar silver-topped cane. Her breath caught. The last time she'd seen that cane was when Sir Aubrey had exchanged several words with Araminta in the street as Hetty had been bringing up the rear with Mrs. Monks. Of course Sir Aubrey had not looked twice at her, excusing himself before having to be introduced to the younger sister and the chaperone who'd nearly closed the gap.

Heart hammering, Hetty closed the door behind her and went to pick up the cane. How fortunate to have stumbled into Sir Aubrey's room, she thought when she observed the fine coat lying upon the bed, apparently discarded in favor of what he was wearing tonight.

He really was a nonpareil, wearing his clothes as if they were an extension of his athletic physique.

Yet he was dangerous, she had to remind herself. Meaning she should not be here, which of course she shouldn't, regardless of whether he was dangerous or not.

But how such a scion of good breeding and genteel society could be guilty of such a heinous crime as treason, Hetty could not imagine. And surely the story of the runaway wife was a gilded one. It was all the stuff of make-believe and Cousin Stephen was only telling Hetty he was dangerous to curb her schoolroom daydreams.

Turning, she saw half protruding from beneath the suit of clothes what appeared to be the edge of a silver, filigreed box. It was partly obscured by the overhang of the counterpane, as if it hadn't properly been returned to its hiding place.

A moment's indecision made her pause but soon Hetty was crouching on the floor, closing clammy fingers around the box. Might it contain secrets? Ones that would reveal, conclusively, what Cousin Stephen claimed was true?

Alternatively, proof that would exonerate Sir Aubrey?

Hetty fumbled for the catch. Dear Lord, this was too exciting for words. Perhaps Sir Aubrey was a secret agent working for the English, and Stephen had no idea.

Perhaps he was—

The sound of footsteps made her gasp as the door was flung wide. Hetty let the lid of the box fall and retreated into the shadows as Sir Aubrey strode into the room.

He was breathing heavily as he shrugged off his jacket with a curse, raindrops spattering into the hissing fire as he raked his fingers through his hair. A curious stillness overtook him and he froze, obviously sensing all was not as he left it.

He sniffed the air. "Orange flower water," he muttered, stepping closer to the fire, fumbling for the tinderbox on the mantelpiece to light another candle, no doubt so he could plumb the depths of the shadows.

Immediately he was thrown into sharp relief and as he stared at Hetty, it was not his look of shock and suspicion that made her scream—but the copious amounts of blood that stained his shirtsleeves and once-snowy linen cravat.

"God Almighty, who are you?" he demanded as his gaze raked her finery. "You're no parlor maid, that's for certain."

Gaping, unable to formulate a sensible answer, Hetty finally managed, "What happened to your arm, Sir Aubrey? Are you injured?"

"Sir Aubrey, is it? So you know who I am!" He grunted as he looked down at his arm, the bloodied linen shredded over the long graze. "It's not as bad as it looks and I assure you, I gave a good account of myself." His laugh was more a sneer. "Indeed, my assailant lies dead in the gutter."

Hetty gasped. "Dueling?" Myriad questions crowded her mind. Could this be to do with Araminta? Had Sir Aubrey left Araminta in the middle of the ball to fight some other contender for her affections?

"Dueling?" he repeated. He shook his head and Hetty drew back at the coldness in his eyes when earlier there had been such warmth as he'd gazed upon Araminta. "There was nothing noble about my activities this evening. I was set upon in a dark alley. A short scuffle ensued, I drew my knife, then..." With his hand, he made a gesture like the slitting of his throat, adding, "I am slightly wounded but as I said, my attacker does not live to repeat the insult."

Her horror clearly amused him, for his eyes narrowed while his generous mouth quirked. He looked like an incarnation of the most handsome demon she'd ever seen depicted in the fairy stories she loved to read.

Trembling, Hetty could only stare like the star-struck debutante she was. She felt like the heroine in one of Mrs Radcliffe's novels she'd been forbidden to read.

"We all have enemies, madam." His eyes gleamed, reflecting the dancing flames in the fireplace. Hetty put her hand to her chest, thinking this was the most exciting moment of her life as he said softly, "Enemies who must be eliminated if we are to breathe freely."

Tilting his head, he regarded her with renewed interest. "As for you," he said, taking a step forward and putting out his hand to touch her cheek, "You are not at all what I was expecting."

# Chapter 3

Aubrey was enjoying the girl's overdone terror. No doubt she imagined he'd sliced the throat of a footpad, not the snarling, mangy cur who had leapt upon him as he'd been returning from his brief assignation to settle a gaming debt incurred by his favorite reprobate nephew.

Taking pity on her, he dropped his hand said, reassuringly, "Don't worry. I won't hurt you." Her wide-eyed look as he removed first his jacket, then the bloodied shirt he tossed upon the bed before he rose to his full height, bare chested, afforded him the most amusement he'd had in a long time. He'd finally realised who she was though he'd been a fool not to have sniffed out the truth before. For some addle-pated moments he'd imagined her some innocent debutante who'd lost her way and stumbled accidentally into his bedchamber. He chuckled softly. "So, you're the girl Maggie Montgomery sent?"

She simply stared at him and he nodded appraisingly as he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. "You had me fooled for a moment. I thought you'd come from the ballroom having turned the wrong way from the mending room, wherever that might be in these catacombs." Had he not been so jaded he might have been ashamed at the assessment in his tone when he added, as he raked her with a more considered look, "My faithful procuress threatened to one day surprise me—and that I'd not be able to tell the difference." Barefoot and bare chested, he reached out his hand.

It was a gesture of gentlemanliness rather than implicit invitation for in truth he wasn't sure how far he really wanted to go with this. He had very little regard for Maggie Montgomery and couldn't remember the last time he'd darkened her doorstep.

But the girl was looking very nervous. And very innocent. He could almost believe she was the trembling ingenue she pretended. He stifled a smile, both ironic and admiring. Maggie was a shrewd businesswoman who knew exactly the kind of girl Aubrey would be least likely to dismiss. Exhausted by a previous liaison with Jezebel, the brothel madam's most outrageous and sought-after recruit, Aubrey was no longer in the market for some bold fancy piece. No, Maggie would know this and thus the way to breach his defences. That's why she'd found him this shy sweet young thing who obviously should not have been introduced to this kind of calling. Still, she had to earn a crust one way or another, he supposed, and if she'd chosen this line of work rather than anything more honest, he was not about to call her up on the morality of the matter. They both had their needs.

"Well, girl, come into the light so I can see you better," he said, drawing her closer so that she sat on the counterpane beside him, thighs touching. "After the god-awful night I've had, you might be just what I need: the retiring sort—for I'm sick to death of women who like to play games."

An image of that vixen Miss Araminta Partington, sprang to mind. Now didn't she like to play games, with her speaking looks and half-whispered promises? Which wasn't to say he hadn't enjoyed his brief assignation with her in an antechamber behind the supper room. He'd been on his way out to settle his nephew's wager when Miss Partington had waylaid him before proving extremely amenable to a kiss and a fondle. But of course that was as far as it could go and his throbbing groin after that little encounter had been one good reason to slip unnoticed out of Lady Knox's townhouse.

Unsatisfied desire and memories of his dead wife had made him restless for the rest of the night. He certainly didn't want Miss Araminta Partington for his wife but he was quite happy to play the game as far as she was prepared to go. Clearly, she liked to take greater risks than the usual debutante. And while Aubrey was the first to know this was very dangerous territory, he was also not about to play the moral zealot if she wanted to entice him into dark corners and have him kiss her.

But naturally, it left him with urges that could only be indulged by consorting with the demimondaine.

Aubrey smiled at the girl before him, so different from his usual fare, yet so appealing in quite another way. As he was no longer a frequent visitor to Maggie Montgomery's elegant Soho premises he had no way of knowing if she was a new recruit or not. His wife's betrayal and, later, death, had prompted him to frequent Maggie's for a time. Sex had provided him with short-term relief but his intense passionate and physical liaison with flaming redheaded Jezebel had just reinforced how empty it was when the heart was not engaged.

When Jezebel had transferred her affections to an ageing baronet, Aubrey had ceased his visits to Maggie's for several months until some drunken associates had dragged him along to the Soho nunnery.

It was when he'd declined the delights Maggie's girls could offer him, that Maggie had made her wager.

Now, it appeared, she'd finally followed through.

And Aubrey, who'd never really liked the idea of paying for sex, now found himself in a curious situation.

The young lady's contrived innocence was having a strange effect upon him. He had to take his hat off to Maggie for reading him so well. Even _he_ hadn't realized how tired he was of worldly sophistication.

"Yes, sit here." He patted his knees, enjoying the thought of feeling her curves and softness pressed against him. It had been a long time since Aubrey had enjoyed the caresses of any woman. "No need to carry the pretense to quite such extremes. That's right. I want you to sit on my lap so I can...observe you better."

"Sit on your lap?" she squeaked as he tugged at her hand and her rounded bottom landed on his thighs.

He ran his hands over her contours appreciatively. She was rather a nice little thing with a familiarity that tugged at his memory. Plump and almost pretty, though he rather fancied she had the makings of a beauty. Not that her future development was of concern, he had to remind himself, since he had her only for one night. Maggie would have sent her on approval.

But, she did seem vaguely familiar. It was quite possible he'd seen the chit at the brothel and unconsciously dismissed her on account of the very reasons Maggie had sent her—for her innocence and youth.

He ran his fingers through her fine light-brown curls and contoured her neck appreciatively, amused that she tensed as if this had never happened to her before though the shy smile she sent him seemed genuine enough.

Strange how he was warming to her more and more. As if he knew her and she was not a piece of merchandise. Though, truth be told, that was not the way Aubrey liked to think of his women.

He'd loved his wife with passion and since her death had hoped to find someone that inspired in him the same urges and enthusiasm for life that she had—before her betrayal. Jezebel had inspired his urges and passion but not his enthusiasm for anything more than just the selfish and physical.

"Is that what you want, sir?" She'd settled herself gingerly upon his knee and now sat ramrod straight, her hands clasped in her lap.

_Is that what you want?_

Aubrey wasn't sure what he wanted but he supposed that by the time the abbess presented him with one of her exorbitant accounts, he'd know whether the girl gave value enough to continue the arrangement.

The next hour or so would tell.

"Oh sir!" she cried, jumping up as his hand came into contact with her breast. "What are you doing?"

He grinned as he tugged her back down and resettled her across his knees so that her neck was cradled in his large hand and he had access to all of her. "Maggie Montgomery has trained you well. Now I suppose you'll tell me you're a virgin."

She nodded vigorously. "I am, sir. Indeed I am and—"

Maybe it was his scowl that made her stiffen with apparent terror. Jezebel had loved trying to best him when he was in a dominating mood. Oh, this girl was good.

Unexpectedly, this reflection drained his enthusiasm. He was no longer in the mood for elaborate play acting when it came to women. And not for dominating, either. That had been something only the fiesty jezebel had brought out in him.

"Really?" Idly, he reached for the cutlass that had fallen from his belt and now lay at his feet and stroked the blade, stained with the dead dog's blood, while he contemplated her, still holding her with one arm. She was indulging in the charade too enthusiastically but that's how she'd have been trained.

Narrowing his gaze and suddenly seeing how frightened she really was, it occurred to him she was telling the truth. Good God, if it really was true, he was moving far too quickly. Every whore would remember her 'first time' and the customer who had broken her in. If this girl had never done this before, of course she'd be terrified.

He was a trifle displeased with Maggie. She knew he would never have accepted the services of a virgin and the responsibility that put on him but clearly she'd decided to play her little trick on him tonight.

During his last visit, she'd said he needed softening. That the effects of the opprobrium directed at him since poor Margaret's death had stripped him of his humanity.

He frowned into the large, soft brown eyes of the girl on his lap and felt a very strong tug of humanity. Yes, definitely _humanity_. Perhaps tonight was the time to start cultivating his more tender side, after all.

"A virgin?" he clarified as he tucked her against his chest.

She barely seemed to heed him as her eyes were riveted on the blade he was now using to clean his fingernails.

"So this will be your first time with a man?"

She drew in a trembling breath and repeated stupidly, "First time with a man?"

He tried not to sound irritated. There was only so much of the playacting he could take. "Mrs Montgomery obviously selected you on account of your...innocence. She knows my proclivities and that experience is my preference but I can be gentle. I won't hurt you." Oh yes, it was a great responsibility since the girl would always remember her first time, no matter how many paying customers she serviced in her working life.

He put down his knife and licked his lips as he traced the edge of her décolletage with his right forefinger, "In fact, I promise that you'll quite enjoy the experience. God knows, you're going to endure enough during your career, so you might as well start off on a good note. Now, shall we begin?"

"Oh sir, I don't know what to do!" She twisted in his lap and stared frantically at the door.

"You're quite free to go," he said, dropping his hands from about her and following her gaze. Chuckling, he added, "Though I'd rather come to like the idea of some unexpected caressing and fondling of a sweet thing like you."

"Caressing and fondling?" Though she continued to stare at the door as if torn, she didn't move to take up his offer to leave. Slowly she turned back to face him, adding as if she could barely countenance what he was saying. "You'd like to...do that with me?"

He nodded. "And a great many other things. Things that would definitely mean you could no longer claim to be a virgin afterwards. What do you think about that proposition?"

She sent him a long, considering look and just when he thought she really was going to stand up and leave, an irrepressible pair of dimples popped into her cheeks and she said, "It sounds exciting, sir."

Aubrey put his hands on her shoulders before setting her at arms length. "In that case, I think it's only polite to know your name before we proceed."

"It's Hetty," she whispered, her smile broadening as he whisked her into his arms as he rose, then strode towards the bed where he lowered her onto the green and gold counterpane before joining her, caging her body with his.

He touched her nose with his forefinger. "You really are a rather engaging little thing," he said, adding when her expression clouded, "Now, if you've changed your mind, this is your last chance to say so. You might not have done this before but if Maggie has sent you here against your will, the door is right over there." He pointed again but she continued to stare up at him, almost as if he truly were the answer to her dreams.

It was in one sense, gratifying, but also prompted him to wonder, briefly, what had brought her to this when she finally shook her head and still made no move to leave.

Well, she'd clearly chosen this life in preference to honest toil, and she was lucky her procuress hadn't given her to any number of brutes he knew of who would initiate her in far less gentle fashion than he intended.

In what he hoped was a sufficiently reassuring tone, he murmured, "So now that we've established that you're happy for me to show you just how much pleasure can be enjoyed by both parties, you must lie back and move as your body dictates. I promise I won't hurt you."

She bit her lip, nodding, her wide-eyed—he'd go so far as to say _excited_ gaze—following his hand, which reached down to grasp the hem of her gown.

Maggie Montgomery spared no expense on her girls and this one was dressed in finery to equal that of any daughter of the peerage. No doubt she'd been taught to speak like a duke's daughter. And to behave with fitting grace and decorum if required. Aubrey recalled with amusement the occasion he'd taken Jezebel—renamed Lady Anne for the occasion—to visit his mother when the dowager had been hell-bent on allying Aubrey with some horsey-looking cousin, saying his twelve-month mourning period was over and it was hardly as though Margaret had been a good wife. That the time had come to sire an heir.

Jezebel, though she'd been born in the gutter, had given as good an account of herself as any peeress.

He sent the girl beneath him another appreciative glance. He needed diversion and a pair of arms to sink into. Someone who'd at least pretend softness and comfort at the end of a difficult day. A difficult day? Every day was a battle. Almost convulsively his mind was drawn back to the difficulties pressing upon him with regard to his blackened reputation, before he returned his concentration to the task at hand, and his hand to the girl's warm, soft thighs, which yielded at his gentle pressure to part them.

"That's right," he murmured. "Slow and steady. Just let your knees go slack and I'll start off doing what's required to break you in, my sweetheart, just like I promised. I want you to give a good report of me to your madam when you return."

"Sir, I—"

But when ran his fingers gently over her mound, she jerked into awareness and her words died on her lips. She was damp but not wet as she needed to be if she was to suffer no pain when he breached her defenses, so to speak.

Ah well, it was no hardship to have to work harder. Maggie would charge like a wounded bull but despite his misgivings at having been sent a virgin he was feeling unusually attracted to the sweet lass smiling up at him.

Lowering his head, he gently touched his lips to hers, tracing her upper lip with the tip of his tongue before breaching the seam, gently breaking the seal of her teeth so he could explore her soft mouth.

He was surprised by her drawn-out sigh and the way her body responded so quickly. As if she truly relished the kiss. He was surprised, too, by the extent to which he was affected. He drew back to study her more closely.

She couldn't have been more than eighteen. So young, but the age at which respectable girls were married off. Had she been born into more fortunate circumstances she would be mixing with the throng downstairs, not closeted in a gentleman's bedroom learning how to pleasure a whole lineup of them.

The poor child was destined for a hard life but the least he could do in exchange for taking her virginity was to show her what she should demand from all future liaisons: respect and pleasure. He'd only broken in one virgin, his beautiful wife Margaret, and she, who'd been terrified, had come to relish the act. Well, until that bastard Debenham, as he now was, had returned to haunt her. Sir Aubrey forced the thought from his mind. It would drive him mad if he let it.

He licked his finger before finding the swollen nub between her legs, massaging her rhythmically, gently, in her most intimate parts, enjoying her sudden breathlessness and the changes in the feel of her body. She was growing wetter by the minute.

"Oh...sir," she breathed, gripping him more tightly.

It was nice to feel in charge of a woman's pleasure once more. By the end of his liaison with Jezebel, the attainment of sexual gratification had become an unspoken contest between them as they'd writhed, panting, almost combative, in one another's arms.

"Oh!" She jerked when he touched her more intimately. He could almost imagine she'd never even touched herself before, her reaction was so genuinely startled.

"You like it?" he asked in a low growl as he rucked her skirt up over her hips using one hand before attending to his own buttons with his usual speed and efficiency. He was a man of strong sexual impulses and part of the game Jezebel had played with him was to appear when he'd least expected it. As if she—or perhaps Maggie— had access to his private diary. Once, Aubrey had paid his great-aunt a visit at the convent in Lincoln where she'd offered her devotions for the previous fifty years. As he was leaving, he'd been accosted by a nun and drawn into the shrubbery behind the high walls. It had been Jezebel, let loose from one priory, so to speak, to seek him out in another for some fast and furious rutting. Highly irreverent, of course, and all the more entertaining for the fact.

Now this little creature was all his for the breaking in and his ministrations would stay with her for the rest of her life.

"Just lie back and enjoy it," he repeated. The roughness of his voice and his deep scowl were a cover for a sudden concern completely out of character. Whores were for pleasuring him. They did it for financial gain. He was an experienced lover, he did not engage in gross and violent acts, and beyond that their feelings were of no account. Well, that's what he'd always told himself so he was irritated by the softening of his attitude towards this little one. He liked to think he was immune to sentiment.

He was amused by her stifled gasp when he tossed off his breeches and his member sprang free.

"More than you were expecting?" He chuckled as he rolled her onto her stomach and quickly undid the buttons on the back of her dress. "Stand up and we'll remove this, shall we? Mrs Montgomery will not thank me for spoiling her wares—though I pay her well enough for the privilege." As he hauled her up beneath her arms into a sitting position then helped her to the floor, he reconsidered his strategy.

Seeing her in her chemise and stays, he had the sudden desire to see her in all her naked glory. Her enthusiasm when he'd kissed her had fired him up.

"Please, will you remove the rest of your clothes."

She gasped. 'I cannot, sir!"

"That's disappointing," he grunted. "Well, is there anything else you would like to do or is this where it ends?"

"I'd like you to kiss me again."

Unexpected pleasure made him grin. "Well now, what a surprise. And a most enticing idea. Another kiss, eh? Let's try that and see where it takes us, shall we?" Suddenly he was transported back to his days as a new husband with the responsibility of forging a lifetime of sanctified sexual relations. They'd been the happiest times of his life.

He held out his arms and she stepped into them, resting her head on his chest and sighing softly when he rested his chin on the top of her head.

"I've dreamed about this," she whispered.

"Good God! You spied me out as a conquest?"

"Oh, I've admired you from afar, sir. I think you're the handsomest gentleman I've ever seen."

He wasn't sure if he believed her or if he should be concerned. But her words sounded so heartfelt that all doubts and concerns were swept away as she twined her hands behind his neck and he lowered his head to place a gentle kiss upon her lips.

The first kiss had been enjoyable enough but this was like a match to tinder. How extraordinary that a chit of no extraordinary beauty should ignite a response like this. It wasn't just his body but his mind that was suddenly caught up in the deliciousness of what was about to unfold.

Her mouth was sweet and soft, and her body exciting and yielding and as urgent, it seemed, as his was to explore the unknown.

Whisking her into his arms again, he placed her upon the bed and joined her, now half naked himself, beneath the covers.

She giggled as he cradled her, swinging one leg over hers and asking, "You're enjoying this? Not pretending for my benefit, I hope?"

"It's very unexpected," she said breathlessly, "and I wasn't sure I'd like it at all but now I don't want you to stop."

"Anything else Miss Hetty would like me to do?" He toyed with her nipple as he leant over to kiss her on the nose. "This, perhaps?" When she nodded, he moved his fingers with featherlight caresses, further downwards. "And perhaps this?"

She nodded more enthusiastically now, then squeaked, her short, jerky movements indicating her growing excitement. It pleased him enormously. Her thighs and lovely rounded bottom were moist with sweat as her breathing escalated. Meanwhile he forced himself to curb his own desire He suddenly was very determined to do this just right. She was tensing, releasing, tensing, even though she'd obviously never done this before, playing the game like the pro she was on the way to becoming and he was enjoying it as much as she.

When he felt her suck in her breath and hold it, as if she balanced on the edge of the precipice and didn't know what else to do, he rose above her then entered her gently, increasing the rhythmic pressure of his fingers upon the swollen nub nestled within the folds of her sex. With a gasp, she bucked against him, crying out as she reared again and again, her unbridled pleasure igniting his own so that his climax occurred shortly afterward.

Instantly he withdrew, spilling his seed. With a rapidly beating heart, he held her close to his chest, idly toying with her soft, full breasts while he kissed her hair.

She gazed up at him, doe-eyed, her cheeks flushed as she smiled and he experienced a jolt somewhere in the region of his chest. "I did enjoy that," he murmured, tucking her beneath the covers and cradling her head on his chest as they lay side by side. The intimacy was acutely enjoyable and his breathing was hard to regulate. "I hope Mrs Montgomery reassured you that you'd be in expert hands. There are plenty of other ways we can do this in future and you gave every indication you're eager to learn more." He glanced over at her. "Well?" he demanded. He didn't usually engage in banal chatter immediately after sex but he wanted to know that her feelings echoed his. He wanted to enjoy more of this with her in the future.

She swallowed and her voice was faint. "I don't really know what to say, sir?"

"Well, I didn't like the idea before but enjoying the exclusive services of the virgin I broke in has its benefits." He chuckled. "And no need to worry I'll foist a brat on you. This is for pleasure only."

She bit her lip and a slow smile lit up her face. "I didn't know...it was possible to feel like that."

"Good. I'm going to make you feel like that often, I promise. I'm glad you're not about to run screaming for the hills so that I'd have Mrs Montgomery descending upon me for spoiling her most valuable girl or some such story?"

"You keep mentioning Mrs Montgomery—?" She sent him a worried look and he gave a bark of laughter.

"Let's not worry about her tonight, eh? Not when there are better things to lose sleep over." He pulled her even closer against him, feeling protective of her in a way he had not with Jezebel or the few other experienced mistresses he'd had in his lifetime.

Snuggling against him, she asked, "So...you do not have a wife?"

"Lord! That's one thing you don't have to worry about. Though I had a wife...once." The memory still tore at him. He stared at the ceiling. "A dear, sweet creature when I married her—until she was enticed into the arms of another." He gave a harsh laugh at her murmured commiserations. "In the eighteen months since I've lost her I've more than compensated, though in truth, no rutting has come close to what I experienced in the arms of my dear Margaret. I'm a sentimental fool at heart."

She swallowed, audibly. "I heard you're a dangerous man. Not a sentimental fool, sir."

"A dangerous man," he repeated, wishing he didn't feel such an impotent one when it came to rejuvenating his unfairly tarnished reputation. His nemesis, Debenham—his wife's cousin and lover and the man who was working hard to destroy him—had friends in high places. "No, lass, I'm a man with enemies but I am on a mission to clear my name. Mark my words, I shall bring to justice the one who is intent on ruining me."

"Who is that, sir?"

He shifted up a little to consider her a moment. In the dim light her eyes were luminous and her question seemed innocent enough.

"A man called Debenham. As I mentioned, he's my late wife's cousin. He claims he has proof that I'm a felon. A letter found clutched in the hand of my darling Margaret when she died purports to the fact... _apparently_." He made sure she registered his irony. "Conveniently, it has now gone missing."

She raised herself onto her elbows, her look haunted. "So you are _not_ a dangerous man?"

"I'm sure there are those who might consider me so—namely Debenham if I'm able to find proof that the boot's on the other foot and that _he's_ the traitor in their midst." He pushed aside the counterpane and chucked her under the chin. "And now it is time for me to cast you out, for I have work to do, though I'll render you the small service of fastening your dress once you've availed yourself of my washbasin."

When he'd finished working on her buttons, he raked her with another appreciative gaze. "My, but a good tupping has done you the world of good. Your color and the brightness of your eyes are much improved. Pray inform Mrs Montgomery that I will require your exclusive services for at least the next month. I expect her account will be exorbitant but if you're as pleasing next time as you were tonight, I shan't complain."

Dazed, Hetty trailed through the corridors of Lady Knox's residence until the strains of the music drew her toward the ballroom.

"There you are!" Araminta pounced as Hetty hesitated on the threshold. Her sister gripped her wrist and hauled her roughly into the room. "I've been looking all over for you. No doubt you've been cowering in the mending room, too afraid a man will look at you and you won't know what to do. Well, Hetty, you're just going to have to gain more experience in order to make a gentleman want to pass the time in your company with idle small talk, much less do anything else. Mr. Woking was asking for you, and although I know he's not much to look at, beggars can't be choosers."

"I'm not a beggar."

"No, you have something in the way of a dowry but then so do many other girls, including me...girls far comelier, meaning you'll just have to take what you can get. Ah, there he is!"

Araminta raised her arm to hail someone across the room as Hetty asked, "Who?"

"Mr. Woking, of course. He wants to dance with you and you could do worse than to court his interest."

"But he's got spots and terrible breath. _You_ wouldn't want to dance with him, would you?"

"Of course not. I've got my sights set on someone far more my equal."

"Lord Debenham?"

Araminta looked uncomfortable. "I learned a few things about Lord Debenham tonight that make me think Sir Aubrey is the better candidate." Then she simpered, adding in a furtive whisper, "He has made his interest very clear and I mean to see that it goes somewhere."

Hetty's insides cleaved. "Sir Aubrey has?" Her legs felt shaky and she had no idea whether she was going to laugh or cry. "Cousin Stephen says he's not a friend of England." She didn't know what to make of this statement now, not after what Sir Aubrey had told her about his quarrel with Lord Debenham. She'd only succumbed to his advances through her fear that he was capable of murder.

She caught herself up as, in the aftermath of shock, she questioned her true motives.

If she'd truly only succumbed to his advances through terror, why, then, had she stayed when he'd given her the opportunity to leave? Twice. Or was it three times?

She closed her eyes briefly as she recalled everything that had just happened.

When Sir Aubrey had walked into his bedchamber and discovered Hetty in the shadows, he'd been covered with blood. He'd admitted just killing a man. Then he'd all but ordered her to submit as he'd toyed with the blade of his cutlass. What choice had she had?

Another frisson of discomfort ran up her spine as she answered the question. She _had_ had a choice. He'd said she could leave but she'd just stayed right where she was, staring up into the face of the only man who had made her heart thump with excited anticipation...as he explained exactly how he was going to ravish her. Yes, _ravish_ her!

However, overwhelming though the experience had been, she felt—instead of ashamed and horrified—exhilarated. Sir Aubrey had evoked glorious sensations within her. She'd not known it was possible to feel like that. And he, a man who was supposedly a fiend, had been responsible. Well, he _wasn't_ a fiend. His reputation had been falsely tarnished by none other than Lord Debenham.

Araminta tossed her head. "Cousin Stephen has served in the Foreign Office barely two months. What does he know? Ah, Mr. Woking, here is my sister and she tells me she's simply dying for the pleasure of partnering you."

In a haze of confusion and mixed emotions, Hetty went through her dance steps with the stoop-shouldered young man who was clearly at pains to engage her interest by the enthusiasm with which he told her of his expectations.

All Hetty could think of was the rampant endowments of her erstwhile lover and wonder why she was not feeling ruined and violated. She'd never kissed a man before tonight. Heavens, she'd never done anything remotely exciting with a man until tonight. She should be horrified with herself, yet after her initial fear, she'd relished every second.

Unable to meet Mr Woking's earnest gaze, she glanced downwards, her cheeks blazing. What had happened tonight would of course remain secret. She'd carry it to her grave—her one moment of wild abandon.

Mr. Woking was speaking to her. She plastered on an attentive smile as she asked him to repeat himself.

"That's my uncle over there. He's the member of parliament for Westhaven." He looked proud.

Hetty glanced in the direction Mr. Woking was pointing and choked on a gasp. "Lord Debenham is your _uncle_?"

Several gentlemen near the supper table had their heads bent in earnest discussion. The taller one, with the jet-black locks and the dangerous glint in his eye, surely did not hail from the same planet as Mr. Woking.

"You don't look anything like him." The words were out before she could check herself.

No, Mr. Woking did not favor his uncle. Even at his young age his hair was rapidly thinning. His nervous habit of glancing around jerkily, rather like a bird pecking at crumbs, was as far removed from Lord Debenham's sartorial elegance as Hetty could imagine.

Mr. Woking cleared his throat. "He's a step-uncle, actually. The brother of my father's third wife."

"Your father married three times?" Again Hetty failed to filter her thoughts. Surely he must guess that her surprise did not stem from anything to flatter his father.

The jerky way Mr. Woking rearranged his body at her remark made Hetty think a poker had been rammed up his bottom, though the look in his eye suggested prickly pride. "Lord Debenham is working to rid this country of traitors. Traitors like the Spenceans." He brought his face closer to Hetty's, as if he were searching for something, and she forced herself not to recoil from his unpleasant breath. When he straightened, the glint in his eye suggested she'd passed some test. "Have you heard of Sir Aubrey?"

He lowered his voice, apparently not registering Hetty's sudden rigidness or, no doubt, look of horror. "Perhaps your sister has said something, for I have been watching Sir Aubrey closely and it would appear he is most interested in Miss Partington."

Hetty stumbled in his embrace and he caught her close—too close and for too long—before she pushed him back, saying proudly, "I think you are mistaken. I've noticed nothing suggesting interest in my sister."

"You'd do well to warn her to take care, nevertheless, Miss Henrietta. Sir Aubrey is my uncle's quarry. I reveal nothing that the villainous Sir Aubrey doesn't already know. However you seem a good, trustworthy sort, and so I am entrusting you with this secret."

"In order to keep Araminta safe?" She rather suspected something deeper was at play here.

"That," he paused, "and to help deliver justice. Perhaps you'd care to inform me if you notice anything untoward."

"Like what?"

He shrugged. Perhaps he didn't know. He was trying to impress her. She'd not believe it. Meanwhile, her brain was awhirl with fears that Sir Aubrey could indeed have Araminta in his sights. After all, he thought Hetty merely a...lightskirt? Wasn't that what those girls were called?

"What is it, Miss Henrietta?" He was suddenly all concern as she choked on a sob she tried to disguise as a cough. How could she have behaved as she had just now? How could she hold her head up proudly. And...what if Sir Aubrey walked into the ballroom at this moment and spied her dancing with Mr Woking?

"Tell me about your suspicions regarding Sir Aubrey," she almost demanded as she channeled her fear into something bolder.

After giving her an odd look, Mr Woking said, smugly, "Sir Aubrey is a Spencean. A man who plots with the enemy to overturn society and plunge us into revolution like the French. He was involved in the attempted assassination of Lord Castlereagh."

Hetty shook her head. Clearly he interpreted this as shock rather than denial for he went on, his tone intimate, "His late wife had evidence that has gone missing, for indeed it was my uncle who saw the incriminating letter with his own eyes. It is Lord Debenham's mission to find that letter so that justice will be served and Sir Aubrey and his like no longer threaten the values we uphold."

Hetty realized she was gaping like a fish. In less than an hour she'd been given two wildly varying stories. She knew who she wanted to believe but...

"Miss Henrietta, I would ask you to keep your ears and eyes open. If your sister reveals anything to you—"

The music faded away and Hetty broke apart to see Araminta coming toward her, Cousin Stephen in her wake. She wondered if Mr. Woking and Cousin Stephen had shared their concerns regarding Sir Aubrey's apparent misdeeds.

"It's time to go home, Hetty." Araminta patted her sister's shoulder condescendingly. "You're only just out and you're not used to such excitement dancing with Mr Woking—though you've probably had a dull time of the evening as a whole, I expect." As the young man bowed in departure, Araminta whispered to Hetty, "Next time I'll prevail upon someone a little more exciting than Mr Woking to dance with you, though he is keen and you'd be a ninny hammer if you let him slip through your grasp. Tell me, though, dearest. Did you enjoy this evening?"

Hetty nodded, stupidly, unable to put any of what she was feeling into words and Araminta, clearly in a charitable mood, patted her shoulder. "As soon as you're considered a little more worldly, perhaps mama will consent to you wearing bolder colors that do your complexion more favors." She frowned. "You were looking rather pallid this evening but your color is much improved, if a little hectic. Still, if that's what dancing with Mr Woking will do for you then I'll make sure he's always in attendance."

With a beatific smile she linked arms with her sister as Cousin Stephen offered them and arm each to escort them from the ball.

And Hetty closed her eyes in rapture as the cool outside air heated her face and knew she was changed beyond recognition from inside.

No matter how many quadrilles she had to sit out or dance with Mr Woking she had the secret knowledge that Sir Aubrey had thought her truly desirable.

# Chapter 4

It was a beautiful evening for a night of revelry at Vauxhall Gardens, warm and sultry, with a blaze of stars just starting to twinkle in the twilight.

Although Araminta had declared that Hetty would benefit from an early night "so the shadows under her eyes might be less in evidence" and "in the hope that her skin might look brighter", as she told Cousin Stephen, her loyal cousin had gallantly responded by saying Hetty was on the way to becoming a beauty like their mother. He didn't say she already was, but it was sufficient to bolster her spirits so that seeing her sister's nose put out of joint was almost as enjoyable as being made a party to such an exciting event, albeit one that included their deadly dull cousins Seb, who was in the army, and his two turkey-necked sisters, Mary and Amelia. They were distant family members from the country and, as their dress and manner immediately proclaimed them country bumpkins, they were of complete disinterest to Araminta who barely concealed her distaste at being forced to entertain them.

Hetty was not surprised when Araminta seized upon the first opportunity to separate from them. The crowd was now a roiling mass of humanity within the hub of the gardens. Hetty had visited Vauxhall before and was familiar with the layout but the crowds were disconcerting. It would be easy to become lost.

Peering past a floral-festooned headdress, Araminta cried out in feigned surprise, "Oh goodness, Cousin Stephen, why, isn't that Miss Cordelia Entwistle and her brother? Don't you remember what a jolly time we had together playing charades at Lady Wainright's house party last summer?" With a falsely pitying smile, she grasped Cousin Seb's wrist, murmuring, "They lost their dear brother at Waterloo. Anything to remind them of the army sends poor Miss Cordelia in paroxysms of grief. Perhaps it's best if you didn't accompany us to offer our greetings, for they have seen us in the crowd and we must go to them." Already she was moving on, her grip now transferred to Cousin Stephen's wrist as she said over her shoulder, "I propose we meet in an hour in the supper room we've bespoken in the Druid's Walk."

Hetty started to follow, stopping with dismay as her sister called across the lengthening distance that now separated them, "Hetty, you must keep company with Cousins Amelia and Mary. They can chaperone you until we meet again."

Grumbling, Hetty turned. Her cousins were a lackluster trio. Yet when none of them could be seen amidst the roiling throng, their company was suddenly never more desirable. Especially when, dashing after Araminta, Hetty discovered that every single member of her original party appeared to have vanished into thin air.

Breathless, she came to a junction of pathways, her terror increasing when she still could see no sign of them. What if she was observed, alone? Her reputation would be in tatters.

For a moment she could do nothing but stare about her, frantically.

"Mayhap sweet Cupid pursues me once more?"

Hetty swung 'round at the familiar low growl, gasping as she found herself staring into the handsome face of... the man who'd seduced her only days before. "Sir Aubrey!"

He flashed her a sardonic smile as he clapped her on the shoulder. It was such a too-familiar gesture from a gentleman if he thought her a lady...

And yet not nearly as familiar as they'd enjoyed. And while she'd relished every single moment of their wicked, wicked lovemaking, it had been so wrong. Of her, Hetty. She'd led him to believe something that wasn't true and compromised herself as a result. Forever! She'd been as wicked as a young woman could be but she'd surely she'd got away with her actions?

Yet, if she were discovered alone with Sir Aubrey, now, in such a public place, she'd be ruined. She'd have no choice but to retire quietly to the country, where she'd be destined to live out her days a lonely, spurned, ruined spinster. Survival in every sense depended upon withdrawing into the shadows, evading him so he'd never set eyes upon her again and she could do what she had come to London to do—make a good marriage and start her own independent life.

That would never be possible with Sir Aubrey, she thought with a stab of despair. But, oh, how wonderful it would be if it were!

She contemplated her alternatives while her heart performed strange contortions in her chest and warm, molten liquid seemed to pool in her lower belly. Her body was betraying her while her mind cried out for reason to prevail.

Perhaps she should simply run. No, that would draw attention to what should not be observed as anything out of the ordinary. She should definitely find some way of slipping out of his grasp and simply disappearing into the crowd. It could be done, yet...

The truth was, there was something so compelling in the weight of his hand and so desirable in the genuine pleasure she saw in his eyes that she was incapable of doing anything other than murmuring, inanely, "What a surprise to see you here, Sir Aubrey."

His grip tightened as he pulled her closer and his soft, appealing voice made her shiver with excitement. "The investigative prowess of your abbess is to be commended. Perhaps I should employ her myself. Come, my angel, I shall spirit you away in my carriage—"

"No, sir...no, I mean, it's not possible right now." The extraordinary thing was that even though Hetty's acquaintance with this man was so limited—and then only to an encounter of the most shocking, carnal kind—she couldn't think of anything more tempting than exploring the other surprises he had to offer in the privacy of his own home.

His expression hardened as he tipped her face up to meet his eye. "Surely you weren't trawling the Serpentine Walk for trade? I thought I'd made it clear—"

"Indeed you did and it's very flattering." Hetty floundered as she searched for a response that would appease him and enable her to retain any shred of respectability. "However, I am on my way to a special event I've promised to attend."

"Special event?"

Wildly, she searched for some plausible excuse. "It's my brother's birthday celebration. I've promised him I'll be there."

"Yet you are here?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

"I am, sir, because...my brother lives not far from here."

"Indeed?" He hesitated, his hand still on her shoulder as he indicated a private supper box secluded by trees at the end of the path they trod. "Surely your brother would not be inconvenienced if you chose to while away half an hour of your time...?" He licked his lips and sent her a look that was both salacious but also filled with genuine desire.

Hetty's stomach curdled with similar desire but she shook her head. "Indeed, I'm expected within half an hour, sir."

"Ten minutes, then!" With clear enthusiasm he ushered her towards the dimly lit supper box. "I can show you how much pleasure there is to be enjoyed in ten short minutes, my dear!"

Longing overlaid with the knowledge that she had to escape made Hetty desperate as he led her away. More so when Sir Aubrey placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her into his warm embrace after gently pushing her over the threshold and closing the door.

Instant connection vibrated between them. She felt it in his stiffening of awareness, his faint intake of breath.

She could feel his desire pressing against her stomach, unleashing her own rampant need for closer connection. She'd never felt excitement like this yet how, when she knew it was so wrong, could she have found herself in such a situation? Again? What would the repercussions be for her future? For her ability to hold her head high and look her darling mother in the eye?

With a degree of embarrassment, she acknowledged she was more concerned with discovery than the rightness or wrongness of her actual actions.

"The fact that your loyalty to your brother outweighs financial considerations is, I suppose, to be commended." Sir Aubrey's breath caressed her heated ear like a promise as she felt her legs buckle and his arms tighten around her. A single candle flickered on a low table and through a crack in the curtains she could see the flamboyantly dressed crowd promenading through the gardens. "Especially when most little ladybirds would be doing all in their power to reel in such a catch as myself."

"It must be a fine thing...to have such a high opinion of oneself, sir," Hetty ventured bravely, trembling as his lips touched hers.

His laugh reverberated gently between them and she opened her eyes to find him shaking his head. "Why, methinks you do not speak in jest. How refreshing." He held her a little tighter before drawing her by the hand to a pile of sumptuous silk cushions in the corner of the room. "And do you have such a high opinion of yourself, my little one? You certainly ought to after the aptitude you showed for one so inexperienced."

"You mean at Lady Knox's ball?"

He folded his lean, muscular frame into a semi-recumbent position upon the pillows and pulled Hetty onto his lap. With cocked eyebrow and quirked lips, he regarded her as he might a delectable cream puff. That is, if a man as athletic as Sir Aubrey had a liking for pastries.

"Indeed, at Lady Knox's ball." He gave a short laugh but his eyes were twinkling at her, as if he were enjoying a great joke he hoped she'd find amusing. "When I found you trespassing in my chamber, for one wild moment it crossed my mind you were a spy working for Lord Debenham. It was perhaps a dangerous way for your abbess to introduce to me her latest novice. A novelty, certainly, but dangerous. Perhaps I might have slit your throat."

Hetty grimaced, remembering her fear that was so soon subsumed by desire and excitement. "When I saw you covered with blood, I feared that's what you were about to do, sir. Especially after you confessed you'd just killed a man."

His rumble of laughter brought him into closer proximity. "Lord, did I neglect to tell you the truth?" A shadow crossed his face. "You didn't succumb out of fear, did you?"

Hetty shook her head with energy.

"Good." He ran a fingertip from the tip of her nose, tracing her contours until he reached the top of her décolletage. "I've never killed a man and I hope I never do. Ah, but you are surely Maggie Montgomery's star creation." He kissed her brow lightly. "Ingenuous, inexperienced and yet you could pass as a lady."

"I could? Well—" His confession that he had in fact never committed murder removed any acceptable reason for Hetty engaging in the wanton acts she had with the man. Not that she'd truly thought he was a villain but it would have proved a useful reason if her own wickedness ever came to light.

He put his fingertips to her lips. "I do not want to hear your sad and sorry tale. Your acting powers are clearly evident and will no doubt be reflected in Maggie Montgomery's remuneration. We both know to what extent business mixes with pleasure in this instance."

There was an edge to his voice which made Hetty's heart plummet; though she ought to be glad to have an excuse to revile the man if that's the way he thought: that these carnal activities were no more than a business transaction.

"In that case, sir, I think it must end now, sir." Hetty struggled amidst the cushions into a sitting position. Her smile was regretful as she tried to ignore the fierce disappointment that raged through her.

But he'd given her the excuse to leave that she needed. She was sailing too close to the wind. Amongst a sea of hopeful debutantes, he'd not looked at her twice. If he ever discovered her true identity, he'd be furious! If anyone else discovered, she would be ruined.

"Playing games, are we?" He reached out a languid hand as she rose, not bothering to get up for clearly he did not believe that she intended to leave. "Well, my dear, if you cannot spare the time to attend to me in my own domain, it seems you are in a hurry to expedite proceedings here. I'd thought it a novelty to enjoy some preliminary conversation but if you wish to bypass that, by all means, let us proceed to the carnal part of this evening."

Hetty shook off his hand, incensed by his manner and now more than ready to leave. For a moment she stared across at him, wondering how she ever could have found his hooded eyes and quirked mouth attractive. He cared nothing for her. In his eyes she was simply a plaything to gratify his desires. "I am honored you wish to further our acquaintance," she said with heavy irony. "I concede that our previous encounter was surprisingly enjoyable but, after due consideration, spending more than a moment more with you is really not convenient. Yes, I really do have to go, I'm afraid."

Clearly he still did not believe her, but as she pulled the door open his eyes widened and he cocked his head, forestalling her with the gravity of his tone.

"For one so inexperienced you are indeed adept at this game, Miss Hetty." He straightened and there was greater urgency in his tone though his words hardly ingratiated him to her, "Come to me at my townhouse, where you will experience greater comfort and, I promise, a more rewarding outcome." When she did not answer, he tilted his head. "So, you are more predictable than I'd thought. You do simply want to insinuate yourself more thoroughly into my life."

Hetty sent him a level stare. "I do not care to visit you in your townhouse when you choose to be so uncivil, sir." She drew back her shoulders, stifling the urge to cry. She'd been wild for this gentleman and yet he _was_ the rogue and libertarian he'd been painted. A philanderer with no shred of civility. She inclined her head as she passed through the door. "I'm sorry if I leave you disappointed though I'm certain my shoes will not be too difficult to fill."

His parting words showed he was not the slightest bit shamed. "It was not your shoes I had hoped to fill."

Angrily she slammed the door behind her.

Sweeping into the night was not the liberating experience she'd expected. For the first time in her life, Hetty realized what it was to be truly alone. She took a couple of tentative steps toward the main walkway, along which small groups and the occasional stray individual meandered, but she lacked the courage to make her isolated state evident, preferring to loiter in the shadows.

What should she do? She couldn't return to Sir Aubrey after what he'd said. She was nothing to him.

For days she'd built up her importance to him through dreams of what might be possible between them when the truth was revealed—at the appropriate time, of course.

Now she knew he must never realize it. The recollection of his voice sent tremors of shame through her. The irony, the entitlement and boredom in his tone revealed him as the kind of man who would consider that she was the one entirely to blame for the loss of her reputation. With a sob, she prepared to sally forth onto the main path but drew back behind the trunk of an elm when she heard male voices, one of which sounded frighteningly familiar. As an unchaperoned debutante she dare not risk exposure.

Hearing the name of her erstwhile...lover...made her hold her breath.

"Sir Aubrey's in there." The faintness of their discussion made it impossible to follow until one of them sniggered, "Entertaining some little ladybird."

The other voice, younger and more serious, interjected softly, "He'll let his guard down one of these days, uncle."

With a start, Hetty realized it was Mr. Woking who spoke with such fawning self- importance. "He will be caught and convicted soon. We cannot afford a repeat of Spa Fields else every landowner will go about in fear of having their throats slit by their laborers." With boyish urgency he added, "But what if we can find no evidence?"

"Then we must weigh up the merits of preserving the peace through resorting to methods whereby evidence is," there was an ominous pause, "discovered."

"But uncle—" Mr. Woking began, however the man Hetty realised was none other than Lord Debenham cut him off, his tone reassuring.

"The government upholds the national interest above all. Do not concern yourself with the details, Roderick."

The voices moved on and Hetty ventured a quick glance through the tree branches. Dear heavens, they were intent upon stringing up Sir Aubrey, even if they couldn't find what they needed to convict him. He might be a philanderer, and Hetty nothing more than one of his many conquests, but she couldn't see him hang for something he hadn't done.

Sliding into the walkway as a throng of revelers rounded the bend, she melted into the darkness, joining their straggling ranks as if she were one of them until she reached the hub of the park once more. The orchestra had struck up a lively piece by Mozart and as she cast her panicked look around, she was never more relieved to hear Araminta's voice.

"There you are, Hetty! Oh, and there's Cousin Seb, too, with Mary bringing up the rear. Goodness, that girl's sourer than ten-days-old milk. You'll find yourself a husband before she does, Hetty, if that's any consolation."

The only consolation Hetty felt at that moment—and it was considerable, nonetheless—was that she'd inadvertently timed her arrival at the moment the two disparate sets of cousins converged. Both groups seemed to assume she'd been with the other.

Araminta hooked elbows with her as they sauntered through the gardens, saying what a pity it was Hetty had chosen to abandon her and Stephen since Mr. Woking had accosted them not two minutes before, asking after her.

"Papa would be satisfied with such a match, for Mr. Woking's family has large landholdings in Hampshire and he's an only son. I doubt you could do better."

"But I don't like Mr. Woking," Hetty protested. "He has clammy hands and his breath really is most unpleasant." Though that was the least of her objections. Overhearing him and his uncle just now had left her in a difficult predicament.

Araminta affected a falsely disapproving look. "It sounds as if you're already far too familiar with Mr. Woking to possibly back out now." When Hetty tossed her head, Araminta said, more placatingly, "An ardent suitor is just what you need after Edgar's tragic death. Planning a wedding will take your mind off your grief and marrying Mr. Woking is just the ticket, I'd say."

Miserably, Hetty countered, "Then why don't you marry him if you think he's such a good catch and he's an only son and well connected?"

Araminta didn't hide her revulsion. "Not even if I were desperate. No, I can do far better. Besides, as I've told you, I have my sights set on other quarry."

"Perhaps you think that if I marry Mr. Woking you'll have closer access to Lord Debenham. You can't use me like that, Araminta."

Araminta appeared to shift uncomfortably. "I've told you already, it's Sir Aubrey I'm interested in. And as for the slander Cousin Stephen harps upon, it doesn't worry me a jot. As long as he's received and he has money and a title, then he's handsome enough for me."

"What if Sir Aubrey does not wish to make you his wife?" Hetty was aware of her challenging tone. She did not like Araminta's sly smile.

"I have gained the impression on the several occasions we have been alone together that I am just the kind of wife he is after."

Her lips curved up even more at Hetty's gasp. Fortunately Araminta must have assumed it was shock at her boldness because her response sounded smug. "Dear Hetty, even an innocent debutante must take risks if she's to seize the advantage. I intend to marry Sir Aubrey before the year is out."

"You can't—"

Araminta raised her eyebrows and in the amused silence, Hetty struggled for a response. "I'd have imagined Lord Debenham held a greater attraction for you."

"Indeed, he is most intriguing with his brooding black looks and raven locks, his white skin and hawklike nose. If I'd call anyone dangerous, it would be Lord Debenham." A faint look of distaste marred her pretty features.

"Lord Debenham would have you believe that Sir Aubrey is the villain."

Ignoring this, Araminta replied sharply, "And I would have you try to foster a tendre in Lord Debenham's nephew. He looks sheep's eyes at you when you're not looking, you know."

"Sometimes, Araminta, you are so heartless it gives me a headache," Hetty whispered. Araminta frowned as if she did not understand her. "Heartless? My dear, I am doing everything I can to foster Mr. Woking's interest in you in order to ensure you don't end up a poor, discarded creature destined to play unpaid nursemaid to our parents as they grow old and feeble. For you do know that's what will happen if you become a confirmed spinster?"

"I'd rather that than become wife to Mr. Woking."

Araminta turned to wait for Stephen and the others. Gently chiding, she said, "You know you don't mean that, dearest. A September wedding, I'm predicting. You can borrow my goose-feather-trimmed bonnet that Aunt Sarah made me. I'm afraid it _makes_ me look such a goose, which is why I've never worn it, but it'll please Aunt Sarah and I think that you'll feel more comfortable if you're overwhelmed by feathers and furbelows. Certainly that'll be the case if you're not exactly feeling overwhelmed with love—though I've heard that often comes with time.

"Ah, Stephen, Hetty was saying she has a headache so perhaps you can get the cousins to take her home so we can go on together to Lady Misshelene's ball-assembly. I distinctly heard Sir Aubrey mention he'd be there this evening."

Stephen slanted a concerned look at Hetty before regarding Araminta with suspicion, but Hetty had no heart for more entertainment.

Silently, she followed her lackluster cousins into the hackney carriage Stephen flagged down. Cousin Seb was showing distinct signs of queasiness by the time they passed their townhouse and wearily Hetty told them to have no concern for her as, with worried looks, they questioned the rightness of allowing her to continue the two blocks alone to her own lodgings.

But Hetty didn't care what became of her and waved aside as lip service their fears for her well-being over such a short distance, saying, "Judging by the bilious look on Cousin Seb's face, I think it's best to remove your brother earlier rather than later."

Cocooned in silence, Hetty reflected amidst the tumult of her feelings. Sir Aubrey was a scoundrel but she did not believe in her heart of hearts she'd fallen victim to a villain. In fact, the conversation she'd overheard outside the supper room suggested Sir Aubrey was facing a more immediate danger than he could know.

The more she dwelt upon it as the lonely clip clop of hooves rang upon the cobblestones, the greater became her concern. Sir Aubrey had no idea of the lengths to which his enemies would go to condemn him. Only Hetty knew. A great sense of destiny made her sit straight as she considered her options.

The hackney was nearly to her home but not three blocks away was Sir Aubrey's townhouse. He might not be there but he was in danger. She could warn him. She could distinguish herself by her boldness and daring.

Not by speaking to him and risking her reputation again, but she could ask for pen and paper to scribble him a note that would be delivered to him the moment he came in. She'd sign it so he knew that she was his benefactress.

For once Hetty could feel as if she were the star performer in her own adventure. A heroine. Yes, for once Hetty could play the heroine.

# Chapter 5

A large waxing moon had Sir Aubrey waving away the lantern his footman rushed forward proffering. He didn't need any help from anyone.

Wearily, he climbed the stairs to his townhouse. He'd been a fool to have bespoken a supper box in Vauxhall Gardens, but it had been the second anniversary of Margaret's defection and Vauxhall was where he'd proposed marriage. For some maudlin reason he'd planned to drown his sorrows in claret. It had done nothing except make him dissatisfied and distinctly out of sorts.

Or maybe that odd little chit of Maggie Montgomery's had done that with her refusal to entertain him. She'd scampered across his path when he'd least expected it and completely disarmed him with her dimpled smile and plump white arms.

Recalling her curvaceous body gave him the urge to enfold her in his embrace and kiss her cheekiness into something far more primal.

He was cross with himself for misreading the situation. Perhaps she'd been telling the truth and she truly had been on her way to visit her brother. The fact was, Aubrey's boorishness had prompted her to wriggle out of his amorous embrace and bolt when before she'd been so fired up with enthusiasm in his arms.

And that's what had made her so endearing. She'd truly seemed to find him attractive. Strangely, Aubrey had found himself dwelling on her at often the most unexpected times, which was strange since she was by no means as dashing as Jezebel, nor the beauty Margaret had been.

With her round, innocent face and her confident demeanor she was an enigma; part unworldly debutante, part brazen lightskirt. Who was she, really? Perhaps a gentlewoman fallen on hard times. If so, she seemed oddly agreeable to his ministrations.

He cleared his mind of any further speculation. When it came to women, Sir Aubrey had a policy of probing no deeper than what they chose to present as part of their charade for his benefit. He didn't have time or energy to invest in any "fallen on hard times" or "ruined by the vicar" tales of woe. Whatever cards one was dealt, it was incumbent upon the individual to make the best of the situation. If that meant a woman was unexpectedly cast into his orbit, he would do the decent thing by her, show her what pleasure could be had, milk the situation for what was on offer and then move on.

Well, that had been the way the past twelve months or so had played out. He had discovered true love after he'd married Margaret. The string of associations since her death had done nothing to take the edge off his pain, though he prided himself on the fact no mistress had come after him with anger or vengeance in her heart. He always settled his dues.

He turned as he reached his front door, which was when he noticed a hackney loitering by the kitchen steps. Angrily he marched back down the steps and rapped loudly on the curtained window of the equipage. Expecting to surprise some gormless lackey employed by Debenham to monitor his movements, he was taken aback when a familiar cherubic face peered at him through the glass. "Good Lord!"

He wrenched open the door and she gazed out at him, her expression severe rather than inviting. "I was writing you a note, Sir Aubrey."

"Indeed." He thrust his arm into the dark interior. "Perhaps you'd care to come inside and explain why you felt a note was more desirable than your company." Despite his irony, he was exhilarated. She must have left Vauxhall and come promptly to his townhouse. Her lackluster response to him in the supper box had been part of the pretense.

"Come now and stop playing games. You'll catch your death of cold." He patted her gloved hand as he helped her out before paying the jarvey, and was even more amused by her apparent reluctance. As if she hadn't planned this from the start.

As he led her up the stairs to the front door, he was impressed at how well she played the young lady of fashion. Her dress, her mannerisms had been learned to a fine art. He dampened the flash of curiosity as to her origins, saying instead, "That's right. Dombey will take your things."

When she hesitated once inside the lobby, he chuckled. "It's too late to play the coy maiden now when you've already cast discretion to the winds. Up the stairs we go. That's right. Along that passage. I want to hear exactly what you're up to and what's in this note."

For a brief moment, she hesitated at the top of the stairs. As well she might, the little baggage, he thought almost fondly before suspicion gained the ascendant. Could she really be spying on him? Was it possible she'd been recruited by Lord Debenham?

As soon as they'd gained the sanctuary of his private quarters, she swung around to face him. "Let me make it plain, Sir Aubrey, I have no interest in further dealings between us other than to warn you that I believe you have enemies," she stated baldly. "That is why I am here."

The defiance of her tone and the way she squared her shoulders was so at odds with the soft and ladylike creature she presented in all other respects that he was quite taken by surprise. Dismissing his earlier suspicion she might be a spy, he almost hugged her to his chest.

Instead he tilted his head and replied with his usual heavy irony, "Indeed."

Trembling, she thrust something at him.

"Your dance card? Empty? Is this the device now employed by those who seek to emulate their betters? Hardly novel."

She glared. "I won't stay if you're going to make fun of me. I simply thought it might interest you to know I stumbled upon two gentlemen hiding in the bushes outside your supper room and overheard part of their conversation that concerned you, sir."

This shocked him though he tried to hide it. He hadn't wanted validation of his suspicions that his enemy was engaged in further eroding his standing. He thought a moment, wondering if it was perhaps he who was jumping to conclusions. Yet he was the injured party, after all. He had nothing to fear or hide. All anyone had to go on were rumors and he knew they could never be substantiated.

"Try another gambit, my dear—" He put a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her onto the bed. "Like hiking up your skirts, dear Henrietta, so we can get to the business that really brought you here. It's the only way you're going to be paid, isn't it? And paid more than you would have for a quick fumble in the supper room. You're quite strategic, my dear. Admirable."

To his surprise, she struggled beneath him. Not the token struggle he was so used to but a concerted struggle, which made clear her objection to being taken in this way. He straightened and stepped back.

"What games are you playing now, poppet?" he asked. Suspiciously, he added, "If this is a ploy, I might remind you that Mrs Montgomery will be expecting more than her pound of flesh. I'll not be bled for more...unless you can offer me something very novel."

"No!" she said quickly, shaking her head. "You took my virtue the other night, sir, and you introduced me to many wonderful feelings, but I will not be taken anytime like some common jezebel."

"Ah, Jezebel," he sighed, recalling his previous flighty and unlamented mistress before realizing that's not what she meant. "So what do you want?"

She looked uncertain, as if assessing the merits of continued intimacies. "Maybe you could talk to me first."

He let out a shout of laughter. "Of course, how careless and ungentlemanly I must seem. You were in too much of a hurry before but now that you have me when you want me, you'd like to pretend to be a lady. You want to show off the skills Maggie Montgomery taught you." He tugged on the bell rope that hung by the bed, adding, "You want to prove you can hold your knife and fork properly so that I might just consider making you Lady Henrietta. Ah, Briggs," he said to the sleepy lackey who answered his summons, "a bottle of champagne. Not my best but good enough for present company, eh?"

He quirked an eyebrow before grinning at the clearly fuming little miss before him. "What? You're offended I didn't order the finest my cellar has to offer? My dear, if I intended to make you my wife, I most certainly would have. Right now my intention is simply to take the edge off your objections so that you'll part your legs with all the obedience your calling requires of you."

She gasped, ducking with surprising agility beneath his restraining arm as she dashed for the door.

Realizing it was no act, he dragged her back, genuinely contrite and with the real fear that she might indeed leave when suddenly the success and enjoyment of his evening hinged upon her company.

"I apologize for my vulgarity." He truly did. This was not the way to speak to this young lady, and if she had once been respectable rather than spawn of the gutter—it was always impossible to tell with Mrs Montgomery's girls—she'd consider him perfectly vile. "Please stay." Gently, as if enticing a frightened animal, for she reminded him of a dear little fawn, he contoured her soft cheek with his forefinger. "If you are indeed a gentlewoman fallen on hard times—though let me be clear, I do not wish to know your history—my words show me up as the scoundrel I am."

"What does it matter if I were a gentlewoman fallen on hard times or a streetwalker who has never known better?" Her eyes flashed as she delivered her rebuke, though he noticed she closed her eyes at the physical contact rather than stepping back. "No real gentleman would speak in such a manner. I'm sorry, Sir Aubrey, but I really have no further desire to consort with you. I merely wish to inform you that you have enemies."

When he put both hands on her shoulders, her attempts to twist out of his grip were so genuine he did in fact believe she meant to follow through on complete resistance. It made him all the more determined to persuade her otherwise.

"I already know I have enemies, so that's nothing new." He did not believe she had any real information but he was happy to humor her. "Ah, here is our champagne. Pray, be seated, dear Henrietta, so you can furnish me with all the details your investigations have revealed."

He waved her to a chair, hiding his amusement at her narrow-eyed look as he indicated to the servant to pour two coupes of champagne.

"I find your excessive gallantry cloying. Your brutish vulgarity was almost preferable, sir."

"Is there no pleasing you?" he lamented with false despair as he took a seat facing her. He raised his glass. "To the satisfactory execution of whatever business propelled you here, my dear."

She took a sip, eyeing him suspiciously over the rim. "I don't know what that's supposed to mean." Coughing a little as the bubbles apparently tickled her nose, she added, "However I can assure you my intentions went no further than wishing to advise you of matters pertaining to your safety."

"Ah yes! Where were we in terms of this vile conspiracy against me that you fortuitously overheard? We are taking a very long time to get to the point."

"If you're not going to take me seriously, I might as well go now, sir."

"Oh, I take you very seriously, my dear." He allowed himself a wolfish smile as he raked her body with a slow, lascivious gaze. He was rather enjoying this game. "Indeed, if it can be proved that you have in fact saved me from whatever terrible threats hang over my head, I shall reward you handsomely."

"I don't want money."

He chuckled. "You're just here for the pleasure of my company. Of course, my dear."

She shrugged, putting down her empty glass with rather unsteady hands. "Would that surprise you?"

"Girls in your situation need to be strategic, I understand that, and I do not condemn you for it. We must barter what we have for what we want. You, no doubt, are looking for a rich and well-connected benefactor—and if you were clever enough, a title—meaning I would be just the ticket, wouldn't I?"

She tossed her head, though he saw her stifle a smile. "I could do better than you if I were patient enough."

"Oh, I'll not gainsay that, my dear." He stood up and moved 'round to stand at her shoulder, lowering his head to kiss her neck as he refilled her glass. "So you could do a lot better than me?" He handed her the fizzing liquid, then sighed. "Alas, you are right. I am not a man to whom a lady should ally herself if she has other options, for I shall retire the moment I am bored. If there is any possibility that your heart might get broken then I suggest you leave right now."

The dismay he read in her expression when she raised her head pleased him, for he fancied she was not playacting now. "Or rather, once our pleasant little session is over, for I confess I am rather looking forward to divesting you of your stockings and running my hands over your nicely turned limbs. You were well advised to delay proceedings so I might enjoy the pleasure of your diverting little mind. It's been quite a novelty. Now, come here and sit on my lap so that I might hear more about the danger I'm in."

She bit her lip and frowned. "I dare not, sir."

"You dare not?" he asked, resting his chin upon the nut-brown curls that cascaded from the top of her head. "That is what brought you here, is it not?" He dipped one hand into her bodice to toy with her small nipple. It hardened immediately. "What is it this time?"

Her gasp reverberated through him. "You will ruin me."

"Perhaps...if a child results." He kissed her earlobe before taking the little shell into his mouth. Her trembling increased. She was enjoying this, he could tell, and he didn't believe it was an act. "My dear, I am assiduous in employing means to prevent conception. I desire a child as little as you. You have my word that if such an accident were to happen I would hold myself responsible for the consequences—if it could be proved the bastard were mine."

Instead of rearing up indignantly at this, she said, softly, "I do not intend to give myself to anyone other than you, sir."

He felt rather pleased with himself. After an uncertain start he'd lulled her into an almost somnolent state. Once again he'd proved his prowess with the female species. He was looking forward to what the next hour would bring, more than he usually did.

Trying not to squirm too much on her little gilt chair, her hands clasped demurely in her lap, Hetty shivered as he stalked around to face her. In her experience of men, Araminta was the one to garner the kind of fascinated interest she was now enjoying.

Enjoying? If she was honest with herself, this was one of the highlights of her life. A handsome, desirable man was sizing her up and clearly did not find her wanting.

Common sense faded in and out between thrills of excitement. Three times at least during this exchange she'd been on the verge of bolting.

Now, once again, she was watching him advance like the predator he was and her mind was whirling. Would she allow him to have his wicked way with her all over again?

If she stayed she was courting ruin. Yet what difference did it make since she was, to all intents and purposes, ruined already?

Hetty was a romantic by heart, but nevertheless, a practical girl. It was perfectly possible she might never marry. Not with Araminta perpetually throwing her into the shade. What gentleman would marry Hetty when he'd forever be comparing the sisters and secretly acknowledging he got the plain and dumpy one? Well, there was Mr. Woking, but didn't that just highlight her point?

If she had to choose, she'd rather risk hell in the afterlife by taking her pleasures with this wicked, handsome rake than endure a dubiously rewarded life of virtue on earth, sharing a marriage bed with Mr. Woking. She didn't think she had the fortitude for that kind of life sentence. If he had bad breath, she knew with almost absolute certainty he must snore.

She gave a little hiccup and quickly put her hand to her mouth, feeling suddenly jaunty now that she'd made up her mind to court ruin and damnation when all was said and done. Indeed, it was a grand feeling, sitting here and watching Sir Aubrey smile at her with that deliciously wicked, self-satisfied smile. She'd never before made decisions that had such import on her own life.

Now that her vacillations had come down on the sinful side of the coin, she thought she might like to make him work for his pleasure.

"Well, sir, you have tutored me once in the ways of men and women and, as we both concede, ruined me in the process." She sent him an expectant look. "What else can you show me, to make my fall from grace worth the price?" Dear Lord, she could not believe herself capable of speaking so brazenly.

With feline grace, he reached for her hands, raising her to her feet.

Her heart began to thunder while a thousand butterflies seemed to flutter their wings against her most sensitive parts. She was so unused to the feelings holding her hostage she could barely breathe. Was this what she could expect every time she came into such close proximity with this man?

Gently he cupped her chin, bringing his lips down to meet her hers in the softest of kisses. Straining for more, she reached up on her tiptoes, tentatively running the tip of her tongue across the seam of his lips. She gasped when he lunged forward, enveloping her in his arms and plundering her mouth as his hands roamed over her curves. He wasn't gentle now and she didn't want him to be.

For the first time in her life, Hetty felt truly desired. Sir Aubrey was kissing her with relish, his expression one of rapture, as if her soft flesh and rounded breasts and buttocks were the stuff of his dreams. Would a husband like Mr. Woking make her feel like such a woman?

Foolish irrelevance, was her last conscious thought, swallowed by her soft moan as his mouth moved from hers to blaze a trail of kisses the length of her neck, continuing across her chest before coming into contact with her nipple. Pressure and passion had pushed it above the edge of her bodice, which, as he'd also deftly unfastened her gown at the back, now slithered down to her waist.

The gown was not needed, she decided, giving a little wriggle so that it pooled around her ankles. She stepped out of it, straining to keep her arms around Sir Aubrey's neck while she rained kisses upon the hollow of his throat.

In mutual ecstasy they swayed in one another's embrace, their sighs of rapture mingling with the hiss of the crackling, spitting fire that bathed the room in a comforting glow.

With a growl, Sir Aubrey whisked Hetty into his arms before tossing her onto the bed.

One moment she was gazing, no doubt like a startled fawn, into his lascivious, purposeful gaze, the next he was surging up from her ankles and taking her chemise up past her waist before appearing with a wicked grin between her legs.

"Sir Aubrey!" she squeaked, but her momentary embarrassment was swept away, leaving guilty pleasure in its wake as he parted the folds of her sex with one long sweep of his tongue. A rush of sensation roared through her, as intense as any she'd ever known, casting every particle of rational thought from her mind and leaving her boneless with lust. She existed only in the moment. The exquisite moment.

Heat prickled her skin and she closed her eyes, her mind spinning into a pleasurable, all-encompassing blackness as he gently massaged the growing nub at the center of her desire. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, for just as she felt herself on the verge of safety she was once again plunged into the void of dangerous bodily sensations. Sensations that made her feel increasingly out of control.

Her breath came in staccato gasps.

Startled by the sudden dip of the mattress beneath her, she opened her eyes to find herself staring into the satyr-like grin of Sir Aubrey, who'd divested himself of his breeches and who now rose above her. Hetty's fascinated gaze slid the length of him and her response must have reflected her true feelings when he chuckled, "So glad I'm not displeasing to you, madam." His eyes glittered as he caged her body with his, positioning himself at her entrance. "I'd not expected such unfettered eagerness from one so inexperienced."

"Oh, Sir Aubrey, you're magnificent," Hetty whispered, bracing herself with a mixture of fear and excitement. He hadn't hurt her before, which was rather astonishing considering how very large he was. Now she was primed as she never had been, her body throbbing to receive him; for he was a king amongst men in all his glorious nakedness, and all the more desirable for the palpable excitement she saw reflected in his expression.

Exhaling on a sigh of ecstasy as he plunged into her, Hetty was soon experiencing a plethora of very different emotions as he moved inside her.

He filled her completely—both her body and mind. The sensations caused by the friction of body parts were both alarming and intensely pleasurable.

"God, you feel so good!" he rasped, thrusting faster, his eyes glazed as if he were in the throes of ecstasy. She certainly was, and to see and feel the effect she had on this gorgeous man was gratifying in the extreme. The tension inside her was almost unbearable. Her breathlessness increased while the pounding between her legs was echoed by the pounding behind her breast.

It was exquisite torture. Sublime pleasure.

And she had no idea where it was going to end.

"Oh, Sir Aubrey!" she screamed as something inside her snapped and she spiraled out of control, unable to harness her bucking and thrusting. She was at the mercy of forces beyond her control as ecstasy took her hostage and blackness swirled through her brain.

"God, Henrietta!" he responded as his breathing became more rapid. So did his thrusting, until, on a cry of rapture, he seemed to explode, withdrawing just in time and collapsing, still holding her tightly.

# Chapter 6

It had always been a source of tension that Araminta and Hetty had to share a lady's maid. That is, Araminta objected strongly to having to share. Hetty didn't mind.

This evening Jane was busy with the tongs and sugar water as she created a becoming coiffure for the younger of the sisters. She was a relatively new addition to the staff but her amiability, discretion and the fact she was as adept with a hairbrush as ensuring peace reigned in the Misses Partingtons' dressing room made her popular with most of the household.

With eyes closed, Hetty surrendered to Jane's ministrations and dreamed of Sir Aubrey with mixed feelings. Her current situation could not continue, she knew that. Exposure was a constant threat and she was a fool for courting discovery. Secretly she hugged the hope that she might supply the information Sir Aubrey needed to exonerate himself. Yet Hetty knew her ability to succeed in this arena was as unlikely as spinning straw into gold.

Araminta was pacing. "Are you nearly finished?" Her gusty sigh cut through the hitherto pleasurable silence. "I, too, have to present myself at Lady Kilmore's ball and I am the eldest."

Calmly, Jane countered, "I'd a' tended to you first, Miss Araminta, had you bin here. But since your sister were already at her dressing table it were only good sense to start on her toilette. Don't she look a right picture tonight? Reckon the London air agrees with you, Miss Henrietta."

Araminta grunted. "Well, if I'm to receive an offer I must be where I've said I'll be. Sir Aubrey is a busy man."

"Sir Aubrey, is it, Miss Araminta?" replied Jane, raising one eyebrow. She pursed her lips as she continued to sweep the bristles through Hetty's tresses.

Hetty found it easier not to betray her distress if she kept herself very still through the taunting of seemingly a thousand gargoyles who leered at her from the recesses of her brain. Could it really be true? She'd thought Araminta's aspersions regarding Sir Aubrey's supposed interest mere half truths. Yet if Araminta regarded Sir Aubrey as a suitor, what chance did Hetty have?

Naturally she'd never expected in a millennium that Sir Aubrey would make her an offer...

But she certainly had not expected Araminta might waltz away with such a prize.

It had happened with Cousin Edgar but she would not...no, she would not allow it to happen with Sir Aubrey.

When Jane threaded the silver fillet through her finished coiffure, Hetty rose, holding up the masquerade mask she was to wear that evening, fluttering her eyelashes as she tried for a tone of gaiety.

If indeed Sir Aubrey was pursuing Araminta, as her sister claimed, perhaps Hetty could gain greater insight into how matters really stood if she were in the guise of a king's consort from the previous century.

Straightening from a deep curtsy to affect a very uncharacteristically seductive sashay about the room, she said airily, "Tonight I shall enjoy watching you cast your lures, Araminta, but perhaps I will surprise you and snare the game from under your nose." Her gurgle of laughter was as much prompted by the ludicrousness of her managing such a thing as fear of Araminta's power.

Not surprisingly, Araminta, now occupying the dressing table stool as Jane worked on her hair, considered Hetty's words barely worthy of a response. Opening one eye she said lazily, "Whatever game you snare will only be on account of the fact that you're in masquerade."

Before Hetty could respond, Jane quickly intervened. "You both look _ravissement_." The French adjective was incorrect and spoken with a strong East London twang, but Hetty appreciated Jane's peacemaking attempt. Impulsively she put her hands on Jane's shoulders and pulled her away from Araminta and into a twirl. Her spirits had bounced back. Tonight she would shine. Beside Araminta she'd never thought that possible, but tonight they were equals. Hetty's glossy brown ringlets would be looked upon as favorably as Araminta's raven tresses by some men, surely? She was another creature beneath the mask and the layers of makeup, hoops and petticoats.

Another creature who could reinvent herself in whatever form she desired.

"You've made me into a beauty, Jane, and I may just succeed where Araminta does not. What do you think?"

Clearly uncomfortable, Jane stepped out of her grasp and bent to pick up a dropped hairpin from the floor. "You'd best both beware of that Sir Aubrey," she said with a shrug. "Fancier fish to fry's all I can say."

Araminta, who'd leaned back in the chair with a look of utmost boredom as Hetty had purloined the diligent Jane, now opened her eyes. "Oh, do tell all, Jane!" She affected a hushed whisper. "How many wives has he locked away in his tower?"

"Can't rightly say, miss, only my...that is, a young man what I know told me 'bout him."

Araminta leaned forward and put her head close to the looking glass to inspect the fall of a ringlet from her temple. "Out with it, Jane, if you want to keep your job beyond Christmas."

Jane affected concentration in reordering the silver boxes and bottles lined up on the girls' dressing table. "Sorry, but I ain't one to gossip, miss," she whispered. "'Specially when it might cause harm."

"He's dangerous?" Araminta's eyes gleamed. Hetty wasn't surprised. She would have dropped the subject but her sister, jumping up from her chair and gripping Hetty's hand, demanded, "You're duty-bound to protect us, Jane. I promise your young man, whoever he is, will be safe."

It was only after prolonged interviewing that Jane conceded her admirer Jem was her source and that he happened to be valet to Lord Debenham.

Hetty's mouth dropped open. "Your young man is Lord Debenham's valet?"

Araminta sent her a sideways glance. "Are you sizing Lord Debenham up as your future husband, Hetty? He's very dashing, of course, but hardly the type who'd look your way, I'm afraid, dearest."

The magnitude of what she'd learned just now was too much for Hetty. "You are so unkind, Araminta," she declared, grasping her skirts as she made for the door. "I have no interest in Lord Debenham."

"That's as well." Araminta returned her attention to her reflection. "I've heard he's a very dangerous gentleman. Just like Sir Aubrey. Best to steer clear of them both."

Hetty hesitated by the door. She didn't want to know what this Jem might have to say about Sir Aubrey, for she'd not believe it. Sir Aubrey was kind and gentle and passionate, all at the same time. He'd stroked and kissed her, made her feel fiercely desired then looked at her with a fondness that could not be feigned.

However, the possibility she'd felt earlier that she could in fact inveigle Sir Aubrey into some kind of legitimate union lay in shreds if Araminta was serious about making him a conquest.

She faced her sister fiercely, determined for once to have the last word. "Not if I'm to keep an eye on you, Araminta, and see you don't do something rash."

"I suppose you must find something entertaining with which to occupy yourself while you wait to be asked to stand up to dance."

Hetty nearly collided with the door as it was opened and the measured voice of her beloved mother resonated through the tense atmosphere.

"Why, Hetty, you look beautiful—though a little flushed."

Hetty flung herself into her arms, making the most of the brief comfort afforded by Lady Partington's embrace before she was set aside, her mother's affection now tempered with justified suspicion as to her elder daughter's behavior. "I hope you've not been suggesting to Hetty she won't be every bit as successful as you, Araminta." Lady Partington's gentle face was almost forbidding. "Hetty's kind and sweet nature count for a great deal when a gentleman weighs up all factors pertaining to the long future he must share with the woman he chooses for his wife."

Hetty wished she'd included something that alluded to Hetty's improved looks.

Her sister, now sitting on the edge of the bed, showed no sign of contrition. "I was only cautioning Hetty as it appears she's set her cap at Lord Debenham." Araminta's smile became cloying. "Without being unkind, Lord Debenham is quite simply out of her league, just as Sir Aubrey is—and besides, Sir Aubrey has made his interest in me clear so I'd hate to see Hetty wounded or, worse, regarded as a failure by the end of the season. If Hetty would only consider Mr. Woking—"

"Will you desist from this idea that I would consent in a thousand years to accept an offer from Mr. Woking?" Hetty cried, stamping her foot.

Araminta stopped with a look of exaggerated surprise before giving a couple desultory claps. "Bravo, Hetty. So you are capable of a spark of passion. Perhaps there's hope yet."

"Enough, girls!" Lady Partington stepped into the center of the room, holding one hand up for silence as if the girls were squabbling infants. "Pray tell me more, Araminta. _Are_ you interested in this Sir Aubrey about whom I hear such unsavory rumors?"

Araminta displayed her pretty white teeth in a most ingenuous smile. "Mama, you've told me never to take rumor for the truth else half the ton's reputation would be in tatters. Why, if an otherwise eligible gentleman is considered unsuitable purely on account of a rumor, closer association must be the final arbiter." She cleared her throat delicately. "Certainly it must be in the absence of evidence to convict."

A small gasp escaped Jane and Lady Partington swung 'round. "And what do you know about all this, Jane?" she demanded.

Miserably, Jane toyed with the now-cold curling tongs. "I know the young man wot's valet to Lord Debenham, ma'am, and he said summat that made me afeared o' Sir Aubrey."

Hetty held her breath and hoped her expression didn't give her away as Jane went on. "Afeared of Lord Debenham too, only I weren't sure if I should say, seeing as how Miss Araminta is so taken."

"Well, that's dropping me in it!" Araminta hissed as she rose and took a turn about the room.

Hetty struggled to keep her expression bland as her mind whirled with possibilities. It could not be true. Well, the part about Sir Aubrey's villainy though she was thoroughly convinced about Lord Debenham's. Sir Aubrey had explained everything.

She heaved in a breath, forcing herself to hold on to the conviction that Sir Aubrey had been unfairly maligned. The alternative was too awful to contemplate. She could not risk losing herself to a villain, a reprobate.

The trouble was, she acknowledged with a little moan she tried to stifle, she already had.

Lady Partington arranged the folds of her dress around her as she lowered herself carefully onto the green and gold counterpane, stroking her large belly. "In the interests of my daughters' welfare, Jane, I must ask you to tell us everything you know." Concern furrowed her brow, replacing the fond maternal look she usually affected at such times. "You have my word there will be no repercussions for you or for your young man."

Jane nodded, opened her mouth to speak then, clearly reconsidering, said in a panicked voice, "Jem made me swear I'd tell no one. He said it could cost him his job. Nay, his life, even, if his secret got out."

Even Araminta showed surprise but Lady Partington was calm as she repeated, "Tell us now, please, Jane. You have all our assurances that no sources will be revealed."

Jane sniffed, shifted from one foot to the other, then finally said in a low voice, "Jem's bin valet to Debenham from the time 'e came back from the Far East, where he worked for the powerful East India Tradin' Company." Staring at her feet, she shook her head. "I don't know nothing of the East India Tradin' Company but I do know Lady Margaret's brother also worked for the East India Tradin' Company and that he were accused of something fearful, and that Lord Debenham and Lady Margaret were afeared what were goin' to happen to him." She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles.

"Where, exactly, does Sir Aubrey come into all this?" Lady Partington prompted gently.

"Well, m'lady, the story's this. When Sir Aubrey went away, his wife, Lady Margaret decided to visit her brother Master James, who were now living back in England. And it so happened that Lord Debenham also were visiting, cousins as they all were."

Hetty narrowed her eyes. His Lordship's visit had, according to Sir Aubrey's account, been anything but innocent. If this was the version put about by Jane's young man it didn't sound as if the truth were about to emerge.

"I do not think Sir Aubrey cared for Lord Debenham, who was too familiar with Lady Margaret," Hetty said.

Predictably, Araminta swung around. "How would you know such a thing?" she demanded but Lady Partington put up her hand for silence before signaling Jane to go on.

Even in the dim light the girl's sallow face showed her deep reluctance to speak of matters she'd been told were never to be discussed. She toyed with the corner of the cloth that covered the table on which the lamp sat.

"Jem says that on the final day of Lord Debenham's visit, His Lordship and Master James repaired to the library whereupon a great argument broke out," Jane continued. "In a fury, Mr. James went to seize his sword only Lord Debenham pulled out his own and wounded the young man mortal bad."

Hetty saw her mother's eyes widen as Araminta said in bored tones, "I fail to see what this has to do with Sir Aubrey."

Jane glared. "Well, Miss Margaret were naturally distraught at her brother's being so badly injured. Then Sir Aubrey arrived in a fury, claiming his wife were carrying on with Lord Debenham. Instead of going to Master James' aid, he turned on His Lordship and the two men began fighting and then Miss Margaret tried to stop them. Well, neither were hurt but when Lord Debenham went in search of Miss Margaret..."

Jane held up her hands in a gesture of defeat, prompting three voices to cry out in unison, "Well, what happened?"

"You know the story already." Jane nodded at them. "Lord Debenham found Miss Margaret in her dressing room while Sir Aubrey attended to her brother. Mr James were dead and...so was Lady Margaret. Quite dead, from the nightshade she'd taken and holding a note."

"You say there was a note? A letter that she'd written?" Hetty asked, her stomach lurching. "What did it say?"

Jane looked furtive. "Jem reckons it were saying Sir Aubrey had driven her to it through being a husband of such wicked and unkind ways. And other things about him being involved in that plot to knock off Lord Castlereagh besides."

"I doubt very much Jem can read," Araminta interrupted sharply. "So where is this letter, anyway, since it's the only means of verifying anything?"

Jane's eyes skittered indignantly to her interrogator. "Jem were with Lord Debenham after. His master were swearing somethin' terrible, pacing up and down the room and waving the letter in the air."

The chills that started at the tips of Hetty's toes rippled up through her body, forced out in a gasp as she implored Jane to go on.

So a letter did exist and it was last in Lord Debenham's keeping.

"Jem asked what were in the letter but the master paid him no mind at first. He were muttering that it brooked ill for himself if it were discovered."

Hetty had to press her lips together to prevent herself from saying she had little wonder Lord Debenham didn't want the letter found.

Jane smoothed her cotton print skirts and continued her story. "'Is Lordship told Jem the letter were all 'bout how Miss Margaret were so ill-used by her husband and were a testimonial to Sir Aubrey's evilness. Them were his very words." With a worried frown she fiddled with the curling on the dressing table then said with a squaring of her shoulders, "But that weren't what he said first time round. Anyway, the master took to the drink after that and Jem found him asleep with his head on the table and the letter just lying there."

Hetty knew she was weighing up whether to add more by the way she gnawed her lip. "So that's when Jem took the letter?" she surmised. "As his insurance?"

Jane sent her a frightened look. "What Jem did were a terrible thing and he's oft regretted it." There was a pleading note to her voice. "But Lord Debenham is a harsh master. He don't know if Jem has the letter or not but at least it keeps him from thrashing him or threatening him like before."

Lady Partington rose slowly. "So Sir Aubrey's reputation rests on what was...apparently...written in that letter."

Hetty could have hugged her. "Of course it does, which is why the letter must be made public." She turned to her mother. "Jane must urge Jem to hand over the letter, mustn't she, Mama?"

The response she received this time was disappointing. "Hetty dearest, these are the weighty matters that must be dealt with by those who are directly affected. Certainly I shall speak to Stephen about it. But as Sir Aubrey and Lord Debenham are gentlemen who hold no interest for you, I'd ask you to desist from taking this on as a mission of mercy." She patted Hetty's hand, saying more gently, "I know you love to see justice done and I'm so proud of the way you want to help those unable to fight their own battles, but Lord Debenham and Sir Aubrey are grown men and we're talking about serious matters right now. If you even mention that you know about this matter, it could be deeply damaging to both your reputations."

Hetty stared at the floor to hide her trembling lip. How could she ever explain to her mother what a vested interest she had?

Reality diminished the size of her role as potential savior. To Sir Aubrey, Hetty was nothing more than a woman of the night. She swallowed painfully, glad of the masquerade mask she raised to hide her devastation. If Sir Aubrey was after a wife, as Araminta suggested, it would be entirely plausible that he'd consider her beautiful older sister.

Jane's defense of "her Jem" filtered through the roaring in Hetty's ears. "'Sides, wouldn't you do all you could to protect yourself if you was in danger of losing not just your employment but your character?" the young maid demanded.

Hetty shuddered. She'd well and truly lost her character. But to a man who ill-used his wife? She couldn't countenance it. Indeed, she could barely countenance what she had reduced herself to, though to be honest, she didn't feel the guilt she ought to feel at having debased herself. Every time she thought about Sir Aubrey a frisson of desire surged through her. It left her breathless, shaking, exhilarated and...hopeful.

Yes, a small flame of hope still burned within her. Araminta was beautiful and beguiling. She'd entrap Sir Aubrey but Sir Aubrey was not a man who liked to be entrapped. He'd told Hetty so himself as he'd caressed her with murmurs of how refreshing it was to pleasure and indulge himself in such a sweet piece of innocence. He'd hinted that if he still thought the same in another month, he was going to set her up as his mistress.

She slanted a guilty look at her mother.

Araminta as his wife and Hetty as his mistress? No, that would never do.

But maybe, she thought, emboldened by Stephen's words of earlier, Sir Aubrey was not only a worthy suitor; maybe he'd consider a plain and accommodating debutante a more desirable lifelong partner than one full of spirit and fire such as Araminta.

Lady Partington rose and made for the door. "Girls, you both look beautiful, and I only wish I could be there to witness your success." She turned, her hand on the knob, and her smile gained warmth as she gazed upon her youngest. "Hetty, you look especially charming. You will break hearts tonight, I'd depend upon it."

At Lady Kilmore's ball later that evening, Hetty lurched from the veritable euphoria she'd felt at her mother's words to complete self-disgust. Through the slits of her mask, she drank in every detail of the well-dressed throng and for the first time didn't find herself wanting. The mere sight of Sir Aubrey's familiar tall, broad-shouldered form made her mouth feel dry and she longed to have it moistened by his wicked tongue.

He was dressed as a satyr with a curved cutlass angled over his emerald-green cummerbund and a patch over one eye, a contrast to Lord Debenham, who'd chosen a monk's cassock. Sir Aubrey's dark-brown curls were tousled and the ruffles of his white shirt were in disarray as if, Hetty thought fancifully, he'd been engaged in fierce rough- and-tumble with a dragon or a dangerous fellow satyr.

He did not hold a mask to his face as many others did. His eye patch sufficed, though of course it was the unusual contrasting streak of white hair against the dark that set him apart.

Hetty, on the other hand, was carefully inconspicuous in a damask full-skirted sacque gown adorned with bows and furbelows in the style favored the previous century. As a debutante she could not claim to style herself upon the infamous Madame du Barry, mistress to the former French king, but that's whom she imagined herself. The costume kept her identity well hidden. Her hair was powdered and a heart-shaped beauty spot was placed to the right of her mouth.

Araminta had remarked it was a shame Hetty hadn't lived in an era that allowed her to hide so much under layers of paint and flounces but Hetty had just laughed. That's what she intended to do when all was said and done. Have the last laugh. Araminta would not always get what she wanted at Hetty's expense. The difficulty would be in just how Hetty achieved it.

She ran through her plan once more. Tonight she would waylay Sir Aubrey and hint at having information he'd be glad of. She wanted to pique his interest by letting him know she was aware of the existence of the letter that Lord Debenham said revealed him a traitor and wife-beater. Of course Hetty would never dream of being alone with him again, much as she might desire it, but in masquerade it would be easier to find an opportunity of drawing him away. Just a whispered assignation in a corner with perhaps a stolen kiss and she'd be satisfied. Even if she'd now learned he _was_ a wicked man. But that was the problem. How would she know—how would the world know—unless that letter were made public?

And that's where Hetty would come in. She would visit Jem and induce him to hand over the letter. If there were only some way she could slip unnoticed into Lord Debenham's townhouse while he was safely at Lady Kilmore's ball, she might have the matter well in hand by the morning.

Breathing heavily, she fanned herself as she relaxed against the support of the wall and closed her eyes. If it could be proved that Sir Aubrey's reputation had been wrongly tarnished, then Hetty would be his savior and who knew how he might choose to reward her?

When she opened eyes again it was to see the lithe figure of a water sprite dressed in the sheerest robe of aquamarine glide up to Sir Aubrey, tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and flutter her eyelashes at him.

Araminta.

The pain and jealousy, which Hetty had thus far successfully managed to hold at bay, took root and surged up her gullet. Indeed, it was several moments before she was in a position to rejoin the crowd and sidle up to Mrs. Monks, who was looking decidedly anxious.

"There you are, my girl," declared her chaperone, peering at her through her lorgnette. "Your mother has charged me with your good name and I'll not see you compromised by disappearing into any shadowed corners."

"You mean like Araminta and Sir Aubrey?" Hetty asked innocently. "I saw them not a moment ago and came to warn you, as he's a gentleman Mama is most concerned about. Naturally I couldn't go after them."

"Araminta? Why, she was just here..." Anxiously Mrs. Monks scanned the room until Hetty helpfully pointed out the pair in the process of slipping out of a side entrance.

Within a surprisingly short amount of time, Mrs. Monks had waylaid them with a frosty, "And pray tell me, Miss Araminta, what had you in mind?"

# Chapter 7

Hetty sidled into the shadows, excitement replacing the dismay she'd felt when she registered Sir Aubrey's warm gaze as he'd looked at Araminta. But then, Araminta was a brazen hussy and what man could resist the kind of enticements she'd dish out when she wanted something?

Well, she'd not get Sir Aubrey. Not for her husband. Hetty was determined upon it.

With Araminta now out of the way for a short while at least, Hetty just had to be patient until an appropriate time to approach him came along, meanwhile hoping he did not leave Lady Kilmore's ballroom and look for entertainment elsewhere.

Hetty's opportunity came unexpectedly. She'd been watching Sir Aubrey all evening with half an eye, ready to disappear if he ventured too close when she was amongst her peers. Tonight she was to all intents and purposes an imposter. A cyprian breaching civilized society. That's what Sir Aubrey must think when she made her approach. He would think her bold beyond belief. And she'd revel in being branded something so alien to her nature.

She picked up her skirts with one hand to glide across the room, patting her mask to ensure it was tied securely. It was strange to wear hoops and petticoats when she was used to the fine materials and narrow-skirted, high-waisted gowns she'd worn all her life.

As Sir Aubrey issued into the corridor, Hetty slid into his orbit. "Sir Aubrey, we meet again," she said breathlessly from the shadows. She removed her mask, having positioned herself a few yards along the corridor away from the open door that led into the ballroom. Laughing at his confusion, she added happily, "It is I, Hetty."

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, not without pleasure. "How on earth did you slip past the gatekeeper?"

He strode forward then took her in his arms, chuckling as he stroked her cheek and contoured her curves. "You inhabit two worlds, my bold ingénue, and the mere proximity to what I have enjoyed but twice is sending me wild." He held her away from him as he regarded her with narrow-eyed amusement. "No doubt that was your intention. What is not so clear, however, is how you thought you might profit from this secret assignation. I cannot acknowledge you...indeed, I cannot be seen publicly with you."

He looked as if he were truly regretful.

Hetty nodded, sagging against him and sighing with pleasure as his exploring hands became bolder, slipping into her low-cut bodice to fondle her breasts. They were alone, she'd made sure of that, but the sound of the orchestra through the walls added to the excitement.

Heat flowed through her, pooling in her lower belly and making her moist at the contact. Sanity also seemed to have abandoned her and she'd have sunk to the floor in his embrace had he wished it.

"Dear Lord, but you rob me of all reason," he muttered into her hair as he molded her bottom. "Stop me here, for as it is I am unable to return to the ballroom." He gave a wry chuckle and put her away from him, shaking his head. "Look at the state I'm in."

Hetty put her hands to her mouth, embarrassed and amused to see the evidence of his arousal. "Oh, sir, did I really cause that?"

"Don't pretend such innocence with me when we already know each other so well, you little minx." His soft, full lips curved into a smile of fond exasperation before he pulled her into another hug. "Though that said, your innocence is my preserve. I paid handsomely for it."

Fear speared her. "You received a bill?"

"You know very well what a good businesswoman your Mrs Montgomery is. I will be presented with my bill at the end of the month and it will be paid promptly. Nothing less is expected. Oh yes, the tailor, the breecher, the mantua maker, they can all wait but Maggie Montgomery must receive her money on time."

Rapidly Hetty calculated that she had two weeks before discovery was inevitable. Such a calculation should not engage the numeracy skills of an innocent debutante wanting to make a good marriage, she conceded with a stab of fear. Nor should an innocent debutante have had reason to discover that there were two words to describe an "abbess" and that brothel-keeper was one.

Mistaking her look for something else, he was quick to reassure her. "My dear, I will pay it gladly, do not fret. I'm wild for you and if I could, I'd tup you right here and now." He cupped her pink cheeks. "Forgive my crudeness. It was intentional and purely so I could enjoy watching you effect your finely honed skills at playing the parson's daughter fallen on hard times." He jerked his head in the direction of the doorway. "Come, let us go now."

Hetty stepped back. "I can't, sir."

"Can't?" His supercilious eyebrows rose. "What prevents you? Surely that's the very reason you waylaid me? Indeed, it was my intention to send a message to Mrs Montgomery that I wanted you sent 'round to me this evening."

"Surely not, sir! I am glad I found you first, then, for I have spent the afternoon helping my near-blind papa prepare his Sunday sermon."

He chuckled, clearly enjoying their exchange as he wrapped his arms about her shoulders and led her a couple steps down the passage. "You are vastly diverting, my dear, the way you hint at hidden mysteries."

Hetty's grin faded. How much should she tell him? "Sir Aubrey, I have discovered something recently that I think you would very much like to know."

He chuckled again. "Is this a clever little ruse to gain extra blunt from me that your employer won't get her hands on? If so, I'm very amenable to any arrangement you might suggest." He tightened his grip upon her leaning down to kiss her deeply on the mouth. With a sigh Hetty wilted in his arms.

Her pulse was still racing when he set her back on her feet, murmuring, "Come to me tonight. I shall endeavor to be home by three. No, make that two a.m., for the anticipation is already killing me. I have other obligations in the meantime but you'll round off the evening nicely, my lovely Henrietta."

_My lovely Henrietta_. Hetty could only grin stupidly, her pleasure overwhelming despite his cavalier attitude. The knowledge that he thought her no more than a creature of the night was dispelled by the conviction that one day he'd know the truth—and not be disgusted by it.

Determined, she pushed her shoulders back. She had to find a way to redeem herself. Make him understand she hadn't deliberately tricked him so that he would forgive her deception. Reward her for salvaging his reputation. For salvaging the reputation of the man who'd ruined hers...

"I shall try, sir," she said as she turned to go, the sudden fear that Mrs. Monks might march through the door overriding her previous high spirits. She must find Jane's young man Jem as soon as possible and induce him to give her the letter. Oh, how she'd love to be enfolded in Sir Aubrey's arms later tonight but while that wasn't possible, her mission might result in something infinitely more long-term.

Araminta didn't love Sir Aubrey but Hetty did. And this time Hetty was going to get her man.

Instead of issuing directly into the ballroom, Hetty turned toward the ladies' mending room, gasping as she brushed against a tall gentleman enveloped in a monk's cassock. He didn't stand aside but instead deliberately blocked the narrow corridor.

How long had Lord Debenham been there? What had he observed? Too fearful to raise her eyes, she murmured in quelling tones, "Excuse me, sir, I wish to pass."

"Ah, so the lady wishes to pass." With a bow, he stepped aside and Hetty glided toward the mending room, where she collapsed onto the banquette and, picking up the ivory fan beside her, tried vigorously to increase the circulation of air about her blazing face.

She was certain Lord Debenham was the only guest dressed as a monk. Had he recognized her? Dear Lord, whoever he was, he'd be following her every move now, for the irony of his tone indicated he'd observed her brief, passionate tryst with Sir Aubrey.

She tried to ease her fears. Even if she wasn't dressed in masquerade, anyone who'd ever seen her in company with her sister would certainly not have noticed a pale and unremarkable creature such as herself. Lord Debenham, well, he had an eye only for the dazzling. He'd never have known it was her. She was too far away and it had been too dark.

Breathing more calmly, she set her mind to finding a means to speak to Jem.

She knew Lord Debenham lived only two blocks from here. For that matter, Hetty lived just one block farther but distance wasn't the issue. How would she manage to slip away at any time of day? In the morning Araminta would want to engage Hetty in conversation that would emphasize her many successes of the previous the evening. Then there'd be luncheon. Hetty was a protected, nurtured single female and it would be impossible to leave their townhouse without an attendant, even for the shortest of walks.

It was as she was trailing through the ballroom beside Mrs. Monks that she saw Araminta bearing a beaming Mr. Woking in her wake, and a wild plan borne of desperation took shape.

Affecting an attitude of the greatest languor, Hetty preempted the conversation with, "My dear Araminta, Mr. Woking, you must excuse me but I have the most terrible megrim. I can't stay here another minute in this close and stifling atmosphere. I'm afraid I shall have to ask Mrs. Monks to take us home."

Horror replaced Araminta's smugness. "How can you be so selfish, Hetty? I'm having the most marvelous time and my dance card is completely full."

Hetty pursed her lips. "I suppose you could stay if Cousin Stephen didn't mind accompanying me home and then Mrs. Monks could remain here to chaperone you."

"I daresay that would be all right," Araminta said sulkily, ignoring the crestfallen young man at her side until she fixed him with a dazzling look. "Mr. Woking, won't you fetch me another champagne?" She tapped him playfully on his shoulder epaulettes with her fan. "You were so busy admiring my sister you didn't notice my glass was empty, did you?"

Hetty made certain she was gone before Mr. Woking could return with refreshments. She and a none-too-displeased Stephen hired a hackney and Hetty was treated to a long monologue on Stephen's concern about her mother's health, which surprised but also pleased her. Not least because it was nice when anyone spoke with such thoughtfulness of her greatly unappreciated and darling mother, but also because her cousin would be less likely to notice her agitation if he was so concerned with his benefactor's wife.

They were nearing the entrance to St. James Street where Stephen's club was located when she leaned across and put her hand on Stephen's knee. "You've got the blue devils for some reason, Cousin Stephen, and I think it's my cousinly duty to set you off here so you can drown your sorrows with company more exciting than mine."

"But what about—"

She cut him off with a laugh he'd surely peg as being brittle and unnatural had he not been caught up in his own concerns. "You can almost see where I live from where you are. No, why not get out here, Cousin Stephen, for in less than a minute I'll be home."

To her annoyance, he refused to let her go on alone and soon they were drawing up in front of her townhouse.

He assisted her out, saw her to the front door, then turned, declaring her idea a capital one but adding he'd rather enjoy the fresh air and walk to his club.

A glance over her shoulder as Hetty was about to issue through the front door showed Stephen, head bent, deep in thought as he trod the footpath. The bright moon also revealed the jarvey upon the box, taking his time as he retied his muffler.

Hetty dashed back down the steps and rapped lightly on the carriage door to garner the jarvey's attention before whispering, "Stay there another minute. I've just remembered something."

The housemaid who'd answered the door was waiting at the top of the steps and Hetty quickly returned to explain that Mr. Cranborne had left an important document in the carriage and that she would return it to him, then prevail upon Mr. Cranborne to return to the ball with her.

"He is, after all, less than one hundred yards away," she assured the servant, pointing. Indeed, he was in sight, not yet having rounded the bend.

Minutes later, Hetty was descending the steps to the basement of Lord Debenham's townhouse, patting her mask to ensure her identity was properly concealed.

The sleepy-eyed scullery maid who'd obviously been roused from her makeshift bed near the fireplace regarded her with slack-jawed amazement as she clearly tried to peg Hetty as a streetwalker or eccentric lady of quality, while Hetty repeated in clipped tones, "Mr. Jem, your master's valet. That's whom I've come to see. Surely he's not abed yet since he has his master to attend and Lord Debenham won't be home for some hours, I believe."

A handsome young man with delicate features and hair the color of corn answered the summons. He regarded Hetty quizzically from the kitchen doorway before ushering her into the servants' hall. When Hetty told Jem she had a matter of the utmost importance to discuss, he waved away his fellow servants but mention of the letter wiped the smile from his face.

"You realize any magistrate would take a dim view of what you've done," she told him as he folded his lean, athletic frame into a chair opposite her. "You stole Lady Margaret's death note. That's punishable by transportation at the very least."

Jem wiped at the sheen that coated his high forehead. "Only one person knows about the letter," he muttered. "I can't believe—"

"It really doesn't matter who told me since you won't be facing any consequences except rather good ones, I'd imagine, if you cooperate." Hetty smiled as she clasped her hands upon the refectory table. "Of course, if you pretend ignorance I shall have to have you cross-examined and you know the courts are very skilled at detecting if someone is lying. They might decide you are anyway and convict you just on Lord Debenham's testimony."

"He'd not dare." Anger flashed from his pale-blue eyes. Suddenly he leaned back, smiling as if he understood everything. "Me master's set you up to this, hasn't he? Reckon he put the word on you when 'is own threats had no sway wi' me." He shook his head decisively. "I ain't no fool. Far as I'm concerned, there ain't no letter so I don't know what you're talking about."

Hetty sighed before coming to a decision. "All right, I'll tell you the truth. I have a personal interest in Sir Aubrey and when I heard of a letter that might exonerate him I set upon discovering its whereabouts."

Frowning, Jem raked his eyes over her. A faint sneer curled his lip. "So you're Sir Aubrey's fancy piece? Did 'e set you up to this?"

"He did not and I am not his 'fancy piece', as you term it." Hetty strove for dignity. "I have a great tenderness for Sir Aubrey. I understand the painful association between his wife and your master. Worse, I know that it is solely due to Lord Debenham's lies regarding the contents of this letter that Sir Aubrey's reputation has been so sorely damaged."

A slow grin split Jem's handsome face and his eyes glittered. Almost collaboratively he leaned across the table. "You reckon you 'ave a lot to gain by finding this evidence, don't you?" He quirked an eyebrow. "Reckon also you'd be willing to pay for it too. It won't come cheap, yer know." Hetty's anticipation was only slightly dented when he added, "No doubt you earn a pretty penny doing your line o' business but this'll cost more than even the best o' your sort can pay."

She knew she could afford his fee but she waited for him to negotiate.

"I'll let you peruse it. I ain't givin' that letter to someone I don't know from Adam." He looked so determined Hetty didn't know how to start to argue but was relieved at the concession when he added, "If it contains the information you're after, your fine gennelmun protector Sir Aubrey can come to me direct and pay me what it's really worth."

A date was set for two days later, since that was Jem's half day and the letter was hidden at a location some distance from Lord Debenham's townhouse.

Then the young man rose, calling for the weary scullery maid, whom he instructed to "see the lady out".

Hetty followed the girl through the dim interior, the street lighter shouting the midnight hour as she opened the door onto the cobblestones. It was still early by Araminta's standards, which meant Hetty would be home and fast asleep by the time her sister returned.

"What an unexpected surprise."

Emerging onto the pavement, Hetty jerked her head up to see Lord Debenham issuing from his carriage and about to mount his portico steps.

He took a step toward her, pushing back his cowl and offering her a leer. "If it isn't Sir Aubrey's... 'special indulgence'. Come to indulge _me_ now? I'm honored."

Hetty lifted her skirts to flee but before she could dart out of his path, he gripped her arm and jerked her to him. His cassock was rough against her cheek and she could smell the brandy on his breath.

"Where are you going in such a hurry when I've only just arrived, little one?"

His mouth was inches from hers and her insides cleaved as his malevolent intent became clear, his fingers biting painfully into her arm.

"I trust you did not satisfy yourself with the dregs in my basement when you failed to find me. No? Good, for I think if you can pass muster with those in Lady Kilmore's drawing room you'd hardly be satisfied with my fine valet, handsome though he is."

"Please let me go, sir." Hetty hated the sound of her own whimper. In a moment he'd hustle her inside and no amount of screaming would save her, for he was master of his own home.

"Surely you understand I'm curious as to why Sir Aubrey's little ladybird should interest herself in my business."

Cursing herself for her stupid recklessness, Hetty tried to pull away but her distress only added to his enjoyment.

"Let us not conduct business upon the pavement, madam. A glass of Madeira might make you more willing to please me."

Hetty made one last effort to depart with dignity, ceasing her resistance to say with a gracious smile, "Sadly, my business here, which was merely to stop in upon an old friend, is done and I'd hate to keep you from your bed—"

"Indeed, madam, my bed is where I intend to discuss what brings you here. Do not play the shocked gentlewoman with me. I know exactly what you are and I know that Sir Aubrey is wild for you, for I observed the two of you very closely in the back corridors of Lady Kilmore's. As it's rare to see Sir Aubrey so excited by a woman, you can be assured I'll not let you go lightly. Now come."

"No, sir, please!" Gasping, Hetty pulled herself free for but a second before Lord Debenham dragged her back against him.

"Who are you to say no to me?" he snarled, pinioning her against the railing. "Scream all you like but who do you think will come to the aid of a creature like you? If you offer Sir Aubrey your body for a price, I am entitled to the same—and for the same price. Business is business, is it not? And then you'll oblige me by telling me what brought you here."

Hetty could barely breathe through her fear. How had she sunk so low? Yet whatever happened and however ghastly it was, she had only herself to blame.

Wildly she fought, her scream truncated by his lips, hard, wet and determined, fastening on her mouth, his one hand gripping her chin painfully, the other snaking 'round behind her to grasp her buttocks.

His proximity was so invasive and his determination so intense her knees buckled. It only gave him greater access to the body he obviously felt was free for the taking.

Twisting her head away, she tried to scream again but he was too quick and canny for her, clamping his hand over her mouth before replacing it with his hateful lips once more.

She managed to suck in air, just enough to keep from choking. She tried to claw at him but he deftly forestalled her, gripping her wrist and pinning her arm to her side.

As she sank to her knees in a heap by the cast-iron railing, he scooped her into his arms, no doubt about to whisk her to somewhere he could continue his fiendish act less publicly.

"What are you doing with my woman?" The icy tone cut the air like a lash.

Dazed and breathless, Hetty clung to the railing, unable to speak as Lord Debenham set her back upon her feet, though her knees immediately buckled and she sank to the pavement.

"Your woman?" With heavy irony he continued, "Then why did she come to me? Poor Sir Aubrey. It's not the first time either, is it?"

Hetty, recovering quickly, was about to refute this when she realized he was not referring to her. Sir Aubrey hauled her up but his eyes met hers with anger, not sympathy.

"I thought we had an agreement," he muttered.

"You can't think that I would sink so low as to—"

"Debenham offered you more? Revenge, my dear Henrietta, but of course that would mean nothing to you, would it? Money is money, isn't it, whether it's mine or his, and if he's paying double..."

He was clearly too angry to continue, while Hetty, unable to reply, tried not to choke on her stifled sobs as he hustled her into his waiting carriage.

Lord Debenham's mocking laughter followed them as the door closed, his parting words: "Damsels in distress have always been your weakness, Sir Aubrey. Pity they all seem to prefer me," making him white with fury.

Lurching forward as the carriage rolled away, Hetty burst out, "I didn't solicit Lord Debenham's advances."

In the dim lamplight, Sir Aubrey's expression was thunderous. "Indeed, madam? You lost your way, did you? Just as you lost your way when you visited my bedchamber the first time. You made a fool of me, turning me into a purring pussycat in order to 'tutor' you. You weren't a virgin, were you, yet you would have me believe that—"

"Please, sir, you're far too angry to hear me out but I would _never_ —"

"Stoop so low for money? That's not what concerns me here." He cut her off, glaring at her. "We had an agreement. It was based on honor. I thought even women like you understood the notion of honor."

Hetty drew in a sobbing breath. "I didn't visit his home to...to do what you think," she cried. "I went there because I heard about—" She cut the words short as her brain whirled over the ramifications of revealing the whereabouts of the letter. If Sir Aubrey learned Jem had it, he would demand to see it immediately and no doubt the young man would deny possession, knowing the likely consequences. Hetty was a soft touch. If the price was right, he had nothing to lose by allowing her only to view it. But he'd not hand it over when confronted by a belligerent Sir Aubrey.

Besides, it was essential for Hetty to know exactly what Lady Margaret had revealed about her husband. Hetty's future hinged upon it.

"Heard about what?"

Hetty shook her head, trying to think clearly. Wiping away her tears, she demanded, "Couldn't you see I was fighting him off? Your townhouse is only a block away. I was on my way to see you. I had no idea this was where...Lord Debenham lives and I had no idea what an evil man he is or that he'd recognized me having observed us in the corridor at the ball this evening. He wanted...revenge." She sniffed and her voice trembled even more as she added, "And clearly I was the means of exacting it."

She was relieved to see that he seemed to believe her for his expression grew very dark and hands quite tender as he gripped her shoulders.

Hetty put her head on one side and decided not to be too forgiving too soon. "Yes! He told me he'd seen the two of us together at Lady Kilmore's. So, Sir Aubrey, since I was almost dragged off by this horrible creature against my will and all on account of the fact he saw you kissing me, perhaps you'd care to explain what enmity exists between the two of you."

Sir Aubrey's tone was contrite when he finally spoke. "Hetty, I apologize for my anger just now." He dropped his hands and took both of hers which he began to chafe gently while he explained. "My late wife was this man's cousin." He looked bleak. "I'm afraid she was also his lover. She was not of sound mind when she killed herself but Lord Debenham blames me."

Finally the shock seemed to sink in. What a terrible experience it had been to suffer the unwanted attentions of the odious Lord Debenham. But thank the Lord that Sir Aubrey still thought the best of her and that he was concerned, now, not angry. Hurling herself into his arms, Hetty sobbed, "I didn't mean to get myself into trouble like that and I'm so, so glad you saved me—just in time!"

How pleasant it was to sink into a soft feather mattress and feel his arms about her while he navigated his way past her hoops, petticoats and chemise. A single lighted candle suffused the room in a soft glow and his voice was infinitely calming.

His breath tickled her ear as he pulled her against his side. "My poor Henrietta has had a great shock." Touching his lips to hers, he stroked her cheek. His eyes, which could blaze with such anger, were warm with affection. "I don't deny some think a woman who makes her living like you do should be prepared for any manner of approaches and have lost the right to discern, but no woman ought to suffer unwanted advances."

He stopped Hetty's gasp of distress with another kiss, deeper and more demanding this time as his hands roamed her body, caressing her curves, her rounded buttocks as he rucked up her skirts. She raised herself to give him access, reveling in the flood of warmth such contact brought. Tenderly, he gazed down at her, smiling his satisfaction at her sighs and gentle moans.

"I thought you might like that," he whispered, his desire to please her evident as he experimented with different approaches to stirring her blood. "What about this? No? Then what about this?"

His tongue circled her areola, flicking over her nipple and causing her to arch her back in pleasure. She cupped his face against her breasts, kissing his soft, dark hair and thinking this must be the closest to heaven she'd ever get, for she surely had lost her ticket there if being good and virtuous was a requirement.

She didn't care. She was never going to find happiness through marriage. She should know her desperate optimism was based on the flimsiest of hopes.

He was a considerate lover. She knew that, even though she had no one with whom to compare. After he'd fully aroused her, he undressed her carefully, admiring each piece of skin, each limb he uncovered, and when he had her completely naked he gazed at her appreciatively.

"No one has ever looked at me like that," she murmured, touching his cheek as he knelt to position himself at her entrance. He was huge and her insides churned with excitement and the need for him. She swallowed, watching the concentration on his face as he caged her with his lean, muscled body. "Plain Hetty is what they call me." Though Wicked Hetty was a more apt moniker. She didn't care. Her temperature had soared and her heart was pounding, sweat prickled her skin and she wriggled, parting her legs and pushing forward so that his shaft was suddenly buried within her.

"Magnificent Hetty." He exhaled on a groan before driving into her in a series of quick, eager thrusts that had them climaxing together within moments.

He laughed when his breathing had subsided and he pulled her against him. "I usually last longer than that. What spell have you cast upon me, my marvelous work in progress? For I think you might have remained Plain Hetty had you not fallen into my hands in the nick of time."

The kiss he planted on her lips was tender but within minutes he was ravishing her once more with double the enthusiasm of their previous proceedings.

Later, in the quiet aftermath of their lovemaking, Hetty idly stroked his lean torso while he, misinterpreting her silence, said, "Have no fears. I shall instruct Mrs Montgomery to release you from your contract so that I might continue to enjoy you exclusively. I find you utterly charming and I want to keep you safe, my little Henrietta." He looked thoughtful as he toyed with her right nipple, making her squirm. "At the first opportunity I shall call upon your good mistress and discharge my obligations to her. Then I shall install you in some charming bower so I can enjoy you whenever I wish."

The contemplation of such a scenario fortunately blinded him to her shocked response and by the time he returned his gaze to hers, she'd mastered herself. "Before you say a word, my enchanting Henrietta, let me repeat my assertion that I have no need to know why you chose this path, though I do not imagine it was something you embarked upon lightly—"

Oh Lord. Yes, she'd chosen her path. By accident, it was true, but she'd been mistress of her destiny from the start. The astonishing sense of power she found in making her own decisions had propelled her onward. Whoever would have imagined Miss Henrietta Partington was capable of such boldness?

"I don't ever want to be with another man," she whispered urgently and the idea that this would all come to a terrible finale brought tears to her eyes.

He toyed with her hair as they lay curled in each other's arms. "Truth be told, I'm too fond of you to see that happen...and I don't want to share you."

Of course he was not asking her to marry him, he wanted her to be his mistress. But a man chose a mistress because he desired her.

His wife he would choose for dynastic reasons.

"Mrs Montgomery is out of town until the end of next week," Hetty managed weakly, hoping her lame response would give her the time she needed to extricate herself from the consequences of her lies.

"Then as soon as she returns, I'll arrange terms by which you'll be entirely my responsibility. In fact, your wish is my desire. Tomorrow you shall accompany me in search of a townhouse where you shall have everything just as you like it."

He was eager to please her, which was delightful, however matters were proceeding rather too fast.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned by her lack of enthusiasm.

"I...I've heard men can discard their mistresses at any time. What...what security will I have?"

There was uncertainty in his laugh. "I'm assuming innocence, not avarice, motivated your question."

Fortunately he seemed entirely mollified when she declared, "I told you I only ever want you!"

"Just as I want only you. I do not offer my affections lightly, dear heart, but you have worked your way under my guard."

Pleasure washed through her before it was diluted by concern. Without censoring her thoughts, she said nervously, "I've heard there's a Miss Araminta Partington who has caught your eye. Perhaps you were thinking of marrying her."

Sir Aubrey laughed, shaking his head. "She'd eat me for breakfast. No, dearest Hetty, you are all I want and need."

"One day you will want an heir," she said softly.

He put his finger to her lips. "Now is not the time to talk of such things. Suffice to say that Miss Partington, while exceedingly beautiful, fails to amuse me as you do with your artless ways and your diverting conversation. Dear heart, I look forward to dining with you each night and hearing of your latest shopping exploits as much as I look forward to bedding you, for you would imbue both with wit and enthusiasm. Miss Partington, on the other hand, thinks only of her own amusement. I could not endure a wife like that."

Hetty had never been so happy. But she had mixed feelings when he added, "Sadly, darling Henrietta, you embody all the virtues I seek in a wife." There was genuine regret in his expression before he feathered a line of kisses along her jawbone. "However you must understand that I can never marry you."

# Chapter 8

Fortune favored Hetty as she crept into the kitchen unobserved several hours later, for the sleepy boot boy had left the kitchen door open. The cook was not yet about and Hetty met none of the servants as she slipped into her bedchamber.

Araminta was asleep, so Hetty was able to sink wearily beneath the bed covers, relieved her clandestine activities had once again gone unnoticed.

Her last waking thought was that she wished she didn't have to wait another two whole days before Jem could meet her. For her entire future hinged upon what was revealed in the letter he'd promised to show her.

It seemed only five minutes had passed before Araminta was pulling her hair and saying in outraged tones, "No sleeping cap? How low your standards have fallen, Hetty."

Hetty braced herself for Araminta's inevitable grilling before her sister sat heavily on the side of the bed, saying waspishly, "You and Cousin Stephen certainly had lots to talk about, despite your megrim. I heard the two of you in the study. I hope you don't imagine he'll consider making you an offer, for he's already declared he will not marry his cousin."

Still groggy, Hetty murmured, "Like you, Araminta, I'm sure I won't receive an offer in my first season."

Araminta ignored this, though the flare in her eyes indicated the jibe had not gone unheeded. She rose, saying airily, "Mama and I are going for a walk a little later and Papa is down from The Grange. He arrived when we were at Lady Kilmore's and says he wants to see you. He was vastly put out you'd not made the effort to greet him at breakfast."

"I didn't know he was here."

"Well, he's taken it as a grave insult. Of course he knew not to expect me, since I was up so late, but you came home early and talked all night with Cousin Stephen." Hetty raised her eyebrows, wondering who Cousin Stephen had been talking to, but she wasn't about to tell her sister it wasn't her. "I came home because the close air at Lady Kilmore's made me ill." Hetty glared at Araminta. "And maybe I still am. You didn't trouble yourself to inquire, Araminta, did you?"

"Well..." Araminta had moved to sit at the dressing table by this time. Even after such a late night and in dishabille, which was a refashioned old gown of their mother's and which of course she'd not be seen wearing in public, Araminta looked vibrant and exquisite. "Jane would have told us if there was anything to worry about. But you're as hale and hearty as a dependable old donkey, Hetty. We've always said it."

The description had been given Hetty by a fond uncle many years ago and it still had the power to wound. He'd described Araminta as resembling a glossy, raven-coated, highly strung magnificent stallion and Hetty as the faithful donkey whose dependability made up for its unremarkable dung-colored hide. Oh, he'd meant it kindly, for his point was that he preferred dependability over uncertainty any day. Needless to say, Araminta had taken it as a compliment and was happy to bring it up in front of Hetty whenever the occasion arose.

It was only the memory of Sir Aubrey's disparaging remarks about Araminta the previous night and the fact he wanted exclusive rights to Hetty—even if it wasn't in the form of a legal union—that enabled Hetty to crawl out of bed in a cloud of joy, despite her sister's unkind reference.

A joy short-lived, for as she put her shawl about her, Araminta, who was toying with her hair, announced, "Sir Aubrey has invited me to promenade with him this afternoon." She sent Hetty a sly look from beneath her lashes as she twisted her neck, clearly interested in Hetty's response, which was obviously transparent.

Affecting a show of sympathy, Araminta reached over and patted her arm. "Poor Hetty, I know you've admired Sir Aubrey from afar and indeed I can see why but he's never asked you to dance or paid his addresses in the ballroom, has he?" She placed several pairs of kidskin gloves on the dressing table and held out her hands to admire her long, elegant fingers. "I can't imagine how dreadful it must be to be so plain that you're ignored by the one gentleman you evince a desire to know. Or should I say the two, for perhaps you think Lord Debenham might be your consolation prize since you seem to know so much about him too."

With a sigh, she rose from the dressing table, adding with even greater self-absorption than usual, "I've been thinking..." She cupped her face with her hands as if her thoughts had plunged her onto the horns of a dilemma. "Do you think my sprigged muslin will do for my outing with Sir Aubrey or would you recommend my blue sarcenet? I've heard you say it sets off my coloring rather finely."

"I only said that when you'd not leave me alone without saying something flattering," Hetty muttered.

But Araminta wasn't listening.

"The sprigged muslin, I think," she said as she wandered to the door. "It's refreshingly modest at the same time as being highly modish." She turned. "And I think it would be a nice idea if you popped your head in to see if Mama needs anything. You seem to have rather neglected her lately."

"Is she all right?" Hetty asked anxiously.

Araminta shrugged. "She was fine when she went to bed last night so I can't imagine anything's changed. Now I must find Jane and ask her to see if my walking boots have been cleaned. I shall be highly annoyed if they haven't."

Hetty heaved a sigh of relief when Araminta left her to her own musings and ablutions.

The excitement that had consumed her earlier became a weight of doubt and misery. Sir Aubrey had pledged to go walking with Araminta this afternoon? What sort of betrayal was that? Was he not supposed to be choosing a house today where he could visit her?

Anxiety curdled in her belly. By all that was great and good, how was she going to get around that one? Very well, he'd said he preferred Hetty and perhaps he did. But Araminta was the sister he was able to meet respectably in public and Hetty was the secret.

The lying, deceiving sister.

Unable to settle, she paced the room, chewing her fingernails as she thought how little time she had to extricate herself gracefully from the mess she'd created.

Tomorrow when she met Jem, she told herself, everything would magically resolve itself.

To her surprise, her father greeted her with a great show of fondness when she stepped into the drawing room. Fondness and a surprising degree of admiration.

"My dear Hetty, but you are blooming," he told her as he put his hands on her shoulders to study her more closely. "You're turning into a beauty before my eyes. Isn't she, Sybil?"

Araminta, seated in a chair by the window, flicked a page of The Lady's Magazine she was idly perusing and said, "A couple of people have remarked upon it but she still hasn't the figure to fit into any of my clothes. Mama, what do you think of this walking dress?" She tapped a fashion plate in front of her. "I could have it made up in blue. Blue sets off the sheen of my hair. Sir Aubrey remarked upon it the other night. You know he is escorting me on a walk through Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon."

"I thought Mama said you were not to associate with Sir Aubrey," Hetty said balefully.

"What's this?" Lord Partington, now ensconced in a leather armchair, looked up from the newspaper he'd just opened. "Sir Aubrey? The fellow whose wife took her own life after he was mixed up in the Castlereagh affair a year or so ago?" His complexion turned a noticeable shade darker.

"Nothing was proved." Hetty spoke the words so sharply all heads turned on her.

"Stephen will accompany you," Lady Partington said in decided tones. "I shall send a note 'round to him this morning. If he knows it's important, he'll put aside whatever he's doing."

Her husband harrumphed as he turned the page he was reading. "I'm sure all it will require is a note from you, my love, and he'll come running."

Hetty noted his tone with surprise but Araminta had moved on to other topics. Namely the entertainments to which she'd been invited. "Of course I'll see that the invitations are extended to Hetty."

Araminta smiled warmly at her, though some of the gloss was taken off by her next words. "Papa is right, you are looking a good deal better these days and it's my duty to ensure that you are noticed, also, Hetty."

Ensure that she was noticed? It was a painful truth that Hetty had been overlooked for most of her life, having a sister like Araminta, but Hetty wasn't sure that now was quite the time she wanted to be noticed.

Surprisingly, Lord Partington evinced a desire to take a walk with his wife and two daughters just after luncheon. Hetty didn't think such a thing had ever happened before but as the sky was a clear azure blue and the breeze fresh and fragrant, she supposed her father was motivated by the weather.

In fact it was so they'd not be overheard by the servants.

"Several things have happened since you girls came to London, which has necessitated my going away for a while." He cleared his throat and stared straight ahead as they made their progress along the busy pavement.

Hetty glanced at him. His complexion was unusually ruddy—a deepened reddish hue not caused by the outdoors. And while his wife had fixed her gaze upon him, he seemed unable to meet her eye.

Hetty was surprised when her mother said, more sharply now, "It's high time you told the girls, Humphrey."

After further throat-clearing and prevaricating, Lord Partington got to the point. "The truth is, there have been several financial difficulties at home—"

Lady Partington cut in. "Both financial and domestic. Let's not beat about the bush, Humphrey. The girls need to know so they can be prepared."

Their father's shoulders slumped and his chin nearly touched his chest. Doggedly, he continued walking, forcing the others to keep pace.

Araminta was the first to speak, or rather gasp, "It won't affect my dress allowance or my portion, will it, Papa?"

More loud throat clearing was little comfort and it was their mother who explained in crisp tones, "Your father has made a rather large and unwise financial decision. His man of business is not entirely despondent, however, until—"

Hetty put a comforting hand on her mother's while Araminta wailed, "We're ruined! Is that what you're saying, Papa? We're ruined and we'll have to go out and work as governesses unless we marry quickly." There was both genuine distress and craftiness in her expression as she cut into her parents' responses. "Before the scandal breaks, we must find husbands, isn't that what you're saying?"

"Well, now, Araminta, while there may be some truth in—" her father began, but Araminta had already come up with a solution.

Looking decidedly more cheerful, she said, "I shall do my part, Papa. In fact I solemnly vow that I'll have made a grand match before two weeks is up so you need not concern yourself over me." She pinched Hetty's arm. "Now you, also, must make sacrifices, Hetty, but instead of being a governess, which would be such a terrible reflection on the family—and since you've made it plain you'll have nothing to do with Mr. Woking, who would offer for you if you only smiled at him—I know that old Lady Fotheringay is looking for a companion." She looked expectantly at Hetty. "I know her niece so I shall make inquiries—"

Their father cut in, his voice raised in both anger and exasperation. "Neither of you will make the kind of sacrifices that will see you wed in haste to unsuitable husbands or forced to work for your livings." In an undertone, he added, "Sadly, I have seen that fate visited on undeserving young women. I will not have my...nobly-born daughters soiling their hands. Bear in mind that you enjoy a status that accords you privileges denied your less fortunate sisters."

"Indeed you do," Lady Partington said, also under her breath, and Hetty glanced at the two of them. She'd assumed, naturally, that her father spoke figuratively, and he may well have, but then remembered having overheard a couple of gossiping dowagers in a quiet corner of a ballroom referring to "Lord Partington's secret brood". Until Hetty had become more acquainted with the ways of the world, the whispered conversation had made no sense.

Now she narrowed her eyes as she wondered if indeed her father was making a more literal reference to this "other" family. This second secret family he was unable to protect and fund as he did his legitimate one?

Without warning she was visited by a memory of the young woman who'd visited The Grange several months earlier on the pretext of finding favor for a school in the village. She'd borne an uncanny resemblance to Araminta. Of course, Hetty could not question her father at the time but as he'd farewelled this young woman, Hetty had heard him say under his breath that she'd been wrong to come to the house.

Araminta sniffed. "Whatever is required of me, Papa, I shall do it gladly." She broke off, a dazzling smile dispersing her air of tragedy. "Goodness! Here's Sir Aubrey! What a coincidence." Then, under her breath, "Mama, Papa, this is a wonderful opportunity for you to amend your opinion." She raised her hand in greeting, calling out, just as Hetty registered what was happening and before she knew what to do to save herself, "Good afternoon, Sir Aubrey."

Araminta inclined her head demurely while Hetty, beside her, hung back in horror, praying that her sister's glorious smile and the floral festooning of her hat would be sufficient to render her invisible.

Heat prickled the back of her neck and swept in ripples up from her feet as she clenched her fists and kept her head down. _Please dearest Lord,_ she silently prayed _, don't let him notice me._ This had to be the stuff of her greatest nightmares. In a crowded ballroom she could have slipped away but here, in the street and hemmed in by her family, her real identity was never more apparent.

As usual, Araminta stole the attention with her busy chatter. Hetty bent down on the pretext of adjusting her boot. When she rose it was to find herself staring fully into Sir Aubrey's surprised then horrified face.

"Sir Aubrey," she acknowledged, making a small curtsy, her shame weighing her down so heavily she was surprised she was able to rise.

Araminta, still chattering, did not seem to notice that her handsome potential suitor had eyes only for Hetty. She gripped his forearm briefly, saying flirtatiously, "You look well, Sir Aubrey. Perhaps you've been riding. I certainly enjoy a good ride. But how lovely for you to meet papa who is down from The Grange for a few days attending to business. His arrival last night was quite a surprise."

"Quite a surprise." Sir Aubrey's echo was lackluster as he simply stared at Hetty.

A blackbird called from the leafy arbor above them.

Lady Partington filled the awkward silence. "I believe you hail from Hampshire, Sir Aubrey. My cousin is on familiar terms with members of your family. Mr. and Mrs. Dorian Waddington."

"You refer to my aunt and uncle. Quiet people who don't seek out London revels as I do, my lady." There was a twist to his mouth. Almost a warning, Hetty might have imagined, that hinted at the danger he posed. That he enjoyed living up to his reputation.

Lady Partington raised her eyebrows at his less than friendly tone. "So you enjoy London then?"

"There's so much to see and do and experience, I don't know where to start," gushed Araminta. "Though of course, an unmarried young lady is very restricted."

"Indeed."

The word was accompanied by a short but very well-aimed look at Hetty who, quailing, dropped her gaze to her half-kid boots. She wished the pavement would open up and she'd disappear into a puff of smoke, never to suffer the consequences of this terrible, terrible conversation.

Clapping her hands, Araminta raised her flushed and happy face. "I hear you've acquired a new phaeton, Sir Aubrey. Instead of going walking, perhaps you're looking for an opportunity to put it through its paces? This afternoon, even?"

Her bold inquiry received a lukewarm response, though Sir Aubrey clearly felt good manners made it incumbent to offer an invitation.

"Then Hetty will accompany her sister." Lord Partington looked dark. "I will not have tongues wagging."

Araminta simpered. "Wagging tongues? Oh, Papa, you are droll."

Hetty noticed that Sir Aubrey seemed to find this as droll as her father. The thunderous scowl on his face was not a good sign. Indeed it was not.

"In fact, Stephen shall accompany both you girls, and you may take it in turns to drive around the park." Lord Partington's frown deepened.

There was apparently no argument to be had about this and Araminta, despite her initial cajoling, was left with a petulant lower lip until she decided it was no doubt wise to end the walk with her usual charm.

"Sir Aubrey is fantastically rich," she gushed once he had made a polite bow and departed with the trite and clearly forced words that he was looking forward to their meeting in several hours. "And he's in line for a title if his cousin doesn't sire an heir— which it's highly likely he won't as he's ancient. Fifty, I believe."

Her mother cut her off, saying coolly, "So you would risk your happiness for the sake of elevation?" Her pursed mouth trembled. "So that you can dress in ermine and silk rather than commoner stuff? So that you can drive around in a crested carriage?"

Araminta looked rather taken aback—as, indeed, her father did—before muttering, "I would only risk my happiness if I failed to hold him, Mother, and I'm cleverer than that." Her smile did not reach her eyes and there was a strange note to her voice when she added, "Do not underestimate what I know of the world."

"Neither your mother nor I would do such a thing." There was still no sign of Lord Partington's good humor. He put a heavy hand upon Hetty's shoulder, adding, "Though we sometimes wish you were a little less worldly and more like your sister. Hetty will make a sensible match, for she will be ruled by her head, not her heart, and be the happier for it. Think on that, Araminta. I say, Hetty, you're suddenly very pale."

"I...I don't know what's come over me." In fact, Hetty wondered if she'd survive the walk home. "I must lie down."

"You look worse than Banquo's ghost, Hetty!" Araminta exclaimed. "I don't think you'll be well enough for a ride in Sir Aubrey's phaeton after all. Well, we should turn back now anyway since I must decide upon my carriage dress."

Her self-absorbed chatter was the only bright note on their return journey. "I'd planned to wear this one for my promenade with Sir Aubrey but as he's already seen it, I shall impress him in my coquelicot. This one is rather demure. What do you think, Hetty? Do you think Sir Aubrey is the kind of gentleman to prefer boldness or shall I in fact wear my simple sprigged muslin?"

"Oh, I wish you would, darling." Her mother sighed. "You know, girls, Humphrey, I'm afraid I really am not feeling quite the thing either. Hetty, perhaps you and I should both lie down when we return."

"No doubt, my dear," said their father, "you'll be feeling well enough to entertain Cousin Stephen when he arrives to take Araminta." Hetty noticed his odd tone. Lord Partington sent his wife a piercing look. "By all means, send a note 'round to him. I've no doubt he will oblige. Meanwhile, I shall call on an acquaintance at the Inns of Court."

"How nice, Humphrey," said Lady Partington gaily. "And yes, I'm sure I will be quite well enough to entertain Cousin Stephen. Hetty, we shall have a lovely coze while Jane sees that Araminta is as dazzling for Sir Aubrey as she needs to be." She paused. "His family _are_ respectable people but I am nevertheless concerned about these rumors, Hetty, unsubstantiated as they are. I heard Lord Nugent say that Sir Aubrey's political aspirations have gained no traction on account of this smear upon his name. Araminta, are you certain you wish to further your acquaintance with the gentleman when there are so many others dangling after you?"

"Oh, I do." Araminta leveled a determined gaze upon Hetty, who thought she was going to be ill on the spot.

What could she do? Her worst nightmare was being compounded by her second worst nightmare. Sir Aubrey had discovered her real identity and now Araminta was about to focus the full force of her determined charm upon him. Hetty hadn't a hope. If, as was remotely possible, he offered for her out of honor for having defiled her, he'd despise her forevermore. But, as was more likely, he would be as most men and wilt before Araminta's deadly charm, the moment Hetty reminded him he was not to blame for her deception.

Later, as she worked at her embroidery trying not to cry, she went over her options. She wished she could pour out everything to her mother, who sat beside her stitching a tiny garment for her new baby. Lady Partington, however, seemed not in the mood for conversation, though she rallied surprisingly when Cousin Stephen joined them.

"You're early." She smiled warmly. "Araminta will not be down for a while yet. You know how she is when she wants to impress, and indeed, she wishes to impress Sir Aubrey. Won't you have some tea?"

Cousin Stephen waved away her attempts at playing hostess, rather like a mother hen, Hetty thought. "The teapot is heavy and leaning over like that isn't good in your condition, Lady Sybil." When he saw Hetty's look he added somewhat sheepishly, "I'm forever in your mother's debt. I would so hate to see her come to harm on my account."

"Pouring tea?"

Clearing his voice, Stephen changed the subject. "I'm also reluctant to countenance this carriage ride. Araminta should not embroil herself with Sir Aubrey given his reputation. Who knows what she'll get up to when she has him alone in his phaeton." He grinned at Hetty. "You, I am not worried about. Hetty, are you sure you're not well enough to accompany your sister after all?"

Hetty sighed. "I'll go."

It was in this mood of resigned despair that she changed her own dress, barely conscious of what Jane laid out for her, her mind roiling with confusion.

Nothing was as it seemed. Her father apparently teetered on the verge of ruin. She was burdened by a terrible secret. And her mother and cousin seemed suddenly far too fond of one another.

Jane put her head around the door, her expression sympathetic. "Miss Hetty, you are poorly, aren't you? Let me fetch you something."

Hetty shook her head as she sank onto the dressing table stool. "Just brush my hair, please, Jane. You have such a soothing touch."

"That's nicer than what your sister can come up with, miss, when she wants cosseting."

No doubt Araminta had offended Jane once again.

Jane picked up the brush. "I wish Miss Araminta would stay clear of that fearful Sir Aubrey."

Hetty took the plunge. "He's a gentleman, a good man, Jane, and I intend to furnish proof that your Jem's master, Lord Debenham, has made it his mission to blacken Sir Aubrey's reputation by falsifying his account of what was in Lady Margaret's death letter." She turned when Jane's brush strokes faltered, saying eagerly, "Jem promised to show me the letter when we arranged to meet."

"Oh miss!" Jane dropped the brush and clapped her hand to her mouth as she stepped backwards, looking like Hetty had just struck her. "You never said anything to him, did ye? Oh, miss, now he'll know it were me what told his secret. He won't ever forgive me." When she began to cry, Hetty didn't know what to do. She felt guilty for Jane's distress yet fired with the zeal that justice would serve them all in the end.

"It's all right, Jane," she reassured her, reaching forward to give her wrists a comforting squeeze. "I told him he'd be handsomely rewarded. And he shall be."

"He's guilty of a crime and now he'll pay for it." Jane was sobbing now, having pulled free and collapsed against the window embrasure. "And I'll pay for it too. I swore I'd say nuffink to no one but then when I heard you and Miss Araminta talking I couldn't stay silent." She let out her breath in a whoosh of reproach. "Oh, Miss Hetty, I wish you hadn't told him."

Hetty couldn't meet her eye. She prayed Jane and Jem would not be added to her growing list of regrets.

"Please lay out my new muslin, Jane," she said bracingly. "I shan't save it for tomorrow musical soiree as I'd planned."

Too much hinged on this afternoon's expedition and she needed to look her most innocent and charming.

There was so much she had to put to rights. Whether she possessed the power of allure and words to work a miracle, only time would tell.

Sir Aubrey was not in a pretty mood as he flicked the ribbons over his pair of handsome bays. This should have been a proud moment. Right now, by this morning's calculations, he should have been a man who'd set himself up nicely. Just the right horseflesh and equipage to cut a dash and stir the blood out in the fresh air before returning home to sweet, undemanding domesticity.

Undemanding domesticity. It's what he'd envisaged would be the foundation of his first marriage, fool that he was for not considering the ramifications of marrying a woman rumor had it was mad for her cousin.

Arrogance? Innocence.

He rather thought that could excuse it. He'd never experienced the pangs of love or even a particularly strong desire for a woman before the necessity arose to take a wife. A marriage was a contract of expediency. This had been so well and truly drummed into him he did not think to question it.

When he'd met Margaret, he'd been struck first by her pretty face and sweet nature. He'd looked forward to a long and fruitful partnership. Men took mistresses when the unions with their wives proved unhappy but he'd been determined to be a good husband. A pity he'd not considered her feelings might have been engaged by another. Margaret's father had agreed with alacrity to the contract and Sir Aubrey didn't think to wonder if she had objections, callow youth that he'd been.

When Margaret lay cold in the ground, ruling out the possibility of reconciliation that had long sustained him, Sir Aubrey realized her death had created a vacuum that would be filled with pain and loneliness unless he found a long-term mistress, for he was not a man who would consider satisfying his sexual needs with a string of meaningless encounters.

Jezebel was as far removed from Margaret as was possible.

Jezebel. What a beauty. He was an object of envy for snaring such a rare gem. But with her beauty came a nature that was feisty, demanding and ungrateful.

His life became even more complicated as the rumors surrounding his wife's death grew. There were whispers that Margaret had taken her life because he'd driven her to it. He knew Debenham fed the flames, that he hinted Sir Aubrey had had some involvement in Spencean activities, including the plot to assassinate Lord Castlereagh.

He'd assumed such talk would be dismissed in the absence of proof. He'd been wrong. Debenham had influential friends and mud stuck.

Frustrated in his attempts to gain public office, Sir Aubrey had diverted his energies toward activities that were venal and self-serving rather than the lucrative and mentally rewarding positions within government he'd left his life as a country squire to pursue.

Meeting the two Miss Partingtons this morning was yet another betrayal. More proof that human beings were treacherous creatures and few of them—especially shy, innocent debutantes—what they seemed.

He heaved in a breath as he approached the trio that was to be his afternoon's entertainment. The gentleman among them, Stephen Cranborne, eyed him with the suspicion of someone who knows courtesy requires that he be civil to an adversary whose soul is black with sin. His look suggested he was waiting for an opportunity to prove it. The dark-haired and most striking of the two young ladies simpered up at him with transparent design. Sir Aubrey had a fortune and would likely as not inherit a title. Miss Partington was brash and bold enough not to concern herself with his apparently dangerous reputation.

Her pale and unassuming sister was the enigma. Beside Miss Araminta Partington, no one looked twice at Miss Henrietta in a ballroom crowded with beauties.

And yet she was the one who had captured his heart. Captivated him.

He tried not to look at her while he considered the question. _Had_ she really captivated him? When he'd entered into the liaison, she'd been little more than a business transaction. He'd bought her affections and her exclusivity and he'd thought confidently that his physical, and to an extent emotional, involvement were not matters that need concern him unduly until he was moved to change his circumstances.

Something in his chest cavity seemed to give a little. To crumple. He clamped his jaw down hard to stop his weakness from showing. The truth was, he had been captivated by her.

More. He had fallen in love.

As he pulled on the reigns and drew up beside the waiting party, his pain and confusion grew. To what purpose had his Henrietta—or rather _Miss_ Henrietta—deceived him? It was unfathomable. Had she thought to force him to the altar by declaring publicly he'd taken her virtue?

Was she in fact a minion of Lord Debenham?

To look at the downcast set of her features, her slumped shoulders and patent discomfort and embarrassment, he could countenance neither of these things.

"Hetty and I shall wait here in the shade." There was no friendliness in Stephen Cranborne's tone as Sir Aubrey helped Miss Partington up beside him. Sir Aubrey was equally cool as he prepared to defend himself against his new companion's wiles. She was terrifying with her not-so-secret agenda.

He could barely make eye contact with the other one.

The other one. She'd have accompanied her elder sister everywhere, to every dance and every ball while he, blind to her less showy attributes, must have looked through her a dozen times.

"You're very serious, Sir Aubrey," Miss Partington teased him as she settled herself beside him, just a little too close for comfort. "I trust you are not concerned as to how to control your handsome bays?"

"I am not." He might have added more lightly that he was a dab hand with the ribbons and so set the course for more entertaining chatter, but he could not bring himself to lighten the mood. Leave that to her.

Unfazed, she said after some minutes, "I shall want a pair of matched roans. My favorite horse was a roan. I'm very partial to them. I am an excellent horsewoman, Sir Aubrey. I believe you are fond of the hunt. So am I."

"Is that so, Miss Partington? Sadly, I am a busy man and do not spend as much time enjoying such pursuits as I might like."

"Then that must change, Sir Aubrey. Indeed, I have noticed you looking decidedly preoccupied these past few days and can only think that your work is too absorbing. It will profit you nothing if you are so joyless you cannot find a healthy sense of balance in your life."

"Balance, Miss Partington?" He glanced at her as they picked up speed and rounded a corner. "I think when we want something sufficiently we can find any means to justify it. Right now, I cannot justify pleasure when my reputation is besmirched by the rumors flying about me, and which I can't believe someone as percipient as you have not heard. I'm surprised you would be seen with me."

He'd hoped to repel her. At least put her off her stroke with the reference to his dubious reputation. To his dismay, her look of cloying self-satisfaction suddenly turned impassioned.

"Do not think I am swayed by evil, unfounded rumors! You have enemies, clearly, Sir Aubrey, and if they can be brought down, you will be vindicated." She reached out a hand, which he did not take, pretending a need to control the horses. She gripped his wrist. "You are a brave, _good_ man and soon all the world will know it!"

He grunted. "Your sentiment is unfounded, Miss Partington. I am not a good man and you'd do well to remember it. See the concerned look in your cousin's eye as we return? It is fully justified. I am a rogue and you'd do well to steer well clear of me. Now, good day. I apologize for my ill mood. Your sister would be wise not to enter into discourse with me if she's of a timid nature."

Pique replaced Hetty's trepidation after Araminta jumped down from the phaeton, saying brightly, "Hetty, dearest, perhaps you should politely decline the offer of a ride with Sir Aubrey, since he says he fears he's not to be trusted to be civil and is bound to upset you in his present thunderous mood."

_Just wait until they we're out of sight_ , thought Hetty with a surge of feeling as Sir Aubrey helped her, with obvious reluctance, up beside him.

For the moment she would not playact for the benefit of her sister and cousin, who might have been curious as to why the pair departed, stone-faced and staring straight ahead, but she would say her piece when the chance presented itself.

By the time they were well into the park, she'd prepared a spirited defense, but Sir Aubrey caught her off guard.

"You don't look like the sort up for that kind of lark, Miss Henrietta." He slanted a cold look across at her. "When am I to be revealed for the vile seducer you have unwittingly made of me?"

Of course Sir Aubrey thought she'd set out to trick him into marriage.

Hetty took a deep breath to still her rapidly beating heart then said in a low, dignified voice, "You bear no blame whatsoever. It was entirely my doing. But believe me, sir, I did not enter into the charade with anything other than a desire to save my skin, for I was certain you were going to slit my throat that first night."

His obvious horror made her gut twist. It was easier, she found, to look at the passing equipages on the sandy circuit rather than at him but at last she had to answer his inevitable question.

Sighing, she turned to face him. "All right. Perhaps that's not entirely the truth, though it was to begin with. When Cousin Stephen caught me watching you at Lady Kilmore's ball, he warned me you were a dangerous man. He insinuated you had a secret that was so terrible you'd do anything to keep it."

"A secret? Pray go on."

Hetty didn't want to go into the details right now. They both knew what they were. She shrugged. His eyes bored into hers with flinty purpose and how she wished she had the words and means to turn them limpid with love. She'd grown used to fond caresses and loving looks. His cold anger was more terrible than anything she could have imagined. Haltingly, she went on. "After I was in the lady's mending room I took a wrong turn, which led me to your chamber. The door was open and I was curious, for I'd recognized your cane—"

"My cane? How did you know it was my cane?"

"Well, it's very distinctive and I'd admired you from afar for a long time so I knew it well." She bit her lip. "But until that night I'd not known you'd kill to protect your secrets—"

"Kill? Good god, you know very well I spoke jestingly. Nor have I any secrets!"

"Well, you can't blame me for believing at the time what was said of you. When I lost my way and saw the door to your chamber open, curiosity got the better of me. Then you returned—"

He grunted then said in tones laced with irony, "And I was so fearsome you told me you were a lady of the night."

Hetty raised her eyebrows as she looked at him. "In case you've forgotten, sir, your shirtsleeves were covered in blood. You told me you'd just killed your assailant. I'd been given the impression you were hiding a secret so terrible you would kill to protect it so I simply agreed with your assumption I was there on legitimate purposes." She cleared her throat. "Well, as legitimate a purpose like that can be if I were supposedly a lady of the night."

His scowl deepened, his horror even more patent. "You didn't really think I might murder you if you refused?"

Hetty shook her head. "Of course not. But you insinuated you'd just killed someone else."

"Good God, I _told_ you I'd just fought off a dog that was about to tear my throat out. I was in a foul mood, I do not excuse that. But for you, a respectable young lady, a virgin, to be so terrified you'd succumb to my less-than-loving advances..."

He could not go on and Hetty, who was becoming increasingly distressed by his response, said quickly, "But they _were_ loving. I'd admired you from afar for so long and after my initial fright at seeing you in such a state of... disarray... I realised that everyone else was wrong and I was right. You _weren't_ a dangerous gentlemen. You proved it to me. You were transformed from a frightening, angry gentleman into one who showed kindness and consideration. No man had ever looked twice at me but the fact that the very one whom I'd admired ever since I came to London _did_ in fact notice me made me behave in a way that was quite...out of character."

"Yes, indeed it seems to have," he muttered.

Hetty clasped her hands and raised her face to his. "So while it's true that I'd started off being terrified of you and your reputation, I could have objected and told you the truth. I realised I could have but I didn't. So it was all my fault."

He seemed not to have heard her as he muttered, "Dear god, but to think you succumbed because you were terrified of me!"

She drew back at his angry bark. His face was dark with an emotion as he went on, "I ravished you because you were too afraid to say no. You just admitted it! Fear was the only reason you had anything to do with me."

Hetty twisted her gloved hands. In a small voice she said, "I came back to you...for more, didn't I?"

"Ha!" He shook his head and his lip curled as he snapped the reins. "I'd ruined you already. What choice did you have? You were led by your innocence and your fear."

"No, sir, by my heart—"

"Then all the more reason to wish for nothing more to do with me. I'll only destroy your illusions. I'll break your heart and you'll soon come to hate me."

"I won't have the chance if I'm never to see you again."

He'd been staring loftily ahead. Now his head whipped 'round. "That all depends on..." His tone gentled. "I have ruined you, Miss Henrietta, and as a gentleman I am required to save your honor." For what seemed a very long time he looked broodingly ahead of him, over the tops of the horses' heads. Then he signed ponderously before turning to face her. "Miss Henrietta, I offer you two choices." He slowed the horses to a gentle trot. "Marriage," he paused ominously, "offered with deep reluctance. Or, if you get out of this free of scandal, then the choice I favor, a clean parting of the ways."

Devastated, Hetty stared back at him. "So you would marry me if I desired it?"

He huffed out a breath. "I just said I would. I am a gentleman. I will not see you ruined. I would, however, wish you a better future than that. One without me."

"You would marry me but you would withhold your heart? What foolishness."

He nodded again. "I would leave you in the country the moment I could and live up to my reputation as a heartless villain. You would have every material possession I had the means to grant you but," he tapped his heart, "I would have nothing to offer you here, Hetty."

Hetty bit her trembling lip. Tears threatened. Not because he'd just offered her what she thought she'd desired more than anything else in the world: marriage. But because of his inability to see the emptiness of his offer. "You were going to set me up in a pretty house so you could visit me whenever you wished. Yesterday you wanted me. Desired me."

"Yesterday I was acting like a man who knows he can discard his mistress the moment he tires of her," he responded coldly. "A wife is not such an easily dispensed-with commodity and I would not build up your hopes in the early days when infatuation is based on falsehood, only to see you suffer more acutely for your blind faith later."

"That's not how it would be," she whispered. "You know it's not."

They were nearing the home straight. Stephen and Araminta could be seen in the distance.

Sir Aubrey fixed her with an intense look. "So what's it to be? Marriage?"

The greatest, loneliest feeling she'd ever experienced seeped through her. Slowly, Hetty shook her head. "I cannot hold you to something that is such anathema to you, even if it would give me the greatest joy to prove you wrong."

She drew in a quavering breath. "From the start, I knew Araminta was the sister you would choose. Goodbye, Sir Aubrey. You have my blessing, and my wish for your great happiness."

"Well, Sir Aubrey was in a less than pretty mood this afternoon," Araminta remarked once Hetty was set down and their erstwhile host departed with the requisite courtesies, namely a terse farewell for the girls and a frosty nod directed at Stephen.

Hetty clung to Stephen's arm, Araminta on his other as he navigated them through the well-dressed crowd. Stephen seemed not to notice Hetty's distraction. "No doubt having the very time of it trying to decide which of you to choose since you both for some extraordinary reason favor his advances," he said.

Hetty gave a little hiccup and both pairs of eyes turned to her. "Good Lord, Hetty, don't tell me you're cast down about it?" asked Stephen while Araminta let out a little trill.

"I can't believe, Hetty, you think he'd seriously consider you! Why, you're the absolute opposite of everything he finds attractive."

"And what do you know about that?" Stephen asked in dampening tones when he saw Hetty's distress. "Do you not think Sir Aubrey would be as charmed by your kind and self-effacing sister as he would a showy piece? I'm sure he must be tired of young women throwing themselves at him."

He sent Araminta a pointed look but Hetty was too distraught to respond with anything more than another truncated sob.

She did not care that they must guess at the cause of her distress when she raced up the steps once they reached their townhouse.

The butler was slow in opening the door and as she waited, she heard Stephen ask Araminta, clearly bemused, "She can't possibly be in love with the fellow, can she? I thought she barely knew him."

Then Araminta's thoughtful response, "Perhaps Hetty has more secrets than we realized."

# Chapter 9

Hetty was lying on her bed later that evening when her mother quietly entered the room.

"My poor darling," she said, taking a seat by Hetty's side and filling her with the comfort Hetty always felt at her mother's lavender-scented presence. "Araminta said you were feeling poorly and suggested I see what I could do for you."

"I doubt the concern came from Araminta," muttered Hetty, enjoying the gentle hand massage her mother was giving her. "What did she really tell you?"

"Well, to be honest, she said it appeared you'd lost your head over some unsuitable rogue. I, however, would suggest you've lost your heart. You never were in danger of losing your head. It's far too sensibly screwed on."

Hetty closed her eyes and said miserably, "Not in this instance. Araminta's right. I have lost my head and my heart and no doubt I'll suffer for it the rest of my life."

"Come, my darling, it can't be that terrible. Not if you barely know the gentleman as Araminta says." Lady Partington's tone hardened. "Sir Aubrey would not be my choice of husband for you, Hetty. Stephen doesn't think at all highly of him."

"And why should Stephen's opinion count for more than mine?" Hetty sniffed. "If he told you Sir Aubrey was the best candidate a girl could hope for you'd be counseling me very differently. All these unfounded rumors." She drew in a shaky breath. "I only wish the truth were known."

"Really, Hetty darling." Her mother sounded put out. "Cousin Stephen works in the Foreign Office so of course he knows things we can't possibly be expected to know. We have to take his opinion when it's offered. Now come along, my love, and drink this. Martha has just warmed it and it'll make you feel much more the thing."

Grumbling like the child she'd so recently been, Hetty allowed her mother to help her into a sitting position before taking the fragrant milk. It was hard to attend to these well-meaning platitudes when all she could think about was how she was going to disprove the rumors everyone insisted precluded Sir Aubrey from being an acceptable suitor. Not that he was going to marry her.

Nevertheless, she would be the one responsible for removing the tarnish that blackened his name. He might not thank her for it in the way she wished, but the thought of it made her feel strong and powerful.

After a great deal of tossing and turning and soul-searching during the night, Hetty felt much better. She could accept now that while she was not the bride Sir Aubrey would choose, she could at least be responsible for advancing his happiness and good fortune. Advancing other people's happiness had always given her pleasure.

In this lighter, virtuous frame of mind, she went riding with Stephen in the morning, attending to him with all the cheeriness of her old self so that he remarked, "Well, my dear, I'm glad your sister's pronouncements regarding your foolishness turned out to be so off the mark."

"I suppose you mean Sir Aubrey." Hetty slanted a disgusted look at her cousin. "Araminta thinks Mr. Woking is my perfect match."

Stephen matched her grimace. "My dear girl, I regard any relation of Lord Debenham with as much enthusiasm as I do Sir Aubrey. Lord Debenham might not be in the same sinister league as your friend Sir Aubrey but he has a reputation for debauchery nonetheless. I'd much prefer to see you wed someone kind and gentle who'd appreciate your quiet charm as much as your sister is admired by the more adventurous for her dazzling attributes."

Later that day, when Jane was brushing her hair, Hetty announced she needed her maid to accompany her on a shopping expedition for a new pair of York tan gloves. It was only when they were in the carriage that she leaned across to reveal the real motivation for their journey. Wanting to make amends to Jane was part of it.

"I know you were cross with me for saying anything to your young man but the fact is we're about to visit him now. He's promised I can view the letter in his possession." At Jane's horrified gasp, Hetty added quickly, "You mustn't worry, Jane, for this will all end very well." She truly did believe that. "Yes, it was wrong of Jem to take the letter but it was a good thing, otherwise Lord Debenham would have destroyed it. I'm certain that once I read its contents I will know how to use it to exonerate Sir Aubrey."

Jane's eyes grew large. "Jem is expecting you?" She shook her head. "Oh miss, I thought he was expecting Miss Araminta."

"And why my sister when she knows nothing of this?"

Jane twisted her hands in her lap while a kernel of doubt lodged in Hetty's breast.

"Miss Araminta quizzed me this mornin'," said Jane. "Sounded as if she knew all about it, she did. Said, in fact, you'd asked for her help as you were afraid of goin' after the letter alone and that she'd agreed she would see Jem and discover if there were anything to the whole business."

Hetty's mouth dropped open. Her brain grasped for the true meaning in all this.

Jane looked more distressed than ever. "I didn't know it were a secret and...I dunno but I might of said something I shouldna."

The familiar impotent rage Hetty always felt when her sister walked roughshod over her hopes and dreams threatened to sweep her away like a tidal wave. Araminta was yet again one step ahead. Hetty, the quiet and meek little sister everyone overlooked, could never keep up. Didn't this just prove it? While Hetty had done all the hard work and set the stage for triumph, Araminta was going to reap the prize.

Tears pricked her eyelids as she sank back against the squabs and surrendered to the jolting motion of the carriage ride.

"Miss, are you all right?" Jane sounded anxious. "We'll still visit my Jem, won't we? After all, we want to know what Miss Araminta plans to do next, don't we?"

Little matter if Jane's preoccupation was with seeing her young man.

Wearily, Hetty ran the back of her hand across her heated brow. "Yes, Jane, we'll still see Jem. Araminta might have read the letter and told him it contained nothing of any account."

Her earlier anticipation turned leaden as she stepped out of the carriage. She patted the floral festooned bonnet she wore, a ridiculous piece of frippery she'd chosen specially for her intended triumphant progress from visiting Jem to seeing Sir Aubrey. Her heart shriveled inside her chest.

She should be used to being left behind. Perhaps it was all over for her already. Perhaps at this very moment Sir Aubrey was in possession of a special license in anticipation of Araminta's triumph and when Hetty returned home, Araminta would ask her to be maid of honor. That is, if she wasn't married to him already.

When Jem arrived at the designated coffeehouse, he slipped into a booth, barely looking either of the young women in the eye.

"Dunno why you sent your sister when you're here anyways," he muttered. "The fewer what knows, the better, I say."

There was no purpose in telling Jem the truth. Hetty got to the point. "What did my sister say when she saw the letter?"

"That I'd be rewarded handsomely. Miss Partington has a glib tongue on her, I'll give her that."

"You should never have taken that letter, Jem," Jane burst out. She reached out her thin hands across the worn wooden tabletop in a gesture of angry despair. "I jes hope you ain't going to rot in a cell for it."

Hetty closed her eyes briefly, almost too fearful to ask the question. For if Araminta had made off with it, there was nothing Hetty could do. "Where is the letter, Jem?"

"I ain't got it with me. Put it back, didn't I, after Miss Partington saw it." He raked his hand through his straw-colored hair, wearing the expression of one who has just about reached the end of his tether.

Hope flickered in Hetty's breast. "She didn't take it?"

"Said she didn't have the money but she knew someone who did and that she'd come back."

Hetty's heart pounded painfully as she leaned forward. "When did she leave? Do you know where she went? And when can I see the letter?"

He sent her a wry look. "Miss Araminta left less than a half hour ago and I'd only just hid the letter again and was back at me work when I heard you was wantin' to see me after all."

"Please, Jem, I have to see that letter." Hetty knew she sounded desperate. "I'll pay you well for it, I promise."

"Ain't worth me job to fetch it back again now. Me master'll be comin' back from his ride and I got to get 'im ready. As for your sister, I dunno where she went." He nodded his indication the interview was at an end. "With respect, miss, let me tells yer this, I'll be givin' that letter to the first person what gives me a fiver fer it."

"That's downright greedy, Jem," Jane sniffed. "You're just lucky you are that Miss Hetty ain't about to turn you in."

"Reckon it's a sore point wiv me that someone else turned me in already," he said with a pointed look at Jane.

Hetty rose quickly. There was no time for recriminations when her greatest priority was to find Araminta. Perhaps she'd written down the words or committed them to memory and was now on her way to find Sir Aubrey.

A final question struck Hetty as she turned to leave. "Who was with her? She couldn't have come alone."

Jem shrugged. "Reckoned it were Miss Partington's sister 'til I saw that Miss Lissa—that were her name—were dressed shabby, like a governess or summat."

"What!" Hetty swung around. "A young woman who looked like Araminta's sister? It's not possible. We have no relatives in London." But already an odd thought had taken root. Once again, there were those odd pieces of the family puzzle she'd only just begun to piece together. She squeezed her eyes shut quickly, not wanting to visit the uncomfortable subject she'd heard whispered about over the years. Six months ago it would have seemed impossible that her dear, loyal papa had no other children. But her safe and ordered life seemed to have been turned on its head since then. She fisted her hands and said, "Come, Jane, we must hurry home and find Araminta." She didn't want to think about who this Miss Lissa was to her. Or Araminta.

"We must get them gloves on the way, miss, else Lady Partington will ask questions."

"Just quickly, then," Hetty acceded reluctantly, knowing how much her maid liked to browse at all the pretty things the shopkeepers showed them.

Mixed fortune came their way when they stepped into Hetty's favorite glove makers on Bond Street. A lady who had her back to them as she scrutinized a selection of finely stitched gloves turned at their arrival, and Hetty found herself face- to-face with the golden-haired, duplicitous creature she despised more than any other and whom she'd hoped never to set eyes on again.

"Why, Miss Henrietta, I barely recognized you!" exclaimed Lady Julia, brazen as ever, for no blush of shame swept her cheeks as she greeted Hetty with every apparent pleasure.

Hetty could hardly believe it. Lady Julia, the faithless _married_ swine who'd taken Cousin Edgar on his final boating jaunt before he drowned six months ago appeared to harbor no guilt at all. She was smiling as if recalling fond past pleasures.

All Hetty could recall as she stared back was the pain of seeing her beloved cousin writhing in passion in the scheming minx's arms before the drunken pair had fallen out of their boat in the dam at The Grange.

"Indeed, Miss Henrietta, you are _greatly_ improved in looks. And how is your cousin?"

For one shocked moment Hetty thought Lady Julia referred to Edgar. She bit back the retort that of course he was being looked after by the angels, thanks to Lady Julia's wickedness. "I presume you mean Cousin Stephen?"

"Of course I do." Lady Julia's tinkling laugh rang out as she patted her swollen belly. "He and I are old friends, you know. He was a guest of my husband's just before he took up residence at The Grange. You were just a child back then, it seemed. But now you're a grown woman, I see. Do tell him the child is due in November. He'll want to know, I'm sure."

Hetty's brow crinkled in confusion. But instead of questioning her, she merely nodded her head once while her gaze returned to the woman's extended belly. Why, she looked even larger than Hetty's mama who'd declared she was far too advanced to be seen out in public.

Hetty was irked beyond measure that Lady Julia looked so blooming. Her flaxen hair was demurely arranged beneath a becoming floral-festooned bonnet that made Hetty feel hers was vastly overdone. Lady Julia, like Araminta, had always put her in the shade.

"I'll pass on your greeting," she muttered finally, tugging Jane's sleeve as she turned to leave but Lady's Julia's laughing response gave her pause.

"You're a great deal more gracious than your sister, Miss Henrietta, for when she stepped in here when I was perusing a tray of rings earlier this afternoon she gave me the cut direct."

Hetty swung back from the doorway. "Araminta was here?"

"With her poor relation, by the look of it."

Hetty hurried back to their townhouse, but though it was late in the afternoon, her sister was not at home. "Gone on the promenade," said Betty, who attended their mother and had come down from The Grange. "No doubt with that gentlemen she's got her sights set on though she said she had another errand she had to attend to quickly, first. Mr Cranborne said the invitation to go walking was no longer on the table, but if Miss Araminta has a mind to do something—"

Hetty didn't wait to hear more. When she burst into her mother's room and questioned her on Araminta's movements, Lady Partington raised her hands, palms upwards. "Araminta insisted that these rumours that surround Sir Aubrey are quite unsubstantiated but that she wouldn't go walking with him, if it made me unhappy. Now you're telling me she's not here?"

Hetty could not, of course, probe further as to what she knew of Hetty's companion.

It was a different matter with her father. He studied her silently over the top of his news sheet when she found him in his study. "A young lady who looks so like your sister as to be remarked upon? _Here_?" He harrumphed as his eyes flicked from Hetty's face back to the news sheet. "I don't know what you're talking about, my dear."

Clearly he'd long since decided silence and obfuscation were the only ways to deal with potentially awkward situations like this. Defeated, Hetty returned to her room where she paced up and down, chewing her fingernails and wondering what to do.

Araminta would be visiting Sir Aubrey with details about the letter Jem had in his possession. The letter that _Hetty_ had ferreted out! Yet she hadn't had the money to pay Jem for it when she'd seen him earlier that morning. Had she rushed back to get sufficient funds and perhaps only just left the house with no one seeing her, intent upon meeting Jem again before travelling onwards to present Sir Aubrey with it?

After some minutes pondering the dilemma of what to do next, Hetty became aware of a figure standing on the pavement beneath a plane tree on the other side of the road. The young woman's poke bonnet concealed her face but her figure and dress proclaimed her of middling rank and perhaps around Hetty's age.

Hetty went to the sash window and peered out. The movement immediately drew the attention of the young person who raised her head and gave a surreptitious wave.

Pushing up the window, Hetty put her head out and squinted. A passing carriage obscured the figure and when it had passed, the girl was gone. Then Hetty realized she was crossing the road, indicating for Hetty to meet her at the railing beside the portico.

Snatching a shawl, Hetty hurried down the stairs and emerged onto the pavement, saying without preamble, "You know where Araminta has gone, don't you? You were with her earlier."

The young woman nodded. She bore a greater resemblance to her sister than Hetty had at first thought, though her expression had a more serious cast to it. The well- shaped nose and brow, the full upper lip and the arched brows above flashing green eyes were, however, clearly from the same mold.

"Why were you with Araminta? And who are you?" The questions tumbled out as Hetty remembered seeing this girl in the village church though she'd not remarked upon any particular resemblance at the time. She'd been younger then, so perhaps her features had not matured.

"My name is Larissa and I met your sister by chance when she first came to London a few weeks ago. Today, to my surprise, she sent a note around asking me to accompany her to a secret meeting in a coffeehouse." The girl's expression gave nothing away. "I'm a governess and my young charge is being fitted for a new gown. As she's going in company with her mama, I was spared the ordeal." Only her lips stretched into something resembling a wry smile. "Miss Araminta said I was to keep the visit secret and it was my intention to simply return to the household where I'm presently employed...only I was concerned."

Hetty trembled. This was confirmation of her own fears. Fears that Araminta was about to ruin Hetty's carefully orchestrated plan and win Sir Aubrey through such underhanded and underserving means.

Hetty thrust out her chin. "Well, I've just seen the young valet, Jem, and he told me he still had the letter." But then her shoulders slumped. "Now I expect Araminta's returned to pay him for it when I was the one who wanted to give it to Sir Aubrey. You do know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

She knew she sounded childish and aggrieved. She had little doubt that Larissa had been briefed by Araminta on the reason they were going to see Jem otherwise why was she here?

"So Miss Araminta has not returned home?"

"No." Hetty looked at her oddly, then asked, "And why were you standing there, watching the house, if you only recently returned here with my sister? Is there something else you want to tell me?" This was all very strange. Jem still had the letter and if Araminta wasn't at home now, it must be because she was back seeing Jem. Hetty must have just missed her!

"I didn't return with your sister."

Hetty frowned. She wondered if the girl was here for money. She didn't look avaricious sort. She held herself with a kind of brittle pride. As if she were reluctant to have anything to do with Hetty, in fact, which was rich considering Hetty had every right to despise this ill-begotten child of...her father's.

She clapped her hands to her mouth as the shaming thought entered her mind.

But immediately her concerns regarding Araminta took precedence. Was her sister in some danger? Was _that_ why this young woman was here? Abruptly, she asked, "If Araminta didn't accompany you here, where is she now and what are _you_ doing here?"

Larissa shrugged. "I wasn't going to approach you. I shouldn't, that is. But the fact is, I was concerned—"

"Concerned? About my sister's safety? I think Araminta can look after herself very nicely. No doubt she's already slipped away with the letter to give it to Sir Aubrey. I'll wager that's where she is right now!" Blinding anger came crashing down upon Hetty's shoulders as she considered this as the only likely scenario but the governess shook her head.

"I was with your sister when the footman showed her the letter and —"

Dully, Hetty asked, "What was her reaction when she read it?"

"Something along the lines of: 'Oh my goodness, what a delightful shock! Sir Aubrey will be so pleased with me!' "

Hetty felt like screaming. Then a sudden thought occurred to her. "Jem said Araminta didn't take it but she _did_ , didn't she? She paid him to tell me a lie to throw me off the scent and now she's gone and taken the letter to Sir Aubrey, herself!"

She knew she was overwrought because the self-contained creature widened her eyes as she stepped back, saying, "No, nothing like that! The reason I'm here is that your sister requested I chaperone her to her meeting place. She had no one else she could ask, she told me. But then she disappeared when we were leaving the tavern." Briefly, Larissa put her hands to her face and when she dropped them she looked pale and worried. "The truth is, I care little for your sister but I knew Pa— I mean, her father would be furious is she were discovered missing, especially if he learned I was the last person to see her." She glanced at the sky. "It's getting late you see, and Miss Araminta just vanished."

For the first time a kernel of worry for Araminta manifested itself in Hetty's breast. "Did Jem turn nasty?" she asked on a frightened whisper. "Could he have done something?"

The girl hushed her alarm. "It's true he was mighty cross when she snatched the letter, only he took it back and then Miss Araminta jumped up and flounced through the room, with everyone looking at her as she said over her shoulder that she reckoned a fine lady would be believed over a mere footman, and to consider himself lucky that he wasn't going to swing."

"But you must have followed Araminta. Where did she go? Where is she now?"

Larissa looked helpless. "I can't tell you. I followed her, of course, but when I stepped onto the pavement she was nowhere to be seen." She bit her lip. "I thought it was very odd that she'd leave, unaccompanied, much less leave me there alone, but she'd been in high dudgeon and I've observed her over the years, so perhaps it wasn't so surprising."

Hetty made no remark to this acute observation. In fact, she tried to cast it from her mind. She was not ready for her recent suspicions to be so irrefutably confirmed. "How long have you been waiting here and if you were concerned, why didn't you make yourself known earlier?"

A blush swept the girl's pale cheeks. "I was instructed never to make myself known here."

"You could have sent a message," Hetty muttered. "You could have given it to someone in the kitchen."

Larissa shook her head. "There's some who know me and they'd report it. Lord Partington would be incensed if he knew I'd had anything to do with any of his...daughters." She glanced up at the windows of the four square house then back at Hetty. "I must return to my employer. I hope Miss Araminta is safe. I've told you everything I know."

There was no point in trying to detain the girl. Nor to question her further, for it was quite clear Larissa the governess was Lord Partington's daughter. Hetty digested this painfully as she watched the girl leave, her serviceable boots showing cracked and worn beneath the hem of her dull, plain skirt. She'd thought she'd hate her, this girl who represented her father's failings and her mother's unhappiness. Until recently, Hetty had been able to bury her head in the sand and pretend ignorance of life's painful realities. Now she understood the dangers too clearly to do nothing.

She cast another worried look at the sky. It would soon be dusk. The long summer twilight was in her favor but Hetty's hands were tied. What could she, a single, innocent female, do to solve a mystery she wasn't even sure was a mystery? What if Araminta had done exactly as Hetty had done? Assumed subterfuge to indulge her fascination for a gentleman she was being warned off?

The thought that right now Araminta was with Sir Aubrey, giving him the letter his late wife had written, made Hetty feel ill as she trod the back stairs to her bedchamber.

And what would be her reward? Was Araminta at this moment wrapped in the arms of the man who had been Hetty's lover?

Regardless of propriety and the inherent danger, she had to find out.

# Chapter 10

Sir Aubrey stretched out his long legs as he savored the last of his cheroot before tossing it into the fire. There was little else to savor these days, he thought sourly.

He reached for the decanter at his elbow and shakily poured himself another measure of whisky.

Since depositing that alluring, too-innocent-for-anyone miss with her cousin and older sister after their phaeton ride, he'd felt as if the sun had gone out of his life.

"Leave it!" he snapped to the unwary parlor maid who, clearly not realizing he was in the room, had drawn the curtains, highlighting the fact that everything bright and joyous was beyond his library and out of reach.

Out of reach. His Henrietta would be forever out of reach. She had taken far too bold a risk for one in her position and she'd singed her wings and come crashing down to cold, base reality. She now must realize there was nothing he could or would do.

Unless, of course, there were consequences, though he'd been careful, as always.

He only prayed to God there would be no inconvenient repercussions so Miss Henrietta Partington would be spared an unfit husband such as himself. He was prepared to do as honor required but fortunately she had seen fit to realize she would never have his heart; that she had put herself forever out of his reach.

He was roused from his torpid languor by a rapping on the library door, which was pushed open by the recently dismissed housemaid. The cheery smile she'd turned upon him when he interrupted her earlier was replaced by a look bordering on trepidation. Good. Women should be afraid of him. He was not a nice man. Only if his appetites for the fine life were indulged was he prepared to show his more charming side. Margaret had said it. She'd cited it as a reason for leaving him—the fact he was not the sunny-tempered charmer she claimed her cousin Lord Debenham was.

Well, Debenham was the least sunny-tempered gentleman of his acquaintance but clearly he knew how to put on a good show. Sir Aubrey did not believe in dressing up the truth. If he felt out of sorts, he'd take himself off elsewhere until his mood had passed. He was not given to playacting.

Unlike the deceiving wench Miss Henrietta Partington, who clearly was nothing like he'd believed. He had a deep-rooted contempt for deception. Margaret had deceived him. She had received him with pretended pleasure but she had deceived him into imagining that he was pleasing to his delicate wife.

And now, if Miss Henrietta hadn't already taken deception to the greatest heights possible for a young woman in her position, surely she'd gone one step further, he thought with horror as she was shown in. Despite the heavy veiling, it could be none other.

Come to persuade him to alter his mind and...what? Marry her? Take her to bed?

He narrowed his eyes as he prepared his defenses, trying to armor himself against the arousal her clasped hands and trembling form unleashed in him. For although he could see nothing of her face, he could well imagine her soft brown eyes appealing to him from her pretty round face, an affecting performance enhanced by a suitably trembling lower lip. How he longed to nip that lip and how fiercely he had to rein in his desire.

"I cannot possibly receive you, Miss Partington," he said in a voice intended to repulse her with its lack of warmth. "You are unaccompanied." He hated himself as much as he longed for her.

"Where is Araminta?" she burst out.

He had not expected this. She was halfway across the room, her eyes boring into him with real concern now that she'd raised her veil.

Forcing distance into his tone, a feeling he was so far from experiencing as to be laughable, he strolled to the window and stared into the street.

"Why, you are more of a play actress than I'd have given you credit for, Miss Henrietta. You do the profession proud."

It was close to a direct insult and he expected she'd take grave offense. Instead she covered her hands with her mouth as she gasped, "So she really isn't here with you?"

He couldn't tell if she was more upset or relieved. Certainly both registered in the look she sent him and the way she sank against the back of the sofa.

With a sense of righteous indignation, he went on. "Did you imagine I followed up our phaeton ride with the type of assignation I've enjoyed with you, Miss Henrietta? Why, that notion seems to upset you. Don't forget, my dear, you pretended to be someone who'd entered a profession not known for its discernment. A business transaction that takes no account of the heart."

He told himself he didn't care that she looked as if he'd shredded her heart in two. Hadn't she done the same to him?

"I would never have given myself to any other man!" Her lips were tightly pressed together, her eyes wild as they bored into him. "I told you the reasons. But perhaps I was too glad of an excuse to give myself to you when you were the only man I had...any little bit of feeling for."

"And so that might have been...at the start," Sir Aubrey muttered, thinking of how appealing she'd appeared when he'd first taken her, trembling but oh so eager, into his embrace. "What about your feelings for Lord Debenham? I found you in his arms, too, don't forget." He knew he was being unfair but he had to make her hate him.

"If you are so off the mark as regards my feelings for Lord Debenham then you have absolutely no idea what danger my sister could be in." The vulnerable maiden had given way to the vengeful siren. She looked ready to claw his eyes out. "You think I'd go willingly to your...enemy? Why, I...I abhor the man!" She took what he assumed were meant to be menacing steps toward him while he stood his ground, willing her to give up the fight at the same time as hoping she'd hurl herself into his arms.

He shrugged. "What am I to think? Disciples of Venus do not seek out men they love." He snorted the word with derision. It felt good; but only for a moment. "When you threw yourself at me with such feeling after I supposedly rescued you from Debenham, I was quite touched. I certainly was not suspicious."

"Suspicious?" She looked at him askance. "I told you the truth when I said he attacked me. Are you really unaware of my feelings and what I've been trying to do for you?"

He laughed out loud at this. "My avenging little angel, are you, Miss Henrietta Partington, daughter of a viscount and cousin to a man who has accepted conventional wisdom that I am a villain? Oh, I've heard it all. The whispers that I'm a wife-beater, a man who chased Margaret into the arms of another when my brutality could no longer be borne. There's worse, of course, and I had, until recently, assumed you would know nothing of that, however your cozy association with Lord Debenham has persuaded me otherwise."

She looked confused but poised for attack.

"Now that I see what circles you frequent, I understand how very useful you might be to those enemies of mine who are trying to secure the evidence needed to convict me of crimes of which the court of gossip long since convicted me." He realized he'd gone too far. What would she know of sordid politics? He did not really believe her involved in anything other than a deception she'd carried too far.

Nevertheless, she nodded. "The Castlereagh affair. Some think you a Spencean. That you should swing."

His initial surprise turned to disappointment. "So you're well versed in the story, are you? That's what you were looking for when I discovered you in my bedchamber, isn't it? Evidence to convict me. You'd been sent by your cousin, or perhaps Lord Debenham." He gave a short laugh to hide his devastation as he pretended preoccupation with the crisp crease of his coat cuff, unable to bear the sight of her pretended innocent horror. "You were so terrified I truly was guilty you sacrificed your virtue, thinking I might take your life. Well, the joke is on you, Miss Henrietta, because you will find no evidence. You sacrificed your virtue for nothing."

"That's not true!" she cried, rushing forward, and for one gloriously confusing moment he believed she really was going to throw herself into his embrace. How much easier it would be to proceed if the passion were elevated. They were well matched. Or so he had thought.

Bitterly he suddenly realized now it had all been to secure what she and her cohorts believed he had—evidence that would convict him of an illegal association of which he was innocent. Now once again she was trying to play him for a fool.

"I admired you from afar and then...I loved you." She sniffed. "I still do. I did not sacrifice anything I was not at least secretly willing to give. But now Araminta has taken it upon herself to do what I had intended on your behalf and she has disappeared." She glanced toward the window. "The day is closing in and I need to find her before a terrible scandal possibly erupts. That's why I'm here."

"To find Araminta? My dear," he shook his head, "your sister holds even less interest for me than you do. So please, suspend all this dramatic talk about what you'd intended on my behalf. The kindest thing you can do for me right now is simply to pull down that hideous veil and take yourself off to your comfortable home and never trouble me again."

"Araminta has disappeared and if she's not with you, I fear she's with Lord Debenham."

"Doing what you failed to do, my dear?"

She shook her head wildly. "No! Will you please listen to me without all these snide interjections that make me realize you have absolutely no idea what is going on and who is in jeopardy as a result?"

For the first time, a kernel of doubt crept into his skeptical mind.

She put her hands to her face and in agitation began to pace. "It so happens," she said, "that my lady's maid is sweetheart to Lord Debenham's valet. I had no idea of this until two nights ago when she told me a secret the young man had told her." Miss Henrietta swung around in orange-water-scented dudgeon. "It was about a letter he had taken, written by your late wife, which he had found in Lord Debenham's library."

He felt the blood drain from his head and reached for the mantelpiece to steady himself. Was she laughing at him?

No, it appeared she really was serious.

"Margaret _really_ wrote a letter?" he whispered.

Miss Henrietta nodded. Her expression softened and when she placed a tentative hand on his coat sleeve he did not shake it off.

With difficulty he asked, for he feared the answer would not be one he wanted, "To whom did she write it? What does it say?"

"I do not know." She gave a frustrated sigh. "The letter disappeared but at least the mystery as to who possesses it has been solved. Lord Debenham's valet Jem took it but he cannot read. He simply assumed it contained things Lord Debenham wouldn't want made public and he's been using it as blackmail against his master. The fact Lord Debenham is afraid of it being made public is borne up by the fact that Jem has kept his job, and it appears Lord Debenham is careful to keep the young man onside."

Sir Aubrey, wishing Miss Henrietta was still gripping his sleeve, stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Well, it can't have contained anything of any moment if this lad has simply kept the letter and done nothing."

The little minx now put her head on one side and smiled. "Jem is a very handsome young man but I do not think he is particularly clever or cunning." She almost spoke to him as if she felt he, too, could be similarly categorized. "For a start, he knew he'd done something wrong in taking the letter—"

"Damn right he did!" He pulled himself into line and apologised for his language before adding, "How did he come by it? If he took it from Margaret's...body...then it's a hanging offence."

"My maid says her young man stole it from Debenham after he foolishly fell asleep with the letter beside him."

He looked at her, impressed. She really had done her research.

Hetty nodded as she went on. "Since he couldn't read, as I said, he pocketed it, hoping to secure his own livelihood as valet to Lord Debenham."

"So he has kept this letter, hidden and unread for nearly two years?"

Miss Henrietta nodded. "It would appear so."

"Then how has your sister become involved in all this? She doesn't appear the sleuth you are, Miss Henrietta...about whom I am now beginning to feel more favorably."

She graced him with a beatific smile. "That's good, for my motivation in all this has been to make you beholden to me."

"So I would marry you?" He turned away, though not before he saw the flicker of dismay that crossed her face.

She thrust out her chin as she moved in front of him. "I never expected that." Her voice shook. "I never expected to make a match that would please me, so I certainly never expected you would look twice at me. And I was proved right, for you danced many times with Araminta but never with me."

"I never saw you!"

"No one ever sees me beside Araminta. She's the beauty of the family. Beside her I'm a pale, dreary wallflower. Then, when I fell into danger with you, I was suddenly presented with an offer I couldn't refuse. Oh, I knew that I was going to burn in hell for my sins and that you thought you were paying me but that was better, I believed, than marrying Mr. Woking."

He shuddered. "Mr. Roderick Woking. Good god, yes! So you're telling me you chose sin and pleasure with me over respectable marriage with Mr. Woking?" He gave her a wry smile. "I think most ladies would have."

"This is no time for funning!"

"My apologies," he murmured, resisting the urge to put a conciliatory arm about her shoulders for fear it would lead to more than he was prepared to risk. "However I think we're straying off the most important subject at hand, and that is how your sister came to be involved."

"Yes! And I'm worried about her! She took my place when she learned I was to meet Jem at a secret location. He showed her the letter. Then, according to her companion, she disappeared between leaving the booth where they were talking, and the street."

"Very curious, as is the fact that I'm the last to know of a letter stolen from my late wife." He looked at her darkly. "I hope this is not a competition between two sisters for my affections, to see who can restore the letter to me first and so win my hand?"

She had the grace to blush while a curious emotion churned within him. This, to all intents, virtuous young lady had risked everything for a few moments of pleasure. Then when exposure appeared likely, she'd pounced upon a means to clear his name so that he would reward her with...his.

Yes, he was suspicious. The sudden appearance of this letter was too convenient. Miss Henrietta was clearly the mistress of subterfuge despite her innocent looks. The more he considered the thought, the more it seemed plausible that she had invented the whole thing and the letter would prove a forgery. Likely as not, she was here on the pretext of a missing sister, to urge him into the drama and so achieve her ends—his eternal gratitude.

Nevertheless, if a letter existed, and whether it was a forgery or not, he had to had to find out.

Araminta pulled the hood of her dark cloak farther down her face and hunched her shoulders while she waited for Lord Debenham to issue out of his club. Hopefully he'd choose to walk the short distance to his home rather than take his carriage. She shivered, as much from apprehension as excitement, for an unmarried young woman courted ruin if she were to be seen approaching a gentleman in this manner. She should never be here, of course, but the idea had only occurred to her as she'd left the coffee house with Lissa from whom she had, for a moment, become separated. When she'd turned to see Jem, alone and watching her, she'd made the most daring and impulsive decision of her life.

Waiting for Lord Debenham, now, was the second.

What it was to have choices! As a closely guarded young woman she'd been able to make very few of those. She'd almost envied Lissa's ability to be able to walk, unchaperoned, the few blocks from where she worked as a governess to answer Araminta's summons earlier that day—though of course Araminta wouldn't ever sacrifice status for freedom.

However, as the wife of a peer of the realm, she'd have both.

And the knowledge of what the letter Jem had stolen contained gave her more power than she could have believed.

She caught her breath and kept, for the moment, within the shadows of the row of buildings behind her. There he was. No one could mistake his tall, sartorial elegance, his glossy, raven hair revealed a moment before he replaced his hat, his long legs encased in fashionable trousers. A contrasting image of Sir Aubrey flitted across her mind. He was more classically handsome and, yes, far less dangerous now she knew the truth, yet Sir Aubrey did not possess the landholdings Lord Debenham did.

And there was the title, of course.

"Lord Debenham, I must speak with you!" She stepped out of the shadows and into his path raising her veil to catch a glimpse of his shocked face when he realized her identity but forestalled him, saying, "A hackney is just passing. Please help me in. What I have to say will only take a minute."

He acceded to her request but appeared angry as he faced her across the dim interior after ordering the harvey to drive around the park until further notice. "What kind of ruse is this, Miss Partington? If we were discovered your reputation would be in tatters and I would be called upon to do the honorable thing."

"Your reputation is about to be in tatters and it is I who am doing the honorable thing." She smiled, thinking herself rather clever to have delivered such a line.

It certainly made its mark, for he narrowed his eyes and muttered, "Well, then?"

She gave a deep sigh. "Lord Debenham, I have long admired you, not least for your integrity."

"What is this, Miss Partington? A rehearsed speech? Has someone put you up to this? Am I about to be blackmailed?"

Crossly she said, "Well, it did take rather a long time to learn that line off by heart but as to being blackmailed, you certainly will be if what I'm about to tell you becomes known in public circles."

His face contorted for a moment before, in a low voice, he asked, "What are you talking about?"

There. Now he was paying her the attention he ought.

Demurely, she clasped her hands in her lap and dropped her eyes. "It concerns a certain letter, Lord Debenham."

Venturing a glance at his face in the lengthening silence, she saw both fear and suspicion as he muttered, "What letter is this?

"The letter your valet Jem has in his possession."

She was unprepared for his sudden movement. It was as if he had been mortally wounded, the way he jerked back against the squabs.

"It exists?"

Araminta nodded. "I saw it just half an hour ago. Apparently when my sister learned of its existence, she made an arrangement with your valet to look at it. My sister, it transpires, has lost her heart to Sir Aubrey and I believe it was her intention to take the letter to him."

She saw as they passed beneath a street lamp that he'd gone a rather pallid, grayish color. Yes, he was definitely taking notice of her, now. Raking a hand through his hair, he whispered, "Who, other than you, has read that letter and where is it now?"

"I'm the only one, Lord Debenham, and Jem has the letter since he wouldn't give it to me, despite all my inducements."

"What inducements were those, might I ask?"

"He wanted two guineas for it but unfortunately I had only half a crown. Apparently you never offered him a groat."

He uttered an expletive she clearly wasn't intended to hear. Then, "So you're blackmailing me, Miss Partington? Perhaps you and this valet of mine? He says I never offered him a groat? Ha! He only ever hinted at knowing more about matters than might be desirable. He was obviously frightened, knowing I'd have the law on my side if he were found guilty of stealing."

Araminta widened her eyes. "Good gracious, my lord, I only want to help you! It was very unfortunate I didn't have more to offer your man and so be able to hand over the letter to you now. You really would want to have it as Lady Margaret says terrible things about you. However, I am simply an unworldly debutante." She sent him a knowing look and went on with a sigh, "Hoping to make a good match. As I said, I've long admired you, Lord Debenham." She lowered her eyes.

Initially he did not respond as she'd expected. After a long, tense silence, he leaned forward and clasped one of her hands. "Clearly you are a young lady who thrives on risk," His voice was soft. Ah, that was better.

For a moment she thought he might brush her lips with his and wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed he did not. She'd been attracted to him when she first had met him but subsequent tales of his exploits had been more than concerning. Nevertheless, her confidence was in the ascendant now. She knew that successful handling of a gentleman could be managed by allure, which she possessed in abundance. Sir Aubrey had been perfectly hateful to her during their phaeton ride but perhaps Lord Debenham, with his veneer of danger, was someone she _could_ tame. She liked a challenge and the fact was, he _did_ come with a title. The way he was reacting now certainly suggested she had him in the palm of her hand.

"Do you recall what else it mentioned, Miss Partington?"

Araminta felt a trifle nervous at the intensity of his look but managed a bold smile. "Only about your club, my Lord."

He raised his eyebrows. "My club?"

"The Spencean Club."

She wasn't sure if she imagined it, the dangerous flash in his eyes, for suddenly he relaxed back against the squabs and said, almost genially, "I trust you can insinuate your way back inside your home and keep silent about this afternoon's activities." Then his expression took on a most intimate and intense look as he added with exciting portent, "That is, if there is to be a desirable outcome from our little interview."

Nevertheless, Araminta wasn't sure Lord Debenham had been suitably grateful. When she looked at him again, he was gazing at the ceiling as if she didn't exist. "If that's all the thanks I get, Lord Debenham—" she began but he cut her off.

"I did not mean to make you angry." His attention was fully upon her now. She noticed his breathing was rather rapid and his eyes looked fevered.

Good, she thought again, satisfied that the promise of her affections was finally having the desired effect.

"It is a rare opportunity to be in such close proximity to a lady." He swallowed. "A potential savior. You have been very good to me and I intend to reward you as you deserve. May I be so bold as to beg a kiss?"

She felt like the cat who had swallowed the cream, raising her face delicately to his and saying, "It is a great risk we take, Lord Debenham, for if we are caught the consequences would be very dire."

Already he was closing in on her, his arms wrapping about her shoulders, his breath tickling her ear. She shuddered at the extraordinary responses of her body and part of her realized the element of danger was an aphrodisiac in itself. She'd never felt this roiling in her lower belly or the heightened sensitivity of her skin as he caressed her cheek with his lips.

"I might have to offer to marry you, Miss Partington," he whispered, touching his lips to hers.

She let out her breath in a satisfied sigh, surrendering to the strange sensations that enveloped her, disappointed when he set her away from him and reached over to open the door.

But his parting words as he raised her hand for his kiss were just what she was after. "I shall let you off at the park as it certainly wouldn't do for you to be discovered alone with me, outside your home. However, if I were called upon to do as honor dictated it would not be a hardship, Miss Partington."

Just before he closed the door between them, he slipped a five-pound note into her hand. "If you can get that letter for me, I will ensure that you are appropriately rewarded. But let us not part when we have no plans to meet again. What say you this evening, at Lady Scott's ball? I know the house well. There is a door hidden behind the tapestry on the rear saloon wall. Impossible to miss if you know what you're looking for. On the stroke of midnight I will be waiting in the withdrawing room. It is the second door on the corridor at right angles to the ladies' mending room. Perhaps we might then discuss in private your progress in obtaining this letter." He tipped his hat. "That is, unless we are in the fortunate position of perusing it together."

Satisfied, Araminta stepped from the carriage. Sir Aubrey had been little short of rude to her when she'd hinted at being in a position to please him soon, so it would serve him right if she bestowed her favors upon Lord Debenham instead. And while Jane was not the only one to have relayed some disturbing stories about His Lordship, passed on to her by Jem, he was not only a viscount, but just two sickly cousins stood in the way of an earldom. Why, if she played her cards right and luck was on her side, she might one day become a duchess.

Still, Sir Aubrey was a great deal more personable. He was handsome and there was something roguishly appealing about his manner, but he was not as rich as Lord Debenham, which was sad. Nor, lately, had he been as responsive.

Really, she'd just have to wait and see how far the two gentlemen were prepared to reward her when all was said and done.

Hetty, alert to any sound that suggested Araminta's return, burst into their bedchamber shortly after she heard her sister's stealthy tread along the corridor.

"Where have you been?" she cried. "I've been nearly mad with worry. What did you think you were doing, going in my stead to see Jane's beau? Oh, don't look at me like that! I know very well what you've done and now you're coming downstairs with me to explain to Sir Aubrey."

Filled with relief and righteous anger, Hetty succeeded in dragging her sister into the drawing room which was, thankfully, empty of her parents, her mother still preparing herself for dinner and her father not having been seen since his morning walk.

Sir Aubrey rose when she entered and Hetty's heart clutched at the cool look on his face. Then Araminta swept into the center with the confidence of a queen and Hetty felt painful jealousy seep into her veins as her sister murmured, "Good afternoon, Sir Aubrey, what a surprise to see you here at such an unfashionable hour. I hope you won't object if I excuse myself shortly to dress." She sent him a regal smile. "I was late back from a walk with my Cousin Stephen and I fear my papa, who is a stickler for the proprieties, will be peevish if I do not present myself at the dinner table on time."

"You've been to see Jem and you've been gone hours!" Hetty cried.

Araminta sent her a maddeningly self-contained look of inquiry. "Jem?"

"You were on a clandestine mission." With difficulty Hetty reined in her ire. "I know everything and I know you saw what was written in that letter. Do you realize how dangerous this path is you've taken?"

Araminta leant against the back of the settee and examined her finely shaped fingernails. "I don't know what you're talking about, Hetty. Who is Jem and what letter is this you speak of?"

Sir Aubrey took a step forward and, to Hetty's outrage and despair, took Araminta's hand, turning her to look at him. "I believe damaging allegations were made in that letter which you know very well exists, Miss Partington." His tone was far too intimate for Hetty's liking. "Allegations questioning Lord Debenham's allegiance to his country, not to mention the writer's own feelings toward her husband. Perhaps you'd do me the great service of divulging what the letter contained."

Araminta smiled into his eyes. "Have no fear, Sir Aubrey, you were well spoken of by the writer, who felt only remorse. So sad," she added on a sigh, closing the gap an inch with no regard for Hetty. Or perhaps with only too much, for her sister enjoyed goading her and she was aware of Hetty's feelings for Sir Aubrey. "But nearly two years has passed since the writer—your wife—has been gone. It's time to live life once more to its fullest."

"We really need to have possession of this letter, Miss Partington."

"Jem has it."

Angrily, Hetty said, "You've put Jem in danger, don't you know? Jane came to me not five minutes ago in great agitation, saying she'd had word from one of Lord Debenham's servants that Jem has gone missing."

Araminta raised her eyebrows. "If we all got into a fluster when we were five minutes late, I don't know where we'd be."

Hetty stamped her foot. "You don't understand, Araminta. Lord Debenham didn't know for sure the letter existed until you told him. Now he'll go after Jem for it, for certain. That's if he hasn't already."

Araminta smiled. "Why would he do that? He gave me what was required to induce Jem to give me the letter. We have the matter all in hand. Really, I'm sure you're all much too concerned over Jem and, besides, the letter wasn't _too_ bad though I can see why Lord Debenham wouldn't want the world to see it."

Boldly, Sir Aubrey put his arm about Araminta's shoulders and walked her to the window embrasure. Hetty could hear his voice, low and intimate as they stood talking. Dull misery churned in the pit of her stomach as she stared, straining to listen, into the fireplace.

"May I exhort you, Miss Partington, to try to recall the _exact_ contents? You need to understand that what might not seem important to you could perhaps be very important." Sir Aubrey was speaking to Araminta as if she were a child and she, clearly, was enjoying the attention.

Hetty, slanting her gaze across at the pair, noticed that her sister's eyes sparkled as if this were the greatest of games. Or perhaps that was only for Hetty's benefit.

"Did the letter mention the name Spencean in relation to Lord Debenham?" asked Sir Aubrey.

A sly smile creased Araminta's brow. "Oh yes. I believe that's the club he belongs to." Her tone softened. "I know you want the letter made public so that it proves your wife regretted...certain decisions she made, but I'm sure the world won't judge you on that, Sir Aubrey."

"Araminta, don't you realize what you're saying?" Hetty cried, dashing forward to grip her sister's wrists, more to pull her away from Sir Aubrey than anything else. "If the letter calls Lord Debenham a Spencean and cites evidence, then of course Lord Debenham will do anything in his power to silence any who have seen or would speak of this letter. To be called a Spencean is to be called a traitor."

Araminta looked doubtful. "A traitor?"

"Traitors swing, Araminta!" Hetty heard the shrillness in her tone. "From the gallows."

She was glad this seemed to discompose Araminta.

Sir Aubrey's voice cut into the shocked silence. "A man who risks going to the gallows will do a great deal to ensure his secret is not divulged."

Hetty had to stop herself from stamping her foot when he again took her sister's hands and raised them to his lips.

"Did he ask you to meet him somewhere?"

It was clear that Debenham had by the way Araminta looked warily at him, though she refused to answer.

"I'd be very careful, Araminta. I mean it," Sir Aubrey said. "At the moment, Jem is missing. The butler is in high dudgeon and ready to boot him out of the front door when he deigns to show his face. I suspect that a young man who has gone to such pains to ensure he keeps his job would not risk being dismissed without a character lightly. I fear something has happened to him. For the moment, however, I want you to go over in your mind everything that was in that letter," gently he kissed each knuckle on her right hand, "and tell me."

# Chapter 11

Lord Partington did most of the talking at dinner that evening, which was unusual. He remarked upon the lackluster looks of his wife and the fact his usually dazzling Araminta was quieter than usual.

He didn't comment on Hetty. Probably because she was above notice, she reflected gloomily.

After dinner she went through to Araminta's bedchamber, where Jane was waiting to attend to her young ladies with tongs and sugar water. Jane looked drawn and her voice was shaky when she told them Jem was still missing.

Hetty noticed that not a flicker crossed Araminta's face. So her sister was going to pretend she hadn't been one of the last ones to have seen him.

Hetty plastered on a smile. "I'm sure there's some explanation," she reassured Jane though she felt far from hopeful, even with Sir Aubrey now in pursuit of the truth.

He had left them shortly after Araminta recalled what she could, though her sister had been vague about the contents and spoken only in generalities. Araminta had also sworn she'd made no arrangements to meet either Jem or Lord Debenham.

Hetty was alarmed, nevertheless. Araminta had spoken about Lady Margaret's shame and remorse over her disloyalty to her husband. And the letter seemed to link Lord Debenham with traitorous activities.

Even though Araminta could not remember in what context the word Spencean arose or how the sentence had been worded, her reconstruction painted Lord Debenham as a villain of the first order—even if Araminta still blithely maintained she was sure Spencean wasn't a word synonymous with traitor.

When Araminta left the room, Sir Aubrey had unexpectedly gripped Hetty's hands, pulling her to him in the window embrasure. Under the intense focus of his gaze, all the hopes and dreams Hetty had fostered regarding a future with this man were aroused.

But such hope was bittersweet and she knew she was only fooling herself, even when he'd said, "Keep a close eye on your sister. I will be at Lady Scott's tonight, where I look forward to partnering you in as many quadrilles and waltzes as are respectable." For an instant his promising words had thrilled her, accompanied as they were by the flash of promise in his eye. He'd then cupped her face, his expression more tender than she'd ever seen it. "Take care, little one," he'd whispered. "If I could only turn back the clock, I would."

Hope evaporated.

So he'd not find himself in such a compromising situation? she wondered dolefully.

Jane had finished dressing Hetty's hair and was busy with Araminta's when several taps upon the door had the young maid tossing the brush aside, saying, "Oh please, miss, I hope you're not cross but I was so out of me mind with fear I told Lizzie to give me a two-tap signal if something important were learned 'bout Jem's whereabouts."

Araminta nodded to her to leave the room and the sisters listened to the exchange of whispers in the passage before Jane burst in.

"They's found 'im in an alleyway with his head knocked in!" She began to cry. "Oh, lordy, it were my fault for telling 'is secret! He told me ill would come to him on account of me loose tongue and it has!"

Dismayed, Hetty asked, "Is he dead?"

"They thought 'e was 'til 'e stirred a little."

"Go to him, Jane," ordered Hetty.

Araminta was not so accommodating. "And what about my half a head of ringlets? It's hardly a look that will catch on."

Hetty couldn't care less what either of them looked like right then. Guilt clawed her insides but Jem's "accident" confirmed that finding the whereabouts of that letter was more important than ever. So, perhaps, was protecting Araminta, who had no idea of the danger she had caused others—and might be in herself.

Hetty glared at Araminta. "Take care how you conduct yourself tonight, Araminta," she warned as Jane fled into the passage. "You were the last to speak to Jem. I think it's hardly a coincidence that he is in such a way. Lord Debenham is behind this, mark my words."

Sir Aubrey's tender leave-taking was not followed up as Hetty had hoped, since the very first person he asked to dance at the ball was her sister.

Disgusted, she watched him lead Araminta into a waltz. The way the brazen thing responded was enough to make Hetty want the floor to swallow them up. First Araminta, then herself.

Over Araminta's shoulder she saw a familiar face beam its eagerness. Mr. Woking. Her heart plunged to the soles of her feet as his flabby lips stretched into an even more enormous smile as he hurried toward her.

Araminta and Sir Aubrey danced past her, their conversation making it clear how absorbed they were in one another. Picking up her skirts, Hetty hurried to the supper table to pretend an interest in the plover's eggs, glad to note Mr. Woking had been waylaid by an apparently garrulous dowager.

As she pierced a piece of ham upon her fork she gave a little sob, causing the young lady on her right to send her an odd look, which gained warmth as she said, "Why, we have met before, I believe." At Hetty's doubtful look, she added, "In the ladies' mending room though I cannot exactly recall which deadly dull entertainment it might have been."

Hetty restrained her surprise. The conversationalist barely resembled the tearstained young lady she remembered; although on second glance, her skin was still very bad and her figure not pretty. The glowing countenance, however, declared her a different person.

"Miss Hoskings! Of course I remember you!"

"That's right. The young lady who was about to make a disastrous match through self-doubt and ignorance." Miss Hoskings dun-colored ringlets bobbed while her beaming smile made her eyes twinkle like emeralds. Her pale green sarcenet did nothing for her coloring, its cut only amplifying her figure deficiencies but she carried herself with self confidence.

"So he has declared himself in the required gentlemanly manner?"

"Oh yes. Quite ardently in fact, and what pleasure it gave me to reject his kind offer." She giggled at Hetty's puzzlement. "Fortuitously I've come into an unexpected inheritance. The gentleman for whom I had misguidedly developed such a tendre approached me directly after my unexpected elevation to heiress to tell me I had quite the wrong end of the stick, if you don't mind my putting it like that, and that he hadn't been intending to make an offer to anyone _but_ me."

"So you'd prefer to keep your money and remain a spinster?" Hetty wasn't sure she'd be able to if she were madly in love with someone. Well, she was madly in love with Sir Aubrey and now that she'd had time to think about it and regret her earlier reservations she didn't think if he asked her—outright—to marry him she'd be able to refuse under any circumstances, now. Even if she knew he wasn't in love with her. Even if he was a villain with a string of inappropriate transgressions behind him. She'd just keep hoping like the foolish girl she was that she could change him. Make him love her.

"Well, I didn't reject him outright. I said if he could prove his feelings by waiting for me for a year while I study painting in Florence and take my favorite aunt on a grand tour across the Continent, I would probably reconsider my position."

Hetty attended to this with a frown while she rearranged the food on her plate. "Won't you...won't you miss him? That is, if you love him enough to want him for your husband."

The girlishness dropped away and Miss Hoskings gave Hetty a considered look. "I value my self-respect more," she said quietly. "And money has given me choices." Tossing back a ringlet, she became brisk. "Now you aren't looking at all the thing, Miss Partington. In fact, you look very much like I was feeling when we last met. If you need a comfortable bed to lie down on, there's a door behind that tapestry over there. It's hidden and no one knows about it but if you can't bring yourself to watch the one you love make eyes at another, I'd suggest you forget about food and take yourself off. The ladies' mending room is three rooms along the same corridor. Tell the chaperone that's where you're going but as there's no chaise longue there, I suggest you slip through the door hidden behind the tapestry and look for the second room along the passage to the right."

Sir Aubrey smiled into the exquisite face of the young woman in his arms and felt the tug of desire as she responded with a gentle squeeze of his hand. So subtle. So effective. She knew exactly how to play a man.

But she was not his sweet Henrietta.

Nevertheless, her endorsement of his interest evoked an unexpected plethora of emotions. Miss Araminta Partington would make the perfect wife. She was a beauty. Her father had a proud place among the top ten thousand and she came with a dowry that was not insubstantial. He foresaw important connections being made on account of having such a desirable wife when perhaps doors might have remained closed due to his tarnished reputation.

But, oh God, he wasn't in love with her, he was in love with her sister whom he'd be mad to marry, knowing how badly she desired it, and fearing how far short of her expectations he'd fall.

Right now, though, there were other matters of more importance.

Such as the letter that looked likely to clear his name and incriminate Debenham. If only the meddling minx in his arms had spoken to him first rather than trying to settle the matter, herself.

Aubrey managed a rather brittle smile in response to something she said, though he'd not been paying attention. He'd been preoccupied with the investigations he'd directed be made a little earlier, after the news regarding Debenham's valet's injuries. The lad had been found beaten to a pulp before being taken back to his room in the servants' attic at Lord Debenham's townhouse. It was the last place he should be!

Miss Partington slanted a knowing look at him, the candlelight reflecting the sheen of her glossy dark hair and making her eyes sparkle. "I trust you will be at the Grand Masquerade at Vauxhall tomorrow night, Sir Aubrey?"

"What person of consequence would miss the event of the season?"

She smiled coquettishly. "Who shall you fashion yourself after, sir?"

"Perhaps I would like to surprise you."

"I would like to be surprised by you."

The flirtatious banter was similar to many exchanges he'd enjoyed over the years with far less desirable women. The words dropped from his lips with ease and were received with veiled eagerness. He saw the flare of excitement in her eyes quickly shrouded by assumed world-weariness.

Was this what being a person of fashion required? The subsuming of real emotion? Again, dear Henrietta's unfettered enthusiasm sprang to mind. Her sheer delight at all the wondrous sensations to which he'd introduced her had been so unlike anything he'd experienced. She was perfectly delightful.

"Shall you appear grand and senatorial or wild and gladiatorial?"

He tilted his head and forced himself to smile back at her. He could do nothing about the letter until somehow he could speak to Debenham's valet, though that was not going to be easy.

So wasn't it better to court Miss Partington's goodwill since she offered a direct conduit, perhaps, to what he most wanted: vindication through the letter. She knew more than anyone else about what it contained and how to lay claim to it—unless Debenham had already laid claim to it. However, Aubrey suspected Debenham's thugs had been overenthusiastic in their dealings with the valet. There was a good chance the lad was too wounded to reveal his hiding place.

He clenched his jaw and told himself that dancing with Miss Partington was the pleasantest way to while away a few hours of an evening since his hands were tied when it came to following up on more serious matters.

The young lady was far and above the most beautiful in the room and he was conscious of the envious glances sent his way. A refreshing contrast to the covert suspicion he was used to, he thought, despite acknowledging it was his exquisite dancing partner who accounted for that. Not that Miss Partington looked so exquisite when she sized up her cousin's escort, a pretty young redhead in a modish coquelicot gown. Miss Partington clearly didn't like having competition, judging by her scowl.

But she would make a suitable wife.

It was, however, Stephen Cranborne's disapproving glances that finally galvanized Aubrey into the realisation that with few options available to him, he must make some serious decisions, soon.

Either his name must be cleared or he must make a marriage that would see him received in all fashionable and political circles. An alliance of expediency with Miss Partington, particularly if she could indeed lay claim to the letter, would surely solve all his problems.

A marriage to Miss Henrietta underpinned with the hope of mutual love and desire was doomed to make them both unhappy before the ink was dry on the contract.

He lowered his head to whisper in her ear, "Wild and gladiatorial shall be the order of the day, Miss Partington." Drawing back, he smiled a knowing smile that equaled hers. "Be prepared."

Miserably, Hetty slipped through the doorway behind the tapestry. It had been easy to find though it was completely secret, shrouded as it was by a copy of the Bayeux Tapestry. When she neared the ladies' mending room, the chatter of excited debutantes threw her own mood into greater contrast. Never had she felt so wretched.

But before that was the room Miss Hoskings had mentioned, empty and dark save for the small fire in the grate and a lamp turned low upon the mantelpiece. How inviting the bed looked, she thought, as she sank upon it, closing her eyes. She'd like to lie here like Sleeping Beauty and not be disturbed for a hundred years. By then hopefully all her troubles would be over. Sir Aubrey would no longer exist though no doubt she'd be confronted with his many grandchildren, descendants of his marriage to Araminta. They'd be easy to spot with that streak of white hair contrasting with the dark.

The patent admiration upon Sir Aubrey's face as he'd gazed at her sister not ten minutes before still taunted her. As ever, Hetty was relegated to the sidelines, despite—or because—she'd given so much.

Well, wasn't that just typical of her? She'd never understood restraint; she'd always acted upon the impulses of her heart, in the here and now, with no thought to the consequences.

At least those consequences weren't of the direst. There would be no child and Sir Aubrey had chosen to accept the reprieve she'd given him in return for his silence. Her reputation was assured even if her virtue was no longer intact. She could consider herself in the same position as she was when she'd embarked upon her season with such mixed feelings—a hopeful wallflower.

A tear trickled down her cheek as she drifted into the sleep of dejected exhaustion. Just a few minutes to compose herself and then she'd return to the ballroom.

And so she slept, dreaming of handsome Sir Aubrey smiling down at her before Araminta pushed her aside and marched him down the aisle.

A loud exclamation brought her back to the present. She reared into a sitting position, blinking away the wooly-headedness as a voice muttered, "Good Lord, you're hardly the sister I expected! Don't tell me you're standing proxy for Miss Araminta?"

Hetty was really awake now, and nearly screamed in terror when she found herself the object of Lord Debenham's thunderous glare.

It swept across her skin in prickling waves as she cast a frantic look at the door. But they were alone and no help would be forthcoming.

"So, my little bird of paradise appears to be awaiting the attentions of her mate." Calculation had replaced his anger as he lent over her. In the flickering light his jet-black locks formed a devilish contrast with his alabaster skin. He pursed his thin lips. "What an unfortunate coincidence, for I was expecting your sister, who declared every intention of being punctual for our little assignation. But you..." His expression soured. "Well, now that you're here, I'll simply state my case and leave you to ponder the consequences."

"Consequences?" Hetty managed to utter on a thread of sound. This man had a terrible secret to hide. He'd already proved himself capable of violence though thank the lord he did not seem to recognize her as Sir Aubrey's "plaything" as he'd termed it when he'd he tried to ravish her outside his townhouse when she'd been in masquerade.

She tried to look like the innocent debutante he ought to consider her. It certainly wasn't difficult to feign the necessary terror such a girl would feel in such circumstances. "I...can't imagine why my sister would agree to meet you, my lord." She swallowed. "Or what you want! Lady Scott directed me here when I told her I was feeling not quite up to par."

He was clearly in a less than charitable mood towards Araminta. What would he do to Hetty? He could hustle her out a back corridor and into the public arena, claiming she'd agreed to meet him...unless she acquiesced to some ghastly alternative. He would do that, she thought. Yes, he had the power to destroy her reputation unless she meekly acquiesced to whatever it was he wanted.

He put his head closer as he loomed over her, seeming to suck the very air from the room, from her lungs, and it was all she could do to remain sitting upright.

Acid dripped from his tone. "I trust you are anxious not to bring dishonor to your family."

Hetty could barely speak. "I don't know what you mean, sir. I...I was sleeping. I'd not expected to be disturbed. I need to be with my chaperone." _Dear Lord, surely Araminta hadn't dropped her in it. Surely she'd not told Lord Debenham of Hetty's involvement with the letter._

He ignored her. "Don't play the innocent with me. I know you've had dealings with my valet over that letter. I could easily see every illusion Lord and Lady Partington have ever entertained about their precious daughter destroyed. Have you reduced to the dung heap of society."

The hatred in his eye seared her. No man had ever looked at her like this. With such feeling. Until she'd accidentally crossed Sir Aubrey's path, she'd never elicited anything other than vague, reluctant attention; attention that strayed in Araminta's direction the moment her sister flashed a calculated smile.

He hunkered down in front of her and gripped her shoulders. The touch of his cold fingers froze the blood in her veins. Now she had no choice but to scream but there was not enough air in her lungs.

"Pay attention, Miss Henrietta," he rasped, his hands straying to her neck. "If you do not bring me that letter, while remaining absolutely silent about it, I will ruin you and your family. You know where it is. My valet showed it to you at a coffee house yesterday, didn't he? Your sister told me that, and while she confidently claims she can restore it to me, I suspect that you are cleverer than she."

Hetty shook her head, wildly. "I can't possibly get it for you! Jem said he'd put it back in his hiding place."

"And where might that be? Jem's not in a position to tell me _anything_ right now! You and your sister are the closest I have to claiming that wretched piece of parchment that is rightfully mine." His grip on her shoulders tightened and his voice became a low growl. "Your father is not too flush in the pocket right now, is he? Rumor has it he has made a poor investment decision. I, however, have the power to ameliorate his losses."

His breath warmed her cheek but his words chilled her heart.

"But only if you cooperate, Miss Henrietta," he whispered, and Hetty cried out in pain as he pinched her cheek. "Only if you fetch me the letter, which I know you will be able to do."

Trembling like a jelly, Hetty whispered, "Jem was set upon this evening and nearly killed. Y-you were behind that, weren't you?"

"Jem's demise was not my object." His mouth stretched, though not into a smile. "It was the letter I wanted but it was not on his person and he chose not to inform my henchmen of its whereabouts. Now you, Miss Henrietta, are in the ideal position to ensure that my wishes are carried out. Now that I think upon it, I believe it is far more fortuitous to find you here rather than your sister after all. Your maid is my valet's sweetheart. Yes, I discovered this today. I'm willing to let her to see her beloved on one condition: her sweetheart's future is assured _only_ if she can persuade Jem to tell her where he's hidden that letter."

Hetty reared back as he stroked her cheek and a whimper rose in her throat as he touched her cheek. She forced it down. She'd not be reduced to a pathetic, puling child by his threats.

His expression softened in the dim light of the flickering candle upon the mantelpiece. His shadow, as he leaned forward, resembled a goblin's. "On the other hand, if you cooperate, I have the means to reduce your father's losses. All I need is that letter." With the tip of his finger he traced the line of her lips, his expression as rapt as if she were an object of great beauty. "You have the world at your fingertips, Miss Henrietta, for you have the power to make both your maid and my valet trust you when they would not me."

He rose from his haunches to his full height, his tone confident, ugly. "I trust you will not do anything that forces my hand?"

Hetty shook her head, for what alternative did she have? She felt like the terrified mouse she'd once seen before it was fed to the lion at the Tower of London.

Lord Debenham's shadow contorted terrifyingly upon the green and gold papered walls. "Good. I see at last you are being as sensible as your sister. Miss Araminta may not be as intelligent as you but she's canny enough to know that the damage to her reputation—and to her parents—would be irreparable were she to be caught alone in a room...with a chaise longue...and only me."

Hetty exhaled on a little sob. How could she ever have known the price she must pay for her sins would be such an impossible one? To lose her good name was one thing but to sacrifice her father and her family was intolerable. As intolerable as destroying Sir Aubrey's chances of regaining his reputation.

Lord Debenham chuckled. "No need to look so desperate." He sounded more cheerful now as he almost sauntered towards the door. "If you give me the letter, or can tell me where it is, it simply restores the status quo. Sir Aubrey will be no more maligned than he is now. Furthermore, your father's fortunes will be less damaged as a result of your good offices. Now, as to delivery, you have twenty-four hours to find that letter and to give it to me."

Hetty thought he was done with his threats but at the door he stopped and rubbed his chin. "Meet me at the third supper box on the walkway behind the orchestra at the Vauxhall Gardens Grand Masquerade tomorrow. _With the letter._ You will know me by my military attire. Alexander the Great, no less. I shall be there at ten o'clock, Miss Henrietta." He smiled. "And I do not expect to be as disappointed by your lack of punctuality as I have been by your sister's. Now go, Miss Henrietta! My nephew has been asking after you all evening and I do not want to suffer his disappointment if he does not get to stand up with you at least twice."

Araminta glanced up at Sir Aubrey and smiled. What a wonderful night it was. The orchestra was in fine form and she was in the arms of a handsome man. Yes, quite the most desirable man at the ball. Still, it would not be a bad thing to make her excuses and leave him wanting more.

She gave a despairing sigh. "I fear I must visit the ladies' mending room if I am not to put my foot through my trimming and make a public spectacle of myself, landing flat on my face as poor Hetty once did. You should have heard the company laugh."

"I would not have."

"Poor Hetty is such a plain little thing. She finds it very difficult that all the young men dismiss her in favor of," she tossed her head, "more desirable dance partners."

"I think her a charming companion."

Araminta sighed again. "You are so kind to spare her your attention. She's really so grateful."

"It's hardly a chore."

Araminta didn't like the way his mouth quirked. "She has her sights set on Mr. Woking, you know. It's the ideal match. Though not as handsome as some," she sent him a meaningful look, "he has a fine estate but much too remote for some ladies' tastes. Hetty is used to solitude. She will thrive."

"As the lonely wife of an ugly man?"

Araminta's mouth dropped open. Then realizing he was clearly sharing the joke with her, she tittered. "You really are too wicked, Sir Aubrey, the way you twist a girl's words."

"Just as long as I've reassured you as to who is the better man. You must not allow Lord Debenham to see that letter, my dear." The waltz had just come to an end and he drew her to the edge of the dance floor before taking her hands in his. Raising them to his lips, his expression was serious. "Lord Debenham is guilty of a heinous crime, Miss Partington. It's only a matter of time before justice catches up with him, either through the revelation of this letter or through other channels, and they do exist, my dear. His Lordship is on the path to ruin." Dropping her hands, he briefly caressed her cheek. "If you allied yourself to the right cause, I would be forever grateful."

Araminta smiled at him, murmuring as Hetty arrived in their midst, "In that case I promise to be worthy of such eternal warmth."

She knew Hetty's stricken look ought to make her feel bad but as she picked up her skirts and hurried through the ballroom, she consoled herself that it was kinder, all in all, that Hetty be disabused of any thoughts that Sir Aubrey reciprocated her feelings. He was certainly thoughtful and charitable toward her but more in the nature of a benevolent uncle toward an unprepossessing but sweet child.

Midnight had chimed some minutes ago and Lord Debenham would be waiting but Araminta knew that keeping an eager man in suspense only heightened the potential rewards.

Now, as she tiptoed in the direction of the ladies' mending room, careful to ensure she was unobserved as she sidled into the passage, she was conscious of her mixed emotions. Lord Debenham was frightening but somehow that only made him more exciting. Certainly she must manage this next interview with as much delicacy as she'd managed Jem. Satisfaction surged through her. She'd twisted Jem right around her little finger.

She'd have to be just as persuasive with Lord Debenham, though the final outcome depended on what he could offer her; for Sir Aubrey had been quite charming on the dance floor and he was clearly ready to make her an offer, too.

Now she just needed to make poor Jem—whom she was certain was going to make a complete recovery very soon—understand how important it was to give her the letter. Really, there was nothing that could not be bought at the right price.

She paused to smooth her hair and pinch her cheek while she contemplated the wonderful choices at her fingertips. Lord Debenham or Sir Aubrey. Whom would she choose. When a young lady was as lovely and charming and persuasive as she, the world was her oyster and squandering large amounts of money to achieve her aims was not always necessary.

# Chapter 12

"What a charming picture you girls make." Lady Partington looked at her daughters proudly as she entered Araminta's bedroom, where the girls were being dressed by Jane for the masquerade.

"And how are you, Jane?" she asked, her brow creased with concern as she put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "How is your Jem?"

Jane pretended great concentration in positioning a hairpin amongst the flowers of Hetty's headdress though the moistness of her eyes glistened in the firelight. "He's a little better today," she whispered. "Lord Debenham's own doctor is attending to him and I was allowed to visit 'im this mornin'."

Hetty was not surprised by Jane's lack of enthusiasm when her mother responded warmly, "How _kind_ of Lord Debenham."

At the same time, revulsion tore through her at the mere mention of Lord Debenham's name, mingled with fear at what she'd set in motion. Jem had been injured because of her meddling. Araminta had made matters worse, but when all was said and done, Hetty was responsible.

She glanced across at her reticule that lay on her bed and her heart quailed at the thought of what she must do, for soon it would contain the letter which Jane had slipped her this morning.

She hated the thought but she would do as Lord Debenham had demanded in return for his promise that he would ensure Jem's safety and her father's fortunes.

Nothing would be any different from the way it was now, except that Jem, Hetty and her family would be safe and protected. Did she not owe them that?

Yet what of justice? Did Sir Aubrey not deserve to be publicly exonerated of the whispered charge of being a wife-beater and a Spencean?

A perusal of the letter after Jane had given it to her had confirmed her worst fears. Lady Margaret had spoken candidly of Lord Debenham's involvement with those who'd attempted to assassinate Lord Castelreagh. She'd also written with the deepest remorse of her disloyalty toward her deserving husband.

She rolled her shoulders, uncomfortably aware of the stiff parchment that pricked her skin after she'd hastily tucked it down her décolletage and out of sight when she'd seen Araminta approach.

By rights the letter should go to Sir Aubrey but the dangers were too great. Who knew what villainy Lord Debenham was capable of? Hetty knew that the letter, on its own, would not be sufficient to shackle Lord Debenham—certainly not in the short term when he could do so much damage to them all.

No! The outcome that produced the least collective harm would be to give the letter to Lord Debenham, for then Jem, Jane and the entire Partington family would be safe and Sir Aubrey would continue as if nothing were any different. He'd managed thus far.

Lady Partington lowered her heavy bulk onto the bed. "Humphrey tells me that Lord Debenham has shown you particular interest, Araminta. It was mentioned at his club. Do you return his interest? I thought you had formed a tendre for Sir Aubrey though you know I have my reservations about him..."

Her voice trailed off and Hetty glanced over at her, noting how large she looked. She seemed content these days, though she was clearly troubled now.

Araminta shrugged. "Cousin Stephen says Lord Debenham is set for an earldom and appears to be gaining favor at court which is all very good news because I really was in quite a dilemma, knowing that both he and Sir Aubrey looked set to make me an offer before the end of the week and I knew how much you disliked the idea of me marrying Sir Aubrey."

She glanced smugly at Hetty before returning to study her reflection, apparently consumed with the decision as to which pair of earrings best suited her costume as a Spanish dancing girl. "Now Mama," she added, deftly changing the subject, "you know Hetty wanted to go as a nun but wasn't I right in saying she should dress the same as me?"

Gloomily, Hetty looked down at her lavishly garbed form before sending her sister an envious glance. Araminta shone. Her glossy dark ringlets cascaded down her back, swallowed up by the crimson-and-black froth of her gown. By contrast Hetty felt a pale shadow of imitation. Her gown was identical and her hair, lighter and far less striking, also fell in ringlets but she did not have that elusive element her sister possessed to carry off the ensemble. The colors and the style simply did not suit her.

"Araminta insisted it would be amusing to be a pair," said Hetty, swallowing down the lump of emotion that threatened to turn into tears she'd have no idea how to explain.

"And you look lovely, darling," Lady Partington said, reaching for Hetty's hand when Araminta left the room to court their father's admiration. "Hetty dearest, Stephen tells me you have lost your heart to Sir Aubrey. Your cousin is very concerned. Please, my darling, listen to good advice and stay clear of a man whose reputation is under such a cloud."

It was an exercise in restraint not to break down as Hetty gazed into her mother's worried eyes. "Sir Aubrey is undeserving of society's low opinion." She heaved in a difficult breath to add, "Not that it matters, for he loves Araminta."

"Araminta will not ally herself with a man who cannot offer her the moon." Her mother sounded confident on this point. "Sir Aubrey is not a match for either of you. Don't look so sad. He is the first man to hold your interest but he won't be the last. You have the rest of the season before you."

"But no more after that, Mama. Has Papa said more about...his situation?"

Lady Partington dropped her gaze to the Aubusson carpet and sighed. "Developments are not what he had hoped..." Raising her head, she made an obvious effort to sound bolstering. "But that is nothing for you to worry about."

Hetty nodded, picking up her lavish skirts to move disconsolately toward the door. She was about to let herself out when impulse made her swing 'round to say urgently, "Mama, if you knew the truth about something or someone but it seemed better for all to withhold it, what would you do?"

Lady Partington looked startled. "My darling, without evidence, a truth is merely a rumor. Nothing can trump hard facts. Truth is always better revealed for the world to judge. Now, let me see a smile on that pretty face of yours. Your father remarked only a moment ago that you were turning into a swan. Just make sure you don't act impulsively when it comes to choosing a husband, Hetty. It would be wrong to take the first opportunity that comes your way simply because you think your father's situation dictates you must."

Jane waylaid her with a hand on her arm when she was in the passage. "Miss Hetty, yer sister's bin asking me for the letter I gave you. She flew into the boughs when I told her I didn't have it." The faith with which the little maid confided her next fears was like a dagger. "I couldn't bear the thought I'd given it to the wrong person, for I know she were intendin' to pass it straight on to Lord Debenham in return for his fancy promises. Yer can't believe that Lord Debenham, Jem says. And he reckons he can look after himself and knows how to manage his lordship, so don't be worrying' about him, now."

_To the wrong person._

Jane's words echoed 'round Hetty's head later as she sat in the family carriage squeezed between Cousin Amelia and Araminta on their way to the masquerade at Vauxhall. She should feel exultant that she had achieved what had eluded her sister. She'd laid claim to the all-important letter.

Of course Araminta wanted it and it was not surprising she intended giving it to Lord Debenham. But what about the limpid looks she'd exchanged with Sir Aubrey? Hetty didn't believe her sister's ingenuous claim to her mother that she'd discarded the idea of marrying Sir Aubrey. The way they'd looked at each other at the ball the previous night made her feel sick with despair.

She nodded her head at a question Cousin Amelia asked while her thoughts raced off on a different tangent. What was Araminta playing at? Fire, certainly, but was she pretending to Sir Aubrey that she was going to retrieve the letter from Jane to give to him when all the time she was intending to hand it to Lord Debenham?

With a self-pitying sniff, Hetty conceded that when all was said and done, she was the sister whose sins were the greater so she had no right to judge Araminta. Hetty had offered what no man could resist—a woman's body for the taking. Beyond the transitory physical trade there was nothing. She was nothing. And _now_ where was the nobility in what she was going to do?

Nervously she felt, yet again, for the letter inside her reticule, where she'd transferred it, and was immediately swamped by nausea. Lord Debenham was dangerous. Violent. Unless he had the letter, her reputation was in ruins and consequently, so would her father's be and Jem would be without a job and perhaps in graver danger than he already was. Perhaps Araminta had intended to give Lord Debenham the letter in exchange for marriage—and who knew what else. She liked to live dangerously, after all.

Oh dear, but Hetty's mind was all over the place, imagining this and then that. But if Araminta were the one to give the letter to Lord Debenham, that would mean Sir Aubrey was free for Hetty. Perhaps Hetty should just hand it to Araminta. No! That, she could never do. Besides, Sir Aubrey would _never_ marry Hetty. He could not have made that clearer.

Their country cousins were in their element. Squealing with delight at the lavish spectacle of so many fabulously garbed people, the two girls, dressed as shepherdesses, hurried their cassock-garbed brother into the melee, leaving Hetty to trail behind Araminta, who sashayed forth on Cousin Stephen's arm.

The crowd was thick and it wasn't until she was conscious of so many actually pressing in on her that Hetty realized Sir Aubrey was walking close beside her.

His smile made her insides turn to jelly but she stuck out her chin and pretended she didn't see him. The sudden spectacular explosion of fireworks caused a general shout of excitement and briefly Hetty found her hand encased in Sir Aubrey's large, comforting one.

Not knowing how it had happened and aware of her proximity to the rest of her family, she snatched it away as she tried to make herself immune to his charm.

She took a quavering breath as she stared straight ahead and her sense of justice perched heavily on her shoulders. The fact was, she could simply hand him the letter, here and now. Just slip it into his hand. Wouldn't it surprise him? She wouldn't expect anything in return but she'd know she'd done the right thing. Sir Aubrey was stronger and more powerful than Lord Debenham because he was good and he had right on his side. He would protect them all.

Yes, that's what she would do.

"I've missed you, Hetty."

Her mouth dropped open as she gripped her reticule tighter. He actually sounded sincere, but of course it must be an act. He'd gone to such pains to be charming to Araminta, too, and all because he wanted the letter and suspected either of them might have it, or be able to get it.

"I know I am not the one you're interested in," she said proudly, glancing across at Cousin Stephen to ensure he was not aware of their secret exchange, but unclasping her reticule nevertheless, for she could never give Lord Debenham what was rightfully Sir Aubrey's. She realised that now. "Araminta is over there."

She pointed. Her sister, in profile, looked utterly irresistible, her full lips parted in a smile of genuine delight, her eyes shining as she gazed about her.

"Her beauty is but skin deep. You are the engaging one," he murmured.

She stared back at him, trying not to allow her impulses to override good sense. Otherwise she might fling herself into his arms. Instead, she said in a rather brittle tone, "So you are trying to charm me into giving you the letter?" She was about to add that she was motivated by justice, not his honeyed words and then simply hand the letter over, when he spoiled everything by saying, "As a gambling man, my bets are that Miss Partington has it, given her greater powers of persuasion—no doubt backed up by threats." He arched an eyebrow. "Despite my attempts to charm Miss Araminta, I also suspect she has weighed up her options and has arrived at the conclusion that giving the letter to Lord Debenham will provide her with greater benefits."

Hetty swallowed down her indignation, her hand closing over the letter while she fumed inside. "Maybe you simply need to try harder to exert your charm upon her, Sir Aubrey."

The dark night sky was lit up with seemingly millions of stars as the fireworks exploded. The scent of gunpowder was strong but Sir Aubrey's own scent of sandalwood and leather was more compelling.

His voice was now closer, warm with promise as it tickled Hetty's ear, charging her body with sensation which made her cross since he'd made it clear he did not love her enough to marry her. Self-consciously she patted the full net skirts of her ridiculously elaborate and furbelowed Spanish dancer's costume with her free hand, awaiting her moment. He might not love her enough to marry her but she'd still do the right thing.

"You're advising me to try harder to charm your sister? Nevertheless, you do not seem to relish that idea, Miss Henrietta."

She shrugged, forcing herself to sound distant. "I have no thoughts on the matter either way."

An exploding Catherine Wheel sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd, pressing Hetty fully against Sir Aubrey's side. She felt lightheaded and completely thrown when he gripped her arm as if to steady her. Cousin Stephen and Araminta were a little ahead and had not yet noticed them.

"Are you angry that I've been making up to your sister?"

"It appears you need little encouragement to press your interest." Hetty twisted to glare at him. "The moment something more...enticing comes along, you show your true colors. I abhor inconstancy. However, despite that, I do have something that might interest—"

"Having experienced inconstancy with such painful results, I can assure you I feel the same way," he interrupted before his voice and manner changed completely and he lowered his head to say urgently, "Hetty, please forgive me for the distance I've allowed to keep us apart. You have every right to be hurt and angry—"

"Come, Hetty, let us listen to the orchestra." Araminta turned, a look of prurient interest sweeping across her face as she registered Sir Aubrey. Then Cousin Seb dragged her forward, pointing to the sky while Sir Aubrey whispered hastily in Hetty's ear, "I've secured a supper box. Druid's Walk. The same as last time. Hetty, I beg you, find a way to come to me."

Hetty tried to reach for him, call him back, but already he was moving away and then Araminta was on her right and Cousin Stephen on her left and Sir Aubrey was nowhere to be seen.

"Mozart or some refreshment?" Cousin Stephen quizzed the girls. "I suggest those who are for the former should take their seats here while the rest of us find something for our parched throats."

The three country cousins, plump and perspiring, were only too glad to slide into a seat while Hetty and Araminta elected to follow Stephen through the pressing crowd. They had only gone a couple yards before Araminta suddenly declared, "Cousin Stephen, I've changed my mind. I'll stay with the others."

Before he could reply, the crowd had swallowed her up. "Araminta!" Stephen called. "Wait!"

"I'll go with her," Hetty reassured him. "You continue, Cousin Stephen. I can see Mary and Amelia waving to us. Don't worry."

Already the jostling crowd was pushing him away from her as Hetty, smaller and defter, was able to navigate her way through the melee.

Freedom, she thought with relief, only to find herself pinioned against a plaster bust by a large Corinthian, clearly in his cups, who barged past, causing her to drop her reticule. She had to wait for a straggling crowd to pass before she could look for it but Araminta had already got there first. Straightening, her sister held it out to her, her expression full of concern as she inquired if Hetty were hurt.

Hetty shook her head and Araminta hooked her arm in hers. "Hetty dearest, I'm so glad you followed me for I wanted to catch you alone," she said as they were steered by the crowd toward the orchestra pit. "I know you're upset that Sir Aubrey prefers me. He's been drawn to me from the first moment we met. I recognize that look in so many men's eyes."

They'd reached a quieter area now, a little away from the general hubbub.

"Has he made you an offer?" Hetty all but hissed, wondering if Sir Aubrey was planning to seduce Hetty later this evening before blithely announcing his betrothal to her sister. Surely he'd not do that? His sensibilities had been so upset when he discovered what he'd done to an innocent debutante, he'd barely touched Hetty since. Not until tonight, anyway, when just minutes ago he'd advertised his desire so clearly Hetty could not think he'd invite her to his supper box for any reason other than to...

Dare she believe it? Sir Aubrey was a man of honor. He'd never risk hers at this juncture unless it was to make her a respectable offer.

Araminta looked falsely sympathetic as only her sister could look. "Not yet but I expect one shortly."

Hetty glowered. "Only because he thinks you can get him the letter."

Araminta widened her eyes. "Oh no, just before we parted company last night I told him you had the letter," she said. "I wanted it but Jane declared she'd give it to you if she managed to get it from Jem and I know I won't induce you to hand it over to me." She sighed, adding, "Though as the eldest, I have every right simply to take it from you. But you're so eager to be the one to hand it over to Sir Aubrey." She gazed at the sky. "And if for some reason you didn't want to give it to him, Sir Aubrey said he'd find a way to persuade you." She swung 'round to smile at her sister again. "I decided to stay well clear of the nasty business but I did feel I owed you a forewarning of his intentions."

Hetty could barely see through her tear-filled eyes. "I'm sorry, Araminta, but I have to make an urgent nature visit and...and Seb and Amelia are waving to you. I won't get lost, I promise, but actually I rather think I'm going to be sick."

Dashing back into the throng before Araminta could respond, Hetty plunged along the Druid's Walk, making blindly for Sir Aubrey's supper box, Araminta's words screaming in her ears.

So his kindness was merely on account of wanting the letter? He was going to offer for Araminta tonight? Hetty was nothing but a credulous fool? He'd enjoyed toying with her but now he had no more use for her than a discarded...mistress?

"My love, what's the matter?" Sir Aubrey rose to his feet the moment she burst through the entrance and, completely against her earlier determination, Hetty allowed herself to be swept into his arms.

She fought the tears that stung her eyelids. She tried to be strong against his overtures but then his mouth covered hers in a deep and demanding kiss that sucked from her any resolve to hold herself aloof. How could she have believed Araminta? He _did_ love Hetty.

The faint roughness of his cheek and his wonderful, familiar smell of all things manly overlaid with the strong soap he used reminded her so strongly of the happiest times of her life. He'd been truly drawn to her once so there was every reason he still was. He was a good man, she knew he was.

As she slithered, boneless, down the wall, he picked her up and carried her to the banquette, still kissing her with the passion of someone who has been starved of the physical and now seeks to plunder all that's on offer.

Helpless against her desire, Hetty kissed him back. She twined her hands behind his neck and pressed her body against his, glorying in the feel of his straining erection, a harbinger of the sensual delights she'd missed so much; that is, until the terrible doubts and questions infiltrated her mind like fine mist, to counter the pleasure of his wandering hands.

Lying beneath him on the velvet cushioning she wrenched her face away from his. Of course she had to determine his motives before she allowed herself to make a fool of herself.

She could barely make out his features in the deep gloom for a single candle at the far end of the room provided the only light. His eyes, however, burned like coals in his face. "You're only doing this because you want the letter," she forced herself to say through trembling lips, staying his hand's progress at her knee. The skirts of her Spanish dancer's costume had been flipped up to reveal an expanse of bare thigh above her garter. Quickly she pulled down the black lace froth to cover herself.

Sir Aubrey stilled as if she'd flung cold water at him. Only the sound of the fireworks, and their heavy breathing, punctuated the heavy silence. He looked angry. "Having the letter means nothing if I can't have you, Henrietta," he said at last. Then he was smiling again, a faint sigh of desire gently vibrating against her lips as he ignored her protests, pushing away her hand to trail delicate fingertips the length of her thigh.

Hetty knew when she was defeated. His deft caresses, the tenderness and strength of his warm embrace and the wicked sensations Sir Aubrey had reawakened were almost too much.

Nevertheless she had enough strength to rasp through lips that stung with the need to press against his, "You want to seduce me so that I'll give you the letter and then you're going to marry Araminta, aren't you?"

_This_ shocked him.

Dropping his hand abruptly from her leg, he set her away from him and sat up. He looked furious. "Good God, do you _truly_ think me such a cad?"

Misery churned inside her as she watched him lounging against the pillows. He was frowning but he had not refuted it. Sir Aubrey was charming. He'd find a way to win her over, she knew it. She was weak when he was near and he was the only man she'd ever wanted. Would it make her feel better to hear him admit the truth, or deny it? At least then she could fool herself after she allowed him to make love to her one last time, her excuse being that she'd believed he was going to make an honorable woman of her.

She sucked in a difficult breath as she met his troubled gaze. "How could I think such a thing? Why, the look that creeps into your eye every time you speak to Araminta tells me so. That, coupled with the ease with which you know you can have me." She looked away, the miserable truth weighing her down. "I knew it was madness for me to come here. I knew I would be completely won over by your charm and that I was a fool for being so weak. You could just take what was on offer. There was no chase for you. I have only myself to blame when you discard me."

"Hetty, no!" He shook her gently. "Is that what you think? That my only interest is in what you can offer me? Your body? The letter?"

Then he was kissing her again and she was across his lap, supported by his left arm while being pleasured with his right, his fingers blazing a trail of sensation up her thigh, and she had no more willpower than a butterfly in a field of buttercups.

"I want you, Hetty, more than I want that damned letter," he growled. "Araminta holds no interest for me, even if she does possess it."

"You can't be serious." The words came out as a croak for his fingers continued their magical caresses and her mind was fast becoming swamped by the lustful sensations created. She would not question her actions later but she knew already she would succumb. He was everything she'd ever wanted.

"Deadly serious." He stopped kissing her, the expression in his eye warning her to take heed. "Araminta is cold, mercurial...calculating. Perhaps I shouldn't condemn her for that since every woman needs to position herself as well as she can in this world. But you, Hetty..." His expression softened. "You are quite unlike anyone I've ever met. You're warm and soft and...completely disarming with your ability to give."

Hetty gave a self-deprecating laugh, not convinced in this regard though his kindness and the purely physical sensations he continued to evoke in her were close to mind-altering. "Like I'm giving myself to you now?"

The faintest of shrugs and a return to pleasuring her were his answers and Hetty whimpered as she fell back into his arms, her body thrilling to the heightened sensation.

"Your willingness and your genuine pleasure in my attentions endorse your sincerity and bolster my reasons for begging you to meet me."

She stiffened. "To seduce me?"

"To make you my wife."

She gave herself a little shake and opened her eyes once more, the warmth of his smile reassuring her that she'd heard correctly.

"My wife, Hetty," he repeated, though she'd said nothing. The darkening of his eyes and the tensing around his mouth bore out his next words as he straightened and put his hands on her shoulders. "The last few days have been torment. I've thought my fevered agitation was due to the letter being so within my reach. Then I realized I'd lived without it so long that it barely mattered any more. Time was erasing the slur upon my good name and it wasn't in fact the letter I longed to get my hands on...it was you."

She stared. Then through constricted airways she breathed, "You're asking me to marry you?"

He nodded, bringing his face close to hers. "I'll do it properly, on bended knee in a moment, but yes, I'm asking you to marry me."

The pressure inside her was nearly unbearable. She longed to feel his body respond with hers. Not just now, but forever. Yet she had to ask the question. "Why?"

"Because I love you," he said simply. "I have never loved anyone like I love you." Almost reverently he bent his head to kiss the swell of her breast above her décolletage. Hetty sucked in a breath and met his eye as he smiled, almost ruefully. "And I know you are the only woman I'll enjoy talking to to with the same enthusiasm I shall devote to our lovemaking." He cupped her face and kissed her gently on the nose. "You're sweet and funny and generous." He sighed. "And you're loyal."

Hetty was registering on two levels. While her body was pulsing with need, her heart was growing fuller by the moment.

Moving his face up, he kissed her brow, her eyes and nose and then finally her lips as he finished, "With the most wonderful capacity for love and forgiveness. You are the complete woman, Hetty." He cupped her face with his hands and gazed at her as if she truly were an angel. "Your body, mind and sweet nature are without equal. And I've realized I don't want to settle for less. Will you accept my offer, Hetty? Will you be my wife?"

What a question? He'd well and truly convinced her of his sincerity and her joy knew no bounds.

"Oh yes," she whispered, her hand straying to the flap of his breeches. "There is nothing I would like more in the world."

She registered the amusement in his voice as he gently pushed her hand away. "What makes you think I'm not enjoying your responses enough to satisfy me? We are not yet wed, Hetty, and I am mindful of your reputation. Whatever the temptations, I set out tonight determined to draw from you the response I wanted and to resist the temptation of taking advantage of you until we are legally bound together as husband and wife."

"But that'll be weeks!" she cried, her dismay making him laugh and draw her back to him, tightening his hold on her.

Trailing kisses along her jawline, he said softly, "I'm glad to hear you are as impatient as I. But dearest Hetty, I am an honorable man and an honorable man does not intentionally deflower a virgin. I can't turn the clock back and atone for my cavalier attitude towards you but I can start behaving more like the man you deserve as your husband. Hush!" He laid a finger gently over her lips to stop her protest.

Hetty saw that he found it difficult to speak through his emotion as he went on. "You gave me a way out and I'd have taken it, had I truly not wished to marry you. I told myself you would be better off given your freedom but within a day I was tormented by thoughts of what I was throwing away." He kissed her again, his voice warm with love as he held her. "I love you, Hetty. I want to look after you, cherish you and make you happy. I want you to love me and have my children but I'm an honorable man and I will not risk your good name until we are legally wed. Today I have gained your father's consent—yes, even despite the slur to my reputation." He laughed and to her surprise he sounded genuinely happy. "Believe it or not, I happen to count the Archbishop of Canterbury amongst my friends and so have organized a special license. His representative will be arriving here in half an hour to marry us."

"In a supper box in Vauxhall Gardens?"

The soft, gentle pressure of his hand stroking her cheek made her close her eyes briefly as she floated on her happiness. Surreptitiously, she ran her own hands the length of him but he gently captured them in his own.

"Patience, Hetty," he murmured. "In an hour, when you are my wife, we can love each other without fear and without guilt. But for now, your virtue remains safe with me."

She felt light and joyful as he helped her to her feet. He loved her. He'd said it in so many words and now he was going to prove it.

With the lightest caress across her nose and cheeks, he then cupped her face and stared into her eyes. "I want to hear you say something, Hetty. Something that makes me believe you want this as much as I do...because you _love_ me, not because you need to make a good match by the end of the season."

She took a deep breath and smiled, her mouth stretching into a wide, irrepressible grin. The joy that she'd expected to subside only grew more intense. She swayed with it until he steadied her with a smile that matched hers.

"Oh yes, Sir Aubrey, I'll marry you!" Breathlessly, she reached for her reticule, which had fallen to the floor. "And if in the past there were those who'd have said I was marrying a dangerous gentlemen, I now have the evidence that will make them eat their words." In just seconds she could prove her love beyond doubt. She fumbled for the letter within the delicately embroidered bag as she straightened, her excitement growing as she saw first his questioning look then the anticipation on his face. "However, once _this_ is made public there will be no more false rumors." Her seeking fingers explored the silk interior and her stomach churned with impatience as the letter continued to elude her.

Her handkerchief made a soft wad of cloth in the bottom of her reticule but there was no sharp edge of parchment.

Where was it? Where was the letter she'd transferred from beneath her chemise earlier that evening?

An image flashed through her mind of Araminta handing back her reticule after Hetty had dropped it amidst the stampede. Desperately she continued to rummage for the letter but it was not there. _Araminta_? Could she _really_ have done this to her? With a despairing cry, Hetty tossed away the reticule as she sank against the wall, covering her face with her hands. She felt hollow inside. Hollow and small; bested once again by her poisonous sister. "Sir Aubrey, I had the letter!" she wailed, nearly choking on the bitterness of having victory snatched from her hands in such a way. "Truly I did and now it's gone."

Blinking open her eyes she wasn't sure if doubt or disappointment clouded his expression, though it was difficult to make out anything in the dim room. He loomed over her but she shook her head, choking on another sob. "I came here with the express purpose of delivering it to you." She might have dissolved into tears except that suddenly disappointment turned to icy resolve. "And I _shall_!" she vowed, as she swung toward the door, avoiding his outstretched hand. Grimly she added over her shoulder, "I know exactly where that letter is and I shall have it with me when I return."

Sir Aubrey gripped her wrist and pulled her back to him. "My offer is not dependent on that letter." His voice was urgent. "Don't leave. I know you are pure of heart, Hetty. I know you'd do anything to help me... And you have." His expression softened as he brought his face close to hers. "You have made me realize that love and honesty are more important than advancement and material gain. Happiness is based on neither of those but rather the mutual felicity and affection between two worthy people. I want you, Hetty. I want you to be my wife and to enjoy you forever."

Footsteps crunching on the walkway made them draw away guiltily, a short rap on the door seeming to underline their recent transgressions. However, when a solemn-faced clergyman was shown in, Hetty gasped with delighted surprise, squeezing shut her eyes at the sheer joy of her suddenly altered situation, her disappointment at the loss of the letter for the moment forgotten.

When she gazed about her again it was to see that truly her wildest imaginings were about to come true. She was going to marry the man who had captured her heart. He'd declared in the most sincere and ardent of terms his love and desire and now, here was the clergyman he'd summoned.

Reality seemed suspended as the reverend performed the rites, Hetty murmuring her responses, Sir Aubrey speaking with firm conviction as he slipped the ring upon her finger, his eyes kindling with warmth, his smile reassuring her that this was everything he wanted.

"I'm sure you never imagined you'd dress as a Spanish dancing girl for your wedding," he teased at the conclusion of the unexpected ceremony and once the clergyman had departed.

"I never imagined I would marry at all," she admitted, sinking against him and closing her eyes in rapture. "Araminta is the beauty. She's a bird of paradise and I'm a little brown peahen. Papa used to say it all the time."

"And you decided you were destined to live up to this description?" Sir Aubrey tipped her head up with a gentle finger beneath her chin, his mouth pursed with amusement. "Until you were so afraid for your life you thought giving yourself to me was the only way to preserve it."

He started to pull her closer but Hetty stayed him with a hand upon his chest.

"Now it is my turn to redress the balance."

She had the means and she should have acted earlier, before Araminta could pass on the letter to Lord Debenham. Hetty was married now and Araminta no longer posed a threat to her happiness. But Hetty could secure even greater happiness for her new husband if she hurried. Sir Aubrey, from his position of greater power, in consequence of her actions, would ensure Lord Debenham was a spent force and unable to harm her family or Jem.

"I promised I would restore the letter...where it would do least harm and achieve the greatest good," she told him. Her new husband must never know that she'd entertained, even for a short while, the intention of giving it to Lord Debenham.

But if she didn't hurry, that's just who would be receiving it.

"Hetty! Where are you going? Won't you stay—" He pulled her back to him, his lip curling with suppressed amusement despite her sudden urgency to get away. "For the finale? Now that it's legal?"

"Oh, my darling, I promise you the greatest finale," she replied, reaching up to kiss him quickly on the lips. "You stay right here, make yourself very comfortable and be prepared for my triumphant return." Running her hands down his thighs, she whispered, "I have a surprise for you, my love, and I do recall hearing you say once that all good things were worth waiting for."

# Chapter 13

Araminta eyed her prattling cousin with a decided lack of felicity as she sat wedged between the two young women who were ogling all the passing gentlemen with absolutely no shame.

She was embarrassed to be with girls who reeked of country and lacked address. Worse was wondering where Hetty was. Her sister had dashed off into the shrubbery, claiming nature called and reassuring her she'd return shortly.

But she hadn't and there was not a thing Araminta could do. Oh, she knew Lord Debenham was waiting for her in the third supper box behind the orchestra but he'd be waiting for a long time. He was not going to get the letter Araminta had snatched after Hetty had fortuitously dropped her reticule.

It was tedious having to bear her cousins company while she listened to the strains of Mozart drifting into the starry night air but she relieved the boredom by contemplating Hetty's dismay at discovering her trophy gone.

No doubt Hetty planned to hand it to Sir Aubrey.

Despite reassuring herself that Sir Aubrey would rather wed an orangutan than her sister, Araminta simply could not rid herself of that shocking single glance she'd intercepted when Sir Aubrey had looked at her sister. She'd almost describe it as mawkish except that Sir Aubrey was certainly not mawkish.

Hetty was the ugly duckling of the family and it would be kinder to keep her hopes in check.

When she saw her sister hurrying toward them from the Druid's Walk, she leapt up, making her excuses to her cousins in order to waylay Hetty near the fountain.

Hetty stopped short when she was several feet away, startling Araminta with her hostility.

"What have you done with Sir Aubrey's letter? You took it from my reticule. I know it was you!"

When Araminta tried to calm her with a conciliatory hand upon her shoulder, Hetty threw it off, muttering, "You've given it to Lord Debenham, haven't you? You're a fiend."

Poor Hetty, thought Araminta. Clearly she'd returned disappointed from her assignation to hand over the letter to Sir Aubrey who, if she wasn't mistaken, had hired one of the supper boxes in the darkened walkway from which Hetty had just emerged.

She tried to be placating. "Dearest, if you're so upset, perhaps you might try to persuade Lord Debenham to give it to you. I can tell you exactly where to find him."

She was amused when her sister actually stamped her foot.

"You can take me to him and demand the letter back because you had no right to give it to him in the first place."

"I'll do no such thing, however if you're brave enough to confront Sir Aubrey, you're brave enough to find Lord Debenham." She gave Hetty another condescending pat on the shoulder. "I promise I won't tell."

"Hetty, come and sit with us! Where have you been?" Their cousins had them in their sights and were signaling, clustered around a large bust of Caesar atop a plaster plinth. Araminta thought they looked like they'd just stepped off the coach from some remote region of the country where the locals wore turnips and carrots in their hats, for that's exactly what the trimming of the hideous confection Cousin Amelia wore on her head reminded her of.

Hetty turned on her heel with a disgusted look at Araminta, her breath coming in gulping sobs.

"My goodness but you are upset, my dear," Araminta soothed. "Perhaps it's not such a good idea, facing Lord Debenham in such a state. And of course you cannot do so unchaperoned. In fact, I can't imagine what possessed me to suggest something so ruinous." Araminta felt a stab of doubt. Hetty looked mutinous and if word got back to Mama and Papa that Araminta had induced her to seek out a gentleman alone, it was beyond saying there would be worse than the devil to pay. It would signal the end of Hetty's matrimonial hopes. Not that her sister had any realistic ones, it was true.

In a quick reversal, Araminta reconsidered. She must do whatever necessary to occupy Hetty for the next few minutes. Araminta was about to make her own sacrifice to save the family and she couldn't risk Hetty threatening a glorious outcome. Calling to her cousins that she would accompany her sister since 'nature called' right at that moment, Araminta took Hetty's arm and led her toward the darkened lane behind the orchestra.

"He is waiting in the third supper box," she murmured, pointing. "Here, sit down a moment to cool your anger. It is best you don't let it get the better of you, though. There is your reputation to consider and we are both courting disaster as it is. The cousins are just a short walk away and Cousin Stephen is too involved in the music to even notice us, so you just decide what you want to do." She hesitated. "I'm sorry about the letter but I did what I thought best."

She really was about to do what was best. Best for the entire family, Araminta thought some minutes later as she sauntered briskly along the dimly lit path from which her sister had emerged. This was a mission no lady ought to embark upon but she was confident of her ultimate success.

It was the only way they'd all find happiness. It would be the answer to her father's problems. Sir Aubrey's good name would soon be cleared and in consequence he'd be even richer.

She couldn't think of a better catch than Sir Aubrey, for the idea of being allied to Lord Debenham was again losing its luster. He had a cold menace about him. Initially it had intrigued her when she'd felt certain of twisting him 'round her little finger. Now she was uncertain of her power to enslave him, which meant marriage to him would not be worth the compensations provided by multiple estates and fine clothes. He was too much a wild card. Even Araminta, so confident of her charms, was not entirely confident she could hold him sufficiently in thrall.

Sir Aubrey was a different matter altogether. He was deeply honorable. The kind of man who would never dishonor a woman without proper atonement. The trouble was, she wasn't as confident of his affections as she'd like to be. Certainly, he'd made up to her in a very pretty fashion during the past few entertainments. The roiling passion in the depths of his eyes had thrilled her but the more she reflected on the way he looked at her little sister, the more unsettled she became.

Well, now she had the letter. All she need do was present it to him and he'd be hers. She might have to work for her reward but that would hardly be a chore.

The sight of his distinctive silver-topped cane by the door to the supper box was confirmation that her mission was on the way toward being successful.

Approaching stealthily, she was surprised at the roar of blood to her head and the rapid beating of her heart. She was not used to such sensations and she liked them. She felt exhilarated and alive.

The dismaying thought intruded that perhaps he wasn't alone. Her fears were soon put to rest. When she carefully opened the door a lazy, laconic voice drifted through the darkness.

"Come to me, my darling."

Araminta nearly fainted on the spot. He was expecting her?

Then another, even more shocking thought ripped through her. He was expecting someone else?

Hetty?

No, it was not possible. A woman of the night?

It didn't make sense. Sir Aubrey would never have planned an assignation with her unprepossessing and far less worthy sister.

The possibility that he had was enough to galvanize the most gently reared beauty into action. Sir Aubrey was not going to offer for Hetty, leaving Araminta, the beautiful, worthy eldest sister, to cool her heels for another season. No, he would not.

And when Araminta's work was done with him there would be no way he could! Her heart rate rapidly accelerated and her breathing rasped in her throat. She had to carry this off, knowing the hopes of the entire Partington family rested on her success?

Faint strains of Mozart hung in the air. The room was in almost complete darkness, lit only by the light from the hanging lamp outside the door.

Quietly she entered, and it seemed like divine inspiration to snatch an end of the gauze drapery that divided the room in two and drape it over her head and the full net skirts of her costume, to further disguise her natural shape.

"Hetty? Is that you, my darling? Come to me. My, my, so _this_ is what you had in store for me."

Araminta froze, not believing what she was hearing, for amusement and anticipation colored his tone as he started to rise, though Araminta was quick to indicate he should remain where he was. She had a show to put on.

Her outrage hardened when he seemed to think it a splendid idea—as if her sister were capable of the kind of entertainment Araminta was about to perform.

Slowly she swayed to the strains of music that drifted in from the night but then, realizing Sir Aubrey might be not quite as delighted as she'd hitherto expected to discover her real identity, Araminta decided to cut short her overtures. Much more important than courting his admiration was swift action on her behalf to make sure he was in her power. She pulled her thick lace mantilla more thoroughly over her face and, taking a deep breath as she leant over him, boldly ran her hands up his thighs before stepping back quickly.

"Good Lord, but you are full of surprises." His voice was a low, needy growl that sent anger pulsing through Araminta. How dare he speak like that, believing she was plain, dull Hetty? The glazed rapture of his expression only added to Araminta's determination to continue this...clinical seduction, as it now appeared it would have to be.

To the bitter end, in fact.

"Ah, so you want me to close my eyes while you do all the work for a change? All right, then, I am your slave. And hark, we have the fireworks outside to celebrate."

Dear God, what did that mean? If Sir Aubrey really did believe she was Hetty, then she was succeeding in whipping up his desire much too quickly, Araminta thought, as she took in the ecstasy that sharpened his expression, though they were in almost total darkness. Right now she might appear a mysterious figure full of allure and promise but once she was done with him, he'd realize which sister offered him the future he wanted.

His breathing was labored and the effect of her calculated progress as he lay back upon the cushions was clear. His tight satin breeches bulged with his enormous erection. Had Araminta not been so fueled by spite and anger, she'd be anticipating this as much as he clearly was. Yet he thought she was Hetty...

All her delicate sensibilities recoiled at the travesty.

"Oh, my darling, you are torturing me." His voice was far too full of desire and need as he whispered, "Come! Come to me now!"

Shocked, Araminta saw that his hand had gone to the button flap of his breeches. How could he imagine Hetty would ever—?

Good Lord, she'd never have believed such a thing possible if it weren't happening before her eyes. Her sister? Plump, undesirable Hetty, who was surely beneath Sir Aubrey's notice? Rapidly she cast her mind back over the past couple of weeks but could put her finger on nothing of note. Yet every indication now pointed to Hetty having been very free and easy with her affections, while keeping a decidedly low profile. Araminta, on the other hand, would never be so bold without the promise of a ring.

Or at least the knowledge that her actions would secure her a ring very shortly.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. This was the only way forward. Her father was clearly about to ruin them all and if Araminta did not contract a good marriage by the end of the season, there was a real chance she was not going to at all.

If Sir Aubrey was going to marry, then it was going to be a Partington—and certainly not the younger one!

With a glance at the single candle flickering in the far corner and another tug to ensure the mantilla gave her the anonymity she needed in this dim, dark room, Araminta trailed one hand over her breasts in an overt display of self-admiration before gripping the hem of her skirt and raising it above her knees. He would barely make her out but he'd recognise her Spanish dancing costume—the same costume Hetty wore. But the wrong sister!

"My God, woman, but you are a minx," growled Sir Aubrey who had opened one eye. "Let me have you now!"

His arms were outstretched and the strain in his voice indicated his impatience. Araminta nearly wept at the injustice but it was the impetus she needed. Launching forward as she breached the separation of the gauze curtain, she landed upon his chest, hitching up her skirts to find him already released from his breeches.

Her breath left her in a cry more of satisfaction than rapture as she impaled herself upon his pulsing member.

She was hungry for him—or rather, hungry for vengeance—and well prepared through the anticipation she'd whipped up. Clearly Lord Aubrey had also reached the pinnacle of his desire, for no sooner had she plunged herself upon him and begun to writhe in ecstasy than he gave a harsh cry.

Her satisfaction was short-lived. In fact, it did not go beyond the moan he'd uttered as he convulsed inside her. For almost immediately he withdrew and, with a shout she'd almost say was anger, shoved her off his lap and leapt to his feet.

He was now staring down at her as if she were...well, certainly not a woman he desired.

Araminta was not prepared for this. She'd expected him to be surprised, but she'd not expected to see his lip twitching with the same disgust mirrored in his cold stare.

"For the love of God, woman, what have you done?" he rasped, fumbling to button his breeches. "I thought you were—"

Anger bubbled up inside Araminta as she pushed down her skirts and sat up from her undignified position on the floor. "You thought I was...?"

Ignoring her as he strode towards the door, he swung around to demand, "Miss Partington, what the devil possessed you? Surely you can't have known—"

He was unable to complete a sentence, so great was his agitation.

"You seemed to enjoy it," she muttered, rising to her feet. "You didn't stop." She felt like crying when she saw the horror on his face intensify. Her brain raced. Gasping, she cried, "What have we done? Oh, my lord, what can you do but atone when you realize it's more than possible I'm...carrying your child!"

Not that she'd had much pleasure from it; in fact, contemplating the implications of tonight was truly terrifying for she hadn't really thought this far. She'd certainly never intended losing her virtue unless success was assured. Now marriage was imperative.

A great ache of need still pulsed between her legs but that was nothing compared to the humiliation of being rejected. He should be reaching for her by now. Begging for her forgiveness and promising a wedding ring for having taken her virtue. Well, for seducing her, at any rate. Pushing out her chin as she gripped an upright beam, she said proudly, "This is what you indicated you were after, Sir Aubrey, let's not tiptoe around the truth. Those stolen kisses in the passage behind the tapestry. And not just at Lady Knox's ball."

His face was black with anger as he bent and gripped her shoulders, his teeth bared, like some terrifying wild animal. She nearly drew back but she had to remind him what he owed her.

"I had no idea it was you, Miss Partington, nor was I in a position to stop after you hurled yourself upon me and...no, I did not indicate that was what I was after!"

She must not cry. Pride and righteous indignation must be the order of the day. Nevertheless, her voice shook. "Yes, you did. Again, last night at the ball, you made your...desire...quite clear."

"A gentleman doesn't expect to be accosted by a lady in such a manner, no matter how much interest he shows her." His pupils were dilated, the words rasping from his throat, and he was looking at her as if she were some...hideous great spider.

"I gave you what you made quite clear you wanted, Sir Aubrey," she hissed. "I make no apology for that. You're the one in the wrong for giving me false ideas if in fact that _wasn't_ what you wanted. But the deed is done."

Realizing by the lack of felicity in his expression that she was going too far, she adopted another approach. Forcing down her fury, she said in a quiet, controlled tone, "I'm upset, sir, that you take this attitude. I...I was hoping to give you a very pleasant surprise."

"A surprise indeed!" he muttered, drawing his hand across his brow as if he were unutterably weary rather than exulted at having taken the virtue of London's most desirable debutante. "Where is your sister?"

That was the last question she needed to hear when she'd been imagining something more along the lines of "Miss Araminta, will you consent to be my..."

Squaring her shoulders, she said, haughtily, "Gone to give Lord Debenham a certain letter, Sir Aubrey."

His sudden stillness was heartening, as was his chilly tone. "What did you say?"

Araminta tossed her head. "I told you. She is visiting Lord Debenham at this very moment to give him your letter."

"I don't believe you." Pointing to the now open door, he muttered, "Leave. We shall find Hetty together and, believe me, you'll see she is not the traitor you are!" he added, before propelling her none too gently before him, closing the door behind them, upon all Araminta's high hopes.

The moment Hetty found herself face-to-face with Lord Debenham, she realized she'd made a grave miscalculation. For a start, she was alone and defenseless.

And he was clearly in a dangerous mood. What had she been thinking?

She hadn't been thinking at all. She'd been forced by desperation into finding the one thing she knew Sir Aubrey—she gulped, her new husband—deserved above all else.

In part Araminta's taunts had motivated her to show her sister that she would prevail.

"You are asking me for the letter?"

How louche he looked, the smell of arrack upon his breath, the empty bottle lying in a corner.

Unfortunately Hetty had arrived in such haste, with heaving chest and eyes blazing, she'd noticed too late his disreputable state. He'd merely raised his glass to her in a mock toast before tossing back the liquor, his own eyes scorching as they'd raked her from head to toe.

"Without your sister beside you, you're not too hard to look at, little one. Come closer," he'd said.

But when Hetty had responded acidly that she'd rather approach a cobra, he'd turned nasty.

Now through narrowed eyes he replied, "I think your sister is the only person who can tell you where that letter is." He got to his feet, his expression filled with such menace that for a moment Hetty thought she'd faint clean away.

Instead, she calculated the distance between her back and the door but he was too quick. Seizing her wrist, he jerked her toward him and, gripping her chin, brought his face close to hers. So close she thought he was going to...bite her. For there was no tenderness in his expression as he said between lips pulled tight, "How might we induce that sister of yours to hand over what she clearly intends to profit by? You, my little one? Her baby sister? Do you think my threats against her precious sister will be sufficient?" He gave a short laugh, his eyes boring into hers, his lip curled in a sneer. "No, I didn't think so either."

She squirmed in disgust at the swell of his erection against her belly, recoiling from his breath moist against her ear as he ran his hands all over her. Terror bubbled up inside her but she was unable to force it out in a scream. It was as if every life-preserving instinct had been paralyzed.

"Perhaps the good name of the family is something she'd value more."

"Please don't!" Hetty whimpered, twisting in his cruel embrace as he buried his face between her breasts and his hands roamed freely.

"The disappointment is that you're already spoiled goods, aren't you?" He glared at her while she struggled ineffectually. "Yes, I've guessed your little secret. If Sir Aubrey hadn't already defiled you, he might be called upon to object." His ragged breaths were coming faster now as his grasping fingers pinched her nipples painfully and his mouth latched on to her ear.

Strength surged through her. "Get away from me!" she shrieked, louder now, hearing the tear of fabric and trying not to cry. She looked down at her ruined bodice and tried to pull her skirts down but he'd pinioned her against the wall and his seeking hands were too strong for her to push away.

"You're more adventurous than I gave you credit for, Miss Henrietta. Comelier and more desirable now I have you up close." He licked his lips as he gripped her thighs. "I think you must be a fiery morsel in bed else Sir Aubrey would not have spared you the attention he did. Oh, it's hard to credit but suddenly I understand everything."

"I'll see that you're brought to justice," squealed Hetty, terror making her shrill. "That letter could have you swing! Unless you want that, you'd better let me go."

"You really think such a threat is likely to make me release you?" He looked disbelieving. "The fewer witnesses to what is written in that letter, the better, Miss Henrietta."

She whimpered as he put is hands around her throat, and sobbed when he dropped them with a laugh. "Perhaps, in fact, it would be more amusing to be the one to make public _your_ peccadilloes. What do you think people will say when they hear you came to visit me here alone? A woman who's lost her virtue has little credibility in the eyes of a critical society."

"The only one who's lost credibility is you, Debenham!" Through the door burst her husband, snarling the rejoinder as Hetty struggled in her assailant's embrace.

"Sir Aubrey!" she wept, relief swamping her as she reached out her arms.

His joyful expression sustained her for a moment. Then Debenham threw her roughly back against the wall before bending to snatch up the glass that had contained his arrack. In one smooth, sudden action, he smashed it upon the low table, brandishing the jagged base as he spun to seize Hetty 'round the neck once more.

"Hetty!" Araminta wailed as she flew into the room in Sir Aubrey's wake.

Lord Debenham, still pinioning Hetty against the wall, raised an eyebrow. "Miss Partington, how delightful that you made our assignation at last. So you've come to give me the letter in return for the release of our little hostage?"

The fearful gaze Araminta turned upon Sir Aubrey was, Hetty suspected, more on her own account than Hetty's. "I don't know what you mean," she whispered.

Hetty made a strangled noise. "Araminta, you took the letter, I know you did!"

Araminta shook her head. "I...I hid it," she said unconvincingly.

Sir Aubrey stepped forward, his eyes boring into Hetty's, offering her the courage she needed as he said, "I couldn't care less what becomes of the letter. All I want is Hetty's freedom."

Araminta's satisfied laugh turned all eyes on her as she said, "Well, that's easy then—for I have the letter. Now all I need is an offer of marriage from Sir Aubrey and I'll happily hand it over."

Lord Debenham, with a disgusted snort, thrust Hetty away. Quickly she ran to the sanctuary of her beloved's embrace, the relief of finding safety heightened by the satisfaction in his voice as he announced, "I'm afraid that even if I had the slightest desire to accede to your threats, Miss Partington—which I do not—your demands are impossible to fulfill. Your sister and I were married less than an hour ago by special license."

"No!" Araminta's shriek was a joy to listen to.

Hetty glanced up at Sir Aubrey as he drew her in tighter, and she saw all the love she felt for him reflected in his answering expression.

Like Hetty, he clearly felt no sympathy for Araminta, who was staring at her sister as if she were guilty of the most heinous betrayal imaginable. "Tell me it's a lie, Henrietta!" she gasped. "Tell me you would never be so underhanded!"

Hetty raised an eyebrow. "Underhanded, Araminta? I cannot see how you'd think my actions underhanded when they are more than equaled by your own. Nevertheless, it's true. I became Sir Aubrey's wife moments before I came here to claim the letter."

Lord Debenham fixed his malevolent gaze upon her sister. His lips twitched and Hetty knew she should perhaps feel a twinge of concern on Araminta's behalf but, she consoled herself, her new husband had already shown he knew how to keep order.

He spoke now, his eyes warm as they rested on her. "My Henrietta has shown the most enormous courage and astonishing loyalty toward me." Hetty felt she'd never been happier in her life as he went on. "I'm sorry, Miss Partington, but your devious behavior tonight has only proved how much worthier the younger Miss Partington is of my enduring and heartfelt love and admiration."

Hetty, glowing, believed she could have listened to such compliments uttered in the public domain forever. Clearly Araminta had heard enough, though, for she leapt forward, eyes blazing.

"What is this worth to you, Lord Debenham...Sir Aubrey?" she demanded, dipping her hand into her décolletage before brandishing the letter they'd been seeking.

Stepping backward, she lowered the parchment so that it hovered just above the guttering candle on the table by the window. "All of you have betrayed me. Hetty, you took what was rightfully mine. Lord Debenham," she spat, "I once considered you a worthy suitor but I'd not wish you on my worst enemy, knowing what a hateful, hideous creature you are."

Lord Debenham took a slow, calculated breath. His smile was evil. "You would do well to burn the letter, Miss Partington. It must have been a terrible shock to find yourself a victim of Sir Aubrey's disloyalty since he gave you every reason to believe he'd make you an honorable offer. No doubt you want to destroy that letter as much as you want to destroy the man who dashed your hopes."

It occurred to Hetty that Araminta might use the leverage of the letter to win Lord Debenham over, but Hetty certainly no longer cared. Sir Aubrey could not have made clearer the sincerity of his feelings, and she knew that with time, he'd earn back the respect of the public through his own efforts. He'd already proved himself a decent and honorable man.

She turned towards the door, surprised when her husband hesitated. She glanced up at him, then over at the table where her sister stood.

"Miss Partington." Sir Aubrey fixed Araminta with a gaze of such warmth and appreciation, Hetty tensed to contain her jealousy. But then he went on. "No amount of inducement or blackmail is more important to me than securing my happiness through Hetty's consent to be my wife tonight. The ink is dry on the special license, and shortly I will inform Lord Partington of the happy state of affairs. Do what you will, for I am about to take my wife...home."

Hetty returned the pressure of her husband's hand, shivering with anticipation at the thought of what being taken "home" actually meant.

Araminta looked panicked. Hovering over the candle, waving the letter that neither man wanted enough that he was prepared to accede to her demands, must have been galling.

"The marriage is not yet registered!"

Hetty smiled at Araminta, who was clearly clutching at straws as her sister went on, shrilly, "You can burn the special license and there's still time to stop the clergyman before he puts it in the register."

Sir Aubrey cocked his head. "Why would I want to do that? I have the wife I want."

"But your reputation, Sir Aubrey...you do not have that, and I can return it to you by giving you this letter."

"Your demands are too great, Miss Partington. I shall leave you here now with Lord Debenham. You are in good company." He stroked Hetty's cheek then turned back to Araminta. "If we're worried about reputations, Miss Partington, I'd suggest yours is in the greatest danger, so perhaps it's best if you followed us and we'll return you to your cousins."

"No, Sir Aubrey! Too much is at stake! I know too much and you'd do well to do as I say!"

Hetty had never seen Araminta so wild. Her desperation was like a soothing balm for all the years of slights and insults she'd had suffered at her sister's hands.

"Come back with us, Araminta," she said, feeling suddenly charitable, enjoying the warmth of her husband's dependable bulk pressed against her side. "I hate to see you so upset."

"Of course I'm upset. Sir Aubrey! You can't just leave!"

Sir Aubrey turned back from his progress towards the door and Hetty bit her lip as she watched him fix his considered gaze upon Araminta. But there was no suggestion he felt even a modicum of kindliness towards her. His eyes were as cold as she'd ever seen them.

"You have not done well this night, sister-in-law. Do what you will, and consider well what you have done, but I warn you, you shall be responsible for bearing your own burdens." He reached down to cup Hetty's cheek, his eyes suddenly misting as he murmured, "I am proud to have won the affections of such an honorable woman. A woman I do not deserve but who I consider it the greatest honor to call my wife."

A feeling of the greatest delight and warmth wrapped around Hetty's heart and settled in the pit of her stomach but she still felt a sense of responsibility.

"Please, Araminta, reconsider," she begged, extending her hand to her sister, who jerked backward and touched the tip of the letter to the flame.

"I _shall_ do it!" Araminta screeched.

Hetty glanced up. Sir Aubrey seemed unaffected by the imminent torching of his reputation while Lord Debenham lounged against the window sill, watching the proceedings with what seemed like great satisfaction.

Hetty tried one final gambit. "Araminta, you are thwarting justice if you carry through on your threats. It's too late. Sir Aubrey and I are legally married."

"It's not too late!" Araminta hissed.

Sir Aubrey took another couple of steps toward the door and Hetty followed, clinging to his arm. "Come with us, Araminta," she entreated, over her shoulder. "You can't stay here, alone. If you don't find a husband in your second season, there's always a third. It's not until the end of a third failed season that all is lost." She couldn't help offering her sister the same reassurance Araminta had continually dished out to her. "At least, that's what you've always told me."

Araminta glared and Hetty looked up to catch the smile her new husband directed towards her. Wonderingly, she touched the streak of white hair amidst the dark that characterized the men of his family. Her child, if it were a son, would carry that same badge of honor, for Hetty intended, as his wife and hostess, to see that Sir Aubrey regained the status he deserved. She knew what it was to be just beyond society's warmth and acceptance.

"There! It's alight!"

The smell of burning parchment came as no surprise. Hetty knew that Araminta, ever spiteful, would not be won over by truth and justice. What was surprising was the lack of concern on Sir Aubrey's face.

Less surprising was the satisfaction on Lord Debenham's whose mouth was turned up like a satyr's as he watched from the shadows.

Sir Aubrey bent his head low to put his lips to Hetty's ear. "We must leave if we are to make the crossing to France in the morning," and Hetty sighed rapturously. "A proper elopement. How thrilling!"

Resting her head briefly against his chest, her attention was diverted by Araminta's cry. She turned and saw her sister's face contort with pain as the flames licked the corners of the parchment to reach up for her fingers.

Araminta released the charred remains with a gasp of satisfaction, her expression marred by malice.

For the first time Hetty was not afraid of what she might do next. Araminta was a spent force. Hetty had the man of her dreams, a man united with her in body and soul, and nothing Araminta said or did could hurt her now. She made one final attempt to persuade Araminta of reason, extending her arm toward her, but Araminta recoiled. Sighing, Hetty shrugged. "Tonight has not gone as you'd planned, Araminta, but only you will suffer." Turning upon the threshold, she added, "You have not made me proud but as your sister, you will always have my loyalty for you and I are bound by blood ties."

"Whereas we are bound by love," her darling husband whispered as he squeezed her hand. Full of joyful confidence he led her into the night then suddenly stopped. In the glow of the hanging lantern the concern and doubt etched upon his features made Hetty fear he'd suddenly changed his mind.

"My darling, it's true what your sister says. There is still time for you to change your mind." He cleared his throat. "My past is not spotless. There are...things that may come back to haunt us which I'd rather you knew now—"

She raised herself on tiptoe and put her finger to his lips. "Do you love me, Sir Aubrey?"

He nodded.

"Do you desire me, and me alone, for your wife?"

"Dear Lord, you have no idea how much—"

"Then that is all that matters to me." Satisfied, Hetty squeezed his hands and brought them to her lips. "Tonight, it's miracle enough that I'm suddenly married to the man I fell in love with at first sight. I know you have enemies who would make life difficult for you and perhaps you are guilty of indiscretions worse than mine." She gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "But we will face what the future holds, _together_. The fact you even want to confess your wicked past is enough for me." Fleetingly she kissed him. "But I don't want to hear it. Our life together starts now. Will you agree?"

Hetty had never seen such a curious mix of features on any man's face. Certainly not when that man had been looking at _her_. Now she saw respect, admiration and wonder, all overlaid by genuine feeling.

Love. It was a liberating sensation to know she was loved for herself and not the dowry she would bring, or her name.

"You are remarkable, Miss Henrietta Partington."

"You mean Lady Banks. I am your wife, remember," she murmured as he lowered his face, the prelude to the kiss she was so looking forward to. His arms tightened about her and finally his warm, gentle mouth found hers as she added, "Forever, and come what may."

**_The End_**

# Author's Note

**The Mysterious Governess** (Book 3) starts its time-line a few days before the climactic events that form the conclusion of **Dangerous Gentlemen** (Book 2). It begins in the perspective of hardworking governess Lissa, half-sister to nobly-born Hetty and Araminta whose tumultuous adventures are the basis of **Dangerous Gentlemen**. Both **Dangerous Gentlemen** and **The Mysterious Governess** , however, can be read as stand-alone stories, as well as part of the _Daughters of Sin_ series.

# Chapter 1

Lissa watched Cosmo from the shadows of the schoolroom, reluctant to reveal herself, for the young master only visited the third floor when he wanted something. She'd come to fetch a pile of mending, one of the many "extras" Mrs. Lamont had added to Lissa's governessing duties.

Finally, curiosity got the better of her. Even from three yards away, Lissa could see that the cast of the nose Cosmo was attempting to sketch—or rather copy—of the angel framed upon the wall was all wrong.

He must have become aware of her, for turning suddenly, his expression suggesting first embarrassment, then pride, he beckoned her over.

"What do you think?"

Cosmo was always quick to crow his dubious triumphs. As quick as he was to anger. Lissa had learned to temper her responses.

"Beautifully rendered," tripped off the tongue, followed by a hesitation, her frown indicating the considered, critical response of a fellow artist to a great work that might be made greater with just a charcoal stroke here or a blending there.

The gentle snoring of Clara, the nursery maid, sleeping in the next room beside the cot containing the youngest Lamont child, was reassuring. It reduced the need for Lissa, who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable in Cosmo's uncertain company these days, to manufacture a reason to scuttle away. However, courting Cosmo's professional regard had its benefits, she'd realized, and was one way to ensure the security of her job.

Overseeing the education of the two middle Lamont children had its trials but it was better than the fate that had been forced upon Lissa's sister. Poor high-spirited Kitty had been required to remain in the tiny village where they'd grown up and were branded the local "bastards", caring for their mother in the final term of her latest pregnancy. Yes, another full-blood sibling for Lissa and Kitty. Another Hazlett bastard or Partington by-blow—however one liked to term it.

Cosmo looked smug. "I thought the same," he said, studying his work with, if possible, even greater appreciation.

Lissa, a bad liar, was reminded of the fact when Cosmo glanced at her, his self-satisfaction wiped away by suspicion before Lissa affected sudden astonishment.

"Why, it looks just like Miss Danvers!" she exclaimed. "Miss Danvers in the guise of an angel." It had been fortuitous that she'd gleaned from conversation that this young lady was the object of Cosmo's current interest and therefore quite possibly the subject of his artistic endeavors, for in truth, Cosmo had not a jot of painterly talent in his little finger.

"You think so?" Placated, he apparently strove to sound insouciant. Since attaining his majority, Cosmo had worked hard to cultivate an attitude of sophistication edged with patent boredom. Lissa's brother, Ned, had been the same, though he had fortunately grown out of it. He'd had to, since unlike Cosmo, he had no pretentions to respectability. "Well, it so happens, Miss Hazlett, that is indeed who it is, and it is my plan to present the painting to Miss Danvers when I see her on Friday."

"Oh, but she _will_ be flattered by your attention and impressed by your talent, sir." Lissa gathered up the mending and had taken several steps toward the door when Cosmo called her back. Inwardly she groaned, for she knew what was coming; and she had so hoped to have an early night.

"A moment, Miss Hazlett." The supercilious flare of Cosmo's nostrils and the disdainful cast of his mouth could not hide his inner desire that Lissa help him. Twice in the past two weeks she had, with a few artful brush strokes, transformed Cosmo's work-in-progress from hopelessly inept to a strikingly faithful rendition of his subject. She was not vain; she simply knew it was so.

Cosmo tapped his fingers on the wall beside the painting as he apparently gave thought to his next words. Lissa knew this was all part of the act. Wearily, she waited for what was to come.

Predictable as ever, Cosmo frowned as he turned toward her, biting his lip as if in the grip of great deliberation. "I am extremely busy over the next couple of days, Miss Hazlett, and I barely know where I shall find the time to finish my painting, though as you can see it is all but complete." He stared at her, no doubt waiting for her bright offer of assistance.

Lissa hesitated in the doorway, a polite smile upon her lips. She remained silent.

Cosmo shifted his weight. Clearly he'd expected more cooperation, such as the last time he'd asked her for help. And the time before that. Now Lissa merely raised enquiring eyebrows.

The silence lengthened. Upon a gusty exhalation, Cosmo muttered, "There are but two days before I see Miss Danvers and I cannot find even five minutes from the pressures of so many important claims upon my time. However, you, Miss Hazlett, enjoy a leisured lifestyle in the employ of my family. I wonder if I could prevail upon you to sacrifice just several minutes to add to this painting the minor details needed so that I might present it to Miss Danvers."

Lissa pretended to give the matter thought, then shook her head and said upon a sigh, "I'm terribly sorry, Master Cosmo, but I'm on call with the young girls all day for the next week and, in the evenings, your mother has been assiduous in ensuring I have not a second to call my own, much less to help others."

She could see the thunderclouds gathering. His gaze darkened and his brow appeared to protrude over his angry eyes. When in fine temper he was a good-looking man. More often he resembled a sullen gargoyle. Master Cosmo did not like being crossed.

Well, Lissa might be a lowly paid governess but she was not going to be taken advantage of more than she already was.

Fortunately the storm didn't break. Perhaps he remembered the sleeping baby, or was sufficiently cognizant of the likelihood she'd not help in future, for he kept a lid on his temper. "An inducement, then, Miss Hazlett?" Cosmo's smile looked more tortured than pleasant. "You are busy, as am I, but perhaps I might be in a position to offer something that might make it worth your while."

Lissa had never thought along those lines. An inducement? Goodness, a couple of shillings would go a long way toward the new gown she'd been saving for. Not the kind of gown a governess would wear, either.

She was about to accept when she glimpsed her opportunity. Money was not the only currency to get her where she wanted to go in life.

With her eye on the prize, she pretended to deliberate even more. She was not calculating by nature, but since becoming a governess in this middle-class household, with its pretentions and aspirations, she'd learned how much more people wanted something when it seemed they could not get it. "An inducement, sir? When I am so very content with my lot? What could possibly serve as an inducement?"

When she saw him open his mouth she added quickly, adopting a dreamy look, "Though now I reconsider the matter, and the fact that you're so kindly offering to facilitate my desires in order to further yours, then yes, there is one thing." She wondered if she dared voice it. Cosmo had no imagination. He'd dismiss the idea out of hand as simply preposterous if she didn't follow it up with how he might achieve it.

Her heart beat quickly, despite her pretense at whimsy, as she whispered, "Oh, Master Cosmo, the only thing I've ever truly wanted is to go to a ball. Yes, you have every right to look shocked that I harbor ideas so above my station, yet all I lack is a ball gown. A ball gown that does not mark me out as what I am: a poor governess." Lissa raised her eyes heavenward and swayed slightly as, in truth, her dreams threatened to overcome her.

She knew her half-sisters went to balls regularly. Araminta, the elder, was in her second season—her first having finished under a cloud, Lissa recalled, after a young man had put a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. The younger, sweeter one, Hetty, was now a regular on the dance floor, hoping no doubt to secure a husband before the season ended in a few weeks.

How wonderful if Lissa could secretly observe how these half-sisters, who did not even know of her existence, deported themselves in society. How wonderful to have just one night of seeing how her own life might have played out had her father, Viscount Partington, honored his promise to her mother, a lowly solicitor's daughter, and made her his wife.

Instead, he'd left Lissa's mother at the altar and married the earl's daughter his parents had chosen for him, a decision he appeared to have immediately regretted, since he was quickly back in his true love's arms, foisting upon Lissa's mother four bastards during the next twenty years.

Though he could not be faulted in his attention to their mother, he showed more inclination to discipline rather than show affection toward his illegitimate children. All were expected to go out and make their livings. Lissa as a governess, when she longed more than anything to be a renowned artist; Ned, who'd been apprenticed to a goldsmith, as that conventionally led to a financial career; and Kitty, who frequently scandalized her parents with her declarations that the only living she was prepared to countenance was a career upon the stage.

Hiding her anger, Lissa fluttered her eyelashes in a gesture she hoped Master Cosmo would regard as more helpless than flirtatious and turned her face appealingly toward his. "How I would love one night to dance beneath beeswax candles and partake of champagne and thinly sliced ham, pretending I am not the lowly creature I know myself."

Predictably, Cosmo was already shaking his head, his look making no secret of the fact he thought she'd taken leave of her senses. "Even my father, who as you know is a good deal plumper in the pocket than I am, balks at the cost of my sister's ball gowns. I really do not think, Miss Hazlett, that you can be serious."

Cosmo had no imagination. It was one reason he'd never be an artist.

But Lissa had both imagination and cunning and she was determined that somehow these would aid her.

Still wistful, she went on as if she'd not heard him. "I once heard a young man declare he had the cunning to achieve the impossible: get the kitchen maid into Lady Rutherford's ballroom decked out and behaving like a lady so she'd be asked to dance by Lady Rutherford's son." Lissa was conscious she had his attention as she went on with her story. He stiffened as he appeared to study the angel painting.

Clutching the mending more tightly to her breast, she went on, ingenuously," You see, the young man's sister was the same height as the kitchen maid, so he decided he'd borrow one of his sister's ball gowns and accompany the kitchen maid to the ball. All he had to then do was effect an introduction...and after the dance was requested, he would win his bet."

"How much was the bet?"

"A hundred pounds. He'd boasted to his friends at White's that he could do it, and it was in their betting book. Oh, but there was such anticipation over whether he could be so clever..."

She _really_ had his attention now. No doubt the possibility of making some money was very appealing. His eyes bored into her as he waited for her to conclude her story, finally asking a trifle acidly, no doubt because he had to, "Well, did he?"

"Sadly he was _not_ so clever. In fact, he couldn't even get so far as borrowing one of his sister's gowns, because she caught him and quizzed him and point-blank refused to let him take what wasn't his." Lissa sighed and leveled her gaze at Cosmo. "Young ladies in high dudgeon can be formidable. And as I mentioned, he'd thought he was so much cleverer than he was but I'm afraid one has to be exceedingly clever to successfully put one over one's sister. And _your_ sister would be impossible to bamboozle."

Lissa inclined her head. "Good night, Master Cosmo. I'm sure Miss Danvers will like her painting whether it's perfectly executed or not."

# Chapter 2

While the orchestra played, Lissa tweaked the lustrous folds of her silver-flecked evening gown—well, Miss Maria's ball gown—and tested her smile, reflected in the enormous silver epergne, from which protruded at least three dozen lilies on the center of the refreshments table.

"One dance, and that's all. Then the evening's over," Cosmo muttered as he plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed it to her. "I get few enough invitations to such events and I won't suffer you to ruin my chances of more."

Cosmo had gone to great pains with his appearance. His hair, short at the sides, had been brushed upwards to gain him even greater height, while plunging south into a pair of razor-thin sideburns. Lissa glanced at the nipped-in waist of his royal blue swallow-tail coat and wondered if he'd resorted to his sister's corsetry. Well, perhaps not Miss Maria's stays, but lately he'd been adopting, more and more, the accouterments of style favored by the tulips or pinks of whom her brother Ned—a true nonpareil himself these days—spoke so scathingly.

Fingering the ridiculously high points of his collar, which looked like it was choking him, he muttered, "Drink up, Miss Hazlett, and then we shall dance a set before I take you home. It was pure chance I was invited here tonight and I don't want to be exposed." Cosmo glanced nervously over his shoulder as Lissa responded with a forced smile, "Others might have considered me an asset, Master Cosmo."

She wished she'd been cleverer at negotiating terms. Certainly, it would be a scandal if it were discovered the governess had slipped unnoticed into such hallowed precincts, but Master Cosmo was an accomplished liar and Lissa knew how to conduct herself in such a setting. However, if her duplicity were revealed, Cosmo would no doubt find a way to turn it to his advantage while Lissa might well lose her position.

"Excuse me..."

Both turned at the interruption, Lissa experiencing a sudden and curious reaction that certainly wasn't admiration as a lean, dark-haired gentleman gazed at her through a pair of speculative dark eyes.

"My apologies. I had thought you someone else." Despite his error, the gentleman nevertheless asked Lissa to partner him in the quadrille once he'd introduced himself and ascertained she was free for that set. Within minutes, Lissa was close enough to smell the whiskey and tar soap that impregnated his inky locks and dark wool coat, and to wonder why she felt so uncomfortable in his company.

"Miss Hazlett?" As they waited for the head couple to perform their figures, he stared at her intently. "Is it possible you are related to Miss Araminta Partington?"

Shock rendered her speechless. How could he possibly have guessed at a family connection? But of course, he had not, she reassured herself. He was merely commenting upon a resemblance that had been remarked upon before, as resemblances were remarked upon in many families. However, with Lissa and Araminta on opposite sides of the social divide, Lissa had never—until now—considered it could be a complication.

She hoped he didn't notice her fiery blush as she replied, faintly, "I'm a visitor to these parts. I have not heard of the young lady."

He nodded, his thin lips tightening, turning to bow to the lady on his left, as the dance required, before turning back to Lissa, the music and figures of the quadrille sedate enough to continue their conversation. "Interesting. When I glimpsed you across the dance floor, I thought you were she. Not that I am disappointed, of course."

He smiled suddenly, as if it were a prop intended to make him appear disarming, as he led her in a short promenade. He exuded confidence and entitlement—and danger—and Lissa, who was not one to suffer nerves, was frightened her carefully cultivated façade may suddenly dissolve.

"This is my first season, Lord Debenham," she murmured, returning to her place beside him after the ladies' chain. "How interesting that I have a double."

"Yes, and there she is." His Lordship raised a thin eyebrow as he clasped her in a waltz hold, ready to gallop her across to the other side of the set. "Dancing with the very undesirable Sir Aubrey, in fact. You've surely been in town long enough to know he is someone of whom to beware."

Lissa followed the direction of his gaze and her heart lurched. Not on account of the sudden requirement for energy or fear at not knowing the steps. Though the quadrille in its modern form had been introduced relatively recently to the upper classes, Lissa and her siblings had been taught to dance. Their mother, not the most maternal nor ambitious of women, had nevertheless insisted her offspring receive a classical education, which included dancing and watercolors, even if there would be no occasion to flaunt these refinements. Having the accouterments without opportunity until now to practice them in public was one of the many reasons Lissa was enjoying every moment rubbing shoulders with the rich and titled.

Well, she _had_ been enjoying every moment, until she saw her half-sister. There she was dressed in virginal white silk with a pale green sash to match the green feather in her simple headdress. Miss Araminta Partington, living the life Lissa would have lived had her father followed his heart, not his parents' dictates.

The young woman's supercilious glance about the ballroom did nothing to ameliorate the raw hatred that surged through Lissa, though fortunately when Araminta looked pointedly at Lord Debenham, her gaze didn't encompass the unknown Lissa.

Araminta's interest in Lord Debenham immediately made him more interesting. Certainly his dark, cruel looks were not to Lissa's taste. She could tell that, in his own way, he was as self-absorbed as Cosmo; but the fact Araminta was clearly sizing him up as a prospect was unexpected. Lissa immediately wanted to know more. And of Sir Aubrey, with that striking streak of blond hair in his otherwise dark locks, whom Lord Partington clearly held in aversion. A rival, perhaps?

"Why should I be wary of Sir Aubrey?"

A glance down his hawk-like nose would have made lesser girls quail. As if her question singled her out as utterly ignorant.

"You really are from the country if you've heard nothing of the scandal attached to our lowly baronet. The blackguard is barely received. But I shall leave it at that for what would you know of politics? You only have to read the gossip sheets to understand it would be wise to steer clear of the villain."

Lissa bristled at his dismissive tone. In fact, she followed politics with great interest and regularly purloined her employer's newspaper when he'd finished with it.

"I am interested in politics, Lord Debenham," she said. "I'd like to hear the details."

Lord Debenham stroked his snowy cravat, then shrugged. "Sir Aubrey drove his late wife to take her own life—though others suggest he played a more personal role in her death—when he learned she was preparing to reveal his involvement in a group of Spenceans suspected of plotting the assassination of Lord Castlereagh."

Lissa gasped. "He's a _Spencean_? A murderer? And he's received?"

Lord Debenham shrugged again before taking her hands to execute the next figure of the set. "Only because there is as yet insufficient evidence to convict him, but mark my words, Miss Hazlett, it will not be long before Sir Aubrey is brought to justice."

"And Miss Partington is dancing with him?" Lissa was truly shocked. She knew her sister enjoyed taking risks, but surely she'd think associating in any way with a suspected traitor and murderer would be unacceptably damaging to her reputation?

Lord Debenham sent a narrow look in the couple's direction. "Sir Aubrey likes to look the Pinkest of the Pinks but the truth is, he's shockingly loose in the haft, if you'll pardon me coining a phrase your brother might use. Sir Aubrey thinks he can get away with anything if he puts up enough front. He's certainly cunning and desperate enough to be a danger to anyone who falls foul of him."

"Are you going to warn Miss Partington?"

Lord Debenham raised an eyebrow. "I suspect Miss Partington's actions are designed to invite just such a warning from me. Thank you for the dance, Miss Hazlett. Here is your cousin. I shall bid you adieu and do exactly as you suggest."

Lissa's high spirits came crashing down as His Lordship deposited her with Cosmo before he immediately set off in Araminta's direction.

"You've had your dance and now we must go." Cosmo was waiting anxiously by the edge of the dance floor, ready to whisk her through the crowd and into a waiting hackney cab while Lissa had had but a mere taste of what she had been hoping would be the substance of her young life before too long. She knew she looked beautiful. That in fact, in looks, she rivaled her half-sister.

What a cruel twist of fate that it was Araminta who was living the life that should have been Lissa's; Araminta who was anticipating a glittering marriage and a life of ease. For Lissa, the only life-changing event she could anticipate would be to graduate from her role of governess to Cosmo's two little sisters to that of unpaid companion to her mother in her old age.

With a grim look, Cosmo caged her hand on his arm, as if the touch with someone so lowly were utterly repugnant.

The double doors that opened into the lobby grew closer, and now the bewigged footman was ushering her outside, into the cold. It was _not_ where she belonged. Always on the other side of these doors. Her throat thickened and tears formed behind her eyes.

"Stop looking so Friday-faced. I have fulfilled your wish, Miss Hazlett." Cosmo turned to her as they descended the stairs. "Now you must fulfill your part of the bargain. I need to give Miss Danvers' miniature to her in the morning."

Lissa, who'd not put it past him to steal it, had hidden it beneath her pillow as further protection against him reneging on his promise. She suspected he'd already rummaged through her room trying to find it.

Now, she weighed up whether to push the advantage as Cosmo helped her into the waiting hackney he'd flagged down as they'd rounded the corner from Lady Stanely's Bruton Street residence, for he couldn't be observed, in public, putting a lone woman into such an equipage. She decided against it. Cosmo could turn nasty if he felt he was being taken advantage of.

"Never fear, the miniature will be waiting for you in your bedchamber when you return, Master Cosmo. And now you must return to the ball. You won't want to squander the invitation. As you yourself remarked, they do not happen regularly, do they?" She did not hear him respond to her jibe, for the jarvey shut the door at that moment before jumping onto the box.

With a "Gee-o", he whipped the horses into movement and as Lissa lurched forward, she was filled with the determination that she would not always be a governess. She'd witnessed enough of her half-sister's behavior over the years to know that Araminta, vain and proud, did not appreciate her life of ease and plenty.

Well, Lissa was as well versed in the requirements of being a lady, and certainly behaved in a more ladylike manner than Araminta, an observation backed up by her sister, Kitty, who took an even greater interest in their half-sister than Lissa did.

Surely, with her unusual palette of talents, Lissa could carve out a niche for herself that was more rewarding than the usual destiny allotted to the illegitimate and unacknowledged daughter of a peer of the realm?

Cocooned alone in the musty, uncomfortable interior of the hackney, now that Cosmo had, with clear relief, washed his hands of her, Lissa had gone only a couple of blocks when she was jerked out of her unhappy musings by a terrified cry, a head-rattling lurch, and the grinding of wheels accompanied by a deafening whinny.

Disoriented, she flailed in the dark for something she could grip as she felt the hackney round a bend on only two wheels. The side window smashed inward as it veered too close to a building and Lissa screamed as she was thrown against the door. For a moment the vehicle slowed, then, suddenly gathering speed, it sped on. Now she could hear the shouts of others in the street as they either leapt clear of the runaway horse or perhaps tried to arrest its progress.

Hunching her shoulders, she covered her face and braced for the inevitable impact, a prisoner in this capsule and under no illusions it would end well.

Despite her flights of fancy, Lissa was pragmatic by nature. Either she would be snuffed out when the hackney came to a final, messy stop or went into the river, or she would be looking for a way to explain her multiple injuries and damage to Miss Maria's ball gown while hoping she still had a job.

If the outcome were too bad she may have to return home to her mother. She felt ambivalent about this. While she'd never been more lonely than in the six months she'd spent as governess in the Lamont household—not good enough to be spoken to civilly by her employers and too good for the other servants to offer friendship—she did enjoy the bustle of London.

The inevitable impact came, truncated by a terrible sound of splitting wood and grinding metal, and Lissa was thrown against the side of the carriage, hitting her head on the window frame before slumping to the floor.

For a few moments she lay curled up in a ball, breathing heavily and waiting in case there was a dramatic codicil to her terrifying adventure.

Tentatively she flexed her hands and feet and opened her eyes, screaming when she found her right eye without vision as she drew away her fingers, sticky with what she knew must be blood.

Seconds later the carriage door was forced open and she found herself staring at three goggling men, two with blackened faces half covered by filthy, ragged mufflers, the third startling clean by contrast, with chiseled elegant features, a thatch of flyaway brown hair beneath his topper, and an expression of concern that blazed her into renewed life.

"Are you all right, Miss? Here, let me assist you. Are you alone?" The clean, handsome gentleman elbowed his way forward and extended his hand into the gloomy interior, and as she gripped it, she felt an almost overwhelming sense of safety and relief.

Lissa was a quick thinker, and had her excuse ready in answer to his surprise. "The horse bolted before my chaperone had a chance to enter the carriage."

Now she was outside, being assisted to stand, shivering in the darkness. The young man divested himself of his coat, which he wrapped around her, and as the other two characters melted into the darkness to assist the cab driver, Lissa's gentleman protector lowered his face to study hers.

"You have a cut just above your eye," he said, whipping a snowy-white handkerchief from the pocket of the coat he'd just relinquished. "Ah, not deep, fortunately. Now, what shall we do with you? You're probably in shock, in which case a little brandy would be just the thing, but of course I must return you to your chaperone immediately. She'll be in a panic. Here, lean against me. You're shaking."

Lissa's knees felt they might give way any moment. A short distance away the jarvey was urging his horse onto all four legs while the two men in mufflers had recruited help with righting the smashed equipage.

"Where have you come from and where did you leave your chaperone?" asked the young man, adding before she had time to answer, "But where are my manners? Introductions are in order." His grin by the light of a nearby lamp post was enough to do what any amount of brandy might not have achieved. It warmed the cockles of Lissa's heart. Shyly, she introduced herself.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hazlett," he said, caging her hand on his arm as he led her to the pavement. "And I am Mr. Ralph Tunley, parliamentary secretary and confidante to all manner of rakes and rogues but, sadly, in my own right, a poor, struggling hopeful with not a feather to fly with. Which is why I am unable to offer you a carriage ride home, since it is quite beyond my means. Shall I accost the driver of this passing hackney and send you back to your chaperone, or dispatch a note to your family immediately to let them know what has happened?"

Lissa shook her head as she glanced at her ball gown, nearly doubling up with dismay when she saw the damage inflicted upon it.

"I'm sure you have plenty more just as lovely," he reassured her. "Not that a great beauty like you needs silk and diamonds to enhance what nature has so abundantly bestowed upon you. There, wasn't that a pretty speech? I can practice such courtly sentiments without fear of censure since you will shortly be whisked out of my orbit and I will never see you again, though perhaps I shall hear news of your marriage to some great scion I could never hope to rival. Goodness, though, but I think that you _are_ a beauty beneath the grime and blood."

She saw he was grinning as he moved her a little closer to the illuminated glow cast by the nearby gas lamp. "You're welcome to slap my face if you wish."

Finally, Lissa was able to utter something coherent. "I shall forgive your impertinence, for you rescued me," she sniffed. "And this gown is not mine. It belongs to the daughter of my employer." She thought she might burst into tears as she contemplated the repercussions of the damage it had suffered. Several bows had been torn off the trimming at the hem when she'd been pulled from the wreckage, though in the dim light she could discern only a few dirt smudges. "She doesn't even know it's gone," she admitted. "I'm just a governess, and the family I work for thinks I'm in bed, asleep." She balled her fists, trying not to cry. "If they find out what I've done, I'll lose my job."

Mr. Tunley looked properly concerned for the first time, no doubt perceiving the enormity of losing one's position when one had no financial backing. Then his mouth stretched wide into a warm smile.

"Just the governess? Why, isn't this my lucky evening? I get to rescue the beautiful maiden and perhaps not lose her within a fortnight to some unworthy wastrel with more money and address than I have. Where do you live?" Then, when she told him, he added, "Allow me to escort you home, since we're so close. I must satisfy myself that both you and the secret of your truancy remain safe, and I also will pledge that your gown gets the very best attention. The good woman I lodge with is a seamstress. She'll know what to do."

Lissa slanted a dubious look at him as they began walking, and he laughed. "You _are_ the suspicious type, aren't you? But of course, to be alone with any gentleman must be highly distressing. Don't worry, no one will recognize you with such a dirty face."

Lissa liked his easy-natured humor but she was wary, too. "Without wishing to be rude, Mr. Tunley, I haven't met many people who don't expect to be more than handsomely rewarded for doing one the slightest good turn. Might I just warn you that while I'm very grateful you've rescued me, I will also be saying a very firm goodbye when you deposit me at the garden gate."

"You do speak your mind—and I like that in a young lady!" He raised his hands and took a quick sidestep, wearing an expression of mock alarm. "I assure you, Miss Hazlett, my first impulse is to help you. Though would it be such a terrible thing to further our acquaintance? Once you're inside and have changed, you can toss down your poor ruined dress. I promise I shall return it to you by tomorrow evening in pristine condition. If anyone can work miracles with clothing, my landlady can."

'No!" Lissa gave an emphatic shake of her head. "I am permitted no followers, Mr. Tunley. Besides, I've only just met you and that gown is worth a pretty penny. I'm quite capable of managing to do what must be done in order to rescue it from total ruin."

To her astonishment, she choked on the final word, stumbling against the low railing of the neighbor's house as a great sob wracked her body. Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She was not one to succumb to displays of emotion, and she wasn't even afraid.

Well, not really.

"I hope it wasn't something I said." Mr. Tunley looked alarmed. "I was just trying to offer a helpful solution."

Lissa tried to draw in a breath but there seemed to be some blockage. "I know you were, and it's not you," she managed, realizing that the sobs that were suddenly choking her must be due to the kind of shock that afflicts one after a terrible event has befallen them. The same thing had happened unexpectedly when she'd fallen off a horse once. She'd thought she was fine at the time, only to succumb to the vapors half an hour later.

When she glanced up, she saw the happy smile had been wiped from the poor young man's face. He was standing, uncertainly, as if he didn't know whether to take off, fearing she might be mad.

Lissa pulled herself together and managed to stammer, "Little wonder you look like you'd rather be running a mile in the opposite direction. First, you're so good to me, helping me out of the carriage, seeing me safely home, and then offering to salvage my poor ruined dress so I don't lose my job. And what do I do? Behave like a cry-baby."

He gripped her hands and helped her to stand straight. "You mistake me. You're suffering from shock but I don't want to appear to take liberties. You have every reason to shed tears, Miss Hazlett. I'm surprised you didn't before. You've been lucky to escape a horrible accident with just a scratch. You're probably half frozen to death, and if I weren't a gentleman who's already given you my coat, I'd offer you the warmth you need right now."

He looked suddenly abashed, as if he wished the pavement would swallow him. "Pardon me, that came out terribly wrong. I meant I wish I had a decent abode close by with a blazing fire where you could warm yourself but of course, even if I had, I couldn't, for I really am a gentleman, and I'd never dream of sullying your reputation by getting closer than is seemly—well, except to rescue you from a crushed carriage, that is."

Lissa continued to tremble, though she smiled at his little speech. "You have been very kind, and yes I am very cold, though I will have to give up your coat in a minute."

"No, no, I insist, you must keep it."

Lissa shook her head. "I shall throw it down from the window, then. With my dress. I've decided I do trust you, after all. And since we've gone this far, and I am so beyond the pale, I will allow you to very quickly put your arms around me so that I may warm _you_ , for you are trembling from the cold and, shocking as it may be, I am not in my ordered mind, but it's all I can offer as my thanks for taking me this far so safely."

His irrepressible grin lit up his face as he wasted no time in stepping forward and, in a gentle yet quite firm embrace, he held her to him for a second.

A charge of such warmth seemed to fill Lissa's veins that she gasped. He was not tall and broad-shouldered, yet he felt dependable, and he smelled of almonds and coffee overlaid with tar, perhaps some concoction he used on his thatch of brown hair.

It was the briefest of hugs, already he'd dropped his arms and stepped back, but his expression perhaps mirrored hers for he looked as if he too had been overcome by something quite unexpected.

Lissa blinked rapidly several times and then glanced up at the Lamonts' townhouse. Feeling completely tongue-tied, she said the first words that came to mind. "I hope Master Cosmo ensured the kitchen door remained unbolted." She cast a dubious look at the stairs that led from the pavement to the basement. Then in enquiry to the young man's look, explained that her employer's son had taken her to a ball in return for a painting he'd asked her to do for him.

"What an enterprising young lady you are. And an artist, to boot," remarked Mr. Tunley, before insisting he do the "gentlemanly thing" which was to descend the stairs to try the door.

A moment later he returned to her side. "I must say, your Master Cosmo is very neglectful since he's clearly given no thought to how you might get in once the servants had gone to bed. You can hardly knock, can you?"

Lissa was feeling distinctly forlorn by now, and Mr. Tunley gave her a bolstering pat on the shoulder. "If I could look forward to imminent elevation in my job, I would suggest that we eloped this very minute. Not only are you beautiful but you're clearly wondrously talented, and sound as if you'd be a great asset to a young man trying to make his mark in the world." He sent her a self-deprecating grin, then shrugged. "The fact is, _I_ cannot offer you anything, and _you_ face the prospect of being thrown out onto the street without a character if you don't gain access."

Lissa put her hand to her mouth. The truth was terrifying. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered or not, Mr. Tunley. Though of course, it's easy to make extravagant declarations when you follow them up with the caveat that they're entirely impossible." She liked this young man, whose humor and lightness of being was so different from what she was used to.

He raked his fingers through the thatch of hair that flopped over his forehead. "One day I shall be a man of influence and plump enough in the pocket to make spontaneous offers of marriage to beautiful women I rescue from carriage accidents. Sadly, though, for now, I'll just have to be ingenious enough to find a way to breach the stone fortress that stands before us."

Mr. Tunley might not have been flush with funds but he was incredibly daring, climbing the drainpipe and entering the house through an open window. Lissa had never been so frightened, watching his precarious ascent and then perilous acrobatics as he'd struggled to push up the sash while balancing on the narrow window ledge. It took all her willpower not to hug him again when he triumphantly opened the kitchen door and greeted her with out-flung arms and a grin of self-congratulation.

Lissa had not expected thanks but she was surprised by the force of her feelings when, the following day, Cosmo flaunted the portrait he claimed to have painted while his mama and sister gushed their admiration. Lissa, who was passing the breakfast room to take her two charges out of the house for a walk, hesitated in the passage and looked through the half open door. The eldest Lamont daughter, eighteen-year-old Maria, thought her brother's talent prodigious, while Mrs. Lamont declared her son's brilliance sufficient to ensure him all manner of lucrative commissions amongst the haut ton.

"You tell your Miss Danvers that she's to show it to the company when her mother entertains that new MP, Lord Debenham and his friends," cried Mrs. Lamont as she held the painting up to the light. She patted her ringlets as she sighed pleasurably over the family's future prospects. "I read all about His Lordship in the gossip sheets and he'd be just the man to help advance you, Cosmo. He's not married but he has the look of someone in need of a wife, eh Maria? Or perhaps he has a nearly-betrothed in need of painting."

Lissa tried not to cough and thus alert Cosmo to her outrage at the smooth manner in which he accepted his family's praise, with not one word to indicate he was not the lone architect of his masterpiece. Instead, she had to satisfy herself with a very brief but focused glare as she passed by while she digested the rather disconcerting news that Mrs. Lamont was familiar with the very man her governess had been dancing with the previous night. It was some small consolation that the Lamonts only _aspired_ to the social ranks that would enable them to invite a man like Lord Debenham to the house.

Lissa's revenge upon Cosmo for his arrogance came in a most unexpected manner about an hour after his return. She was on her hands and knees in the drawing room, turning down the hem of one of Miss Maria's older morning gowns and wondering if she'd have the chance of conversing with Mr. Tunley if he returned her damaged ball gown that afternoon, as he'd promised.

Thanks to Miss Maria's father's success as a broker in the city, the young lady had a fair selection of evening gowns for her debut, but she'd put on an unexpected spurt of growth and the family was not wealthy enough for luxuries like new morning gowns, which were only for lounging around in at home, besides. The lady of fashion was an expensive creature, with so many changes of clothing required, but Mrs. Lamont was, in addition to being frighteningly ambitious, extremely enterprising. And ruthless.

Miss Maria, prettier than her mother had ever been, Lissa suspected, was not nearly as clever and did not do much in the way of lounging. When she wasn't being drilled in deportment, she was to be found flitting around, checking her appearance in her hand mirror and scanning the street from the drawing room window for a sign of the various men who might have caught her interest at the few social events to which she was invited, or taking visits with her family to the theatre or the National Museum.

Lissa was terrified her eldest charge would discover the absence of her silver-flecked ball gown and every minute that ticked by was spent in an agony that the charming young man she'd met the night before would let her down. It wasn't too much to say that her entire future rested in his hands, for if he reneged on his promise to return Miss Maria's dress properly mended before its disappearance was discovered, Lissa would be out of a job. Without a character, she had no hope of securing another position.

When the parlor maid put her head around the door a moment later and announced with a frown that a gentleman wished an audience with Miss Hazlett, all three heads jerked up. Not Lissa's for she could only stare at Maria's daintily shod feet while heat burned her cheeks.

"Gentlemen callers are not allowed," Mrs. Lamont responded in warning tones, rising and taking a few threatening steps toward Lissa. "Miss Hazlett, can you explain what this is about?"

"Excuse me, ma'am, but the gentleman—a Mr. Tunley—says he's here on behalf of his employer, Lord Debenham." The girl looked confused, as if she had no idea whether this might be a man of importance or not.

Mrs. Lamont's reaction left her in no doubt.

"What would Lord Debenham want with you, Miss Hazlett?" It was an accusation, not a question, and Lissa made to rise without an answer, though in truth her terror threatened to overwhelm her.

Mr. Tunley worked for Lord _Debenham_?

It was Cosmo who strode forward, smoothly taking charge and saying, "Tell this gentleman we shall see him in the conservatory."

Lissa shook her head, shrugging off his hand upon her shoulder. "But he wants to see _me_." Whatever the gentleman had to say must be said in private. Dear Lord, had Lord Debenham learned she was the mere governess and Mr. Tunley was here to warn her? If it were about the dress only, he'd have been more circumspect about it, surely?

"I was speaking of Lord Debenham to an acquaintance and of His Lordship's potential interest in a portrait just an hour ago," Cosmo hissed to Lissa under his breath when he'd nevertheless propelled her toward the doorway that opened into the passage. "You've got a message to him, haven't you? Telling him that _you_ painted the portrait of Miss Danvers when it was really me!"

Lissa stepped back at the vitriol in his eyes as she defended herself in a whisper, "Truly, Cosmo, I have no idea what this is about. I've said nothing to anyone about... You know." She trailed off at the warning look in his eye. "It's just that I met Mr. Tunley last night when my hackney was in an accident. He must be here to see if I'm all right."

Cosmo looked first mollified, then assessing. "So you met Lord Debenham's equerry, or whatever this servant calls himself, last night, did you? Well, Miss Hazlett, you'd better be careful what you tell this gentleman."

Lissa squared her shoulders. "I value my position, Master Cosmo, besides which, I have nowhere else to go. Ah, Mr. Tunley, what a pleasant surprise."

She was relieved he was dressed like a gentleman of fashion and not a lackey, and unprepared for the lurch she felt in the region of her heart as he was invited at that moment by the maid to step into the drawing room Lissa had hoped to vacate. She certainly did not wish the family to witness her meeting—or her suddenly disordered wits, for such feelings were new to her, as was this young man's response.

His easy open grin and the way he tossed his unruly thatch of hair back from his face were signs of an open heart, she thought, liking him even more in the daylight. The only man apart from her brother that she'd had dealings with were Cosmo. Most other gentlemen didn't deign to look at lowly governesses.

Mr. Tunley inclined his head then, with a glance at the assembled company, said with all the aplomb of the consummate diplomat, "Is there somewhere Miss Hazlett and I might speak in private? I have something to communicate on behalf of my employer...in confidence."

After the rather bemused Lamont family had watched Lissa lead Mr. Tunley to the conservatory, Ralph thrust the parcel he carried under his arm at her and said triumphantly, "I pledged to return your gown—or your mistress's gown—none the worse for wear."

"And managed to set tongues wagging in the process."

"Adding to your consequence. You should be grateful to me. The Lamonts will never look at you in the same way, wondering what business you have with the esteemed MP, Lord Debenham."

"I just pray I never see him again," Lissa murmured, stroking the fronds of a large potted palm before smiling up at him, "for he was the only man I danced with at Lady Stanley's ball, and no one must ever know I left the house and did such a thing."

Mr. Tunley cocked his head and looked at her with renewed interest. "You danced with my employer? One of London's most... _dangerous_ bachelors?" The gleam in his eye faded and he sighed. "I hope you didn't prefer him over me. That would not be wise, and I'm not saying that only because I'd _prefer_ you favored me. The fact is, I would caution any young lady against falling in love with my employer, even at the risk of my job."

Lissa stared at him against the backdrop of exotic greenery and London's gray London skies through the window in the background. She'd sensed something she hadn't liked when dancing in Lord Debenham's arms, chaste though the contact had been.

"Dangerous? Pray, why is he dangerous?"

"So you know nothing of Lord Debenham? Of his vendetta against his late cousin's husband, Sir Aubrey, whom he accuses of being the ringleader in the plot to assassinate Lord Castlereagh?"

"Good heavens!" Lissa cried, shaking her head. "But surely it's Sir Aubrey who is the man to beware? At least, that's what Lord Debenham told _me_." She narrowed her eyes. "And why work for a man you clearly do not admire?"

Mr. Tunley looked abashed for the first time as he played absently with the frond of an overhanging fern for Lissa had not invited him to be seated. She was too nervous for that. "Needs must, my dear Miss Hazlett. I could ask you the same. Why work for a family you clearly have no respect for? I'll answer it for you. Because where else could you go? As for myself, I'd need a very compelling reason for leaving my present employ without my reputation being tarnished. I'm afraid Lord Debenham would not be kind in letting me go. So, I make myself absolutely indispensable to him. He'd be lost without me, and that's a fact."

He grinned suddenly. Lissa liked the way his smiles lit up his face, as if he possessed a great radiance within. "Deuced coincidence that you danced with him. Not that—as you say—you want the Lamonts to find out about that." He looked thoughtful. "Or, to in fact, see Lord Debenham in case he says something."

"That's not likely, for I rarely leave the house except to take the little girls to the park. However, Master Cosmo hopes to render His Lordship's likeness, which means he plans to make some awful sketch and then have me fix it up. His mother thinks it a splendid idea." Lissa smiled, tilting her head and feigning entreaty. "I don't suppose you could find out for me whether Master Cosmo's request was conveyed to Lord Debenham? It would help to know so I had something to convey when I returned to the drawing room where the family is no doubt agog to hear what you've had to say."

Ralph stroked his chin, thoughtfully. "I've been on business about town all morning so I'm afraid I have nothing to report. Nor will I have anything to report in the future as I see how unwise it would be to communicate further with you. The Lamont family will not tolerate their governess entertaining," he shrugged, "a follower—dreadful word, that is—and I do not wish to make things difficult for you."

Disappointment flooded her though she knew this was ridiculous when she'd only just met the young man.

"You see," he went on, "I'm in great danger of liking you altogether too much, but as I have nothing to offer, our love is doomed."

She tilted her chin, glad he'd been able to inject humor into the situation. "Mr. Tunley, we have met but once. There has never been talk of..."

"Love?" He looked abashed. "No, it's true. Ah well, until last night I'd never met a young lady I believed I could hold in such high esteem. You were brave as well as beautiful, even with blood all over your face. I couldn't sleep for thinking about you, only now I'm in danger of appearing ridiculous. You seem far too sensible to believe in instant attraction."

Lissa dropped her eyes. "No," she whispered.

"No, what?"

"No, I'm not too sensible to believe in that."

"Oh..."

Clearly her whispered admission had taken him by surprise. For a moment he was lost for words. Then he grinned. "Well, it's quite unfair to make you fall in love with me when, at the risk of repeating myself, I've already said I have absolutely nothing to offer you."

He took her hand and bowed over it, the touch of his lips causing a tremor to travel all the way up her spine.

"And so I bid you _adieu_ , my fair Miss Hazlett, with the greatest of regrets, but wishing you all the happiness in your life that a maiden as bold and beautiful, yet modest, deserves."

Rising, he tapped the parcel she now held. "Tell them this is for your father, a country solicitor or some such, with whom Lord Debenham does business. How's that for cunning? It'll satisfy their need to know what our meeting was all about while adding to your consequence."

Lissa watched him bow his way out of the door and disappear from, she presumed, the rest of her life.

A great sense of tragedy weighed heavily on her—until it was replaced by pleasurable astonishment when she unwrapped the parcel in Maria's room a short while later, intending to return the beautifully cleaned gown to its rightful place. For as the wrapping fell away, a beautiful silver comb encrusted with tiny, sparkling gems of colored glass tumbled to the floor.

Attached to it was a card on which was written: _Always remember the man who would have rescued you from more than just a hackney accident, had it been possible –Ralph Tunley._

Her delight was sudden and brief but the crushing disappointment that followed was more long-lasting. She tossed the card and comb on the bed in order to concentrate on ensuring the gown was perfect. Only when she'd reassured herself on that score did she return her attention to the lackluster message—and find that more words had been written on the inside of the fold.

_If you ever need a knight in shining armor—albeit a poor one—you can find me through Mrs. Nipkins, mantua maker to the nobility, Coopers Alley, Soho._

Cosmo adopted a different approach the next time he saw Lissa. She was walking with the younger girls in the little park in front of the Lamonts' townhouse. The evening shadows were long and Lissa was glad of the girls' company as she became aware of him creeping up behind her. When she felt his hot breath on her cheek and his soft words in her ear, she knew he was trying to unnerve her. He would not succeed.

"What do you really know of Lord Debenham?" There was both envy and concern in his tone. "He wishes for a charcoal sketch, you know. A likeness." Master Cosmo matched his steps with hers.

Lissa gripped his younger sister Nellie's hand as she answered blithely, the lies tripping off her tongue, "Lord Debenham is a friend of my father's. I have never met him, personally, until we danced at Lady Stanley's, however, I barely looked at him, I was so overcome with fear he might recognize my name, though of course he did not. But I'm sorry, Master Cosmo, I am quite unable to render his likeness, if that's what you want."

She had determined already that she would not submit to any amount of bullying just to bolster Cosmo's reputation as a painter. The young master had no concern for Lissa's welfare. If Ralph hadn't helped her gain admittance to the house last night, she might well be on her way back to her dear mama's without a job right now.

Cosmo was silent for some moments, apparently not expecting such intransigence, so Lissa was surprised when he said pleasantly, "I've been invited to attend Mrs. Gargery's garden party tomorrow and I would like you to accompany me."

Nellie and Harriet had run on ahead so he added, "Not that anyone will be made aware of your lowly position. I can't afford to have it known you are what you are, however, I thought you may enjoy the diversion."

"And because Lord Debenham will be there?" But he'd found her weak spot. A garden party. It would be a chance to mix with her social superiors.

Immediately she corrected herself. Her social superiors? Her father was one of these people. So were her half-sisters, Araminta and Hetty.

She'd always held out the smallest hope that somehow she'd find her niche. That she wouldn't be a lowly governess forever.

Then she thought of lovely Mr. Tunley and her stomach turned over. If only he wasn't as poor as a church mouse, though his fulsome compliments had been quite safe to declare as he'd so clearly put himself out of contention for being a suitor. Even though she'd tried not to think of him all morning, the image of his handsome, smiling face with its unruly thatch of brown hair kept intruding.

But a garden party, where eligible young men might be similarly taken with her, was too irresistible to refuse. She was not being vain but at twenty, she needed to direct her future where she could. She had no intention of being a governess or living as a spinster with her mother for the rest of her life.

"I want you to enjoy what is not generally within your reach, Miss Hazlett." His smile was false and cloying as he stopped to wave at his sisters before turning back to her. "And I want you to sketch Lord Debenham, though that will have to be achieved from a distance."

Oh, but how she wanted to go. If Lord Debenham were going to be there, it was possible Mr. Tunley might also.

"What can I wear?"

He shrugged. "You're enterprising enough to solve that problem yourself, surely? Mind, though, you can't wear that." He cast a disparaging look at her serviceable blue serge skirts.

"Miss Maria?" She knew it was hopeless, even as desperation prompted her to ask the question.

He shook his head. "I dare not try that again. No, Miss Hazlett, you must find a way to clothe yourself. If you're as anxious to go as you appear, you'll be enterprising enough to find a way."

"I see you know nothing of how the world works. Of its impediments such as decent clothing, the want of which precludes those respectably born, but without funds, from mixing with their class. Perhaps you don't really want me to accompany you after all." Lissa glared. "You know I shan't be able to sketch Lord Debenham unless I have a gown that is suitable."

Cosmo cast her a look of frustrated despair. "Miss Hazlett, I am completely unable to provide you with a new dress. You know that. I have very little in the way of ready income, not that I'd spend it equipping you with new clothes when I think my offer of attending a garden party with a better class of people than you're used to is generous enough. Now please, use that pretty head of yours to secure yourself something suitable for just two hours."

# Chapter 3

Araminta stared at the two bonnets lying on the bed. Deciding which one to wear might be the most difficult decision she'd have to make in a day. The bonnet of vermillion-colored satin, embossed with straw and surmounted by a bouquet of full-blown damask roses? Or the simple, leghorn bonnet, which would highlight her innocence when teamed with her demure sprigged muslin?

Her sister, sitting morosely on the bed behind her, had been no use in helping her decide. Hetty had appeared plainly bored by the question and apparently more concerned with how to conceal a pimple on her jawline. Araminta had offered her advice but Hetty's mood seemed only to have grown darker at Araminta's bolstering suggestion that patience and acceptance were far more becoming than petulance in one who did not have the striking looks to turn the heads of the gentlemen, and that such virtues may even be rewarded.

Despite Hetty's lack of response, Araminta considered herself a caring sister and made a final attempt to ease her plain sister's concerns. Deciding upon the more striking vermillion bonnet, she turned, tying the scarlet ribbons beneath her chin, and said with a reassuring smile. "Just wait another year, Hetty dearest, and your skin may well improve, not to mention your figure. You're only in your first season out, and remember that Mama said she was more comely after a year of marriage than when she was making her debut. Now, what do you think of this now that it's on? It favors my complexion, don't you think? Certainly not a color you can wear, though."

"All I know is that it's a color favored by Jezebels wanting to get their claws into certain gentlemen. _Dangerous_ ones," Hetty hissed.

Araminta was truly shocked. This was not like Hetty at all. Hetty was generally sweet and pliable, as she needed to be when she lacked the benefit of Araminta's good looks. "What do you know of such things, Hetty? Two evenings on the ballroom floor and it appears your innocent mind has been corrupted when that's the only attribute you really have." She shook her finger at her sister and tried to soften her rebuke with a fond smile. "Just don't you let Mr. Woking hear you speak like that or he'll run a mile."

Hetty, who was now tying her garter, looked up with a glare. "I wish he would," she muttered. "Better still, I wish _you'd_ marry him. There! That would be poetic justice when you've set your cap at his wicked, dashing uncle."

"What? Lord Debenham?" Araminta laughed, despite the discomfort that rippled through her. She'd caught Lord Debenham's eye the first night she'd danced at Lady Knox's ball, and the knowledge that he found her attractive had put steel into her spine and fired her with the conviction that here was a likely catch. Then she'd been favored by his attention at Lady Stanley's ball a few nights previously. Lord Debenham was dashing, in a lean, spare and dangerous way, titled with expectations, and he was handsome. What more could an aspiring debutante want?

When she'd made mention of his lordship's interest during a few minutes in the mending room in the hopes of soothing the mood of a certain woebegone Miss Hoskings—who, with the face of a roly-poly pudding and a body to match, would be lucky to catch a bald eagle—the response had been far from expected.

Apparently Lord Debenham "did things", according to the wide-eyed Miss Hoskings. The young lady's patent horror at the mention of Lord Debenham's name had been followed by the whispered admonition that her very own aunt had been ruined by the gentleman, who did not deserve the moniker, and now it was a crime in the household to even speak her aunt's name.

At first, Araminta had been skeptical, since surely any relative of Miss Hoskings could not rival a sprouting potato in looks. Then Miss Hoskings had risen from the chaise longue and declared in rather dramatic tones, "Five years ago, my aunt was tipped to marry the Marquis of Donley, she was so beautiful. But Mr. Carruthers, as he was then, before he became Lord Debenham, ruined her."

"Obviously, your aunt was very silly and careless with her reputation," Araminta had replied, earning a predictable glare and then the rather uncomfortable response. "I'm not supposed to know this, but they were going to elope and she'd gone to the inn where they'd agreed to meet and set off," Miss Hoskings had paused, looking first uncertain, then shifty, before whispering in a rush, "the next day! While she was waiting, Lord Debenham remembered something important and went off to fetch it, only he suffered a delay of some hours and in the meantime, her father caught up with her... _tied_ to the bedposts!"

Araminta could not hide her horror. She'd heard that Miss Hoskings was prone to the vapors and that she spent a great deal of time in the ladies' mending room during these entertainments. Araminta wondered if spouting tall tales about gentlemen who'd spurned her or family members was an antidote to the inevitability of sitting out most dances as a wilting wallflower. Araminta sniffed and adopted her most haughty tone. "It might have been wise for your aunt to have thought more carefully about the potential damage to her good name if she was so easily compromised."

Still, it was a salutary tale, though Araminta wondered—if it were true—why Miss Hoskings was the one banished to the country, never to be heard of again, and Lord Debenham had gone on to make his fortune and to cut quite a dash in the fashionable world.

Nevertheless, Lord Debenham's lack of regard was enough to make Araminta think twice about courting His Lordship's interest. A girl had to be strategic. Perhaps the very handsome and rather enigmatic Sir Aubrey was a better bet, despite the rumors flying around of some kind of scandal attached to him. But as he was still received, that was really all that mattered.

Hetty, having tied her garter then straightened her dress and bonnet, hesitated in the doorway. "You think you can charm the birds from the trees, Araminta, and maybe you can, but mark my words, you're going to land in a bramble bush," she said softly. "I predict that by the end of the season you'll be marrying either Mr. Woking, and spending your days pleasing a fool for your pin money, or you'll get your just desserts and have no choice but to wed evil Lord Debenham and be miserable."

But Araminta had just decided at that very moment what she was going to be doing by the end of the season.

She flashed Hetty a smile. "No, I'm not, Hetty, because I've decided to marry Sir Aubrey. Thank you so much for laying out my options with such exquisite acuity. Indeed, I _shall_ marry Sir Aubrey! You just see if I don't."

Her sister's outrage was marvelous to behold—and it also made Araminta think that if Hetty had indeed lost her foolish, susceptible heart to Sir Aubrey, she needed to be taught a lesson so she was less careless of it in future.

The afternoon was to become even more entertaining, however, with the arrival of a strange and rather shocking note delivered by Araminta's maid, Jane.

At first Araminta was so scandalized she could only imagine it a hoax. But on the heels of her indignation came curiosity. Of course, the writer—a young woman, claiming to bear an uncanny resemblance to Araminta that had been remarked upon by a certain member of high society—could only be a thief or a confidence trickster. How could she possibly imagine Araminta would just hand over a dress on the spurious claim the two had been mistaken for sisters, and that this young lady had an important mission to undertake which might benefit Araminta?

Araminta was always ready to take advantage of something that might benefit her, but this was going too far.

However, a few minutes later, Araminta couldn't help herself. She hadn't responded to the note, but yet she was at the bottom of the garden at the stipulated time, and when the young woman, a governess out for a walk with her two young charges, stopped by, Araminta was struck by both fascination and revulsion as she realized the truth of the young woman's claim. She did indeed bear a striking resemblance to her. More than that, she was disturbingly familiar, and while Araminta had pledged to remain ignorant of the strange undercurrents of her father's household in the country, the temptation to learn more was too tempting.

Especially when she learned it was Lord Debenham who had remarked upon the resemblance between them.

Upon further consideration, Araminta decided that if this young person was required to sketch His Lordship and needed a decent dress to do so, Araminta was ready to facilitate something that would gain her a greater insight into His Lordship's conduct when Araminta was not around.

Sir Aubrey would also be at Mrs. Gargery's garden party. Araminta was to be accompanying her mother to see the wild animals at the tower of London, but having Miss Hazlett keep an eye on the competition might serve Araminta rather well.

Miss Hazlett. Araminta asked if she were related to the Hazletts in her village, as her father had bought a pony from a Mrs. Hazlett who had lived in the cottage by the bridge.

Miss Hazlett had been vague, only saying that a great many tears had been shed over that horse.

Lissa, for her part, had regarded the proceedings with more dispassion. After all, she'd long known of Araminta's existence. And no, she refused to refer to her in less than familiar terms, at least to herself. Araminta was no better than Lissa, just more fortunate.

It was their father whose sins had condemned three of his five surviving children to live lives shadowed by shame. Lissa's brother, Ned, was more accepting than either Lissa or the fiercely spirited and dramatic Kitty, who said she would rather die or become an actress than be condemned to living out her life and branded a bastard in the village where she'd been born.

For the moment, however, it was in Lissa's interests to keep up the charade that she had no idea of the real identity of Miss Araminta Partington; that she simply was trading on a chance likeness.

Araminta had cast her supercilious gaze over Lissa and clearly found her wanting before she summed up, "So, you're asking for the loan of a gown, in return for information on a certain gentleman in whom I believe you have an interest. That's a bold statement. Who do you suppose I'm interested in?"

"Lord Debenham. I was at Lady Knox's ball and I observed you dancing with him immediately after he'd claimed a dance from me. You were interested but you were unsure, too. Now you'd like me to help you ascertain what kind of gentleman he really is, otherwise, you'd have chosen to ignore my note."

"Oh, you are good." A gurgle of genuine mirth bubbled up from within the other girl. "I shan't pay you a penny, if you're hoping for money, but I shall lend you a gown—and if you don't give it back you will regret it, I promise you that. But here."

She handed a parcel over the fence and Lissa took it with a plethora of feelings warring within her. Anger at the world for putting her in the position of supplicant, anger at Araminta Partington for having the life Lissa should have had, and simple curiosity as to what might transpire tomorrow.

"Well, aren't you going to thank me from the bottom of your heart?"

Lissa only just managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. "I haven't seen the dress yet. It's possible you've set out to humiliate me and the gown is too short or else in screamingly bad style."

Araminta shrugged. "Take it and see for yourself. Though not before you pledge to give me a full report within two days' time."

Lissa met Cosmo on the corner of the street, where he was waiting in a hackney. She'd left the house wearing a drab brown pelisse, but the afternoon gown Araminta had lent her had been a perfect fit and was in the first stare though, to her surprise, it was not a gown a debutante would wear. A bold cerise color, adorned with ruffles of a lighter hue, it clung to her curves in a way that, while perfectly decorous for a garden party, nevertheless highlighted Lissa's finer attributes.

And even though she had no full-length looking glass, she could tell by the way it molded her body and, later, the flare of interest in the glances of gentlemen of all ages, that she cut a fine figure. So while she smiled and nodded in response to the greetings she received, often coupled with the hopes that "Cosmo's fair cousin enjoy her sadly too brief stay in London", she was painfully aware that the pleasure of the moment was a cruel contrast to her reality.

A perfect summer's day had created an idyllic backdrop to Mrs. Gargery's summer entertainment. Trestle tables beneath the trees overlaid by white tablecloths carried an abundance of delicious food. Sweet and savory pies, strawberries and cream and syllabub were just some of the mouthwatering fare on offer. The gardens of the elegant house were exquisite, with terraces and rosebushes and sweeping grassy hills. The hostess herself seemed to take a shine to Lissa and was quizzing her with great interest over her "background", as she tried to recall a certain young lady she'd met recently whom Larissa strongly resembled.

"I'll have to introduce you to my nephew when we meet in the ballroom," she declared. "Indeed, there he is. My darling Roderick. Mr. Roderick Woking. That's Lord Debenham's nephew on the other side of the family. The poor boy has lost his heart to a dark-haired enchantress but a blind fool could see Roderick is out of his league and will get nowhere."

Lissa liked Mrs. Gargery's unaffected friendliness and was sorry when Cosmo reclaimed her to point out his quarry. "There, you see, is the gentleman your father does business with and who danced with you though he doesn't remember it for I beheld him look at you a moment ago, quite blankly."

Lord Debenham was conversing with a much younger gentleman, whose brisk and enthusiastic manner and bright and eager expression instantly brought a pang to Lissa's vulnerable heart. For indeed, as she had hoped, Mr. Ralph Tunley was in attendance.

"Lead me to them. You can introduce yourself to Mr. Tunley and remind him of his visit to the house," Lissa urged, to Cosmo's surprised horror. Adding, when her employer's son demurred, "I can't possibly get Lord Debenham's eyes right unless I look into them. Please, Master Cosmo, I've not disgraced you up to this minute and I shan't start now."

The patent shock in Mr. Tunley's eyes when Lissa was introduced by Cosmo as his "cousin from Little Paisley enjoying a couple of weeks in London" was adequate reward for Lissa executing Cosmo's commission. In her reticule, she had a pencil and small sketchpad, of which she would avail herself shortly. In the meantime, she made sure to take in every detail of haughty Lord Debenham.

But it was Ralph who really interested her; whose bright blue eyes remained wide with delighted amazement and whose kind, generous mouth did things to her insides that she'd never experienced before.

Lord Debenham was particularly assiduous in making her feel that London was indeed a richer place through her presence, at which point Lissa decided she trusted him as much as a stoat in a henhouse. His response was in direct proportion to the level of humility she had shown, and she was sure that if she'd had more experience, she'd have understood a greater subtext in his smooth words. He found her worthy of more than a cursory greeting, that much she knew, but there was something about him that made her recoil. Certainly he was handsome in a commanding way, but there was a cruel twist to his mouth and a look of entitlement in his eye that she did not like at all.

Ralph, on the other hand, was clearly longing to say things that current circumstances prevented, and she was ridiculously delighted when a little later, she found herself part of a much larger group, and that Ralph had somehow managed to inveigle himself between two dowagers so that he could murmur without being overheard, "You are clearly the mistress of subterfuge, Miss Hazlett, but I fear your Master Cosmo must be your chosen consort."

Above, the enormous branches of an elm tree shaded them while clusters of guests picked at the sumptuously laden food table or sat in comfortable wicker chairs or strolled amidst the lovely gardens.

Lissa recognized the longing tinged with jealousy in his voice. It made her feel powerful in a way she'd never experienced. "Master Cosmo sees me as no more than the lowly governess, whose talent he wishes to exploit in order to add to his consequence."

She hoped she didn't betray her shocked delight when she felt the quick, surreptitious squeeze of her new admirer's hand before he added, softly, "Perhaps such enterprising minds as ours could change our hopeless situations."

When another guest arrived, they both turned away to the food table where they pretended great interest in the selection.

"You're the man with all the experience, Mr. Tunley, and tomorrow I must return this which was the only decent dress I was able to procure by less than honest means," Lissa whispered. "You tell me how we might alter our—as you put it—hopeless situations, though what you would like to alter it to, and what your motivation is I can only wonder at."

"My hopeless social and financial situation never felt so hopeless until I discovered myself hopelessly in love with a lowly governess in an even more hopeless situation, Miss Hazlett. What are we to do?"

He slanted a suitably agonized expression up at her as he speared a piece of ham and Lissa laughed. "Oh, my, but you have perfected the star-crossed lover look to the finest degree. I think your calling is the stage if you want to really be noticed, though I doubt that will bring the necessary financial rewards." Nevertheless, his words reverberated through her and filled her with warmth and, yes, hope.

Mr. Tunley pretended to look slightly offended before the light returned to his eyes and his mouth quirked. "I am rather good at charades, I'll admit, however in this instance, my sentiments are a true reflection of what I feel here." He tapped his heart and suddenly there was nothing but raw feeling in his gaze.

Adding a plover's egg to his plate, he said a little wistfully, "It's true that I can get beyond myself in the excitement of the moment, Miss Hazlett. Forgive me. You are beautiful and clearly clever and enterprising. You can—and I suspect, will—rise above the shortcomings of your birth. Forgive me for putting it so bluntly. I hope you will make a fine match and one that will make you happy. Sadly, I have five older brothers. I am required to prove myself before I can inveigle myself into some rewarding sinecure. Perhaps in ten years I'll be in a position whereby I could make you a respectable offer, but you'll be long married by then."

She was about to respond with all the intensity such a declaration demanded; indeed, she was about to put her hand on his sleeve and tell him that her feelings echoed his and not to despair, for there must be some way, when Cosmo suddenly appeared.

"Miss Ha— I mean, Cousin Larissa, it's time we departed. Are you ready?"

Would he really speak to a cousin with such cavalier disregard for whether she might share his desire to leave, and when she was in conversation with another? Yet she was his servant when all was said and done. With a quick nod at Ralph, and a look which she hoped conveyed that her heart was in accord with his, she responded to Cosmo's summons.

"Please, Master Cosmo, I need but two minutes to sketch Lord Debenham without his realizing it," she whispered when they were out of hearing.

He cut her off. "Lud's sake, you've had all afternoon to look at him." He was clearly agitated and eager to go, making his reasons clear when he said, "Can't you do it from memory? You've created far too much interest already. I don't know how I'm going to explain it if you come up in conversation at some later date. One gentleman thought he recalled seeing you at Lady Stanley's ball whereupon Lord Debenham announced you were a fine dancer. Fortunately, the subject was changed at that point."

"Please, just two minutes more." Lissa scrabbled in her reticule and brandished her sketchpad then took refuge in the shade of a tree a few feet from the rose garden, but so she had a clear view of Lord Debenham, who was once again in a group that included Ralph.

True to her word, it took only two minutes to sketch a rough draft she could work from later, with another thirty seconds to sketch a quick one of Ralph. She was just closing her book when Mrs. Gargery's voice intruded.

"My dear, so you're an artist, please let me see what you've drawn."

Lissa was aware of Cosmo's horror when she slanted a glance to her left, and was pleased to compound it as she flipped open a page, asking, "Do you think it a fair likeness?"

Mrs. Gargery gasped. "Why, you are a master. It's superb."

"Pardon me, but we really must be leaving. Mrs. Gargery can't possibly be interested in your idle doodling. Larissa, please come now!"

The sharpness in his tone made the kindly Mrs. Gargery widen her eyes in surprise but Lissa obediently returned her sketchpad to her reticule and followed Cosmo out of the garden, saying placatingly, "I showed her a drawing of a rose, Master Cosmo, which I had ready for such a situation."

When he merely glowered, she produced her sketchpad, turned to the appropriate page to show him in case he didn't believe her and wanted to cause trouble later.

Cosmo visibly relaxed, though his tone did not lose its edge as he climbed after her into the waiting carriage. "Just make sure you do a good job of your rendition of Lord Debenham, and don't make me appear a fool, Miss Hazlett. You know what will happen if you do."

Lissa was surprised as she tilted her head to look at him in the dim interior of the carriage. He'd dented her enjoyment of the afternoon, when she'd thought he'd be pleased.

She hesitated to suggest that gratitude might be in order, but was taken aback when Cosmo muttered, "I rely on you, Miss Hazlett, and I don't like it. However, if you let me down, I'll see your reputation shredded."

# Chapter 4

"Really, Araminta, it's not like you to be so agitated. Who are you waiting for? A lover to signal you from the apple tree?"

Araminta swung back from the window to glare at Hetty, who was relaxing in a chair and looking over the top of the book she had in her lap.

Hetty's charge was too close to the truth and it irritated Araminta beyond measure that her little sister could so easily read her. And others, according to their mother, who claimed Hetty's sweet and empathetic nature made her a good gauge of people's feelings. She'd added that this was something Araminta could learn to her benefit, which had done nothing to endear the apparently remarkable Hetty to her, if that's what dear Mama had hoped.

Hetty, Araminta had quickly pointed out, was only able to observe things and people unnoticed because she was such a timid little dormouse in both looks and temperament that no one ever noticed her.

The reflection, though, gave Araminta pause. In fact, it was something that was beginning to trouble her more than a little lately, when she stopped to consider it. Hetty seemed less and less the plump pudding she'd been when she'd set her cap at cabbage-headed Edgar, their late, lamented cousin, who'd drowned after rushing off into the night with that designing piece, Lady Julia.

No, it wasn't so much that Araminta had observed an improvement in her sister's looks, but that she had observed Hetty seemed to create far more interest from the male contingent than she ought.

Araminta stepped back into the center of the room and stretched languidly. "A lover, Hetty?" She affected a lazy smile though her heart was beating just a little faster than usual. "'Wouldn't you like to know? But," she cocked her head as if in great thought, adding, "didn't Cousin Stephen say he and Mama would love your company for their afternoon walk?"

"Is it that time already?" Hetty leapt up, obviously forgetting any suggestion Araminta might be engaging in a possible assignation so that, when Araminta glimpsed in the distance from the window, the dark-haired governess in her drab clothing approaching the property, she was in good time to make her way to the fence to greet her.

The girl looked surprised to see her, for the agreement was that Larissa was going to simply leave the parcel in the crook of the apple tree for Araminta to fetch.

But Araminta was eaten up with curiosity to learn what had transpired the previous afternoon. Immediately she began to question the girl. Had Sir Aubrey been there? To whom had Lord Debenham spoken? Had he mentioned Araminta directly to Miss Hazlett? What were Miss Hazlett's impressions of him?

At this question, the young woman's eyes narrowed. "He's a dangerous man. Even my employer says he's eaten up with vice, and he's one to talk!"

Araminta smiled. Since she'd decided she was going to marry Sir Aubrey, Lord Debenham's character didn't matter, unless he posed a danger to Sir Aubrey's prospects or reputation. Rumors swirled around Sir Aubrey, she knew, but they'd never been substantiated. No, she was more concerned that His Lordship had remarked upon similarities in looks between Miss Hazlett and herself. For Araminta had to concede that they shared the same glossy dark hair and similar bone structure. Not that Miss Hazlett possessed Araminta's flawless beauty, to be sure. But now, even more, Araminta wondered how such a resemblance could be utilized to her benefit.

"You were successful in aping your betters, then? What do you know of how those in high society conduct themselves? You're just a governess." At first Araminta was annoyed by the young woman's self-composed response, before realizing that if she did indeed succeed in utilizing Miss Hazlett, such self-confidence was just what was needed.

"Wearing your dress enabled me to imagine I was you." Miss Hazlett paused, her green eyes—certainly not the striking color of Araminta's—going cloudy. "Though I don't know why you were so amenable to the idea when you should despise me. I was certain you'd send me away with a flea in my ear."

Araminta frowned, not wanting to understand her. "Why should I despise you?"

The girl looked surprised. "Surely you're not going to deny that you know. Why, we share the same father, of course. I'd thought you'd hate me for it. I do _you_ , after all."

Araminta's mouth dropped open. She'd not wanted to hear the girl put it into words. She gasped and stepped back as if Miss Hazlett had physically assaulted her. "How dare you?" she managed. Her tongue felt swollen and her heart beat erratically as she stared at...this baseborn imposter.

"Surely you knew?" The girl looked momentarily abashed before she raised her chin proudly. "Don't pretend to have a fit of the vapors. You cannot have misunderstood my reasons for contacting you."

With difficulty, Araminta regulated her breathing. How clearly she remembered the young woman's visit to The Grange all those months ago, on the pretext of requesting funds for the village school. Her father, she recalled, had acted most strangely as he'd sent Miss Hazlett into the room where the servants were generally required to wait.

So this, indeed, _was_ her father's bastard standing right before her. Larissa Hazlett was the daughter of Mrs. Hazlett in the village, whose horse Araminta had insisted her father buy for her, despite knowing how much it would upset her mother, for even then, deep down, Araminta had known the truth. Lissa was the girl who'd sat in church with her fellow base-born siblings—her father's bastards— in a pew behind the first family of the district, Lord Partington's wife, Lady Sybil, and his daughters, Hetty and Araminta. Even yesterday, when Araminta had spoken to the girl, she'd pretended ignorance. But she had known. Yes, she had known.

Indignation and anger were followed by a great sense of superiority. This poor, stained creature before her could never compete with Araminta, no matter how beautiful she was. They might share a father but Miss Hazlett was a bastard, and a bastard could never rise in the world.

Fortunately, Araminta was as adept as the young woman before her at keeping her wits in check. It would be best not to gloat if she wanted the girl to be useful to her, which she certainly did. "So, telling me you hated me and that I should lend you my gowns whenever you want something in the first stare was your reason for wanting to meet me? I must say, this is all rather a shock."

Her half-sister—she choked on the term—was gazing anxiously at her as she obviously decided to alter her approach. Oh, Araminta could sense her insincerity a mile away as she said demurely, "I am sorry I said that. However I'm truly grateful that you saw fit to allow me to wear your dress for an afternoon. Besides, I've always wondered...about you."

"Have you indeed? But let's return to this important gentleman you were required to sketch. Have you told me everything? You look like the sort who would keep secrets." Araminta decided she could dismiss the threat she'd originally feared that Miss Hazlett might pose. With no social status, Miss Hazlett could never be a likely prospect for any gentleman upon whom Araminta set her sights. Certainly not anyone in Sir Aubrey or Lord Debenham's league.

In the meantime, there was this unexpected foray into subterfuge to enjoy. Life could sometimes be so deadly dull, even when she was feted by admirers at every turn. And decidedly, this Miss Hazlett was going to be useful in passing on information regarding the more interesting of these admirers. Like Sir Aubrey.

"So, this sketch you clearly executed with passable results..." Araminta considered the information, thoughtfully. "You will no doubt be doing more of this sort of thing in future." She tapped her fingers upon the top of the garden fence that separated them. It was not hard to see how desperate the girl was to sample more of what she'd tasted the previous day. Perhaps she'd already set her cap at some out-of-reach nonpareil. Well, that would be interesting to observe, though could only result in disappointment for Miss Hazlett.

Araminta took the parcel from her and leaned her head closer. "I cannot but be repulsed by who you are, but the fact remains that we can, I believe, be useful to one another." She gave a decisive nod. "Yes! You can be my little spy in return for the means I provide that will enable you to gain entry to similar entertainments."

The girl cut her off. "I see little chance of that happening. I'm a governess and I have two little girls to take charge of."

Irritated as she always was when anything interfered with her plans, Araminta glowered. Then her brow cleared. "So this Master Cosmo fancies himself as a portraitist, does he? Oh, don't look at me like that! Of course, I guessed the truth." Araminta laughed. "And that he wishes to be one of us. His family aspires to be like us. Like me, I mean. Oh, do say he has a sister about to make her debut? Good Lord! That's too marvelous. In order to achieve my aims, I shall work my magic so that you're given the time off to do as I require. Never at the same entertainment as me, you understand. But there will be occasions when you will be useful.

"Meanwhile, you can help Master Cosmo see his way to becoming London's finest portraitist. You can sketch his portraits for him and I can have you supply me with the information I'm interested in. And I thought this was going to be the dreariest second season ever!"

Despite concerns over the potential pitfalls of Araminta's plans, Lissa returned home in high spirits that were quickly quashed.

One minute she'd been imagining herself the belle of the ball, dressed in her half-sister's glorious diaphanous creations, the next minute her arm had been snatched by Cosmo, who hauled her into the gloomy cavity beneath the stairs.

His eyes were black with anger in his pasty white face as he raked his fingers through his fashionable 'Titus' coiffure. "Lord Debenham is highly pleased by his sketch, which I presented this morning." He pursed his thin lips. "I told him I'd executed it from a brief study of him yesterday and now it seems half of the ton wants something similar! What am I to do?"

Lissa drew back at his agitation. She'd seen him in such moods when he completely lost control and now that she was alone with him, she was frightened. First, he paced between the stairs and the end of the corridor, then he loomed over her, clearly using his height and bulk to intimidate her. "A pretty state of affairs this is, isn't it?"

"I thought that was what you wanted."

This didn't seem to be the right approach. Lissa thought quickly. Cosmo was volatile and she'd seen him smash the nearest item at hand during his temper tantrums. But now she had an answer that she was reasonably sure would placate him.

Careful that she gave no sign of being intimidated, she managed calmly, "I carried off yesterday's charade with no one being the wiser, and, only today, I've ensured a regular supply of suitable gowns for any occasion, Master Cosmo. Moreover, I have befriended a viscount's daughter, who has promised to introduce Miss Maria to any potential suitor whose interest she cares to engage. There! I hope you are as delighted as your sister will be. Just tell me who you wish me to sketch and I'll find the means to do it."

She swallowed, for this was the difficult bit. "I'll just need some pin money for my pains."

Instead of greeting this with relief, his face turned red. "Pay you?" He looked horrified. "But you're a governess. You live under our roof, enjoying our food and shelter and protection. Why should I pay you?" His shoulders slumped. "How can I when I have no money?"

A surge of anger stiffened Lissa's spine. "Didn't you and Lord Debenham come to some agreement over 'your' sketch of him? Are you to paint or sketch half of London for no return?" She turned to go. "I'm sorry for your predicament, Master Cosmo. Perhaps someone else can help you."

"No!" Once again his unwelcome touch was upon her as he snatched her wrist, pulling her back to him. "I'll give you a shilling for each painting."

"I want half of the agreed amount, and if I am clever enough to rub shoulders with those you paint, then I will find out what the going rate is."

"One-third."

"Agreed." Lissa stepped back, out of his hateful aura. She'd won this round, and soon she'd enjoy a taste of all the wonders that had been denied her. She'd also have a little money for the first time in her life. Money that might in some way pave the way for the life she'd always wanted: a husband she cared for and a family. And definitely a carriage.

She didn't need the trappings of high society but in her present dowerless state, bearing the indelible stain of illegitimacy, she hadn't, until just now, seen how she could possibly ever have a husband, much less a carriage.

# Chapter 5

On this gray, drizzly and miserable afternoon, it wasn't the poor state of the weather that accounted for Ralph's dismal mood but the task set for him by his employer.

For over a year, he'd done Lord Debenham's bidding. Well, his master had been Mr. Carruthers back then, newly returned from the West Indies with pockets lined with gold. A cousin's death had elevated him to the peerage, and Ralph's mother had been in transports when Ralph had secured the position of secretary to the soon-to-be-elevated Lord Debenham.

Her distress had been almost comical when Ralph had declared some months ago he simply couldn't continue; that the demands were so overreaching and the man's contempt of his supposed inferiors so strong, it made Ralph's daily job a nightmare.

In the end, his mother had prevailed, telling him quite rightly that to leave would invite Lord Debenham's revenge, surely, and where else could Ralph go?

It was the truth. Ralph was a prisoner of circumstance and he had no other means of respectable work if he ever hoped to marry and have a family—which indeed he did. The tragedy was that the perfect contender had just waltzed into his orbit, tantalizing him with everything about her, from her lovely dark hair and sparkling green eyes to her gentle wit. Her unavailability.

Of course, Miss Hazlett hadn't meant to taunt him. She was not that kind of young woman. But her innocent determination to make something of her own miserable circumstances had sparked something to life within him.

He'd always accepted that his older brother bore the greatest burden. Teddy was the nicest natured of all the brothers, and he'd never quite recovered after the inexplicable desertion of the woman he'd hoped to make his wife. But he would marry, for even without money he was highly eligible. And handsome to boot.

John, the next in line, was following a career in the church. He had a modest living and was already happily ensconced in a well-appointed vicarage with a pretty, if demanding, wife.

The next two brothers after John had had army commissions bought for them while Harry, the black sheep of the family, had run off to sea.

Ralph was the youngest and the one over whom his mother despaired. Now she was pinning her hopes on the fact he'd be rewarded for serving well an important member of the House of Lords. It was a job Ralph had come to despise with greater feeling every day.

But he was in no position to give it up. And if there were any chance that he would somehow be granted a handsome sinecure that would put him in a position to make Miss Hazlett an honest offer, he would stay.

The fact she'd succeeded in infiltrating the garden party so successfully proved her determination and ability to rise beyond the usual obstacles. She would make a fine wife.

Some day. The sad fact was it might be years before he could take a wife without the risk of driving them both into poverty, should they have a large family. Or any family at all.

At this present moment he was occupied with writing the eviction notices that would send a number of his employer's cottagers into worse despair than Ralph could ever imagine, and there was not a thing he could do about it. Lord Debenham had taken a firm hand in the matter of those who didn't—or couldn't—pay their rent on time, and had determined that henceforth there would be no second chances.

Ralph was to see that the letters were dispatched, and was then to follow up himself to ensure that no families hung on to what was no longer theirs. He felt sick as he dipped his nib once more into the ink and signed the final eviction notice on behalf of Lord Debenham.

After such a painful afternoon's work, Ralph decided a brisk walk was needed to clear his heavy mood once a chance presented itself. Hyde Park was only a short walk away and looking at the lovely ladies promenading there was always a pleasant diversion. His mother liked to be informed on what fashions were being worn by whom, and Ralph, apart from being a dutiful son and enjoying the sport in any case, had a good eye for an ensemble in the first stare.

The sun was dropping lower in the sky, the birds were singing in the trees and he was dreaming, impossibly, of a future with Miss Hazlett, when he was shocked to see a familiar profile come around a bend, chattering with great animation to Sir Aubrey.

It was only when she was within a few yards of him that he realized it _wasn't_ Miss Hazlett. Certainly not the Miss Larissa Hazlett with whom he was acquainted, though surely the two must be related.

The pang that squeezed his heart also made him realize how much it would have pained him to have seen _his_ Miss Hazlett so clearly entranced by a gentleman other than himself and again he was fired with the determination to find a way to enable them to be together.

Immediately this was followed by the painful reality that his hands were tied. Short of an unexpected inheritance—and none of his infirm relatives were remotely well-heeled, though all were respectable enough—or committing highway robbery, Ralph was completely dependent upon Lord Debenham for a paltry salary.

Leaning against a tree trunk, he gazed at the young lady talking to Sir Aubrey and his misery increased. She was clearly making a determined play for him and Ralph wondered how Sir Aubrey could still be so successful at winning female interest when he was dogged by Lord Debenham's allegations.

His employer had an almost pathological hatred for this gentleman, and it was intriguing that Miss Larissa Hazlett's relative—for they surely _must_ be related—should show such singular interest in someone whom rumor painted as a murderer and plotter of treason. Thanks to Lord Debenham, it was widely whispered Sir Aubrey had been involved in the plot on Lord Castlereagh's life. Unsubstantiated rumors, certainly.

When the young lady turned so that her face was no longer concealed by her bonnet, he realized with a start that he'd seen her before at several high-society entertainments. He struggled to recall her name. Surely it was Miss Partington? Yes, the debutante who'd ended her last season under something of a cloud but who appeared to have bounced back, the way she was talking with such joyful animation to Sir Aubrey.

Returning to his office, it was harder to concentrate, but after he'd finished his unpalatable duties, Ralph took a circuitous route past the large home where Miss Hazlett worked. He suspected she'd be in the habit of taking her young charges for a walk in the afternoons in the little park opposite, and so he dragged his heels in the hopes she'd appear.

He was in luck, for indeed there she was, and not only that, her face lit up with unadulterated delight when she saw him loitering beneath a plane tree.

"Meet me on the opposite side of the park, where we are not in view of the windows," she whispered as she passed by him, not pausing.

Ralph's heart beat a rapid tattoo in his chest as he discreetly followed her with a surreptitious glance over his shoulder to ensure he wasn't being watched. He hadn't liked what he'd seen of her employer, young Mr. Cosmo. He was jealous of the young man's proximity, too, and couldn't imagine he'd not have an interest in the young governess that went beyond wishing her to sketch his paintings.

Waiting impatiently in a shaded corner of the park, he wondered if the chance for intimacy beyond a smile might present itself, should Miss Hazlett manage to send the little girls off to find fairies in the nearby bushes.

However, the moment she appeared before him, she clasped her hands in entreaty, whispering, "Mr. Tunley, I am really at my wit's end as to what to do, and I hope you can advise me."

His pleasure that she should consider him in a position to assist her was quickly displaced by his sense of failure. How _could_ such a poorly situated young man as himself help the goddess of his heart's desire?

Before he could respond, she began without preamble, "My half-sister, a young woman who looks extremely like myself, lent me the gown I wore to Mrs. Gargery's garden party because she wanted me to learn what I could about Lord Debenham, amongst other certain gentlemen in whom she's interested. Now she has again visited me, with the request that tomorrow I accompany her to an assignation with," she gave a furtive look about them before whispering, "your employer's _valet_."

"Good God!" The words were out before he could stop them, so great was his shock. "Lord Debenham's valet? Jem? And you have a half-sister?"

"Yes, one who looks exceedingly like myself. Even Lord Debenham remarked upon it, though he'd not look twice at me, dressed as I am now." She seemed to be concentrating on her own clearly tumultuous thoughts rather than registering his shock. Tentatively, she added, glancing up at him, "You see, Mr. Tunley, I did not mention it before, as it seemed of no consequence at the time." She dropped her gaze, as if overcome suddenly by shame and Ralph wished he could put out his hand and offer what bolstering courage he could. But it was possible they were being watched. He was always conscious of being watched, with an employer like Debenham.

She took an audible breath, then raised her eyes, appealingly. "I am ashamed to tell you this, but I want you to know the truth. It won't make you think any better of me because, after all, a bastard is a bastard, whoever her father happens to be. But my half-sister is Miss Araminta Partington."

"Miss Partington is your _sister_?"

"My half-sister, for Lord Partington is my father, and he has two natural-born daughters. He abandoned my mother on the eve of their nuptials to marry the bride his parents had chosen for him. Nevertheless, during the intervening years, he's spent most of his time with my mother, as if in fact they _were_ married. I also have a brother and sister, with another one on the way."

She sighed, adding softly, "Another one to share my shame, and to have to make its way in the world with no status. But as I was saying..." She returned briskly to the subject at hand. "It was my half-sister, Miss Araminta Partington, who lent me the dress I wore to the garden party, and, as I said, she contacted me, unexpectedly, and asked me to accompany her on this visit."

"To visit my employer's valet? Good Lord, why? She's a... _lady_!"

"Precisely." Miss Hazlett smiled. "This is the extraordinary thing. Apparently Miss Partington believes this young man...the valet, Jem...is in possession of a letter written by Sir Aubrey's late wife, which implicates one of the men—Sir Aubrey _or_ Lord Debenham—in the attempted assassination of Lord Castlereagh."

Ralph could not have been more astonished. He gripped the wrought iron fence though his concern was entirely for the lovely young woman opposite him. If it hadn't been, he'd have gripped _her_ , but it was quite possible Cosmo Lamont might choose that moment to take his daily constitutional and appear around the corner.

A week ago, this same lovely creature was like a beautiful butterfly beating her wings against the nebulous periphery of his life, a mere governess and he a simple clerk. There was nothing to bring them together. Then suddenly she was rubbing shoulders with the ton. Now she was growing ever closer to his decidedly wicked employer.

"My belief is," she went on, "that my half-sister wants to discover the contents of this letter so she can focus her attention on the gentleman whose reputation is not smeared by it. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say that if this letter exists, Lord Debenham may have a very good reason for not wanting it in the public domain."

"You are a sharp young lady." Ralph could well countenance the possibility of Lord Debenham being involved in shady dealings, perhaps even Lord Castlereagh's attempted assignation, though the thought had never occurred to him before, for it was Sir Aubrey's reputation that had been so damaged. But then it was also true that Sir Aubrey's late wife was Lord Debenham's cousin. And lover, it was suggested. There may well be more to it than Debenham had relayed to the world but such a sordid affair should under no circumstances involve his precious Miss Hazlett.

He was afraid for her.

"You cannot accompany Miss Partington on such a mission," he added firmly. "It may be a trap. You can have no idea what kind of man Lord Debenham is. Ruthless and cruel. He'll not differentiate between a villain whose interests run counter to his own or a defenseless female such as yourself." Impulsively he gripped her hand and was jolted by the connection that ran between them as strongly as if the bond were the warmth of their bodies joined as one.

This was too much. How could he breach the divide that yawned between them without harming Miss Hazlett or her reputation? If he was unable to offer marriage, he was unable to offer _anything_.

He felt her yield a moment before she pulled back, practicality once again the order of the day. "I _will_ go, though I do not feel comfortable going alone without telling anyone, which is why I'm telling you. I merely wanted your advice on what I should do if the letter indeed exists."

"But you can't go!" The idea was preposterous.

"Why?"

"I've told you. It's not safe. Lord Debenham is a...debaucher."

"My half-sister is meeting his valet, not His Lordship."

"Then she no doubt will induce him to give her the letter. My advice is that you at least glean the contents of the letter before it changes hands. Then tell me and we can decide from there."

"I knew I could count on your support." She reached out quickly and, with both hands, gave his a squeeze.

"I still wish you would not go. It could be dangerous."

"I feel obligated. Also, Araminta is the kind of spoiled young lady who is quite likely to flounce off in high dudgeon if I refused. She'd never lend me another gown again." She smiled. "But the truth is, if there were something important in that letter pertaining to Lord Debenham, it could assist you, Mr. Tunley."

He shook his head, thinking how sweet she looked when she nibbled her lower lip as was clearly her wont when she was worried. "I cannot imagine how your sister knows of such a letter? One that, I gather, must be supposedly incriminating? _I've_ certainly heard nothing, and I work for the blackguard."

"The misses Partingtons' lady's maid, Jane, is sweetheart to Lord Debenham's valet. Jem told Jane that Lord Debenham took the letter out of Sir Aubrey's dead wife's hands to use in case he needed it. Jane, I believe, then told her mistresses."

"But this must have happened years ago. And Jem has only just now decided to reveal the existence of the letter, only he's not sure if it incriminates Debenham or Sir Aubrey?"

Lissa shrugged. "I have no interest in either gentleman, but I do have an interest in being useful to you. And to Miss Araminta, though from a less altruistic point of view. She's a cunning piece, but I don't believe she's as clever as I."

Ralph chuckled. "Not many young ladies are, I'd wager. Well, I suppose there can be no harm in seeing Jem," he conceded. "He should not have taken a letter that didn't belong to him—if indeed it exists—but I can see why Jem wanted to shore up his position. Lord Debenham is a cruel employer. Fortunately, he doesn't beat _me_."

Miss Hazlett's pretty mouth opened, then she frowned. "It all sounds rather grubby. Imagine, the two men fighting over the same poor lady who took her own life. But who am I to judge what is sordid, being what I am?"

"Never say such things! You are perfect!" Ralph declared, gripping her hands once more with a quick look over his shoulder. "I shall always think it, and never for a moment must you consider yourself stained with the sin of your parents!"

Conscious of the risks they ran, he dropped her hands, which, he was pleased to note, had returned the fond pressure. "I wonder what Jem will have to say for himself," he mused. "I've seen him only briefly once or twice when I've gone to Lord Debenham's house to deliver messages or to have documents signed. He is a handsome, confident young man, who I imagine would be quick to seize an opportunity. So he wants money for it, then?"

Miss Hazlett shrugged. "I gather Jem can't read. Anyway, he's keen to profit from the letter and I daresay hopes to blacken your employer's name."

The little girls were returning from their foray to look for pixies at the far end of the park. Ralph saw the worried glance Miss Hazlett flicked first at them and then in the direction of the house. Although Ralph was confident they could not be observed from its windows the danger remained that one of the Lamonts might walk around the corner.

"You feel spied upon?" he asked.

"Always," she replied. "You must leave now, I think. If Cosmo or Mrs. Lamont saw you, I could be dismissed upon the spot if it pleased them. Though Cosmo needs me too much."

"Have you done more work for him?"

"I managed another sketch, which was received with apparent enthusiasm yesterday. Not that Cosmo would tell me that, though he's quite happy to tell me of the flurry of commissions he's received, which he expects me to execute."

She looked suddenly excited. "Perhaps I'll become rich. I negotiated with him to receive a third." Daringly, she touched Ralph's sleeve for the briefest moment. "Yes, perhaps I'll become rich, Mr. Tunley, and then..." She blushed before dropping her eyes but her sentiment was clear—and it flooded him with desire and determination.

"Somehow, Miss Hazlett, we shall find a way to proceed beyond mere words we know carry no weight when there is no possibility of deepening our acquaintance." He didn't like to dwell on the thought of Miss Hazlett providing for them and changed the subject back to the matter at hand. "Before you go, tell me the details of this assignation between you and your sister, and where you are to meet Jem. I shall keep a watchful eye over you, if it is at all within my power, for to be truthful, the notion of what you're about to risk fills me with dread."

# Chapter 6

Araminta felt very pleased with herself as she made her way down a narrow cobbled road to her assignation.

Lately, she'd been feeling more than just concerned that Hetty seemed to be increasingly well received amongst the circles that had hitherto been _her_ domain. In the past, no one had seemed to notice her silly little peahen of a sister. Now, when Araminta observed the way some of these handsome, rich and titled gentlemen looked at Hetty, she no longer saw pity in their faces.

No, she saw interest.

Of course, yesterday's carriage ride with Sir Aubrey had cemented her precedence over her sister. Sir Aubrey had positively glowered at Hetty, just as he had when the entire Partington family had met him during that terrible walk her father had proposed the day before, during which he'd told them of his dire financial straits.

Perhaps Sir Aubrey suspected Hetty was sweet on him and was using bad temper to convey to her that he could have no interest in one so beneath his notice.

That's what Araminta had to believe.

But then she'd learned about the letter, which apparently Hetty was planning to secure from Lord Debenham's valet. Good Lord, what was the girl about? How on earth had Hetty learned such a thing but, more concerningly, _why_ should she want to do anything about it?

Araminta's first impulse was to tell their Papa but when she gave the matter greater consideration she realized there were far greater potential advantages if she matched Hetty's cunning.

In the first instance, if such a letter existed, why did Debenham not pay his manservant what it was worth? Then Araminta got to wondering if in fact the letter was this manservant's insurance. If that were the case, then the letter must not paint a very complimentary picture of Lord Debenham. But if that were so, it must somehow exonerate Sir Aubrey, and why would Hetty want a letter that would do that? Oh yes, Araminta had seen the occasional longing look or remark that suggested her sister had an interest in Sir Aubrey but surely she'd never truly imagined her interest could be returned? Especially, after yesterday's carriage ride? Besides, Hetty _knew_ Araminta had set her sights on him?

What was more concerning was the realization that if Hetty did, in fact, discover the means to exonerate Sir Aubrey—for apparently all this nonsense about the Castlereagh affair was quite important—her little sister would have very good reason for attracting Sir Aubrey's attention. And even though it would be due entirely to gratitude on his part for her helping him out of a sticky situation of his own making, Hetty would be the one getting all the glory.

Sir Aubrey had been foolish to have married a woman who had taken her own life. Furthermore, all this talk of his being part of a Spencean club sounded very havey-cavey, and Araminta didn't quite understand it, but if the letter was something he did or didn't want in the public domain, then it must be Araminta who did the clever work required to hand it back to him.

Fortunately, Jane, the lady's maid Araminta shared with Hetty, had been very forthcoming as she'd brushed Araminta's hair this morning. Especially after Araminta had told her that Hetty had confessed to Araminta all the details concerning the letter and had asked Araminta to see Jem on her account, as she was frightened.

So now, instead of Jane accompanying Hetty to an assignation with the lowly valet, Jem, to fetch the letter, Araminta had located that creature to whom she was related and resembled mildly: Miss Hazlett. For who else could she get to accompany her for the necessary chaperonage on such a forbidden mission?

Delicious tingles of excitement curled their way through Araminta as she thought of the happy conclusion to this adventure. Sir Aubrey was more than likely to ask Araminta to do him the honor of becoming his wife on the spot. He'd already made clear his interest during a tender encounter in the corridor of Lady Knox's townhouse, after Araminta had been returning from the mending room during the ball.

Of course, Sir Aubrey was a mere baronet at the moment, but only a sickly cousin stood in the way of Sir Aubrey becoming a viscount, and there was even a doddering earl in the wings who'd neglected to secure the family line to whom he was related. Araminta was nothing if not a betting girl.

"No need to look so downcast, Miss Hazlett, no one will take the slightest bit of interest in you, the way you're dressed," Araminta reassured her as they waited in a dim booth in a tavern, a place no respectable lady would be seen. It was very exciting. Araminta had dressed herself for the part in a veiled bonnet. She'd chosen a flattering gown, for she wanted people to admire her without being able to recognize her. And she was not disappointed. Men of all stations positively leered at her.

Miss Hazlett, veiled too, did not seem to be reveling in the attention nearly as much but then, she was probably uncomfortable at being shown up by Araminta's superior manner of dress and carriage.

When Araminta demanded that she tell her why she was looking like a frightened rabbit, the girl replied, "If I'm recognized I'll lose my position, and then what will become of me?"

"Your father will take you in." Araminta wasn't in the mood to pander to such lily-livered whining. It rankled that her papa chose to spend so much time with his forbidden family. For now, she realized, that was why he was absent so often from home.

Miss Hazlett fiddled with the button at the wrist of her gloves. "He won't support me forever. I'm expected to work for my living. It's unlikely I'll make a match that will secure me the clothes and comforts you take for granted."

Before Araminta could respond, Jem, the lowly valet, slid into the booth, and my goodness he was handsome. Araminta didn't think she'd ever seen such a handsome man. His hair was the color of corn and his eyes—a hazy, dangerous gray—sparked with a speculative glint when he ran them over Araminta.

The most extraordinary spasm in the region of her lower belly kicked her into an awareness both disconcerting and incredibly exciting.

Briefly, she raised her veil to smile at him, just so he could see how truly beautiful she was. But as no one must know she was here, she lowered it again and began proceedings in a formal and businesslike manner, which Jem didn't seem to appreciate.

With a grunt, he thrust the letter in front of her and the contents could not have pleased her more.

In black and white, Sir Aubrey's late wife branded Lord Debenham the villain, and her Sir Aubrey the falsely accused, unfairly maligned husband.

This document was exactly what was needed to prove Sir Aubrey's innocence, and once Araminta could get it into Sir Aubrey's hands, her future happiness with him was assured.

Unfortunately, the greedy Jem wanted more than the half a crown she had to offer him for it and didn't seem to trust her when she said she'd send him the rest but that she needed to take the letter with her now.

Rudely, he rose before she did, indicating their discussion was at an end.

Araminta was for the first time in her life speechless. No gentleman had ever spoken so roughly to her on any occasion she could ever remember. Her thundering heart was also not something she was used to, but she ignored that. Her needs centered on the letter—and she'd get it, one way or another.

Glad of the protection of her veil so that Miss Hazlett couldn't see how much Araminta was affected by this rude but handsome young man, Araminta said haughtily, "This is not our last meeting, Jem, I can assure you. I always get what I want."

She thought she saw a flare of admiration in the other girl's eyes as she rose, but now her anger was getting the better of her, and she didn't care she was in a public place. She informed Jem over her shoulder that she reckoned a fine lady would be believed over a mere footman, and that he should consider himself lucky that he wasn't going to swing over this, since she was now in possession of important evidence the government would wish to know.

_There!_ she thought with a mixture of anger and pride in her abilities to reduce him to a quivering jelly, for she was sure he was quaking while she was striding out into the street with all the power.

She was not prepared for the sudden assault as her wrist was gripped and she was whisked back into the inn and into a small antechamber, just before she reached the exit.

In the dim light, she found herself face to face with Jem, his angry eyes staring right into hers, only inches away. And she was consumed by a feeling of such fearful excitement she really could imagine she was about to swoon—properly—for the first time in her life.

"You want that letter real badly, miss, don't you?" His eyes darted over her and his breathing was shallow and rapid. "Now you know what's in it, how do I know you ain't going to blab to the world that it's me what has it? Me neck's at risk here."

The power she felt to see that he was frightened of what she could do was like an aphrodisiac, and the most enormous thrill of superiority, coupled with something deep, dark and wicked rose up from the depths of her being.

Before she even knew what she was doing, she'd closed the distance between them and cupped his face, murmuring against his suddenly trembling lips, "Here is my reassurance."

She'd never kissed a man of such low birth before, but nor had she kissed one who was as extraordinarily handsome and whose proximity unleashed such madness in her. The brief kernel of rational thought that floated within her consciousness for a second was extinguished by the mad desire to show Jem who was master. The sudden raging desires of her body made her head swim when his arms went round her and he roughly kissed her back.

The scrape of his stubbled cheek upon her tender skin, coupled with his strong male smell of sweat, dirt and horses aroused even fiercer passions within her, and even though a faint caution sounded in the recesses of her brain, she was buoyed by the knowledge that the justification for her actions was pure.

"No one's neck—or anything else—is in danger," she whispered, "as long as I get that letter." It was so good to feel in control and to know he was her slave.

Soon her tongue was tangling with his, her own breathing was deafening her, and the sensations he was evoking with his wandering hands were for some reason making her want to feel the heat of his naked flesh against her own.

She could barely get the words out. "You'd better give me what I want, Jem."

He chuckled. "Indeed, I will, miss."

It was he who finally broke them apart. His mouth curved into a sly smile and Araminta frowned as she smoothed her hair and clothing, for it was too self-satisfied for her liking. She'd like to...well, kiss that smile right off his face. Her heart was still racing and that strange, unfulfilled feeling in her lower belly was making her want to do all kinds of unheard-of and unladylike things.

Muffled shouts of laughter and the serving of drinks could be heard nearby, and when a shrill cry from a drunk patron made Araminta startle, the mood was broken. She knew it was time to leave before Larissa conducted a thorough search for her.

After a regal exit, having laid out the terms of their "arrangement", which would have him meeting her shortly with the letter, Araminta went in search of her next quarry: Lord Debenham.

Where on earth had Araminta gone?

In a panic after she was unable to locate her in or around the tavern's environs, Lissa finally went to Lord Partington's London townhouse. Though she was in danger of losing her place if her truancy was discovered, she loitered under the plane tree across the road until, finally, she caught the attention of the younger girl, Hetty, who had her nose pressed to the window.

Succumbing, obviously, to curiosity, Hetty came into the garden and for the first time Lissa properly made the acquaintance of her other half-sister. Immediately, she liked her. Hetty was sweet and unassuming, where Araminta was venal and calculating. It was hard to imagine they could even be related, so different were they.

Lissa was indignant on Hetty's behalf when she learned the full story of Araminta's deviousness in going behind Hetty's back to get Jem to hand over the letter. She was glad to tell Hetty that Araminta hadn't had the money on hand to secure it.

The girl's smile at this piece of information had transformed her into a beauty. "So Jem still has the letter? Why, all is not lost then!"

But all seemed lost for Lissa, and any possibility of a future with Ralph Tunley, she reflected dolefully after she'd traipsed home.

Mrs. Lamont was shouting for her and the nursery maid, whom she had begged to cover for her, was in tears.

"Oh miss, where have you bin? I've told ever so many lies about you being took sick of a sudden and going to visit your aunt for some remedy." Clara had the youngest child on her lap while the elder was demanding that her governess do drawing with her. Meanwhile, Mrs. Lamont's heavy footsteps were pounding up the stairs, and soon both she and Master Cosmo were in the room, their fearsome expressions suggesting what it must feel like to be confronted by an enemy battalion.

Oh, but she hated life here.

An image of domestic felicity with Ralph floated up before her but was dissolved by Mrs. Lamont's fierce, "Perhaps I shall dismiss you on the spot, Miss Hazlett." Her multiple chins wobbled and her ringlets bobbed as her son glared malevolently at Lissa from behind his mother's shoulder. "Leaving the house with not a word! Why, Nellie was beside herself when you were not there for her usual drawing lesson. What possessed you to show such blatant disregard for the kindness this family has shown you?"

The knowledge that for the past six months very little regard had been shown to her by this family welled up in Lissa's breast, and for once banished all common sense.

"Very well, I shall go then!" she declared angrily, brushing past the gathered group and intending to go to her tiny attic bedchamber. At least her mother could use her help during her advantaged stages of pregnancy. She'd not cost much to keep.

"Pray, have a thought for the girls who need you." Cosmo's fingers were digging into Lissa's shoulder, and when he turned her to face him, his expression was both angry and frightened. Mama..."

He turned to his mother, who was trembling with an excess of emotion and who seemed unable to articulate the tumultuous state of her thoughts.

"Miss Hazlett has taken grave advantage, it is true. However, her imminent departure will cause far more disruption than is warranted, and although she is an ungrateful creature, she should be offered one final chance." He lowered his voice and there was a clear subtext in his expression as he added, "So that she might see there are... _benefits_ to realizing the error of her ways." He put his lips close to Lissa's ear. "We will discuss this further when we are alone."

The idea of being alone with Cosmo was repugnant so Lissa ensured she was with Nellie and Harriet for the rest of the day.

Inevitably, though, he came, indicating for her to leave the girls to their drawing so he could speak to her in private as he led her to the window alcove.

"I have spoken to Mama, and you don't have to go, Miss Hazlett. I have two commissions and you're to have them all completed by Friday," he said without preamble.

Lissa waited for some kind of conciliatory addendum, or at least an indication that he was grateful and recognized his rising reputation was purely due to her.

Finally, she asked boldly, "How much will that earn me?"

Fury clouded his brow. "I ensured you kept your job. How dare you ask me now for money? If you wish to remain under this roof and enjoy my family's hospitality, you will need to show a little respect."

His cold, angry eyes were suddenly right in front of her nose. "Don't think I don't know what you're up to, Miss Hazlett. You have a young man, don't you? Well..." He looked gloating. "I have a good deal more influence than the specimen you clearly favor, so if you want him to continue to enjoy his fruitful employment, I suggest there be no more talk of something so unsavory as payment for doing only what you owe this family."

Lissa raised her chin with a fury to match his and was about to hiss a suitable response when suddenly she turned, nursing her right hand as if it gave her great pain.

"Ah, but I knew it would come to this, Master Cosmo," she whimpered, massaging the limb and pretending great sorrow. "As an honest and virtuous servant of this household, I feel I must go and confess all to your mother. I have deceived her, and both my conscience and the hand I use for sketching, are smiting me."

He looked confused. "Miss Hazlett, really, I don't think..."

"No, you really _don't_ think, Master Cosmo, do you? Otherwise you'd not bite the hand that feeds you," Lissa flung back at him. "Are you so pudding-headed that you can't imagine I would happily tell the world of our little arrangement before going elsewhere? You think the lack of a good character from your mama might hamper my employment chances? I'm confident I have the proof to back up my testimony that I am the artist, not you. The only reason I remain is because I need you to secure the commissions. So why not reconsider the merits of honoring your pledge to pay me as agreed? Then we can put this unfortunate episode behind us."

She'd never spoken so forcefully but she'd been emboldened after watching Araminta conduct business.

And Lissa knew that she was cleverer than Araminta and more talented than Cosmo.

# Chapter 7

Highway robbery or a clever legal plan. These were the two choices which faced Ralph. Although he felt the former a more exciting option, and an antidote to his misery in Lord Debenham's employ, his steady common sense ultimately favored the clever legal plan.

Pacing his small office, he tried to establish what he had to work with. Clearly he must verify for himself what was in the letter Miss Hazlett had told him her half-sister had failed to secure. And in the interim, he must ignore the fact that his beloved was the illegitimate daughter of a viscount. His mother would be horrified at Ralph's choice when there were so many respectable ladies of middling rank with reasonable dowries, unstained by their accidental birth as poor Miss Larissa Hazlett had been, through no fault of her own.

But this letter. If it contained what Miss Hazlett said it did, then Ralph held Lord Debenham in the palm of his hand—and that was no bad thing, though he'd have to be careful. Ralph knew how ruthless his employer could be in his public life. It certainly did not end there. There was talk of a penchant for perverted activities involving a veritable bevy of lower-class women in the basement of his townhouse. Debenham was also a regular at Maggie Montgomery's Nunnery, a high-class brothel where, it was rumored, she sifted through the freshest, most innocent of London's new arrivals, and indentured them as virtual slaves for the pleasure of her high-paying clientele. Yet this, somehow, was not illegal.

At last Ralph found a pretext of speaking to Jem, his master's valet when he went to deliver some papers at His Lordship's townhouse and found the master not at home.

His arrival was fortuitously timed for Jem was on his way out to take one of his master's coats to the tailor for repair when he met him on the pavement near the servants' entrance.

During their hasty discussion around the corner, Jem was initially cagey about his recent meeting with Miss Partington but when he realized Ralph shared the same distrust of their shared master, he became infinitely more forthcoming.

With a great sense of relief and not inconsiderable self-congratulation, Ralph returned to his office. Jem was clearly in terror of his master, much as Ralph was. The agreement they'd arrived at regarding the letter would, for the moment, preserve the status quo and leave everyone none the wiser. That is, until the other parts of Ralph's plan slotted into place. The letter was now Ralph's insurance, as much as Jem's.

In the meantime, there was nothing for it but to return to normal duties and wait to see how, and when, his newfound knowledge could be used.

Lissa knew life was an unfair business. Having met Hetty in order to pass on her concerns regarding Araminta's strange disappearance from the tavern, it was clear that the younger of her half-sisters was far sweeter and more deserving than the elder, and yet it was the devious Araminta who looked likely to win the man of her dreams, though Lissa wasn't sure that either Debenham or Sir Aubrey would make the ideal husband. Debenham she found terrifying, while Sir Aubrey appeared arrogant and distant. Hetty, however, was clearly smitten, though she'd not said anything directly to that effect.

As for Lissa, she was too poor to be more than of passing interest to her half-sisters. Perhaps they felt anger or revulsion. Nevertheless, she was only useful for the small services she could render, particularly to Araminta. She'd been relieved to learn that Araminta had finally returned home after she'd mysteriously disappeared following their meeting with Jem.

What was of graver concern, however, was learning of Jem's disappearance within hours of that meeting. In fact, so concerned was Lissa that immediately upon learning the news, she wrote a note to Ralph.

She was just drifting off to sleep when the sound of a small stone hitting her window caused her to leap out of her bed and run to the window, her heart pounding with the fear of retribution, then with delight that it was in fact Ralph she could discern in a pool of moonlight.

Snatching a shawl from the hook on the back of the door, she hastened down the servants' steps, pulled the bolt, melted into the night and, for the first time, into Ralph's strong embrace, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh!" she cried as his lips touched her hair briefly before he set her apart from him.

"I was afraid you'd slap my face for taking such liberties."

The warmth in his voice was like a drug. He put his finger beneath her chin and tilted up her head. In the light of the yellow, waxy moon, his eyes glowed like liquid amber and desire pooled in her belly. She wanted him to continue to hold her but he stepped back with a smile, adding, "I'm glad you didn't. Just as I'm glad you told me about Jem. Have you heard anything further?"

"No, and I won't until I visit Araminta in the morning and ask the question for myself, but I gravely fear for his safety, having heard some of the things your esteemed employer is apparently capable of."

Her heart swelled when he stroked her cheek. It was a strange, disembodied sensation, and she wanted nothing more than for him to simply hold her and keep her safe. She rarely felt safe under the Lamonts' roof, and although she was fond of the little girls, it had been drummed into them to regard her as a servant and not, under any circumstances, a confidante. They were closer to their nursemaid, Clara.

Ralph's transparent admiration was balm to her barren soul but now he was deadly serious.

"This is a grave state of affairs," he told her, chafing her hand between his, perhaps to soothe himself as much as her. "Naturally I know you'll keep this entirely to yourself, but I saw Jem just before he apparently disappeared, and I saw the letter myself. I won't tell you the arrangement I made with Jem, and that's not because I don't trust you, but because if you are in some way implicated through having accompanied your...Miss Partingon, it will be safer for you to be ignorant of its contents."

Deep furrows crinkled his brow. Lissa wanted to smooth them away, and run her fingers through the springy brown hair that he was continually raking back from his eyes.

Instead, she told him her greatest fear: that Ralph would somehow find himself in similar danger to Jem. "I don't know how Cosmo knows about us, but earlier this afternoon, he threatened that if I didn't paint for him, harm would come to my," she blushed, "young man."

To her surprise, Ralph looked remarkably chuffed. "I say, 'young man', is it? Well, if that's what I am, then, I haven't yet enjoyed all the perks. May I kiss you, Miss Hazlett?"

Lissa gasped as delight and trepidation speared her.

He must have noticed the furtive way her eyes darted to the windows above, for immediately he looked contrite, retreating slightly and dropping his eyes. His voice was heavy, as if he greatly feared he'd overstepped the line. "Please forgive me, I had no right to make such an ungentlemanly request."

But barely had he finished the sentence than, in the greatest act of bravado in Lissa's life, she raised herself on tiptoe and touched her lips carefully to his.

They were soft and warm and immediately she was consumed by the greatest desire to lose herself in his embrace and the intimacy of his kiss. A desire kindled by the feeling of his arms tightening around her as his lips yielded to hers in a bonding that quickly grew in intensity.

A kiss that transported her beyond the realm of her narrow existence and filled her heart almost to bursting.

Her hands, which had been resting against his breast, now twined behind his neck and she pressed herself against him, just as she felt him retreating.

When she opened her eyes in disappointment, it was to see the sentiment echoed in his. "Oh, Miss Hazlett, this is far too dangerous." He was breathing heavily and he shook his head in agitation.

Embarrassment swamped Lissa. "You think I was...too forward? Please don't assume the accident of my birth makes me that kind of woman."

The misery of her dreadful origins threatened to swamp her. Her shoulders heaved and she didn't resist when he wrapped his arms about her once more and gently kissed the top of her head.

"You are the most virtuous, delectable armful I've ever had the good fortune to meet. The accident of your birth means nothing." His voice was a soft, cathartic murmur. "You are my angel, Miss Hazlett. I recognized it from the moment I laid eyes on you, but it's only now that I realize the danger you place me in."

A note of amusement crept into his voice at her predictable gasp, and he went on, "A danger that has nothing to do with my unsavory employer and everything to do with the fact that such close proximity to you makes _me_ a danger—for I want you, Miss Hazlett." Sparks of light radiated from the depths of his gaze. "I want you with every particle of my being—oh yes, for my own selfish reasons, but also to keep you safe and protected."

Reluctantly he dropped his hands. "And I cannot do that when I cannot trust myself not to kiss you with a passion that would be dangerous for both of us. There's only one thing for it." His tone became brisk and businesslike. "I must go away to think, Miss Partington."

"Think?"

"Of how to expedite this bold and cunning plan I've only just now put into motion. I'm not rich enough to offer you marriage at this moment and anything else is quite out of the question. This morning I'd thought to rob a coach—not a thought I entertained for long," he quickly reassured her, "for that would be as counter to achieving the respectable, happy and long-lasting union I desire as succumbing to what I really feel here." He touched his hand to his heart and Lissa blushed at the allusion.

"You see, when I saw Jem, I came up with a plan to safeguard certain individuals from harm. In fact, it was more the _beginning_ of a plan, depending on how other events transpired." He sighed. "Now I realize I must exercise my mental faculties more than I ever have and perhaps _tinker_ with events. For so long I've been a lowly secretary, so there's not been much of a requirement to use this." He tapped his head. "But my unbiased mama tells me I'm the cleverest man she knows, and I'd like you to think it someday, too."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he leaned close and kissed her chastely on the lips, stepping back and shaking his head when Lissa moved forward.

"Not yet, Miss Partington, but I promise you, our time will come."

_***_

Araminta felt her time had come.

The evening she had planned at Vauxhall Gardens was going to cement what she had worked toward for so long: the perfect marriage.

She'd told herself she could have any man she wanted and, during her first season, that had probably been true.

Then there'd been the disastrous incident with that stupid young man blowing his brains out. She'd only agreed to marry him after too many champagnes had led to a quick fumble in a carriage; but she'd not been found out, as she'd feared at the time, and there'd been no witnesses—and no consequences—so she wasn't going to marry any gentleman she didn't want to, unless she really had to.

Of course, she'd been very sorry that her disappointed suitor had been so addle-pated as to have used a loaded pistol. She fully agreed with everyone who wanted to talk about it with her that it was a tragedy and so thoughtless of him to have made such a mess for his poor mama to find, but that wasn't Araminta's fault. The trouble was, more and more she was gaining the impression that _others_ in society felt it was. At least to the extent that the more glittering prizes tended to shy away from her when it came to forging a more long-lasting union.

Then she'd met Lord Debenham, who was clearly mad for her; and she did find him intriguing, with that edge of danger that did something to her insides. Yes, the letter Jem had shown her was troubling. Lord Debenham had been painted a villain by his very own cousin, Sir Aubrey's wife, while Sir Aubrey was, apparently, the wrongly maligned society gentleman.

However, Lord Debenham was only in danger if that letter were discovered. Araminta's meeting with His Lordship immediately after she'd left the tavern had made it clear how far he was willing to go to ensure that the letter was never made public. Araminta might even have agreed to be his wife that very moment if he'd asked her.

But then, when Hetty had dragged her into the drawing room just after she'd returned from her secret meeting with Lord Debenham in the hackney, there was Sir Aubrey pacing up and down. And after he'd kissed her knuckles and said such sweet things to her after telling her how important it was to give _him_ the letter, Araminta's heart had fluttered all over the place.

So, really, Araminta had her choice of two suitors—Lord Debenham _and_ Sir Aubrey.

Now Araminta had chosen. Sir Aubrey might be a mere baronet but only a sickly, childless cousin stood in the way of an earldom and, equally important, Sir Aubrey would make a far more manageable husband than Lord Debenham.

Although Hetty would be disappointed, and might even blame Araminta for acting improperly, she must know that a union between herself and Sir Aubrey was impossible.

Sir Aubrey's smeared reputation had apparently made him _persona non grata_ in the higher echelons of government and society, so he needed a wife like Araminta whose beauty, charm and grace would assist in him being embraced by society.

All she had to do was give him the letter.

Tonight, dressed just like Hetty—as a Spanish dancing girl for the masquerade at Vauxhall—Araminta intended that by the end of the night, the elder Miss Partington was going to be all but Sir Aubrey's wife.

If he didn't make Araminta a formal offer, she had a plan that would give him no choice.

# Chapter 8

Lissa's relief was short-lived. News had come to her that Jem had been discovered alive but that he'd been knocked about badly, and now lay at death's door.

When she had a moment to spare, she scribbled a note, which she entrusted to the boot boy, waited a few moments before she snatched her cloak, then hurried the two blocks to where her half-sisters lived. Araminta was not smiling when she greeted her beneath the apple tree.

"What do you suppose might have happened if someone had intercepted that note?" she demanded.

"Is Jem going to live?"

"You risked my reputation to ask me that? Besides, why should you care?"

"Because I met him and liked him, and because of you— _us_ —his life was put in danger. Of course I should care! I see you're going to a masquerade."

She stared at Araminta's Spanish dancing girl costume, trying unsuccessfully to withstand the spasm of envy that, she feared, was plain for the other girl to see.

Araminta looked smug. "Tonight is very special. I intend a certain gentleman to make me an offer."

"Lord Debenham?"

"Good Lord, no. Not after what I saw in that letter! No, Sir Aubrey. Although his reputation is somewhat tarnished, Sir Aubrey will have me to thank for restoring glory to him."

Lissa gasped. "I thought you didn't have the money to obtain the letter?"

Araminta looked uncomfortable. "Hetty has gone behind my back and somehow acquired the letter...but she won't have it for long. I intend to retrieve it tonight. Lord knows what she was about, thinking he might look at her twice if she was the one to triumphantly brandish it in front of him. Now I really must go, while you no doubt have your governessing duties to attend to."

She turned, saying over her shoulder, "Your concern is really most touching, but I'm sure Jem will be quite all right. He's not dead, at any rate."

Lissa dashed back to the Lamont household and had reached the first landing when a hand darted from seemingly nowhere and landed on her shoulder. She squealed and Cosmo stepped into the light, laughing. She hated his habit of accosting her from the shadows.

"Methinks only someone with something to hide could be so all-aquiver. What? Been to see your lover, have you? Well, that's of no account to me, as long as you abide by our agreement."

She shrugged off his hand and started to climb the stairs again, ignoring him, but he called her back.

"Clara is putting the girls to bed. I've told everyone you've been given the evening off to seek a remedy from your aunt." At her open-mouthed shock, he went on, "That's because you're coming with me."

She drew back, frightened, as he made to reach for her, and instantly the sneer on his face told her she was unwise to make her distaste so clear.

Before she could ask his meaning, he repeated, "You're coming with me to Vauxhall Gardens. It's a masquerade, the perfect opportunity for you to do those lightning sketches you're so good at, since you'll be in disguise like everyone else."

Excitement mixed with trepidation, for although Lissa had been envious of Araminta minutes before, the idea of being anywhere in close proximity to Cosmo was terrifying.

"My reputation—" she began, but he scoffed.

"Really, Miss Hazlett, you're a governess, that's all. Mama has an ancient domino rig-out she wore to a masquerade ball last century. The old-fashioned gown and cloak will fit you with room to spare. No one will ever know it's you, and I'll see you're served ham so thin you can see through it and partake of all the Bristol Milk you desire. Don't you want to know how the other half _really_ lives?"

Lissa thought she heard resentment in his tone, for he was only a few steps farther up the social ladder than she was, looked down upon by those whose portraits he painted. His money was not inherited.

Her final, faint objections were made to his retreating back. However, when a little later she returned to her bedchamber and saw, lying upon the bed, a voluminous domino and a sculpted mask adorned with black feathers, she could not deny her excitement. Despite its antiquity it did offer Lissa the anonymity she needed. She whisked it up and saw that it came with voluminous pockets she could tie about her waist, enabling her to easily access her sketchbook. If she'd been wearing the narrow fashions of the day she'd have had to carry a reticule.

Of course, she should feel angry that Cosmo had given her no choice but to dance to his tune, but a night of rubbing shoulders with the haut ton, doing sketches for which she'd be paid, eating and drinking things that were not governess fare, did not come her way every day.

Clara appeared in the doorway rubbing her eyes, and Lissa quickly tossed the Domino upon the bed and stood in front of it.

"Master Cosmo said as you'd gone to visit your aunt."

"I'm leaving shortly," Lissa said quickly. What a rare opportunity to be granted a reprieve from her work. One arranged by the difficult-to-please young master who'd had it sanctioned by the rest of the family.

Nodding, Clara turned and left her in peace while Lissa dreamed of the excitement ahead of her tonight.

She would make the most of her freedom and she would do what Cosmo required of her, but she would not be at Cosmo's beck and call all evening. Not when he'd neglected to pay her for all her sketches, as promised.

There were difficulties. Lissa had no hope of changing, indoors, without any of the family or servants observing her in costume, and Cosmo was virtually breathing down her neck the moment she tiptoed out of the schoolroom with the ensemble hidden in a hessian sack.

He took her to a tavern and directed her to small room, where she hurriedly donned the costume. The domino was a princess shape, made of black brocade, with a Watteau plait with cape, voluminous hood and wide sleeves. It was large and long enough to slip over her own dress and hide it completely.

With pretended nonchalance she returned to Cosmo's side and, in silence, they travelled in a hackney to the Gardens.

"I have two commissions I must complete tonight," he told her as they walked side by side through the throngs of revelers wearing all manner of outlandish and fantastical garb. "Make sure you stay near, but in the background, and make your drawings as quickly as possible."

Lissa was not going to be ordered about in such a cavalier fashion. The delicious aroma of roasting pig reminded her of how hungry she was, and there was also Cosmo's promise of refreshment and fun to compensate for the work she would do for him—in addition to the payment of a third of what he received. "I would like something to eat and drink, first," she said in a manner that brooked, she hoped, no refusal. "You took me away before supper, and I've had nothing since luncheon. I can't sketch without food."

He stopped to stare at her, as if she'd uttered an outrageous impertinence, but Lissa did not flinch before his jutting brow. Cosmo was a bully but not so stupid he didn't understand when it was unwise to court a falling-out. Without a word, he resumed walking, shouldering his way through the crowds to the refreshments tent after finding her a seat at a table where she could wait in view of him.

The food was delicious. She'd never enjoyed such rich and exotic flavors, and the atmosphere was intoxicating. The night was young and it was not fully dark, but the drink was flowing. Lissa saw women throw back their heads, eyes shining with promise, and young men transformed into gallant swains in their quest to strut their manliness before their lady loves. It was like being part of the theatre itself.

On the other side of the rotunda she saw Araminta and Hetty, _both_ dressed as Spanish dancing girls, flanking their cousin Stephen. In their wake trailed a couple of country-looking misses dressed as shepherdesses and a young man in a cassock whom Lissa took to be their brother.

The country cousins looked as Lissa felt: as if they'd never encountered such a place. By contrast, Araminta appeared used to this kind of lark as she sauntered with confidence along the busy thoroughfare. Her confidence was in contrast to Hetty's obvious discomfort at being dressed in the same garb as her flamboyant sister. Lissa was in no doubt that Araminta had chosen the Spanish dancing girl's costume. She wondered if Hetty knew of her sister's plan to obtain the all-important letter before she could present it to Sir Aubrey, and she hoped an opportunity would arise whereby she could warn her.

Whatever revelations might be the outcome, both girls apparently had a decided preference for Sir Aubrey, and little wonder. Lord Debenham was terrifying.

By the time she and Cosmo had finished their meal, darkness was closing in and the shadows were lengthening but a large waxing moon shone a golden glow upon everything. Lissa leaned back on her bench and stared into the gloom. Araminta, she saw, had returned to listen to the orchestra, but of Hetty, there was no sign. Which one of them, she wondered, had the hitherto secret letter?

Her preference was that Hetty should be the unlikely victor and find love in Sir Aubrey's arms, if that was what she truly wanted. Araminta had shown the greater boldness but Hetty was, Lissa was certain, the more deserving.

If Lissa were required to melt into the shadows and slyly do Cosmo's bidding with pencil and paper, perhaps she could find a way to help Hetty.

"Who are we to sketch?" Lissa asked as Cosmo pushed aside his plate. Araminta had just disappeared, swallowed up by the crowds of revelers on the Serpentine Walk. Lissa frowned. She was sure she'd not seen her in company with her Cousin Stephen. Or any of her cousins, for that matter.

"I have a commission from Lord Smythe's wife to render her husband's likeness for a small charcoal etching, with which she wishes to present him as a surprise. She asked me to observe him without his knowledge, which is of course ideal."

The idea, which had pleased him a moment before, now appeared to have a caveat, Lissa feared, judging from the sudden downturn of his mouth. It was only after a little prodding that he finally confessed.

"Lady Smythe is holding a ball on Thursday night, to which I'd hoped to be invited so I could present her with the sketch. But no offer was forthcoming. I shall therefore deliver it to her tomorrow. She may be only too pleased to show it off during her entertainment later this week and thus I can garner more commissions."

Lissa nodded. A quick sketch of Lord Smythe should not prove difficult. "And the other?"

Cosmo looked evasive. Then Lissa realized it was embarrassment. A gentle breeze ruffled his light brown curls and he looked for a moment terribly young and not the cruel employer and manipulator she knew him to be. "Mr. Crossing believes his wife is...er, being unfaithful, and has planned an assignation with her lover in a supper room here tonight. He wants me to sketch her with whomever she is with."

Lissa clutched the folds of the domino at her throat. "That's spying. We can't possibly! No Cosmo, I won't do it."

"It's a commission worth three times the usual money, and yes you will." No longer did he look young and vulnerable. "My ability to render an uncanny likeness with just a few pencil strokes has been highly acclaimed."

"You mean _my_ ability."

He ignored her. "This could become a lucrative business if you are canny enough to carry it off. Or will your nerve or talent fail you tonight? Mr. Crossing is justified in wanting to know if his wife is true. You'd not condone deceit, would you, Miss Hazlett?"

Cosmo knew how much Lissa wanted the money and gave her no opportunity to object further as he pulled her to her feet. "Goodness, I believe that is Lord Smythe heading past the orchestra in the company of two other gentlemen."

He relaxed in disappointment. "I'm sure it was, though he is gone now. No matter. We will be vigilant. And tonight will mark the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership, Miss Hazlett."

"With the financial rewards to be meted out before the end of the week, or it will be the last time we are in partnership, Mr. Lamont."

"I think we need each other too much for me not to accede to your money-grubbing sentiments, Miss Hazlett." He gave a disappointed sigh. "A lady's preoccupation with filthy lucre is so unbecoming."

Araminta leaned against the trunk of an elm tree, hidden in the darkness, and stared across at Sir Aubrey's supper box. She'd gained possession easily enough of the letter, snatching it from Hetty's reticule earlier that evening during a fortuitous moment when it had fallen to the ground after her sister had been jostled in the crowd.

The sense of victory had been supreme as Araminta had tucked the valuable missive inside her stays. What Sir Aubrey wouldn't give to have that letter? It would finally reveal to the world the truth of Lord Debenham's treachery, and thus her future husband's innocence. Yes, Sir Aubrey was, without a doubt, the man of her dreams. With the incendiary, incriminating letter detailing Lord Debeham's depravity pricking into her skin she wondered how she could for one moment have entertained ideas of allying herself with wicked Viscount Debenham.

She adjusted the veil that ensured her anonymity, ran her clammy hands down her red and gold flounced skirts and shivered with the thrill of simply being alone and unchaperoned. Any guilt or doubt about what she was about to embark upon could not be entertained. Of course, her Mama would be horrified if she knew what Araminta was about to do, and in fact Araminta did feel a trifle uncomfortable about sending Hetty off in the direction of Lord Debenham's supper box.

When Hetty had discovered the letter missing a few minutes ago, Araminta had told her she'd given it to Lord Debenham, whereupon the silly girl had immediately run off to beg him for its return. It was almost as if Hetty had imagined that by presenting the letter to Sir Aubrey, he'd convey his gratitude through a marriage offer.

Yes, Araminta acknowledged it had been wrong to send Hetty off, alone, to confront such a dangerous man as Lord Debenham, but what choice had she had? She'd rather share dreadful Cousin Edgar's fate and drown in a duck pond than finish a second season without an offer.

And it was unthinkable that Hetty might receive an offer first.

Araminta took a final deep breath, adjusted the lace that edged her décolletage, and stepped up to the door of Sir Aubrey's supper box.

As long as the means justified the glorious outcome she had in mind, she'd be forgiven. It was only natural Sir Aubrey would wish to reward her bravery in seeing him vindicated, his reputation restored and Lord Debenham branded the villain he really was.

Her family would forgive her for the same reasons. And Araminta would be the beautiful consort at Sir Aubrey side, responsible for his rise from beleaguered politician to one of the leading peers in the land. Only last night Araminta had heard whispers that the health of the ailing, childless uncle to whom he was heir had taken a turn for the worse.

The strains of Haydn drifted across from the orchestra, mingling with the aroma of roasted chestnuts from a nearby brazier. Araminta felt almost giddy with her own boldness but as she raised her hand to knock, her courage almost failed her, which was rare indeed.

Then she thought of his astonishment when she presented him with the letter, and of the kisses he'd rain all over her as he begged her to marry him; and excitement curdled in her belly. She was conscious of a tremendous heat between her legs, similar to the sensations she'd felt when Jem had been so overcome with desire that he'd all but kidnapped her before kissing her so passionately in the tavern. She pushed aside the intruding memory of Lord Debenham's kiss in the hackney carriage shortly afterwards. She couldn't deny the excitement she'd felt at the time, but upon reflection she was glad she'd pursued the safer option: Sir Aubrey.

Quietly, she turned the door knob and slowly opened the door. Her moment had nearly come. Soon, Sir Aubrey and she would realize their shared destiny. Yes, indeed, victory was about to be hers.

With heart beating wildly, she stepped across the threshold. In just a moment she would drop the gauze veil and Sir Aubrey would spring to his feet in a blaze of hungry ardor that she'd so boldly taken steps to be alone with him.

She put her hand to the ribbons that tied the veil in place and her heart beat even more wildly. Her body was on fire. There he was, sprawled upon a sea of cushions, it appeared, his eyes lust-laden as he focused them on her. He'd obviously heard her enter for he swung round, still sprawled amidst the cushions. He didn't even rise though the wicked glint in his eye made up for that.

And then he spoke. Words that stole the breath from her lungs and left her crazy with dismay. Then blood lust.

His voice was a low growl, dangerous with desire. "Hetty? Is that you, my darling? Come! My, my, so this is what you had in store for me."

# Chapter 9

A cool breeze had sprung up. Cosmo rubbed his hands together as he and Lissa decided the final points on how to proceed, beneath an overhanging tree branch upon which two lanterns swung.

"I predict rich pickings, Miss Hazlett," Cosmo remarked happily, encompassing the supper house a few yards away with a sweep of his arm. "Why, they've not even gone to the trouble of putting out the lantern hanging by the entrance. Very accommodating." He chuckled. "You must make detailed sketches of their clothes so their identities might be further verified. Mrs. Crossing's, in particular. Her husband is an exacting man."

It was at this point Lissa realized she could not go ahead with the arrangement. _An exacting man_. Earlier, as she'd watched from the darkness while Mr. Crossing and Cosmo had talked near the rotunda, she'd been struck by Mr. Crossing's belligerent manner. Even from a distance he'd appeared a frightening man, broad-shouldered with a massive head upon a bull-like neck. The way he'd waved his fists around reminded Lissa of two pork knuckles aggressively facing each other off in mid air.

Now she realized that she was about to become party to a situation that may well endanger the anonymous woman in that supper box.

"I can't do it," she whispered, raising her head to look at Cosmo. "Even if she is guilty, it's not right."

Cosmo's mouth dropped open, as if he truly were caught by surprise. "What do you mean, you won't do it? You're as motivated by the riches that will come your way as I am. Besides, I've made a pledge and the pair is only a stone's throw away. You _must_ do it. I can't be made to look a fool."

Cosmo put his hands on her shoulders and drew her into the light. He looked more panicked than menacing. "You _will_ do it, otherwise I'll tell Mama about your young man. You know you're not allowed followers. I'll tell her he's been making improper advances and that you've encouraged him. Don't think I didn't notice the way you looked at him when he came to visit. And he at you. Something is going on. Well, let me tell you, Mama will happily shred _his_ reputation, if you're not so worried about your own. She's very effective at that sort of thing. So do your job and do it well, Miss Hazlett, if you don't want to suffer the consequences."

Lissa shook off his grasp and rose. She hated this man who wielded his power in such a petty, tyrannical fashion. Of course, she could expose him and leave the Lamont household but the exhilaration she'd felt when Cosmo had unexpectedly thrust a sovereign into her hand after dinner had coalesced into a sense of her value and increasing power. He'd never have done such a thing if he'd not realized how reliant he was on her. Between his threats and the unexpected money, she saw that clearly.

So Lissa refrained from her impulse to flounce off into the night. To leave Cosmo, the Lamonts and London meant abandoning this arrangement, her only avenue towards independence.

"Your threats don't frighten me, Master Cosmo, because I know you need me too much," she said calmly. "But you will _continue_ to pay me, as agreed, for if you do not, I have no incentive for staying or for keeping our arrangement secret."

This had the desired effect. Of course he was frightened of exposure, though he hid it well enough. Just as Lissa hid her grave misgivings about what she was about to do as they trod the dark stretch of grass in silence.

Perhaps they would be confronted with a scene of perfect innocence. Perhaps the couple had slipped away already, unnoticed. She tried one final gambit. "This wasn't what I agreed to do when I said I would do your sketches," she whispered as they paused by a statue of a small boy. "It's...so sordid. Please, Master Cosmo. Surely you can tell Mr. Crossing you never saw his wife. Just this once?"

"Do you know how much Mr. Crossing has offered?" Cosmo sounded determined. "Miss Hazlett, he has seen the detail in those sketches and tells me only a master could render such an exact likeness in just a few quick strokes. Do you realize how valuable this is? I can garner so many more such commissions. I can make a fortune from this! _We_ can make a fortune, but we need to work together."

He gave her a small push and she stumbled forward as he added in her ear, "Console yourself...you're only recording the truth. If Mrs. Crossing is guilty of a misdemeanor, it's _her_ fault, isn't it?"

It soon became clear that whatever was happening within the supper box was far from innocent. Lissa leapt back at the plaintive moan of ecstasy that issued clearly from the small wooden structure, while Cosmo dashed forward to investigate where a peephole might afford him a proper view.

He had to return to drag Lissa with him while she tried to block her ears to the sounds of joyful lovemaking within.

Cosmo drew her to the rear of the building. A back curtain was not fully drawn, and through a full inch of exposed window, a tangle of naked limbs could be seen on the banquette by the far wall. A single candle burned on a low table, bathing the room with light.

"How can I possibly draw something like... _that_?" Lissa felt ill with shame as she turned her head away. "Besides, I can't see their faces."

For once, Cosmo looked uncertain. Then a look of greed and prurience crossed his face. "I shall call you when they are finished and...putting themselves to rights. As long as they are identifiable, that should be sufficient. I can elaborate on what I saw, when I hand the sketch to Mr. Crossing."

Lissa lingered, confused, her heart pumping. The gentleman had had his hand up the lady's skirts and she appeared to be...liking it. Of course she knew how animals procreated but she'd never properly considered what human love-making entailed, though she'd certainly never have expected anything like this. The more she thought about it, the more disappointed she became. How could this brutish behavior resemble anything like love?

When she envisaged herself enjoying greater intimacy with Ralph she was swamped with tenderness. Her heart seemed to hitch in her chest during the quick, unexpected occasions she'd hugged him. An overwhelming sense of liking and trust had seeped right through her. She'd wanted to keep hugging him. Dear Lord, she'd have been horrified if he'd done anything remotely like what the man inside was doing to Mrs. Crossing. If indeed it _was_ Mrs. Crossing.

But that's what Cosmo was being paid so handsomely to ascertain, and Lissa was merely required to record what she saw. The truth. Could she make herself feel any better about it if she put it that way?

Soon Cosmo was back at her side, hurrying her back to the supper house, pushing her head toward the opening in the curtains. Now she could see quite clearly what was happening within and make out the distinguishing features of those involved.

The lady, who appeared young and very pretty, was retying her garter at the knee while the gentleman, who Lissa now saw was much younger than she'd believed, was angled behind her, doing up the buttons at the back of her gown.

Cosmo pointed at Lissa's sketchbook which she'd withdrawn from her pockets and obediently she began to sketch. She was able to capture the limpid look of love in the young lady's pale blue eyes. Though they were slightly protuberant, this did not detract from her prettiness. Her lips were moist and full and her flaxen hair curled over one shoulder. Every now and again, her lover would stroke her hand as she tidied her coiffure.

The gesture caught at Lissa's heart. With her sketchbook resting on the window sill, her pencil flew over the parchment. She was unable to willingly do a bad rendition and besides, Cosmo knew she was fully capable.

Just as Lissa finished with a flourish, a gasp made them raise their gazes and focus again on the scene inside.

Perhaps the young man had caught a tendril of hair in the top button of the young lady's dress, for she gave a little yelp and turned her head toward him. Lissa caught the moment they locked gazes and the look they exchanged was one of such tenderness, she nearly dropped her pencil.

Without a word, the young man took the lady's face gently in his hands and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. The night was silent and quite clearly they could hear him utter the words, "If I can't be with you forever, I will die." The young lady closed her eyes and pulled him down beside her so she could rest her head upon his shoulder. He stroked her cheek and went on, his tone lower but more urgent, "Promise me you'll have courage. That you'll be waiting at the docks for the first Dover crossing of the coming month."

The young lady gave a short sob as she twisted in his arms to look at him. "How can I bear the wait? How can I bear the thought that I will see you again in public but not be able to acknowledge you?"

"Because that is the only way forward. The only way we can be together." He took her shoulders and helped her to rise, looking down at her with tender desperation. "I shall send you a note regarding the tides, but only the one. Otherwise it's too dangerous. You won't lose heart?"

Lissa sent a panicked look at Cosmo who firmly removed the sketchbook from her grasp. He then put his hand on her shoulder to steer her away as the young lady's reply drifted across the silence. "I would take any risk to be with you, my darling William, for each beating from Mr. Crossing only hardens my resolve."

Lissa pulled out of Cosmo's grasp as he drew her with him across the grass towards the rotunda. "You can't give the sketch to Mr. Crossing after what you just heard!" she protested. "Mr. Crossing beats her! You can't blame her for taking a lover. She needs to escape."

"Don't be such a ninny. She's dishonored her husband. Mrs. Crossing belongs to Mr. Crossing, and he can do to her what he likes. If he beats her, it's because she deserves it. I would, if I were her husband and she disobeyed me. I'm only too glad we could aid Mr. Crossing in his quest for justice for he acts quite within the law, and you know it."

Lissa could barely speak for anger. She tugged at Cosmo's arm, as he started to walk on. "Mrs. Crossing is running away because her husband is so cruel to her. Can you not understand that's what she meant? She's in _danger_. You can't risk her safety and future happiness."

"She should have thought of that before." It started as a sneer but was spoiled when Cosmo sniggered, and Lissa was reminded of one of his infantile sisters. "I think I can sting him for four times what he promised, now that I've recorded everything."

If Araminta had been able to indulge herself, she'd be sobbing her outrage in the safety of her bedchamber, on her soft feather mattress, with Jane not asking any questions but waiting on her, nevertheless, with warm possets and soothing concoctions. Though perhaps something stronger would be more in order.

She'd certainly not be standing here, feeling as vulnerable as she ever had, with this...dangerous gentleman regarding her with quiet interest.

She drew in a shuddering breath and tried to smile. _Pretend to like what is happening_ , she told herself. Pretense was everything.

The truth was, though, that the glittering life that had beckoned to Araminta from a shiny platter heaped high with promise lay in a heap of cinders.

Cinders, like the charcoal remains of the letter she'd taken from Hetty and which she'd tried to use to make Sir Aubrey understand where he must direct his honor. Everything had moved so quickly in the past half hour. Sir Aubrey had thought Araminta was Hetty, and that could not be forgiven. Dear God, he'd taken Araminta's virtue and so what if he'd mistaken her for her sister, dressed as she was in an identical dress and shrouded with a veil as she'd thrown herself upon him? He was more than ready for her when she'd impaled herself upon his pulsing, rock-hard member in her supreme sacrifice for the good of her family.

It was no excuse that he declared he was mortified as he'd struggled out from beneath her. He had raged at her, as if it were her fault, claiming he'd married Hetty by special license not half an hour before.

And then he'd rushed into the night in search of Hetty and Araminta had had no choice but to follow for she had the letter and she meant to use it. There was still time for Sir Aubrey to wriggle out of this foolish, impulsive union with her sister. Why, the marriage would not yet be registered. They could waylay the clergyman. Couldn't he see that anything was possible, now that he knew Araminta loved him?

But Sir Aubrey would not see sense. Not even after they'd discovered Hetty in the clutches of Lord Debenham who was clearly in his cups and posed no danger at all, though Sir Aubrey had taken exception to the broken bottle of arrack that Lord Dabenham had waved in the region of Hetty's throat. Did the stupid man not understand that of course Lord Debenham would not have hurt Hetty? Yet Sir Aubrey had cast all common sense to the wind and refused to succumb to Araminta's warnings. Finally, Araminta had had no choice but to burn the letter which could have restored his good name and which painted Lord Debenham in such a bad light.

Now here she was alone with Lord Debenham. She didn't feel comfortable, it was true, and she was close to distraught at the events of the past hour, but he was her last chance. If she did not make the most of her opportunities, she could find herself facing a third ignominious season or, worse, carrying the child of the man she'd expected to marry, the man she'd thought desired her as she desired him...

The man who'd just married her sister.

Frozen, she stood by the window. Lord Debenham, who should have been looking at her as if she were the most delectable creature, was instead thoughtfully smoking a cheroot as he lounged in a chair with legs crossed at the ankles, resting on the table.

"Aren't you going to thank me?" Her throat felt dry, her words brittle. She tried for an alluring smile.

"For burning that incriminating letter? When you hoped to blackmail Sir Aubrey with it so he'd marry you?" Lord Debenham chuckled. "Now you want to compromise me so _I'll_ be forced to marry you?"

Araminta had never been spoken to by a gentleman in such a manner.

"You are a very handsome man, my lord." Yes, she could do this. She could play up to him—and maybe she had to, even if just to prove that she was still irresistible. That Hetty wasn't the one to waltz off with the prize, leaving her older sister languishing, a laughing stock, an ape-leader with no dowry, their father having lost all his money.

She moved forward and boldly draped herself over his lap, careful to hike up her skirts so that he had a good view of exposed thigh. Yes, she had to entice Lord Debenham, because right now she didn't know what else to do.

Predictably, Lord Debenham placed one large, hairy hand on her knee and began to stroke her skin. With her heart in her mouth, Araminta watched. There was both revulsion and wild eroticism at play. He was dangerous and he was attractive. He was also terrifying. But if he made her his wife, she could be one of the great hostesses in the country.

His hand roamed higher. The other dipped into her bodice to fumble for her breast. Araminta wasn't sure what to do now. There was no suggestion of desire or tenderness in his exploitation. As for herself, she felt numb. As if the bruising, sudden, intimate encounter with Sir Aubrey had never happened.

"How tempting you are when you lay yourself on a platter for my enjoyment, Miss Partington." He sighed. "However, I regret that I am not prepared to be tricked into being forced to offer for you. It's dangerous enough that you are alone with me, but I'll not take your virtue. You are a poisoned chalice—and I've already promised you to Roderick."

With a gasp, Araminta leapt off his lap. "How dare you!" she cried. "I wouldn't marry your nephew if he was the last man alive! Besides, he's...in love with my sister."

"Well, your sister has just taken herself out of the race, and the truth is, Roderick has lusted after you like a dog in heat ever since you crossed his orbit. He might not look like he's capable of much, but once he gets over his awe of you, I think you won't be disappointed by his prowess."

Araminta couldn't believe he was speaking to her like this. Did he think he could be so coarse, just because she was alone and unprotected? "I would make his life misery!" she declared. "But it won't come to that because I will never marry him!"

Lord Debenham rose with a smile and headed toward the door. "You may just have to if you come to the end of another season without an offer," he said, opening it to usher her out. "Young Roderick is a very wealthy man, and he stands to inherit a great deal more. An ambitious young lady like you is quite capable of looking past his shortcomings."

Tearfully, Araminta pushed down her skirts and lunged for the cold outdoors. Her nightmare evening was getting worse by the moment.

Lord Debenham chuckled, patting her bottom as she passed. "Now hurry on back to your chaperone, Miss Partington, and don't look so crestfallen. If I weren't expecting a couple of colleagues any moment now I'd have happily tasted the delights you were so keen to offer."

If she'd had the foresight, she'd have picked up the broken bottle of arrack at his feet and wiped that smirk off his face.

# Chapter 10

"Good Lord, is that...Miss _Partington_ running out of that supper box? I've met her before and she's a beauty. With a reputation, I might add." Cosmo stopped in his tracks and Lissa looked in the direction he jerked his thumb. In the dim light of a lantern, she saw a figure dressed as a Spanish dancer with no head covering, tear across the lawn and disappear into the throng.

"I...I'm sure it could not have been." Lissa licked dry lips. Hetty had also been dressed as a Spanish dancer but the lithe, fleet-footed creature had not been the sweet, reflective, much plumper younger sister, she felt sure.

She peered again at the supper box. "That's...Lord _Debenham's_." They were en route to hand the sketch directly to Mr. Crossing but when another gentleman suddenly appeared in their line of vision, Lissa saw her opportunity. "Yes, that's Lord Debenham standing in the doorway of his supper house. And look, there is Lord Smythe! Lord Debenham is inviting him inside. Quick, we must take this opportunity to do the drawing Lady Smythe requested."

It took a couple of moments to persuade Cosmo of the merits of executing both commissions rather than return, first, to find Mr. Crossing and perhaps miss the opportunity of sketching Lord Smythe.

Not that Lissa was keen on the idea of getting closer to Lord Debenham than she had to. The few minutes in his arms on the dance floor had been the most uncomfortable she could remember and the more she heard about him from Ralph, the more terrifying he seemed. While Araminta had made no secret of her interest in Lord Debenham, she'd also told Lissa she was interested in Sir Aubrey. No, the figure fleeing from his supper box surely couldn't have been her, for she'd have been very properly chaperoned this evening.

Wishing she could quell the disquieting flutters of doubt she felt, Lissa quietly followed Cosmo in the direction from which the mystery figure had fled.

The sounds of slightly slurred laughter emanated from within and as they drew closer, Lord Debenham's distinct, ironic drawl punctuated the night air. Even that was enough to make Lissa want to take to her heels and run.

Still, she forced herself to the task, glad of the delay in returning to find Mr. Crossing.

The light was better here than it had been when she'd sketched Mrs. Crossing and her lover. There were three men gathered, the last having turned the lamp up full when he'd arrived a moment or so before. All seemed extremely convivial and Lissa was shocked to see an empty bottle of arrack, broken, its jagged bottom pressed against the leg of one chair. None of the men seemed concerned as they discussed the matter at hand.

"Hurry." Cosmo elbowed her and wordlessly Lissa began to sketch.

Lord Smythe, the eldest of the trio looked to be in his late fifties. His thatch of thick dung-colored hair was in stark contrast to the thinning locks of the youngest, a nervous, reedy-looking man with a bulbous red nose. Lissa was surprised at his presence for despite his foppish rig-out, he spoke like a poor man. His cheeks were sunken, giving him a cadaverous look, and when he laughed, Lissa saw most of his teeth were black stumps. Yet he was richly garbed in a paisley waistcoat and claret-colored wool coat together with black satin pantaloons.

With deft, quick strokes, Lissa recreated the scene: foppish Lord Smythe with his caramel drawl, the wizened, younger man whom Lissa heard Lord Debenham refer to as Buzby. He dominated the conversation until Lord Debenham mounted a strong defense for whatever was being argued. Lissa paid little attention until she heard Buzy's aggressive tones, "And then our esteemed Lord Liverpool will rue the harsh line he's taken with the machine-breakers in the north. If that won't stop the government in their tracks, I don't know what will," before the men started laughing.

She glanced nervously at Cosmo but his expression remained impassive. He'd either not heard, or chosen to pretend he had not.

For Lissa, the implications were terrifying, made more so as the conversation progressed.

Were these men plotting treason?

She was aware of Cosmo craning over her shoulder to see her work and she stepped back, suddenly nervous, giving a small cry as she dropped her sketchbook onto the ground.

Immediately Cosmo was upon her, roughly clapping his hand over her mouth as he dragged her to the back of the structure and into the shadows. Her heart pounded as she heard one of the men mutter something in fright, and then the door was thrown open and Lord Debenham thrust his head out for a cursory look around.

Apparently satisfied, he returned. "Damned squirrels," she heard one of them say before the conversation resumed, this time on a more muted level.

Lissa picked up her sketchbook and hastened deeper into the darkness. She wasn't going to risk being caught by Lord Debenham, knowing what she now did of this evil, terrifying man. The letter that Hetty had obtained from Jem confirmed his involvement in something havey-cavey, though Ralph hadn't told her its full contents or why he'd not taken possession of it. Perhaps Jem no longer had it but was able to relay its contents, having learned in the interim what it had said.

Now Lissa had witnessed His Lordship giving voice to treasonous sentiments, and had sketched him with his associates.

It was a huge relief to be back in the safety of the thoroughfares, where revelers jostled her and men, lightheaded with drink, sang public odes to their consorts. The perfection of the weather seemed to add to the high spirits of the crowd.

Except Lissa didn't feel high spirited at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. For all that Mrs. Crossing might be guilty of terrible wickedness, the genuine and touching way the couple had said farewell to each other spoke to Lissa's purest sentiments.

She decided to destroy the sketch. She didn't care how much Cosmo was being paid for it—or how much she'd make.

"There you are, my lad!"

Their progress about the rotunda was arrested by a broad-shouldered giant with an enormous head topped with lustrous salt-and-pepper curls topping a bullish neck, and extravagant mutton-chop side-whiskers. He clapped Cosmo on the shoulder. Mr. Crossing. His smile was unctuous but the right side of his lip curled up in what resembled a snarl, though Lissa soon decided this was really a smile as he went on, "Raising the breeze, eh? No, you've been working, and on my account, too. So, do I reward you? Have you found the twopenny whore? You have? By God, if she tries to cut the wheedle with me..." His words trailed off but his gesture left Lissa in no doubt that Mrs. Crossing would soon feel her husband's displeasure.

She stared at his hands. They were monstrous, flexing now as if he meant to wrap them around the young lady's throat the moment they were reunited.

Cosmo clicked his fingers at Lissa. "The picture for Mr. Crossing, please." He sent a nervous glance in the direction of his benefactor, adding, "This is my—er, cousin, who sometimes acts as my assistant. She has the artwork."

Impatiently he held out his hand but Lissa stammered, "I...I don't have the picture. I...I sent it back to the house with my maid." She sent Mr. Crossing an apologetic smile. "I had no idea we'd see you this evening, sir, and merely wanted to ensure it was kept safe."

Lissa was ready to be strongly censured. And indeed she was. Cosmo immediately rounded on her, but it would seem her rueful expression was sufficiently ameliorating for Mr. Crossing, who gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

"Tomorrow then. You can present it to me when I'm breakfasting with my wife. That'll surprise her. No need to tear strips off your poor cousin." He smiled at Lissa who was mesmerized by his fat, fishlike lips. She didn't wonder at the risks the very young, sweet Mrs. Crossing would go to escape a close encounter with them.

Snapping back to the present, she saw that Cosmo's benefactor had narrowed his eyes. He made a sucking noise then said in a loud whisper as he pulled Cosmo slightly away, "I trust you did not find her...in a state that would cause embarrassment either to herself or to me." Clearing his throat, he eyed Lissa with some awkwardness. "I would that you had not accompanied Mr. Lamont."

But Cosmo broke in quickly, saying, "Indeed, my cousin remained in the rotunda while I executed your commission. I made sure she did not...er, see...the result of my jottings, which I immediately consigned to a pouch as, like you, I would hate to have caused her distress."

"Distress?" His eyes grew bulbous.

He was about to say more, but Lissa interjected quickly, "I think my cousin is exaggerating, sir. When he pointed your wife out to me, she was deep in conversation with another lady, listening to Mozart." She placed her hand firmly on Cosmo's forearm. "And now, cousin, shall we leave? Mama will be cross if you keep me up too late."

Cosmo rounded on her when they were out of hearing. "Do you not see how you might have brought the price down with your little reassurance? Mr. Crossing was only too ready to believe the worst of Mrs. Crossing's misdemeanors. He will pay well to have evidence of her duplicity."

"I will not be responsible for setting up his bristles," Lissa muttered. In the shadow of a large statue-topped plinth by the edge of the rotunda where the orchestra was playing, she swung round to face him. "Mr. Crossing has the look of a man spoiling for violence at the slightest opportunity, though I think we already know that from what we overheard his wife telling her...friend."

Cosmo gave a snide laugh as he regarded Lissa. "What are you, really?" He shook his head, adding with unusual introspection, "You pretend to the world that you're a demure governess, but you're the first to cut shams the moment you're in a hobble." Reaching forward, he pinched her cheek. "Maybe you and I make a better pair than I thought."

He did not seem to mind that she flinched away from him with a look of horror.

Taking her hand and caging it once more on his sleeve, he bade her continue walking as he went on, conversationally, "Directly after my tailor's visit in the morning, I shall deliver my sketches." Then he stopped, his look cold. "I certainly won't let your conscience prevent me from making a handsome return on this evening's work."

# Chapter 11

Lissa barely slept that night. Cosmo had taken the sketch from her, forcibly, at the front gate. There was nothing she could do.

For hours she tossed and turned on her lumpy mattress. How could she live with herself if she were responsible for the beating of an unhappy wife? How could she get the sketch back? Was there any possibility of stealing it from Cosmo in the morning, before he could deliver it?

Dawn lightened the room but it was the maid's knock on the door that wakened Lissa from the exhausted sleep into which she'd finally fallen not long before.

After that, there was the usual round of supervising the girls over their breakfast in the schoolroom, followed by the thankless task of trying to enthuse them with some simple demonstrations on the abacus.

Miss Maria sauntered in while Lissa was again explaining the principles of addition to a yawning Harriet. Lissa likened the eldest Lamont girl to a cat. Miss Maria could be very still and quiet but then she loved to pounce, contradicting Lissa at every turn, undermining her authority in front of her sisters.

After ten minutes of this, Lissa sighed. "You are clearly bored, Miss Maria. Perhaps you'd like to take the lesson."

Maria's eyes narrowed, and she was about to offer some no doubt rude rejoinder when she remarked in surprise, "Why, there's a young lady stopped by the fence. Where's her maid? My goodness, that is a fine pelisse she's wearing. Oh, but I do like it."

Lissa would have ignored her had she not then crinkled her nose and said, "Good Lord, she's looking right into our garden. Like she wants someone."

Lissa scrambled up and hurried to the girl's side. "Look after Nellie and Harriet for just a moment, Miss Maria." Under normal circumstances she'd have kept a low profile, but memories of last night's extraordinary series of events and the thought that Araminta might help her, or indeed needed help, were more important.

"Where are you going?" Maria squeaked in outrage as Lissa brushed past her. "To the young lady? What business can you have with such a fine personage? Who is she?"

The fact that Araminta did indeed cut a mighty impressive figure should be sufficient for Maria to let Lissa go without further objection or the need to tell her mother, Lissa thought as she hurried into the garden. Araminta was striking whatever gown she chose to wear, and Maria would be eaten up with curiosity, perhaps jealousy.

"I recognized you at the Masquerade last night," Araminta said without preamble, pursing her lips and clasping her hands on the top of the fence when Lissa appeared. "I recognized you, even in costume, near the orchestra. I hope you weren't spying on me."

"Spying? On _you_?" Lissa's sharp response was quickly replaced by interest that Araminta was looking like Lissa felt. Drained and wan. "Araminta, are you quite well?"

"No, I am not!" the girl snapped. "Have you not heard the news that will soon be all over town, making me a laughingstock?"

Lissa clapped her hand over her mouth and felt the pain of Araminta's public shame. "So that was _you_ running from Lord Debenham's supper box?" she gasped.

If possible, Araminta looked even more stricken. "No!" But the strangled cry only confirmed her guilt. Quickly she added, "Hetty has eloped. Can you believe it? Hetty!" She spoke her sister's name as if she were the most loathsome creature on the planet. "And who do you think she's eloped with?"

Araminta answered her own question with another strangled sob. "Yes, with Sir Aubrey! Sir Aubrey led me to believe he would be speaking to Papa to ask for my hand, but he ran off with Hetty last night. Married her by special license and now they're on their way to France. What am I supposed to do? I can't bear being at home. Mama and Papa are utterly horrified, as you can imagine, and it's all anyone is taking about. Hetty is such a selfish girl! Mama is nearly at her time, and now Hetty has gone and done this just when she'll need her most."

This news was even worse than that of Hetty and Sir Aubrey's elopement. "Lady Partington is...about to be confined?" she whispered. "She's having a...?" She couldn't even say the words.

Her poor mother. Lissa had left home more than six months ago and her mother had certainly not known then. Perhaps she still had no idea that the man she regarded as her husband—the man who had abandoned her at the altar more than twenty years before—had fathered a child on his real wife. A baby that would be delivered at almost exactly the same time as hers.

How could Father? Rage bubbled through her veins, making it difficult to concentrate on Araminta's own troubles, until her sister snapped, "I said I shall be a laughingstock and you don't even care!"

Lissa blinked and responded without thinking. "You'll just have to marry Lord Debenham then."

She was taken aback when, with no warning, Araminta covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. What a pitiful sight she looked, with the flowers adorning her gypsy bonnet appearing to droop by her pretty face in sympathy. "I would if I could but he..." She left the sentence hanging then looked up at Lissa with tragic eyes. "Oh, I wish I were a simple governess with not a care in the world. Like you."

"I have more cares than you, Araminta, when I have not a feather to fly with while you have been indulged your whole life. I'd thank you not to make such comparisons without thinking first."

"Well, Papa has lost a lot of money, so I may well have to be a governess if I don't make a decent match before the end of the season."

Lissa felt herself go cold. She had not known this, either. She thought again of her mother's tenuous security. If Lord Partington were indeed floating in the River Tick, he'd not be able to afford to keep up two households. He was hardly generous with his by-blows in the first instance.

"Why did you come here, Araminta? To elicit my help in your matchmaking endeavors?" she asked, not quite understanding her. "I don't see how I can achieve that?"

"My reputation is in ribbons. Hetty has shredded it into tiny little pieces." Araminta rested her head on top of her whitened knuckles and let out another little sob. "Only marriage to Lord Debenham can salvage it, but he is not...in a marrying frame of mind. I don't know why I came here. I don't know you. I wish you didn't exist, in fact. But I am friendless."

To Lissa's concern, Araminta began to cry even harder. Whatever would Miss Maria think? Lord, but her half-sister really was in a bad way.

"I didn't mean what I said before. Marriage to Lord Debenham would not be a good idea," Lissa murmured, shivering at what she'd overheard the previous night.

"And what would you know about Lord Debenham?" Araminta raised her head to glare at her, prompting Lissa to say defensively, "His man of business tells me Lord Debenham is mixed up in some very havey-cavey business. I'd caution you, Araminta—"

"Lord Debenham's man of business? You know him?" Araminta cut in, her eyes widening.

"Yes, and he's told me a great deal about Lord Debenham that—"

"Why, that's capital! Just the sort of information I need you to find out." Araminta rubbed her hands together. "So, if you're friendly with his secretary, he'd tell you all about Lord Debenham and his...weaknesses. Oh, Larissa, you need to tell me what they are. You need to think of any little thing that will aid my cause."

Lissa felt trapped. "I _am_...friendly...with Mr. Tunley but a lowly governess does not get many opportunities to leave her place of employment." Lissa really didn't think aiding Araminta's cause was a good idea. However, perhaps there could be mutual benefits to such an arrangement. She was desperate to speak to Ralph who might be able to advise her with regard to Mrs. Crossing.

"Well, you must find a way for I'm relying on you to tell me everything there is to know." Araminta clapped her hands, her face shining.

"Yes, but how, Araminta? Despite what we talked about before, I still have no respectable clothes and the Lamonts keep me all but under lock and key."

"Fiddlesticks! Why do you need respectable clothes if you're only going to an office to see a man who works for Lord Debenham?" Araminta looked truly perplexed. "It's not as if you need a ball gown for a day visit. You will go now, won't you?"

"All right, not a ball gown or an evening gown, but I _do_ need an afternoon gown, since our father has not seen fit to provide me with a wardrobe beyond what a lowly governess would wear and if I appear at Mr. Tunley's office wearing this, I'll be turned away." The fact that her father had not provided Lissa and Kitty with a decent wardrobe had always rankled with Lissa. She did not mention that in a fit of resentment towards her nobly born half-sisters, she'd refused to take the several fine gowns with which her father had presented her before her London trip, as she'd known they were Araminta's castoffs from two seasons ago.

She'd since regretted such stubborn pride. "Give me two of your last season's gowns, _including_ a ball gown. That can be your return on the information I provide. I can make them over. I'm good with a needle."

As she walked back up to the house, she saw Maria's nose still pressed against the window, and when she let herself back into the schoolroom, her eldest charge rushed forward with a look of imperious anger. "You'd better tell me what you were discussing with that young lady or I shall tell Mama," she threatened.

But Lissa had a plan. She might not be devious and totally self-absorbed like Araminta, but she had a strong streak of self-preserving cunning, so she knew exactly what she had to say.

"Only if you promise that what I tell you is strictly secret between you and me," she said in a tone to convey great gravitas once she'd settled the girls.

Miss Maria eagerly took the bait, and when Lissa had drawn her to the two seats across from the unlit fire at the far end of the room, she said in a low voice, "The young lady is a viscount's daughter—I shall not tell you who—but if you had observed her more closely, you'd have seen the resemblance between us, which has been remarked upon in public circles. She has sought me out as she wishes me to help her secure a most desirable match since, as you know, I have connections with Lord Debenham and his man of business. Both these men are friendly with...er... _an_ other gentleman, whose friendship the young lady wishes to build upon."

She was, naturally, not about to reveal that Lord Debenham was the focus of Araminta's interest.

Miss Maria's mouth dropped open. "But how can you help? You're just a governess." She said the word with such derision that even Lissa felt her hopes plummet.

Regaining her enthusiasm, she responded robustly, "But a governess with good connections, and a face and figure that already have people wondering if this viscount's daughter and I are cousins. Her maid will bring around several gowns for me to make over so I can aid her in her enterprise."

"But you're employed here." Miss Maria was looking increasingly stricken.

"Yes, and that's where I'll need your help, Miss Maria." Lissa hoped the excited suggestiveness of her tone would bolster Miss Maria's enthusiasm, for it seemed she was too unimaginative to wonder at the benefits for all of them. "You want to make a good match, and surely you would be looking higher than a clerk. With your pretty face and figure, you could really rise in the world. If my good offices have been elicited by a viscount's daughter whose fine gowns will enable me to attend certain society events, surely I can in turn help you to meet a...better class of potential husband."

With it put so simplistically and so compellingly, Miss Maria was like clay in her hands. "Oh yes," she whispered, shifting excitedly in her seat. "Mama says I'm pretty enough to snare an earl...if I could only be introduced to one."

"Well, I shall introduce you to lots of titled gentlemen." Ironically, Lissa could indeed see the plump and pretty, dark-haired Miss Maria being introduced with some success into such lofty echelons, but the only person she herself was interested in was Ralph.

Ralph was her next quest. A quest that needed Miss Maria's assistance.

She pondered her alternatives as she rose. A small lie was needed to achieve success. "I know how much you would love to attend Lady Smythe's ball on Thursday, Miss Maria. I can arrange that, but only if I can get away to visit Lord Debenham's man of business this afternoon. I'll need you to look after your sisters and you must promise not to tell anyone that I've gone out. Or where I've gone—and especially don't tell your brother. I can't tell you the reason but I can promise that there will be no invitation to the ball on Thursday if you cannot agree to this."

Not surprisingly, Miss Maria eagerly gave her assent, and without wasting a moment, Lissa changed into her Sunday best and departed the household to visit Ralph.

He was astonished to see her, and hurried round from behind his desk to take her hands and kiss them, for they were alone in the small office where he worked not far from the Inns of Court.

"My angel! Miss Hazlett, what brings you here?" He grinned then added jokingly, "I'm afraid we can't elope yet. I've still not made enough to keep us both. But if you can remain patient—"

"Oh Mr. Tunley!" She cut him off. "I can be as patient as I have to be. But I'm here on important business." And she proceeded to confide in him the events of her evening at Vauxhall while his expression grew ever more astonished.

"So now I must urgently warn Mrs. Crossing that she's about to be revealed. Her husband looks a cruel and unsympathetic man, and when he sees the sketch that Master Cosmo intends to deliver to him shortly, and which I have drawn, he will beat her, if not worse. She'll never be able to run away with the man she truly loves."

Ralph patted her down onto a red velvet upholstered chair and knelt at her side. "Hush, my love, you are overset. We must think on the problem calmly so that we can discover a solution."

Lissa was an independent soul. She'd had to be, since her parents were so involved with one another to the exclusion of their children, so it was a novelty to have anyone take a real concern in her affairs. Ralph's tender ministrations inspired in her a fierce determination to make something of what she felt could be realized between them.

If they only had the means.

Finally he rose and began to pace, stopping on the edge of the Persian carpet to lean against the desk. Reaching for the sketch Lissa had shown him of Lord Debenham in company with Lord Smythe and another gentleman in the supper room at Vauxhall, he held it up to the light. "Indeed, that's my employer to a tee." He nodded slowly, his expression admiring. "Look at that cruel mouth. Not only is it physically and anatomically correct, but you've managed to imbue him with his signature arrogant, cynical air. As for those other gentlemen, I've seen them make clandestine visits to the office. Always thought they were too smoky by half. You truly are a gifted artist, Miss Hazlett."

"Well, my gift is about cause great and unintended harm! Please, Ralph, you do agree the matter is serious? But before I go on, may I say that I think we are familiar enough with one another, surely, for you to call me Larissa...though I prefer Lissa."

"And you shall call me Ralph." His gentle smile became a grin. "My, but we have come a long way since our auspicious introduction...Lissa, and I am determined that we shall travel far together, but for that, I shall need luck and ingenuity." He became brisk. "Enough of daydreaming. You have an immediate problem, though I believe I have a bigger one in Lord Debenham."

"Yes, Ralph, but I came here for help regarding Mrs. Crossing. I fear it will go very badly for her. Her husband is not a nice man."

"But, short of murder, he is entitled to discipline his wife as he sees fit, and if he is confronted with evidence that she has been behaving in what you suggest was an unwifely manner, then the law—and indeed, public opinion—will side with him."

"You surely don't think that justifies—"

Ralph held up his hand to cut off her protest. "It doesn't matter what I think. I'm stating facts. And unless you have managed to steal the sketch from Master Cosmo, I don't see that we can do anything except forewarn your lady in potential distress."

Lissa felt very downcast. Miserably, she said, "Master Cosmo has informed Mr. Crossing that he will hand over the sketch this afternoon."

"Do you know where Mr. Crossing lives?"

Lissa shook her head. "All I know is that they'll both be at Lady Smythe's ball on Thursday, only then it'll be too late." She sighed. "Master Cosmo was angling for an invitation. Originally he'd proposed handing over the sketch then." She twisted her hands and shifted in her seat. "And I've gone a bit beyond myself in promising things I can't deliver. The only reason Miss Maria, who is Cosmo's sister, has agreed to keep my coming here secret is because I promised her that I would somehow get her an invitation, if not to Lady Smythe's ball, then to others where she might meet prospective suitors who are more in line with her lofty ambitions."

"You mean suitors more elevated than lowly clerks or men of business to much greater personages."

"Oh Ralph, how can you say that?" Lissa leapt up and gripped Ralph's hand, squeezing it and fearing she'd mortally offended him—until he burst out laughing at the same time as he wrapped his arms about her. "No, don't pull away. It's very nice and we are for now quite undisturbed, though I daresay it's not proper at all that you're here unchaperoned."

"Indeed it is not and I shouldn't be anywhere but looking after two very trying little girls. But Ralph, I have done a terrible disservice to Mrs. Crossing. What am I to do?"

He was thoughtful as he stroked her hair, still holding her against his chest. "The best plan, as you say, is to secure invitations to Lady Smythe's ball for you, Master Cosmo and Miss Maria. You can use that enticement to Master Cosmo to hold off handing over the sketch and also to win over Miss Maria, so that she'll happily be complicit in enabling you to see me whenever the urge presents itself. At least for the next few days. I've no doubt your Master Cosmo would be unable to resist rubbing shoulders with those whose hallowed ranks he wishes to join. Tell Master Cosmo to send a note round to Mr. Crossing to say he'll hand over the sketch at Lady Smythe's ball. Then as soon as you arrive at the ball, you must try and find Mrs. Crossing to warn her. It doesn't help her much, but forewarned is forearmed. If she fears for her safety so much and is planning to elope with her lover, as you suggest, she might get a message to him, asking for his help." He shrugged. "Not that I know the first thing about the circumstances, though I hate the idea of any woman suffering violence at the hands of someone who has the advantage of strength and brutality. However, she is guilty. There's no justifying infidelity."

Lissa thought of her own parents, and of the new babe Lady Partington was soon to deliver. Perhaps it would be a son, her father's longed-for heir. Meanwhile Lissa's new sibling would be another Hazlett bastard. Both her parents were guilty of infidelity and she was the product.

"Oh, Lissa, my dearest heart, I never meant to hurt you with my thoughtless reference." Ralph, realizing his faux pas, squeezed her tightly and kissed the top of her head.

"I know you didn't and I don't blame you for it." Lissa sighed as she raised her face to his. "It's true that my life has been blighted through the infidelity of my parents. But I'm not going to think of that. All I know is that I need to live with my conscience, which means I can't be the reason harm comes to Mrs. Crossing, regardless of her crime." She hadn't realized her fists were clenched until Ralph gently uncurled them. Frustrated, she added on a sigh, "But listen to me run on. How am I to secure these invitations to Lady Smythe's ball? Everything you say is wonderful, but these are not the circles in which I mix. Nor do I believe Araminta is in a position to ask Lady Smythe." Not with her sister having caused such a recent scandal, she thought.

"But they are the circles in which my brother mixes." Ralph shrugged at her surprise as he put her away from him, still holding her hands. "He would organize it without a problem, my sweet. I just need to ask him."

"Your brother? Could he?"

"Yes, Teddy, the eldest of my five older brothers, will probably be in attendance in any case. He could, and he would, secure an invitation if I requested it of him. Now, tell me again the names of this extensive guest list we must submit to Lady Smythe. I cannot possibly be expected to remember the proper name of Miss Mary or whoever she is when my senses are so entirely filled with the vision of loveliness before me."

In a dreamlike state, Lissa returned to the Lamont household, where a very cross Miss Maria met her at the doorway to the nursery.

"You've been gone an age and Nellie and Harriet have been positive demons. I can't bear to spend another moment alone with them."

Lissa did not bother to remark that she regularly felt the same way but she was able to quickly ameliorate Miss Maria's ill temper when she told her about the invitation to Lady Smythe's ball that would be forthcoming.

# Chapter 12

Araminta had no wish to attend Lady Smythe's ball. For the first time in her life she wanted only to bury her head beneath her feather down pillow and block out the world.

Friends whom Araminta didn't know she had called in unexpectedly to discuss Hetty's scandalous behavior, rather than the fetching effect created by the mixture of fake and real foliage in Araminta's new bonnet she'd picked up that morning from the milliner.

Mrs. Bradbury's sympathetic horror at Hetty's scandalous behavior was barely tolerable, but it took all of Araminta's willpower during afternoon tea not to hurl a plate of neenish tarts at Miss Potter's smug, "Whoever would have thought the younger Miss Partington would waltz off with a husband first? I suppose beauty doesn't count for everything, after all."

So now here she was, at Lady Smythe's grand affair, grimly fielding the inevitable opinions of the gossipers who wished to include her in their speculations as to how Hetty had waltzed off with such a dashing, dangerous gentleman.

Watching a shy but eminently eligible young blade head in her direction then clearly reconsider and address the plain miss to her right was like salt in a wound. Araminta felt like stamping her foot but tempered her anger so that she had the requisite well-bred smile for Lord Debenham when he suddenly emerged in front of her.

Once again fear and fascination warred within her. Why had she elicited Lissa's help in discovering ways in which to win from him a marriage offer when she knew he was dangerous? The truth was, there was something decidedly exciting about that. She also knew a great deal more than he would like since she'd seen that letter, which put her in quite a nice bargaining position. If only she'd not burned it, she could have used it to encourage Lord Debenham to marry her, but then he might have considered that blackmail. Still, with the letter no longer in existence there was no stain on his character and for that he ought to want to reward her.

"Miss Partington looks uncommonly lonely all of a sudden. Not so full of fire and fun as on the last occasion we met, eh?"

Araminta was determined not to drop her gaze and show either shame or fear. "How delightful to see you, Lord Debenham." Nevertheless, she felt ill at the sight of his nephew, Roderick Woking, who materialized beside him. "And you, sir," she added, nodding.

"Poor Roderick was distraught when he heard your sister had been so ill used by that rascal, Sir Aubrey." Lord Debenham's reptilian smile reflected no sympathy for either Roderick or Araminta.

Mr. Woking moved restlessly beside him before he squared his receding chin. "Does she not realize her new husband will be made to forfeit everything when he's convicted of his Spencean activities?" His rapid words were accompanied by a nervous hand wring before he ran his fingers through his sparse hair several times. "Yes, he will be brought to justice, and when he's charged with treason, his estates will be forfeited to the crown. She should have thought of that."

"Now, Roderick, common sense is not a trait that is observed when passion is in the ascendant. Miss Henrietta was obviously seduced by Sir Aubrey's honeyed words, but she will rue the day. Fortunately her elder sister has more sense." He bowed before Araminta. "Now, my dear nephew is enormously desirous of asking you to dance, though I fear we will find your dance card filled."

No other young man had asked Araminta to stand up with him this evening, and the fear that Hetty had ruined her chances for a match this season made her want to weep.

Before she could snatch her dance card away, Lord Debenham had raised it, remarking, "Oh, indeed that is not the case. Well, perhaps you would do Roderick the honor of accompanying him onto the dance floor for this set. Regrettably I must leave you, as I have secured Miss Smythe for the next dance."

With the greatest reluctance, Araminta allowed herself to be drawn onto the dance floor and into the limpid hold of Mr. Woking, as the dance was a waltz.

She tried to keep a semblance of a smile in place, for she could not show her aversion. But it was hard. The young man's breath was like the breeze of death against her cheek. It made her want to gag but instead she kept her head held high and called upon all her reserves of stoicism. But as she glanced about the room and saw other young ladies with far more desirable dance partners, including—to her surprise—her own half-sister who was in the arms of a rather handsome young man she'd not noticed before, she felt like casting good manners to the wind and simply fleeing from this awful place.

Everybody was talking about Hetty and making speculations about what her sister's scandalous actions would mean for Araminta. The only reason no gentleman had asked Araminta to dance was because of horrible, hateful Hetty, and to be perfectly honest, if Hetty walked into the room right now, Araminta would have called her to account in front of everyone.

She hadn't realized Mr. Woking had spoken until he squeezed her hand and repeated his question with a concerned look. "My dear Miss Partington, I can see you are distracted, and I can well understand why, in view of the shame you must feel on your sister's account."

Araminta sent him a baleful look. "You cannot possibly understand, Mr. Woking. How dare you even presume to understand the anguish I am feeling at this very moment?"

Her voice had risen and she realized she'd have to temper her hysteria in view of the interested look her half-sister, who happened to be very near, had just sent her. Goodness, but how had Larissa managed to acquire an invitation—and who was that very charming, gentleman with the flyaway hair and warm blue eyes leading her around the dance floor?

Right now, Araminta felt that charm and boyishness were a good deal more preferable than dangerous good looks. Not to mention lovelorn swains with clammy hands and breath like the grave. She swung back to Mr. Woking, feeling very vulnerable right now. "My sister set out to ruin me," she said, her voice wavering. "To humiliate me. And she has succeeded."

"I believe you have everyone's deepest sympathies, Miss Partington," said her dance partner with unctuous civility. "I believe it's their delicate sensibilities which account for the fact you are finding yourself less...popular than usual. Indeed, I would have stayed away too for the very same reasons, had not my uncle told me I should be kind to you."

He cleared his throat and added, hurriedly. "That is to say, you are hardly a charitable case, Miss Partington. Oh no, I did not mean it in that way."

"How did you mean it, then?" Araminta glared at him, stepping back with relief now that the waltz was at an end. She shook her head and held up her hand as he began to speak. "Pray, do not trouble yourself to answer. I have no interest, and I wish to be returned to Mrs. Monks."

She ignored his heartfelt gaze as she rejoined the redoubtable widow, and was hardly soothed to see Lissa looking more striking than she could have imagined in the apple green and cream ball gown Araminta had discarded the season before.

Larissa, catching Araminta's eye, acknowledged her across the room with a nod and, Araminta was certain, a narrowing of the eyes. Was she, like everyone else, thinking Araminta diminished on account of Hetty's shocking behavior? Had she noticed that Araminta was not surrounded by admirers as she usually was? The idea was insufferable.

Still focusing on the handsome young man at Larissa's side, she swept over to greet her and to gain an introduction. "You have done a fine job making my old dress look less last year," she said with a smile intended to be friendly and disingenuous. It was decidedly galling to see her gown looked better after its rejuvenation than it had when Araminta had worn it new. Well, if their papa lost all his money, Araminta could employ Lissa to be her dressmaker for a fraction of what she paid to have her new gowns made, she decided.

Araminta's interest in Mr. Ralph Tunley took on a keener edge when she learned he was Lord Debenham's secretary, the young man in whom Larissa had confessed her interest. And when their circle was joined by a dashing brown-haired gentleman who greeted Mr. Tunley with easy familiarity before introducing himself as Lord Ludbridge, Mr. Tunley's eldest brother, Araminta was in silent transports. Especially when he gazed upon her with such blatant admiration that had not an edge of pity or censure for the fact that her sister's scandalous elopement had all but consigned Araminta's marriage aspirations to the fireplace.

This was her gift from heaven. It was a sign that she need not cry herself to sleep every night on account of Hetty's betrayal.

Here were two charming, eligible young men she'd never met, right before her. True, the youngest was penniless despite his excellent lineage and therefore not a prospect in the immediate sense. However, there were six brothers, at least a handful of them unmarried, she quickly gathered, and the eldest, titled one, was smiling at her warmly.

Yes, her star was again in the ascendant.

When Lord Ludbridge—or Teddy, as Ralph affectionately called him—had excused himself to dance with Araminta, Lissa gazed with surprised wonder at her companion.

"You never told me, Ralph," she whispered, fiddling with her fan.

"I told you I'm as poor as a church mouse, and that's the truth." He grinned. "I didn't think it relevant to add that my eldest brother has a title and a daily battle to ameliorate the damage our grandfather wrought upon the family fortunes, due to his fondness for the gaming table."

Lissa shook her head. "That doesn't matter. Whether you're drowning in the River Tick is nothing compared to birthright. So you're Lord Ludbridge's younger brother, and I am...stained and beyond redemption." She tried to sound forceful when really she felt like crying. "For my own self-preservation, I can't see you again after tonight, Ralph."

"No, Lissa!" He clutched her hand, dropping it quickly as he glanced about the room.

But the throng of people seemed too occupied by each other to notice the young couple on the edge of the dance floor.

"Lissa, I know what you're saying, and it doesn't matter to me that—"

"That my parents aren't married?" She couldn't look at him, though she stared, stricken, about her. "Why has the room not gone silent? Why have I not been struck by lightning and told to leave?" she wondered aloud.

"Because no one knows and they won't care. Besides, _I_ don't care a jot, and once my mother meets you, she won't be able to help but love you." Ralph's soothing voice eased her feelings a little though she knew it was not true. He indicated their fellow revelers. "You are not the only one, my love. Look at Miss Claremont over there. Yes, quite respectable and set to make a fine marriage, despite the fact she has been left two sizeable inheritances by two different men claiming to be her father."

Lissa put her hand to her mouth. "Or because of it," she said with a wry smile. "I have not a feather to fly with and no father listed on my birth certificate. No, Ralph, there is no future between us."

Araminta chose that moment to waltz by in Teddy's arms, smiling her most engaging smile, and Lissa was assailed by an unexpected wave of grief. Her half-sister had the lineage to be entirely eligible for Ralph's brother. With her beauty, she could navigate that path if she chose, though Lissa wasn't sure if she should warn Ralph that Araminta had a less charming side.

And then she heard Mr. Crossing's name and remembered why she was here.

Ralph patted her shoulder at the obvious panic in her voice when she reminded him of her mission. "Lady Smythe will have seen her if she's arrived. She invited her. Ah, there is the good lady. Allow me to introduce you to her for, of course, you were added to the guest list at Teddy's behest."

It was clear why Lord Debenham employed Ralph, for he was a charming diplomat, Lissa soon realized. The boyish charm was a façade that put his quarry quite at ease as they supplied him with the information he sought. Lissa had thought him shy and diffident but, it seemed, that was only with her. And it was a ruse, besides.

"Why, there she is, and looking as pretty a picture as the day she married." Lady Smythe pointed across the room to a petite young lady who resembled a piece of Dresden china in an exquisitely embroidered gown of pale blue net over a white satin underdress. The tiny pearls sewn into the swathes that trimmed the hem were reflected in her flaxen hair, which was swept into a high topknot with tendrils curling down her neck.

Lissa had captured her prettiness in the sketch she'd done of her, though at the time, Mrs. Crossing had been tousled and anxious-looking with a high color. Now she looked the epitome of serenity beside her florid-looking husband, who towered menacingly over her. Lady Smythe murmured the word "doting" but Lissa thought "possessive" was a more appropriate adverb.

"Newlyweds?" Lissa asked innocently.

"You might think it, the way her husband never lets her out of his sight, but they were married in the spring four years ago, in fact." Lady Smythe was still smiling at the harmonious-looking Crossings when Lissa and Ralph made their excuses and left.

"How are we going to get them apart?" Lissa asked, suddenly panicked when she saw Cosmo advancing upon her.

"Leave it to me." With a nod, Ralph went smoothly up to Mr. Crossing and engaged him in conversation.

Lissa did not wait to hear what he was saying, and she certainly didn't want Cosmo to notice her engaging Mrs. Crossing before he reached her. Fortuitously, Miss Maria Lamont chose that moment to tug at her brother's arm, and Lissa swept up to her quarry, almost hissing, "Mrs. Crossing? Yes, I thought so. I have an urgent message for you. Do you have a moment?"

The flare of terror in the young lady's eyes was very real as she glanced at her husband. But he was so engrossed in conversation with Ralph, he did not notice her follow Lissa into a darkened corner of the room.

"A message? What message?" She fiddled convulsively with her fan, and Lissa replied in a rush, "There is a picture of you and a...gentleman at Vauxhall Gardens. A sketch that was commissioned. I wanted to warn you before it was handed to your husband."

"What...do you mean?"

For a moment, Lissa feared the young lady would faint clean away. She'd never seen anyone so white before. "You know what I mean. In the supper box at Vauxhall Gardens. Your husband commissioned someone to follow you and sketch who you were with." There was no time to mince words. "That sketch is to be handed to your husband tonight."

Mrs. Crossing put her hands to her face and her shoulders began to shake. Lissa quickly moved in front of her to block her obvious distress from appearing too public.

"Oh, dear Lord, no. He'll kill me," she whispered. "I knew he would one day. I should never have imagined I'd get away."

"Please, all is not lost!" Lissa gripped her wrist. "There may be a way."

"But the sketch reveals my companion? Yes? And it is a good sketch? Recognizable?"

"It's a good sketch," Lissa agreed. "The truth is, I was forced to do it. I have it with me but I'm playing for time because I want to help you. I didn't realize the...situation in which we'd find you. Anyway, I hoped you had a brother, someone with whom it was plausible you were with that evening. If you described him—or someone else—I could try and amend the sketch before I hand it to the man who insists that it will be given to your husband during the ball."

"I have a brother," she said shakily. "He is distinguished by his red hair. Wild red hair. Yes! Could that work? No, but the sketch will be charcoal."

"Thin? Portly? Tell me. Quickly!" Lissa could see Mr. Crossing detach himself from Ralph. He was now making his way across to his wife, who saw him too, and Lissa had to remind her in a low voice not to lose her courage.

"Rake-thin," she whispered, already turning with a shaking smile for her husband. "Square jaw, and he has a favorite waistcoat embroidered in half-moons. He's an eccentric, to be sure," she added in a rush.

Lissa excused herself as Mr. Crossing arrived. Quickly she made her way to Ralph's side. "I need a red crayon or pencil. Now!" she whispered. "Oh Ralph, if I ever needed something from you, it's this."

Ralph's initial surprise turned to fondness. "If only all your desires were so easily acceded to. Come, I shall ask Lady Smythe, and as I see Master Cosmo coming in our direction, I shall have a word in Teddy's ear. Ah, I say, wonderful timing. Here he is. Teddy, can you waylay that gentleman there and ask questions later?"

"Gosh, but you do have an amenable brother," Lissa remarked as she followed Ralph to the supper table where Lady Smythe had stationed herself with a garrulous old dowager.

"Teddy is far too kind for his own good, and quite fair game. I'm only surprised he's reached eight and twenty without getting himself hobbled. Faithful chap, though. Never got over his first love." He clicked his tongue. "Sad, sad affair. I'll tell you about it someday. Still, he has a remarkably stoic and cheerful nature, so you'd never guess at his heartache. But then sentimentality runs in the family, as you can tell.

"And here is Lady Smythe, only, much as I would wish you to cleave to me like glue I think it's dangerous, and I should release you into the care of your chaperone for a moment while I elicit the necessary tools."

Reluctantly, Lissa returned to the matron into whose care she'd been supposedly placed to preserve appearances for tonight's entertainment. She'd arranged to meet Ralph in the corridor outside the ballroom, later.

True to his word, he was waiting for her with a red crayon, which he handed to her, together with a piece of charcoal and a larger folded piece of paper, saying, "I know you didn't ask me for both, but I thought they could be useful, if not necessary. Once you've amended the sketch, you can seal it in this parchment. I've brought wax for the task, since I thought you'd not want Mr. Lamont to see how you'd changed things. "

"You have saved the day, Mr. Ralph Tunley," Lissa declared on a sigh of relief. "And now I must send you away, because we cannot be seen together like this."

And because it was too tempting to throw her arms about him and show her true gratitude in a most unseemly manner.

Araminta had never expected to enjoy the evening so much. It had given her a marvelous sense of superiority to dismiss Mr. Woking in such a belittling manner. He was quite repulsive, and the idea that Lord Debenham imagined she'd throw herself away on such an inferior piece, even if Mr. Woking was his nephew, was insulting in the extreme.

Now here she was, in the arms of the most handsome gentleman in the room, making them quite the most head-turning couple as they waltzed around the dance floor.

Not only was Lord Ludbridge handsome, he was also titled and, it appeared, charmingly pliant. He'd fetched her lemonade after their first dance and then promptly invited her for a second twirl.

"I cannot believe that your brother is secretary to Lord Debenham," Araminta remarked as they navigated a couple who lacked their finesse. "It is the most remarkable of coincidences, for I recently became acquainted with your brother. A most charming young man."

"Far too charming for the work he's doing." Lord Ludbridge lowered his head to speak with greater intimacy to Araminta. His sweet breath stirred the tendrils of dark hair that fell from her elaborate, feathered coiffure, and her heart thundered with anticipation and the keenest desire. Goodness, this didn't happen often. Not since she'd sized up Sir Aubrey as a likely prospect before Hetty had stolen him. She decided not to think of her exciting, bruising encounter with Jem, or the danger-edged kiss she'd shared with Lord Debenham. These men were, as of right now, consigned to the past.

Strange that meeting Lord Ludbridge seemed to have entirely dispelled her despair over losing Sir Aubrey to Hetty. It only confirmed that the irresistible man with whom she was dancing must assuredly be her destiny.

"What do you mean, My Lord?" She smiled up at him, hoping to elicit more about Lord Debenham's proclivities or the nature of the work young Mr. Tunley was required to do on his account. Just because Araminta no longer wished to marry Lord Debenham didn't mean it wouldn't be to her advantage to know as much as she could about him.

She felt like stroking the darling man's cheek, the way he was looking at her with such transparent admiration. Lord Ludbridge was quite charming. She'd need to find out more about his personal finances, though from first appearances he was plump enough in the pocket to satisfy Araminta when the alternatives were so very dire.

He looked about to say something then buttoned his lips. "My brother is far too tenderhearted to work for a man who has less of a charitable streak than he should have, given his circumstances. There, I've said nothing out of turn, even if you know Lord Debenham personally."

Araminta blushed and dropped her eyes. But no, surely this young man knew nothing at all about her. He'd have no idea she once weighed up the advantages of making Lord Debenham her husband, and he'd surely have no notion of what had happened in the supper house at Vauxhall with Sir Aubrey.

She blanked her mind to the humiliation. She would never again make such a mistake. That, too, was in the past, never to be revisited. From now on she would look only to the future, and the future was right here, at her fingertips.

She squeezed Lord Ludbridge's hand lightly and, surprised perhaps at what he might perceive as forwardness, he glanced down at her. Adopting her most artful, mischievous smile, she said, "I have met the gentleman but two dances were quite enough. I had to run to his nephew to save me, for I believe Lord Debenham has quite a fearsome reputation."

Lord Ludbridge gave her hand a little squeeze in response and, to Araminta's surprise, he actually colored as he realized what he'd done. "I am surprised that a young lady as innocent as you would even know he had a reputation," he remarked.

"Promise me that if you see him coming in my direction this evening, you'll cut in and ask me for the next dance." Araminta adopted a look that was part appealing and wholly enchanting. She knew this by the way he looked at her with such a heart-melting smile.

"I would be only too happy to aid you in such a manner, Miss Partington."

As he led her off the dance floor, Araminta was about to murmur her appreciation in terms that made clear her enormous gratitude, only he was buttonholed at that moment by his brother.

She just made out the indistinct words, "Teddy, can you waylay that gentleman there and ask questions later?"

Araminta looked in the direction Mr. Tunley was pointing. She could see Larissa's employer, young Mr. Lamont, crossing the room, his sights set on her half-sister. Araminta's lip curled.

Social climbing upstart, she thought, before deciding he'd make a good match for Larissa, after all. He considered himself so above Miss Hazlett, the family's governess, but little did he know Larissa came from stock far better than his own.

Perhaps it would be kind to think of helping her sister. It would be a charitable thing to do. And Mr. Cosmo Lamont would be a perfectly suitable suitor. Larissa certainly couldn't continue gallivanting with Mr. Tunley, for she'd soon have her heart broken, and a good sister like Araminta must do what she could to help her nearest and dearest. Mr. Tunley would be filled with aversion if he knew Larissa was...

Araminta could barely articulate the word to herself, but blankets came to mind, with herself firmly on one side—the good side—while poor Larissa flailed on the other.

She smiled sweetly at Mr. Tunley and nodded at Mr. Lamont as Mrs. Monks responded to her summons and came to lead her away, as any good chaperone would her gently nurtured debutante charge.

And her heart thrilled at the charm and gratitude she read in His Lordship's answering smile before he began an earnest conversation with Larissa's soon-to-be suitor, Mr. Lamont.

From a distance, Lissa could see that Ralph, reliable as ever, was where he'd promised he'd be. Perhaps the corridor hadn't been such a wise choice, for he was quite conspicuous, but everything had been organized so hurriedly and besides, this would only take a moment.

"It's done, and should, I believe, answer the purpose. I'm sorry I can't show you, for I've sealed it, but now I'm ready to hand the two sketches to Mr. Lamont."

She shivered and Ralph gave her a comforting pat. "I really should stop taking such liberties. When are we going to spend time together that is a little less fraught than these clandestine meetings? Now, have courage, my dearest, you are quite the heroine."

Lissa glowed with pleasure. "I hope Lady Smythe is pleased with the sketch I've done of her husband. See, I've taken him out of the original picture of the three gentlemen I sketched in the supper house, and drawn him on his own. What do you think?"

She held up the two pictures and Ralph grinned his admiration. "I'm more interested in your rendition of Lord Debenham. You have captured the very essence of my employer's black heart beneath the self-satisfied sneer. Well done. I could identity Lord Debenham at a glance now, even if I'd never met him before. And Lord Smythe and that other reprobate who looks mightily out of place are truly well done. You are a fine artist. Lady Smythe will be in transports and your Master Cosmo is going to find himself a very busy young man, with a flurry of commissions coming his way."

Lissa, about to respond, instead gave a gasp as she was jostled by a passing gentleman she'd not noticed advancing down the corridor toward them.

"I beg your pardon, miss," he apologized as he bent to retrieve the sketch that had fluttered to the floor. He was about to hand it back to her when the smile on his face was wiped away by shock. "Good Lord, where did you get this?" he demanded, before again apologizing, this time for the expletive.

Lissa's chaperone for the evening appeared in the doorway, but Lissa was too concerned by the stranger's reaction to respond to her summons.

He still had not relinquished the sketch. "Forgive me my manners. Allow me to introduce myself." He bowed. "Sir Archibald Ledger. I had not thought it possible to have such a compelling picture of these three men in company together. The detail is superb, the rendition quite...extraordinary. Might I ask the name of the artist?"

Ralph glanced at Larissa, who said hesitantly, "I believe the artist wishes to remain anonymous." She held out the sketch she'd done of Lord Smythe alone. "There is perhaps better detail in this one." If Sir Archibald wished to commission her directly, she would not be averse. "Lady Smythe wished for a rendition of her husband and asked the...er...sketcher to follow him while at Vauxhall Gardens to capture him during an unguarded moment, so she could present the sketch to him later as a surprise."

She was getting into her stride now, perfecting her spiel so she could perhaps gain an extra commission. Vulgar though it was for a lady to think of money like this, a future with Ralph would only be possible if they had more of it. "Perhaps you are interested in having a sketch done of your wife?"

The way he snorted, seemingly in derision, shocked Lissa. "Not possible. At least, not for a while yet. Lady Julia was recently delivered of a healthy ten-pounder at my estate."

"Congratulations," Lissa murmured. It seemed the only appropriate thing to say. "I trust all went well."

"Yes, yes," he went on dismissively. "Now, the sketch. I'd like to buy it from you—or the artist. I assume the sketch from which the commissioned subject was extracted is no longer necessary, if the main purpose was to capture Lord Smythe's likeness. What say, five pounds?"

"Five pounds!" cried Lissa. The sum was exorbitant. It was more than she'd earn in three months as a governess. "You're welcome to it for that price, sir."

Her astonishment was compounded as he promptly handed over the money without demur.

"Extraordinary," he muttered as he took his leave. "I cannot believe how fortuitous this has been."

He left Ralph and Lissa staring at one another before Lissa burst into nervous giggles. She held up the money and stared wonderingly at it. "Oh Ralph," she whispered, "I've never had so much in my life."

Gently, he stroked her cheek. "If that's all it takes to fill your eyes with such glee, my job is going to be easy. That is, if I ever find a loose five pounds lying around."

Even though Nellie and Harriet were as difficult as ever the following morning, Lissa smiled to herself as she tidied the schoolroom, thinking of Ralph and when she'd next see him.

When they'd farewelled one another in a darkened corner of the ballroom with Lissa's chaperone looking on, she and Ralph had been ridiculously proud of themselves. Mrs. Crossing had been saved and Lissa had made a fortune, all within an evening.

She was still smiling when she glanced up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Cosmo appeared, greeting his sisters morosely before ushering Lissa into a corner.

"How the devil am I going to arrange my next commission?" he complained. "Lady Baxter. She wants to sit for me. Yes, _sit_ for me!"

"It doesn't sound terribly complicated. You're a passable sketcher, Master Cosmo. I'm sure you can please her with whatever you produce."

"I hope that's not another way of suggesting you will not do as I bid you."

"There may be more inducement to helping you if I ever saw the money you keep promising me."

"Lud, you are vexing! What about that sovereign I gave you?"

"That's not a third of what you've received for the three sketches for which I know you've been paid."

"I told you I had a couple of small but very pressing bills to pay and that as soon as I was flush, I would be in a position to give you your share. Besides, I paid you for the first sketch. Are you so addle-headed that you don't understand I need to paint Lady Baxter so I can do the very thing you want me to?"

Lissa turned her head from his venom and the very vulgar manner in which he couched his words. Stepping away, she bent to fold a pile of small garments on a table nearby. "I trust your sister enjoyed herself on Thursday night."

"The trouble with Maria is, the moment she gets something, she wants more." He kicked the chair in front him. "Now she's threatening to drag me off to listen to some fiendishly dull musical soiree next week because a certain gentlemen in whom she's interested will be going."

"Perhaps I could accompany her." Anything that would get Lissa into society, where she could contrive to meet Ralph.

"And why would the governess be invited to such an event?"

Lissa shrugged as she straightened the sleeve of a linen shirt. "It just occurred to me that if Lady Baxter happened to be amongst the audience—since she most likely is on account of her love of music—and were quietly seated somewhere I could observe her, your difficulties might be over. But then, you're quite right, why would I deserve to go out any more than I do?"

But he was not listening. "Lud, you could be right. If Lady Baxter _is_ there, it would be an ideal opportunity. I shall ask Maria to find out. She was saying it seemed every second person at Lady Smythe's was going."

# Chapter 13

Araminta gave herself a final considered appraisal in the looking glass at her dressing table and tried to temper her tears of frustration. Home? She couldn't believe her father was demanding that she return.

"Do you think he'll miss me, Jane?" she asked, turning her tragic gaze upon her maid who was hoisting up two carpet bags from the Aubusson carpet to take down to the carriage.

"Who, miss? Lord Debenham? He were mighty put out that you didn't thank him for his flowers."

"Of course, I don't mean Lord Debenham! I mean Lord Ludbridge. I've not told Mama about him yet because I wanted it to be a surprise."

"You're forever giving your family surprises, miss," Jane muttered, heading for the door. "What surprise is this one?"

Araminta followed her. "I'd wanted Mama to be surprised and delighted when I told her about Lord Ludbridge's marriage proposal but now it's all spoiled for I'll have to tell her all about him during the week I'm back home."

"You didn't mention he'd proposed, Miss."

"Don't be so silly, Jane. He hasn't yet, but he will. I just wouldn't want to make the same mistake I did over Sir Aubrey."

"No, Miss, I'll wager you wouldn't."

Araminta grabbed her maid's shoulder and hauled her back into the room just as she'd reached the passage. "What can you mean, Jane?" she demanded, as close to slapping the girl's face as she'd ever been. "You know, I don't like your tone." She closed her eyes briefly as she fought for forbearance. Perhaps it wouldn't be wise to make this an issue. Smiling quickly, as if she'd never been angry, she went on, "I made the mistake of telling Mama about Sir Aubrey too early on in the piece. I don't want to make the same mistake regarding Lord Tunbridge."

Since Lady Smythe's ball the previous week, Lord Tunbridge had sent numerous notes to the house, and she'd danced with him at Almack's. Then suddenly, her father had recalled her home, insisting she provide her mother with care and assistance during Lady Partington's lying-in. Araminta didn't know of any other debutante subjected to such parental thoughtlessness. As if Araminta could be of assistance. She didn't know the first thing about babies.

Immediately she'd written him a letter, telling him she was very relieved that the birth two nights before had gone well but that she did not feel she could contribute what was necessary for the felicitation of mother and infant. This had resulted in a short, acidic response. Araminta was to leave London the following day or her father would come and fetch her back to The Grange, where she'd remain for the rest of the season.

So now Araminta was being rattled about in a carriage, returning to the estate for which her father had reminded her she'd been prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to be its mistress: marry the heir presumptive, her late bacon-brained cousin Edgar.

Fortunately, Edgar had tragically drowned in an accident involving Lady Julia Ledger, but it was sobering to recall how close Araminta had come to ruining her life. Especially now that she had such glittering opportunities at her fingertips. The thought of Lord Ludbridge made her heart swell. How clear he'd made his disappointment when she'd told him she'd have to leave London for a while.

Her father's summons left her feeling cheated, and she was struck by the urge to take her anger out on someone. She had half a mind to let Lady Julia's husband, Sir Archie Ledger, in on a few secrets about the wickedness his young wife had got up to when the pair of them had attended the fateful weekend house party at The Grange all those months before, which had resulted in Edgar's death. However, she'd given away the idea after failing to come up with how such a revelation would directly benefit herself.

Recently she'd heard that the "lovely Lady Julia" had been delivered of a girl.

Everyone, she thought, was having babies or eloping. Her last sight of Larissa had been of her half-sister staring moon-eyed at Mr. Tunley. Well, now it was Araminta's turn.

If anyone deserved a good match, it was Araminta.

"Mother!" she cried as Mary, the housemaid, opened the door of her mother's bedchamber. For the moment she truly was overjoyed to see her darling, lovely mother lying against the plumped-up pillows, smiling at her over the downy head of a light-haired infant. "I've missed you!" In that moment, she realized she really had.

She took a seat at her mother's side and reached over to kiss her on the forehead. "So this is my new sister."

"Would you like to hold her?"

Araminta shook her head. "Perhaps later. She smells a little, and she has a very screwed-up little face, doesn't she? Like...she's just tasted vinegar."

"She looks very much like you as an infant." Her mother smiled down at the sleeping baby, wrapped in a small white woolen blanket. "She will improve. Hetty, on the other hand, was a complete cherub. The prettiest baby I ever saw."

Araminta bristled. "Obviously infancy is no gauge of how a child will blossom."

"Now, let's not be snide. Hetty looked radiant the last time I laid eyes on her. And even if she has scandalized your papa by eloping with a man with a reputation, I could not be happier for her." Lady Partington put her hand out to Araminta, who took it reluctantly. "Please don't be cross with your sister."

"How could I not? She ruined my chances of a good match this season. It was mortifying attending Lady Smythe's ball, when barely anyone asked me to stand up. They were all whispering behind their hands about the scandalous Miss Henrietta Partington, who eloped with a man rumored to have been involved in a plot to bring down the government. I could wring that girl's neck."

"Araminta, please. What's done is done, and Hetty is happy at last. That's all I've ever wanted for her." Her mother squeezed her hand before removing it to tuck the blankets more securely around the child as it stirred. "And very soon, I predict, you will make a match that will please you as much as it will us. With your beauty and your ambitions, not to mention your dowry, I have no doubt it will be a glittering one, too."

Araminta let her mother's words wash over her as she stared out of the window. At least her mother still had faith in Araminta's abilities, even if she was talking Hetty up undeservedly.

"Your papa and I received a letter from your sister last week, in which she voiced concern over your interest in Lord Debenham. She warned us to be vigilant, as she said he was not a gentleman you should associate with, no matter what the inducement, and that she had this on good authority from her new husband. Well, your father decided then and there that you must come home so that he could talk to you."

Araminta straightened. "I do not think Henrietta is in a position to dispense marital advice to me," she said, crisply.

"My dear, no need to take that tone. Hetty is merely concerned for your happiness."

"Hetty is gloating now that she has precedence over me for the first time. She's always wanted to tell me what to do, and now that she's married, she thinks she can!"

"But there must be truth in her concerns, surely? I know nothing about Lord Debenham but if your sister thinks you should stay away, especially if it's on Sir Aubrey's advice, then, of course, I must bring the matter up with you." Her voice changed and she looked with great sympathy at her daughter. "I know you had ambitions regarding Sir Aubrey, and I know you're cross with Hetty for marrying him, but please don't do anything rash, Araminta."

"How dare anyone imagine I'd do anything...rash!" Araminta had to take several deep breaths to rein in her outrage. She smoothed the folds of her jonquil travelling dress over her knees and gazed out of the window at the sweeping lawns of the gated park. There was a time when to be mistress of The Grange seemed the epitome of success. How much her ideas had changed. "Always I am mindful of the consequences of my actions...unlike Hetty!" She exhaled on a sigh. "But you can set your mind at rest on account of Lord Debenham. It's true that for a very short while I considered him a likely prospect, since he'd made his interest for me so very clear. However, there is another young man I met at Lady Smythe's ball several weeks ago who is clearly taken with me, Mama, and I do like him tremendously."

She smiled as she recalled the way Lord Ludbridge had looked into her eyes as he'd raised her gloved hand to kiss her fingertips the first night when they'd said goodnight. He'd been smitten from the very first glance, he'd told her more than once, since then.

And then Araminta had been dragged back to the country. Lord Ludbridge's note and the bouquet of flowers he'd sent her on the morning of her departure had reassured her of his desire to see her the moment she returned, so perhaps leaving the city so soon after Hetty's scandal was not such a terrible thing. It might make him more inclined to make her an offer, sooner.

"Who is this young man?" Her mother looked indulgently at her, clearly pleased at such news.

"Lord Ludbridge. Have you heard of him?"

"Only good things." Her mother's smile broadened. "That he is a fine-natured fellow—as are all his brothers—and he's been working hard to restore the fortunes of the estate, after his grandfather had gambled so much away. Apparently after his late father fell ill, he left much of the handling of daily matters to his eldest son who has acquitted himself well."

Frowning, she added, "I hear he's not in London much and that he prefers the country. I don't know if that would suit you, Araminta. And I believe there would be...pecuniary restraints." She cleared her throat. "I know your ambitions extend to more—"

"I have changed greatly, Mother, and am no longer as I was before I went to London for my second season," Araminta assured her. She wasn't best pleased to learn that Lord Ludbridge was not as plump in the pocket as she'd supposed or hoped, but he was very handsome, charming and clearly taken with her, and Araminta was not going to end her season without an offer. If she had to marry someone with less money, then he must at least be easy to manage.

"I'm glad to hear that, Araminta. I'd hoped you would...soften a little. I want you to be happy and I believe that if you place more emphasis on what your heart is telling you, rather than pursuing only your stated ambitions, you will find the contentment that I have."

The child was waking, whimpering, its little mouth making sucking motions, its eyes still closed. Araminta was horrified when her mother put it to her breast and, although it shut the little beast up, she felt it most undignified.

Her mother smiled when she caught Araminta's look. "I gave both of you to a wet nurse, and your father feels I ought to do that now, but really, this is the easiest way to settle the child. I know it's frowned upon but I've decided I don't much care what others think. Oh, Stephen, Araminta has returned."

Araminta turned as her cousin entered the room after a brief knock.

He smiled warmly as he advanced. "Cousin Araminta, the last time I saw you was at Vauxhall, which was not too long ago. But my, how things have changed since, eh?"

Araminta felt herself burn with color. He surely was not referring to the Sir Aubrey disaster, though the way he was gazing at her mother suggested he would not care. A strange and vague unease manifested itself, and she rose.

"I had not realized you'd left London, Cousin Stephen."

"I came straight back when I heard news of young Celia's birth."

"Celia?"

"That's what we've called her," her mother said, and Araminta stared as Stephen occupied the chair she'd just vacated and reached across to stroke the head of the suckling child. Certainly it was not immediately apparent that's what the child was doing, but that Cousin Stephen was in her mother's bedchamber while her mother was feeding the child seemed quite wrong. Hesitantly she took a couple of steps toward the door. "I must dress for dinner."

Her mother and Cousin Stephen raised their heads as if they'd forgotten her, and her mother smiled again. "I'm so delighted at your news, Araminta," she said. "It is my greatest hope that you will discover happiness like your sister. And then you, too, will know the joys of motherhood."

Almost immediately her mother was completely absorbed by the tiny usurper, whom she was now handing over to Cousin Stephen to hold, and Araminta was forgotten.

Angrily, Araminta opened the door into the passage and was assailed by the smell of the roast dinner that was being prepared in the kitchen basement.

Generally she loved saddle of beef, but unexpectedly she found the smell thoroughly unpleasant. In fact, she felt quite ill. She was glad to reach her bedchamber and avail herself of the damp cloth that Jane handed her, but all she could think about was the look on Cousin Stephen's face as he'd held the child.

Entranced.

It didn't make sense, but it was how she intended Lord Ludbridge would look at her when she'd worked her magic on him.

# Chapter 14

It was another ten days before Lissa was able to leave the Lamont household again. Maria was struck down with a chill, immediately followed by Cosmo.

Only when the pair had recovered their good health was talk revived about sketching Lady Baxter. After some judicious enquiries, it was established that she would indeed be attending the weekly musical soiree hosted by Lady Milton. Immediately, Lissa dispatched a note to Ralph telling her where he could find her, if he so chose.

As Lissa took a seat beside her charge and observed those arriving to take up one of dozens of little gilded seats in front of a piano, a large harp and an even larger potted fern, she recognized many of those from Lady Smythe's, including Lord Debenham, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Crossing, who looked surprisingly harmonious.

She'd placed her reticule on the seat next to her but slyly removed it when Ralph slid into place as the harpist and piano player—twins, she could tell at a glance—began to tune up.

Surreptitiously, he clasped her hand for the briefest moment before confessing, "I thought I wouldn't survive for the need to see you. Could you really not have found a moment to slip away? I can only think you can live far more comfortably without me than I without you."

His words brought both pain and pleasure. "I was on call nursing Miss Maria and Master Cosmo for every moment I wasn't teaching Nellie and Harriet. Oh, but Ralph, it was ghastly." On the pretext of dropping something on the floor at her feet, she bent down and, when Cosmo did the same, she whispered, "I thought Cosmo couldn't be more awful but apparently, when he's fighting fit, he's at his absolute _best_."

Ralph chuckled, before remarking in a tone of surprise, "There's my brother...with Miss _Partington_."

Lissa turned to him with raised eyebrows. "It looks as if she's his guest." She felt sick saying the words.

"Now there's a turnabout. I don't think Teddy's invited a young lady anywhere since Miss Bella broke his heart. You do know that I believe you far and away the prettiest of the two of you."

"That's a very kind thing to say, Ralph, but Miss Partington has been praised for being a beauty her whole life." Before she could receive a response, she had to turn back at a question from Miss Maria.

Lissa had to be grateful to the young lady, at least for this outing. Miss Maria had simply informed her mother that she would be taking Lissa to a musical soiree, and as Miss Maria was infinitely more forceful than her highly strung mama, who spent most of the day on a chaise longue, there proved to be no difficulty.

If only everything could be achieved so easily, thought Lissa as she glanced across at Araminta, who was chatting animatedly with Lord Ludbridge. Lissa had never seen her sister look so beautiful. Araminta glowed, and it appeared Lord Ludbridge was entranced as he gazed back at her, despite the fact, it seemed, he was unable to get a word in.

"My brother looks as smitten as I," Ralph murmured, adding hurriedly in an even lower voice, "with the other sister, of course. For five years he's pined for his lost Bella, our neighbor with whom we'd grown up. For the past two I've told him he can't burn a flame to her forever. A surprise that the two young ladies who've engaged his interest couldn't look more different."

"How did Miss Bella break his heart?" Lissa asked the question more to deflect him from his extravagant praise of Araminta. She was deeply dismayed at the idea of Araminta setting her cap at Ralph's brother. How would Lissa compare as a prospect for Ralph in consequence? The truth would be revealed, and a situation could not possibly be allowed whereby two sisters—one of aristocratic stock with a handsome dowry, the other illegitimate and penniless—could marry two brothers like Ralph and Lord Ludbridge.

She swallowed down her sadness. Marrying Ralph was what she wanted more than anything, yet how could it ever be possible?

"I think I mentioned once that Miss Bella's father leased a house near our estate. He worked for the East India Company and she and my brother were once inseparable. He was going to marry her. Then one day, Miss Bella just disappeared."

Lissa, who'd been staring at Araminta, jerked her head back to look at Ralph. "What do you mean, just disappeared?"

"Just that. Teddy went to London. He intended to choose a betrothal ring and to make arrangements so he could ask Miss Bella to marry him when he returned. But he got back to discover their house empty and the family gone. He could never discover where. It was as if they'd never existed."

"I've never heard anything so extraordinary. And she never wrote to say where they'd gone? There was no forwarding address?"

"Nothing. Teddy tried everything to elicit information. It was the strangest thing. Now, five years later, Miss Araminta looks to be the one to at last mend his broken heart."

Araminta was very pleased with the intensity of Lord Ludbridge's gaze. Even after that simpering harp player, Miss Shrew—or whatever her name was, though she certainly resembled a shrew with that unfortunate nose—started her infernal strumming, which everyone else seemed to think divine, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

He really was the most charming young man she'd met in two seasons. He was tall and well made with a strong jaw and a delicate mouth. It seemed everyone liked Lord Ludbridge, too.

Going back to see her Mama had not been the tragedy she'd thought it for it was clear how much His Lovely Lordship had missed her. As for herself, she could not wait to kiss that mouth. In fact, before the week was out, she would do it. The time had come to get matters moving.

Lord Ludbridge offered her his arm when the assembly rose for refreshments. With a coy glance, Araminta murmured her thanks and was rewarded with a most gratifying smile. Her heart fluttered with pleasure and she gave his arm a little squeeze. Yes, he really was a most handsome and agreeable gentleman. Titled and rich enough. Indeed, Lord Ludbridge was the answer to all her difficulties.

"Ralph, good to see you!"

Araminta turned at Lord Ludbridge's warm tones and was horrified to find herself confronting her escort's brother in company with her half-sister. Mortifying was that their hostess, Lady Milton, who materialized from behind the harpist, immediately exclaimed over the resemblance between the girls.

Mr. Tunley had already opened his mouth but Araminta interrupted quickly. "There is no family connection. I am Lord Partington's daughter and Miss Hazlett is—"

"My grandfather was a country solicitor from Hampshire," Larissa murmured.

"Hampshire? I know that part of the world. And your father?"

Araminta felt as panicked as Larissa looked but Mr. Tunley changed the subject, smoothly. "I am impressed by our entertainers tonight. You have put together an excellent program, Lady Milton."

For a moment, Araminta thought he'd saved them from any further uncomfortable questions, but the panic she'd felt must have gone deeper than she'd thought, for all of a sudden she felt the room closing in on her. She flicked open her fan and began a vigorous attempt to circulate the air but the heat of the dozens of bodies was too oppressive for such meager measures.

"Excuse me—" she began before she grasped at Lord Ludbridge's arm, her legs buckled and darkness closed in.

Aramina came to on a royal-blue velvet chaise longue in Lady Milton's sitting room surrounded by her hostess, her chaperone and—as good a reason as if she could have come up with the idea of fainting, herself—Lord Ludbridge.

"What happened?" Despite feeling thick-headed and dazed, she was delighted at the expression of concern on Lord Ludbridge's face.

"My dearest Miss Partington, it would seem the close air was too much for you. How do you feel now?" Lord Ludbridge, who was kneeling on the red and gold carpet at her side, gently patted her hand.

She fluttered her eyelashes and he cleared his throat and released her hand, Araminta coloring prettily. At least, that was the effect she was confident she achieved, for he looked suitably entranced.

After a sly exchange of smiles, Miss Monks and Lady Milton excused themselves and discreetly took a turn about the room, stopping to chat in confidential voices by the window at the far end, which allowed Araminta and His Lordship a little privacy.

"I think I can sit up now," Araminta told him uncertainly, adopting the frailness of an invalid. He immediately snaked an arm about her shoulders to help her into a comfortable sitting position.

"Goodness, I can't imagine what came over me. You are very good to have looked after me so well. What a kind man you are. I'm sure you must be the kindest of all your brothers."

Indeed, he did seem a very kind man, and a very kind man who was clearly entranced by her was a very pleasant lifelong prospect.

"Ralph is known as the tenderhearted one of us all." Lord Ludbridge appeared bashful as he said this.

"Surely not as tenderhearted as you, my lord." She was about to expand upon this theme when she had a flash of inspiration. With a sigh, she added, "I'm so sorry he's forced to work for that wicked Lord Debenham, about whom all those terrible rumors are swirling. I noticed that your brother was at the recital with Miss Hazlett. I do wish he'd warn Miss Hazlett about his employer."

"Miss Hazlett?" Lord Ludbridge looked confused. "I cannot imagine why some imagine the young lady resembles you. I've never met one to rival your beauty."

Araminta smiled coyly. "You are too kind, Lord Ludbridge. But I'm worried that your brother is showing perhaps undesirable interest in Miss Hazlett. I saw her spying on Lord Debenham at Vauxhall Gardens the other night."

" _Spying_ on him? What can you mean?"

Araminta adopted a look of uncertainty. "I...I'm not sure. At first, I assumed she must have been spying. She was quite alone, peeping through the window of the supper house he was occupying. Of course, I didn't know it was him until I was returning with my cousin and sister, and saw Miss Hazlett running down the path. I was afraid for her and about to go to her assistance, when I saw Lord Debenham appear in the doorway. He watched her go and then went inside again."

Araminta shook her head as if the thought distressed her. "I wasn't sure what I should do or if I should even say something, but you are such a kind, sensible, reasonable man, Lord Ludbridge, perhaps you could have a word with your brother."

Lord Ludbridge was clearly shocked. "Surely you were mistaken, Miss Partington."

"Indeed I was not. I greatly fear that Miss Hazlett has an unhealthy fascination for Lord Debenham. After all, she was alone and completely without a chaperone. I'd hate to think she'd set her sights on someone so unsuitable. And clearly your brother is...fond of her."

Araminta was congratulating herself on her inspiration when she arrived home midafternoon and waltzed into her bedchamber. Jane, who was laying out her clothes for later that afternoon, glanced up to ask her if the pale white and jonquil sarsnet evening gown would be to her satisfaction, but Araminta ignored her to close the door, loudly.

"I do wish the smell of dinner was not so overwhelming in this house. It never used to be," she complained. "Oh, and you'll never guess what happened at Lady Milton's. I fainted quite away and Lord Ludbridge played the knight errant. I hadn't planned it at all but it could not have worked better."

"You fainted, miss? Why, you've never fainted in your life before."

Araminta lowered herself onto the stool at her dressing table and untied her bonnet. "No, I haven't, have I? Well, it didn't matter. It was quite fortuitous, for Lord Ludbridge was most concerned and has made his interest plain. I shall want a new trimming on my white silk for Lady Amelia Sedgewick's ball the day after tomorrow. Do brush my hair for me, Jane. I feel a little odd and I need some soothing. My stomach is not behaving and I think it's because of all this excitement."

Obediently, Jane ceased her current task of tidying the bottles on her mistress's dressing table to attend to Araminta. She picked up the boar-bristle brush and looked at its figured silver back thoughtfully. "I used to soothe my dear mama with long, even brush strokes when she was not herself. Mama had such lovely hair. Fair and fine. She were strong and robust like you, miss, and not one for having fainting spells, or feeling bilious either except..."

After removing the last of Araminta's hair pins, she began to draw the brush through her mistress's long, loosened hair.

Araminta, who was feeling unaccountably tired, rested her chin on her hands and closed her eyes. "I do hate the way you don't finish your sentences, Jane. It's as if you think I have the energy or inclination to finish them for you. It's quite rude."

"I beg your pardon, Miss."

"Well, finish your story, then. What was your mama's malady? Perhaps mine is the same and I may learn from it, for I must say, I've not been feeling myself the past few days."

"Just that mama only fainted and threw up into the chamber pot when she was breeding, miss. I thought I shouldn't say some'at that would sound coarse, Miss, though breedin's the most natural thing in the world when a pair gets married and starts to 'ave bairns. I should know, bein' the eldest and bringing up a dozen, for mama would keep havin' em."

"Yes, that was coarse, Jane, and I wish you hadn't said it," Araminta replied, although not as crossly as she might have, as Jane dutifully continued to brush out her tresses.

Breeding? She nibbled her bottom lip as she considered Jane's words. Breeding only occurred to married people or those beyond the pale, like Larissa's mother. It didn't happen to well-intentioned, virtuous young ladies like herself.

"Turn your head, miss. Why, you are awful pale!"

Jane's anxious tone broke into Araminta's growing fear. No, it couldn't have happened to her. Those hideous few seconds when Araminta had thrown herself upon Sir Aubrey, thinking he was about to ask her to marry him, could not have resulted in her worst nightmare.

It could _not_ be happening to her.

Araminta's encounter had been so very brief and so very unromantic, followed by a humiliation of such proportions she'd had to exorcise the memory of that night from her brain as best she could.

But as a waft of cooking aroma filtered in through the door and her stomach protested to such an extent she had to leap up from her chair and make her way to the chamber pot to be ill once again, she could not discount the possibility.

In fact, the more she thought about the very tiny changes in her body, and the realization that her courses were more than a week late, she had to contemplate the possibility that she, Miss Araminta Partington, was indeed breeding.

And that for the first time in her life she was not equipped with a cunning plan. No, she had not the first idea how she was going to extricate herself from this profoundly horrifying situation.

# Chapter 15

With no more entertainments to look forward to, or commissions to execute, Lissa slipped, with resignation, back into her old routine. Three days had passed since Lady Milton's musical afternoon and she'd heard nothing from Ralph.

While her disappointment was acute, she wondered if dull, dreary days were better than being on tenterhooks with regard to the various threats that had hitherto beleaguered her: Cosmo's uncertain temper, Lord Debenham's villainy, Araminta's escapades.

Maybe she should simply accept that attending to the demands of spoiled children was her lot in life.

Of course, such prosaic intentions flew out of the window when she received a parcel which, when opened in the privacy of her tiny bedchamber, revealed a very lovely gown that Araminta was apparently gifting to her.

"I have arranged an invitation for you to attend Lady Grenville's ball tonight," she'd written, "and as I realize you may have nothing suitable to wear, and I know how much you want to impress your Mr. Tunley, I wanted to show my appreciation with a new gown."

Lissa thought it best not to wonder at her motivations. Araminta wanted something but, no doubt, she'd reveal all in good time. But, of course, Lissa could not keep from speculating. Probably, she thought with sinking heart, Araminta was seeking information about Lord Ludbridge now that she'd apparently transferred her interest to him after giving up on Lord Debenham.

Lissa put on the gown and twirled in front of the tiny looking glass in the nursery and the lovely gown of palest green flared about her ankles. She liked the fashions for figured work around the hems and the fact that skirts were fuller this year. The dainty puffed sleeves were tiny and trimmed with small embroidered leaves. What made it most unusual was the crimson sash embroidered with the same leaves.

To Lissa's surprise, the dress was rather large about the middle, and seemed more Hetty's size than Araminta's—which perhaps was the reason Araminta was gifting it to Lissa.

"What are you doing?"

She swung round at the accusatory tone to find Miss Maria advancing through the gloom of the nursery, where the girls were quietly drawing, looking suspiciously at her. "Where did you get that dress?"

"It was...a gift."

Miss Maria marched up to give it a closer inspection. Lissa saw the gleam of envy in her eye as she fingered the embroidery. "You should be attending to my sisters," she said, grimly, as she straightened, "not twirling around as if you're about to go to the next grand ball." Immediately she brightened, smiling as if she expected Lissa to share in her excitement. "You'll never guess, Miss Hazlett, but I have been invited to attend Lady Grenville's soiree tonight. Yes, imagine it! A proper invitation has been delivered for _me_ , Miss Maria Lamont, to attend Lady Grenville's soiree, and I shall be accompanied by Cosmo."

Lissa, standing on a bare piece of wooden floor in the center of the room, saw the two little girls raise their heads at their sister's lofty tone while her spirits plummeted. Ralph, it appeared, would also be attending the ball, and Araminta had arranged for Lissa to go. But how was that possible, now?

Tentatively she said, "I've also received an invitation. And this new dress."

"What are you about, Miss Hazlett?"

Lissa turned as Mrs. Lamont arrived in the schoolroom, wheezing after her battle with the stairs. "You're wearing Miss Maria's new gown. How can you imagine you'll deport yourself at the same entertainment tonight as the young lady of the household? That dress was delivered to this house, meaning it was intended for my Maria."

"No, it was a gift." Lissa was on the point of producing the card that had accompanied it when she remembered its reference to her friendship with Ralph.

"I don't think so, Miss Hazlett. And I suggest you remember your place. You will be looking after the girls, in the schoolroom, where you belong. Miss Maria has now been accepted into the ranks of the fashionable, and with her charming face and figure, she will make a fine match."

She put a proprietorial arm about her daughter's shoulders. "Indeed you will, my dear."

Mrs. Lamont turned to Lissa. "Miss Hazlett, take off that dress immediately and change into something suitable for walking. I want you to take Harriet and Nellie for some fresh air as soon as you're ready. Leave the gown on the bed for Maria to take back to her bedchamber."

What could she do? Lissa wandered the pavements with a small girl's hand in each of hers. Miss Maria was a usurper but Mrs. Lamont had complete power as her employer.

Of course, Lissa could not have imagined she could keep up this double life. She could not further her friendship with Ralph. Their love was doomed. She missed him greatly, and several days seemed such a long time. Perhaps she'd never see him again. She wondered what he was doing and if he'd be at the soiree tonight.

The little girls tugged at her hand. Lissa had been requested to make it a quick walk as nursery tea was nearly upon them but the girls were keen to go into the park.

Why not? The longer she was away from the Lamont household the happier she'd be.

They were all crossing the road when she recognized Lord Debenham's valet, Jem, limping toward her. After sending the girls ahead through the gates, she turned to greet him and was struck by the crooked twist to his once-perfect nose and the number of purple and yellow bruises, now fading, across his cheek.

"Good day to you, Miss Hazlett. You look well. What of your friend, Miss Partington? Me master, Lord Debenham—as you well know—were speakin' of her only the uvver day."

"Indeed?" Lissa glanced across to ensure the little girls were behaving themselves. They were sitting on the grass and playing with what looked like a fallen bird's nest. She returned her attention to Jem. There was something meaningful in the way he couched his words.

He lifted his cap to run his hands through his corn-colored hair and Lissa was struck by the jagged scar that sliced his scalp, as if someone had taken a sword to his head. Had Jem suffered _so_ badly for his involvement in the letter, which Araminta had used to try to blackmail Sir Aubrey into marriage before she'd burned it?

"Strange coincidence, then, that me sweetheart, Jane, what's maid to your friend Miss Partington, told me sumfink interesting about a dress wot she says Miss Partington sent to you this afternoon."

"Well, it seems everyone knows everyone's business," Lissa remarked, ready to move on. The fact that she wasn't going to be wearing the dress after all was hard to take with fortitude. She didn't need Jem to be crowing over his superior knowledge of her life.

"You can sound haughty, Miss, and I don't care a scrap. But as there were summat shady going to be taking place tonight, I thought you might jest consider it worth a shilling for me to warn you."

Lissa's mouth dropped open. "Are you..." She stopped, horrified. "Is this blackmail?"

"Dunno, Miss. I didn't reckon you 'ad secrets like that Miss Partington, but if you do, then maybe it's blackmail, or maybe it's jest that your friend has plans you don't know about yet, but that it might be worth two shillings to 'ave forewarning of." He took a deep breath. "That's if you gets me meaning."

"Miss Partington wouldn't wish me harm." Lissa tried to sound dignified. "I've been too..." She'd been going to say "helpful" before deciding "useful" was a more apt word.

"Well, if that were in the past only you weren't useful now, I wouldn't be too confident of her loyalty, miss. There ain't no loyalty amongst rogues and thieves, I can tell you."

"How dare you be so insulting?" She felt suddenly angry toward Jem, highly indignant that an inferior would speak like that, though it was true she was mistrustful of her half-sister.

Jem looked at her expectantly. "Well, Miss?"

"I don't have any money with me," she said tightly. "And if it's something I really should know about, then a gentleman would tell me."

Jem shrugged then gave a half grin. "You're right, Miss Hazlett. Tell yer wot. I'll do you a favor and I won't ask fer no money. Jest don't wear the green dress and yer'll be right as rain, no tales told and no one in any tricky situations."

He offered her a quick bow and strode off, quickly turning the corner and disappearing before Lissa could catch up with him to call him back.

Hurriedly she collected the little girls and walked them home, just as Miss Maria appeared on the stairs dressed in the embroidered green dress, her dark hair elaborately coiffured, her mother's jewelry adorning her throat.

"Ah, Miss Hazlett, Mama will be glad to see you back." She sounded very grand and grown up as she tugged at her mauve elbow-length gloves. "She's cross that you've made the girls late for nursery tea. I placated her."

Offering Lissa an overindulgent smile, she took another step down the stairs. "I was going to wear my oyster sarsnet but this is far superior, don't you think? I'm sorry you thought it was for you—"

"Miss Maria, you cannot wear that gown tonight."

Miss Maria sent her a mutinous look before she clearly chose to her ignore her. "Do you not think this could have been made for me? Clearly it was," she said, airily.

"But it was _not_ , and Miss Maria, I fear there's trouble brewing. I don't know what, but I believe it would be unwise if you...insisted on wearing it."

"Is that a threat?" Miss Maria looked ugly when she was crossed. "Ah, Cosmo, the governess insists I cannot wear this dress to attend Lady Grenville's soiree. That trouble is brewing, she says." She gave a simpering laugh as she turned to look over her shoulder at her brother, who had just started down the stairs. "Should I trust her?"

Lissa, who hadn't exactly expected support, despite Cosmo's reliance upon her artistic talents, was, nevertheless, taken aback by his vituperative look.

"As much as you should trust a fox to look after your ducklings," he said in a low voice, passing close enough to hiss in Lissa's ear, "Mr. Crossing, who has made no mention of the work I delivered until I chanced to meet him in the street, told me he was delighted by the sketch. Delighted!"

His nostrils twitched and Lissa faltered at the vitriol in his voice as he added, "So delighted, there was no suggestion of an added payment for further investigative sketching. For more than a week I've tried to contact him. Now, finally, it's to hear that never was there a happier husband to have received proof that his wife had not been lying to him. Yes, the _redheaded_ gentleman in the picture was apparently his wife's _brother_!"

He extended his hand as if he were going to pinch Lissa's shoulder then drew back at the last minute at the sound of his mother calling to her children, and her footsteps sounding louder in the corridor.

"Maria, there you are, and what a picture you look! Cosmo, are you ready to escort your sister? Miss Hazlett, you should be in the nursery looking after the children."

Lissa decided it would be futile to reiterate her concern over Miss Maria's insistence on wearing a gown that was apparently going to cause ructions.

Perhaps Jem had been lying in the hopes of earning a couple of shillings, though Lissa doubted it, and as soon as she reached the schoolroom, she promptly dispatched a note to Ralph, outlining as briefly as she could Jem's warning.

All evening she worked restlessly at her mending after Clara had put the children to bed. She'd hoped Ralph might respond but he didn't. When the clock struck eleven she realized he would not.

Despondent, she went to bed.

Araminta needed something hopeful to concentrate upon, otherwise she would go quite insane. The idea that she, Araminta Partington, could possibly have found herself in the unfortunate position she had was unthinkable. More than she could bear, in fact, and right at this moment, she'd never hated Hetty so much.

It was her sister's fault that Araminta was...

She couldn't even put it into words. No debutante could afford to be in such an intolerable situation, which meant Araminta simply had to swap her status as debutante for respectably married woman. And all within a couple of short weeks. Yes, that was apparently the time frame she was looking at, according to Jane, whom she'd taken into her confidence only because Jane knew everything there was to know about such things, and she could offer advice. Araminta had not the first idea about matters like this.

All she knew was that she had to put a wedding band on her left hand within a timely four weeks of the unfortunate incident that had precipitated this disaster.

That left her with a frighteningly short window of opportunity but Araminta felt confident of ultimate success. She had to. If she couldn't quite get the wedding band slipped onto her finger, then she had to orchestrate a situation in which what had happened with Sir Aubrey, also happened with the man who would soon be her husband.

That, of course, would be Lord Ludbridge.

The arrival of a dress that had been made for the treacherous Hetty—who no longer needed it, because she'd eloped—had, at first, enraged her. It was only as she'd paced her bedchamber, running her hands up and down her stomach and willing whatever was in there to miraculously disappear, that inspiration had struck. The painful reminder of past disappointments could in fact work to her advantage. All that was needed were a few artful tugs of the strings in the background.

To this end, while mingling with the throng at Lady Grenville's soiree, meekly and quietly at her chaperone, Mrs. Monks' side, she gained the attention of one of the waiters and handed him the folded note she had prepared back at home.

"Deliver this to that young lady in green that you see in the far corner by the window," she told him, pointing to a distant figure half obscured by the throng. The cut of her evening dress with its red sash was entirely distinctive. "The lady with the dark hair."

Within moments, she'd dispatched a second message via another waiter, this time to Lord Debenham.

Turning back around, she received a jolt of surprise and delight to see Lord Ludbridge appear before her. He looked so boyishly pleased that she was here this evening, and immediately began to compliment her on her gown until she giggled and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan.

"You'll quite turn my head," she told him. "And unless you plan to give me ideas you have no intention of giving me, you'd better stop now."

Instantly he sobered, and took her hand to give it a brief squeeze before he dropped it with a look of embarrassment as he glanced about the room. "Then I won't stop. Will you walk with me in the garden? There are lanterns along all the paths and we won't be alone. Ask Mrs. Monks. I'm sure she'll agree."

Araminta quickly gained her chaperone's assent and happily placed her gloved hand in the crook of Lord Ludbridge's arm. Half an hour in the garden alone with the handsome viscount sounded almost too good to be true. He would tell her how much he admired her and make her feel happy, like she deserved, not frightened and wretched. And as long as she ensured Lord Ludbridge was in the library at 11 p.m. at least one of the complications in her life might be eliminated.

Ralph, meanwhile, was madly trying to find clean, fresh linen in which to present himself at the entertainment he'd had no intention of attending until five minutes before. The invitation would have been irresistible, had he known Miss Hazlett would be there, but he'd sadly faced the fact that London's social whirl would always remain on the perimeter of the real drudgery of their lives.

Ralph had to work for his living, and long days performing often unpleasant tasks left him with little energy, although this might have been different had he been remunerated sufficiently. He often imagined taking the divine Miss Hazlett on lazy boating trips upon the river, or surprising her with presents that would elicit such bursts of excited gratitude that he'd feel her smooth young arms twine impulsively about his neck.

Of course, that would be a very dangerous thing. He realized that the more he had to do with her, the greater his susceptibility to falling completely and irrevocably in love. This would make his daily toil even worse, due to the added torment of knowing how impossible it was for them to be together.

But the hasty, last-minute request from his beloved Lissa was impossible to refuse. She'd assumed he would be attending Lady Grenville's soiree and had asked simply for him to keep in his sights a young lady in a green dress with a red sash embroidered with flowers.

The message had been short and cryptic. Perhaps she was someone whom her dreadful employer had been asked to sketch. Ralph had no idea who this young lady was, but if Lissa had asked him to discreetly follow her, he would not fail in the enterprise. She would have a very good reason for asking him anything, he knew.

Having finally found linen, clean and crisp enough to do service tonight without declaring him the pauper he was, Ralph was admitted into the midst of the well-dressed throng—where he was immediately confronted with a dark-haired young lady in a green gown embroidered with flowers, the very description Lissa had given him.

Why, he wondered, had Lissa not said it was Miss Maria she wished him to keep within his sights? And there was her brother, Master Cosmo looking the Pinkest of the Pinks with his fashionably tight-fitting trousers, high pointed collar and Titus coiffure. Ralph ran his fingers thoughtfully through his own thatch of hair and immediately dismissed the idea of attempting something the least bit fashionable with it. He'd never aspired to the dandy set, or even desired to be a Nonesuch like his brother.

Not wishing to be observed, Ralph quickly entered into conversation with Admiral Cannington, who was clearly delighted to have an audience for his latest adventures in the West Indies, where he'd apparently distinguished himself and made a fortune to boot.

Meanwhile, he noticed Miss Maria kept looking over her shoulder, as if she were being observed. Or searching for someone. Yes, that's what debutantes did, didn't they? Sized up the quarry because, after all, the whole reason they were here was to find a husband.

Perhaps Lissa was worried that the young lady had fixed her interest on someone unsuitable. Well, Ralph would ensure she didn't do anything rash.

Therefore, even as Ralph indulged in the excellent champagne that was circulating and enjoyed, more than he'd expected, his conversations with a variety of guests, his protective instincts were on alert when he noticed the young lady receive a discreet note from a waiter.

He saw her eyes widen as she took it, and her quick furtive look across the room, before her gaze settled upon a rather portly, fair-haired young man in military attire talking to a middle-aged woman in a purple toque. The young man seemed to feel her eyes upon him, for he turned to look over his shoulder, smiling when he intercepted Miss Maria's gaze.

She colored and looked away, while Ralph felt both somewhat of a voyeur but also the importance of the task entrusted to him. For some reason, Lissa was concerned, and she needed Ralph to ensure this young lady didn't get herself into trouble. Perhaps this portly, unassuming young man was the unsuitable object of her interest.

"Baby brother, I didn't expect to see you here tonight. Not the kind of entertainment you usually frequent."

Ralph looked up into the smiling face of his eldest sibling and clapped him on the arm before he greeted his companion, Miss Partington, with polite restraint. He wasn't sure what he felt about this young woman, who did indeed resemble the woman he loved but who elicited such very different emotions. He certainly felt no warmth in her gaze, though she smiled and said how delightful it was to see him.

Ralph wondered at Teddy's interest in Miss Partington, which was a little awkward, in view of Ralph's interest in her half-sister. Perhaps Miss Partington felt similarly uncomfortable. It would not be unreasonable.

Of course, it was only natural Teddy would wish to take a wife at his age. Ralph just wished he'd not set his sights on Miss Araminta Partington. Nevertheless, he engaged her in pleasant conversation and she declared how much she loved riding, which quickly resulted in an eager invitation from Teddy to take her in his high-perch phaeton the following day. Ralph was surprised she elected to go before luncheon when she'd been warned there was a greater chance of morning rain.

And then Teddy and Miss Partington disappeared into the garden, and Ralph continued to chat to all number of people until the clock struck eleven, at which point he noticed the young lady in green nervously whispering something to her brother before hurrying toward the door that led into a passage beyond. He felt uncomfortable following her, and in fact nearly failed in his task when he was waylaid by the garrulous Mrs. Gargery, but after a minute or so he extricated himself and carried on, just in time to hear the click of what he knew to be the library door farther up the corridor.

About to go in, he hesitated. Perhaps she had a secret assignation with the portly young man, in which case it was no business of his to interrupt, despite Lissa's request.

However, Lissa's brief note had conveyed more concern than anything else for the wearer of this particular green dress. For a moment he marveled at her talent for intrigue, which was just what Ralph had always aspired to in his position. The longer he worked for Lord Debenham, the more unsavory dealings he uncovered, though not as yet anything that would put His Lordship in the dock. Debenham was too canny for that. Like most cruel men, he'd learned to cover his tracks.

Ralph put his ear to the door and, to his amazement, discerned his employer's iron-clad yet silky tones. He could not interrupt but if Lord Debenham was alone with innocent Miss Maria, he needed to stay near in case he was required to render immediate assistance.

"So, you have enticed me here, madam. What? Because you _esteem_ me? No, you plan to blackmail me, don't you? You look very young for intrigue, yet the deadliest are the unlikeliest. Well, what are your demands?"

Should he intervene? What _was_ Miss Maria about? Ralph remained frozen on the spot while he digested the silence, menacing and pregnant with possibility until broken again by Lord Debenham sounding even angrier. "Speak up, you puling little fool. Who sent you? Won't tell me? Lost your nerve, have you? By God, but you have chosen the wrong man for your foolish and naïve carryings-on."

The sound of his heavy footsteps was followed by a short, shrill cry, and then the door burst open and Miss Maria hurled herself into the passage, tripping over her skirt and falling to her knees.

Ralph helped her up but the girl was clearly too distraught and in a hurry to leave to look him in the eye, much less recognize Ralph. Not even pausing to say thank you once she was back on her feet, she tore past him and disappeared into the ballroom.

Ralph was hardly going to enter the library right now. In fact, he knew it was time to make tracks to be well out of sight, should his employer choose to follow the unfortunate young lady, though he considered this unlikely. He was about to turn back to the ballroom when his surprise at recent events was compounded by the clear, surprised tones of another young lady who sounded remarkably like Miss Araminta Partington.

"Good evening, Lord Partington, how are you this evening? I hope we didn't interrupt anything."

His suspicion was confirmed when Ralph heard His Lordship greet Miss Partington by name before addressing Ralph's own brother. Clearly Miss Partington and Teddy had entered the library through the garden.

Ralph decided he'd remained long enough at Lady Grenville's soiree. He wished he could stop by the Lamont household and contrive a secret meeting with the divine Miss Hazlett. He needed to warn her that for some reason her half-sister had intended a secret meeting between Lissa and Lord Debenham. He shuddered, relieved that it had all fallen flat, but glad he had evidence of the young woman's duplicity. Ralph had worked too long for a villain not to recognize others of his ilk.

But it wasn't possible to speak to Miss Hazlett tonight. Once he returned, he had to satisfy himself with writing a lengthy description of what he'd heard through the closed door, which he dispatched to a street urchin who must have run his hardest for his money. For Ralph was just preparing for bed when he received a surprising answer from his lady love.

Wearily he slid beneath the covers, holding the hastily scribbled note to his chest. For the moment, it was the closest he would get to her.

# Chapter 16

It was little wonder Nellie and Harriet could not concentrate on Lissa's lesson on the great rivers of the world when Miss Maria's wails and the remonstrances of her mother could be heard two floors away.

That Miss Maria's evening had not been a success was borne up by Ralph's detailed missive the night before. Now Lissa was bursting with impatience to learn every detail. She was therefore astonished to be summoned by the housemaid, who told her she had a visitor in the drawing room.

The reason she was not banished elsewhere was clearly because the rest of the family was determined to hear whatever her mystery caller had to say.

When she saw it was Ralph, she affected cool politeness though her heart raced up her throat and threatened to turn her into a gibbering fool. However, her worst fears regarding her ability to manage the situation were not realized, and she decided she must be getting rather good at this intrigue lark.

"Mr. Tunley, how nice to see you again," she greeted him. "Do you have a message from Lord Debenham perhaps?"

"Lord Debenham is paying his respects?" Mrs. Lamont asked with a mixture of fear and hope. This elicited a muffled wail from Miss Maria, who was sitting unusually hunch-shouldered upon the chaise longue.

Ralph smiled. "I'm afraid not. Please excuse me for speaking plainly, Mrs. Lamont. I find myself in an awkward situation, for my employer is a man who does not mince words, and I certainly would not choose to pass on this message."

Lissa bit her lip and stared between Ralph and the Lamont family, who were gazing at him in almost terrified expectation. When none of them spoke, Ralph went on. "Lord Debenham respectfully requests that his gifts should be enjoyed by the intended recipients. I refer, in this instance, to a certain green dress."

He did not get any further, for at this, Miss Maria threw herself forward and onto her knees, covering her head with her arms as she wailed, "I never knew! I never knew it wasn't for me!"

"Yes, you did," Lissa said crisply. She looked enquiringly at Ralph. "Was there any other message from Lord Debenham?"

He responded with commendable aplomb. "Indeed there is, however, he was adamant that it was for your ears only, Miss Hazlett." He turned to the three Lamonts, who were now all staring at him with fear in their eyes. "I trust you'll grant Miss Hazlett a few moments of privacy?"

Lissa burst out laughing when they'd gained the conservatory and closed the door behind them. "Oh my Lord, I was so concerned for Miss Maria and what would happen, and while such an encounter with Lord Debenham was very terrible for one so young, it did serve her right. It certainly confirms any suspicions that for reasons known only to herself, Araminta wished to entice me into Lord Debenham's orbit." She shivered. "I'm sorry, Ralph, I do not like your employer."

"And I'm afraid I don't care overly for your sister. She wanted to discredit you, that is quite clear, only she was not terribly cunning about it. But how can I tell Teddy when he is happy for the first time in years? Teddy told me Miss Partington had passed on the information that she'd seen you spying on Lord Debenhan, all alone, in his supper box in Vauxhall Gardens. When that did not quell my interest, I suspect she devised this neat little device."

Lissa gasped. " _Spying_? She told him that?" But then, the truth was that Lissa had indeed been spying on Lord Debenham." She had to let that go. But the other? "Yes, the gown was clearly Hetty's, for it was too big for Araminta. I believe she entertained herself with this grand subterfuge in order to make it appear I was consorting with Lord Debenham, and ensuring our encounter was witnessed by your brother." Unable to help herself, she smiled. "Poor Miss Maria, she must have been terrified. I find Lord Debenham frightening enough, but I can't begin to imagine what Miss Maria felt when she became the butt of his anger."

"I certainly do." Ralph's grin quickly faded. "Sadly, I can't leave his employ until a plum job as second attaché for some British diplomatist falls into my lap."

Lissa's heart flipped. Agitated, she tore off the palm frond she was playing with. "Oh Ralph, you don't mean it," she said, crestfallen. "A diplomat? Why, then you'll be travelling all over the world. We will never be able to—" She bit off the words that would be too forward to utter. Even if Ralph had so often alluded to a shared future, it had always been half jestingly.

"I've always wanted to be a diplomatist, but I want you to be my wife more," he said seriously, taking Lissa's hands.

"Why, Ralph, that is... I really don't know what to say."

"I don't know why, since you've heard me voice the sentiment often."

"But never seriously."

"My dear girl, if I were in a position to make you a serious offer, I'd go down on one knee this very moment." He brought her hands up to his lips. "But I'll not elicit an avowal of your return affections and deny you an opportunity to accept a rich, handsome suitor who can offer you now, what I cannot."

"Ralph, don't—"

For once the quirk that made his mouth seem always to be laughing at himself or something else was not in evidence. He looked as sad as she felt. "It's true, Lissa, that I want what's best for you. I will not see you save yourself for me when I have no idea how long it will take me to become elevated in the world sufficiently to take a wife."

"I've lived on very little my whole life. I don't need a carriage or a—"

"Hush, dear girl, I know very well your wants are modest." Beneath the drooping fronds of the tallest fern, he cradled her against him and rested his chin on her hair while he stroked her cheek. "But the truth is, I can barely keep myself. Occasionally I get a family handout but I cannot rely on those. My self-respect demands that I am able to offer you at least a modicum of comfort."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Very well, then. The fact that you want me will be enough. I won't insist on anything that will make you uncomfortable."

He laughed and kissed her forehead as he turned her in his arms, putting his hands on her shoulders, ready to let her go. "What a perfect angel you are. So unlike that half-sister of yours. My poor brother doesn't know what he is letting himself in for."

"Hush." Lissa put her fingers to her lips. "Let's not talk of Araminta."

"I won't say another word on the subject except that I predict interesting times ahead. My brother received a most extraordinary missive yesterday that I hope might change matters considerably, despite certain complications."

"Oh, Ralph, what?"

He shook his head and buttoned his lips together even as he smiled. "A true diplomatist does not speak of such things until they have come to pass."

"But you just said you—"

"Loved you? Actually, I didn't say those words, which was really quite remiss of me, because in fact I do love you. Quite sincerely...and I could go further. Quite passionately, only I dare not dwell on the extent of those dangerous depths when my feelings are immaterial if I'm unable to act upon them."

"Oh Ralph, what a ridiculous speech. If you love me, you can say it properly. I like to hear it." She reached forward and kissed him quickly on the lips. "There. In my employer's conservatory. How much greater proof do you need that my feelings match yours?"

He raked his fingers through his hair as he closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels with a deep sigh. "Yes, I love you, Miss Hazlett. And now I must go before I am quite wild with desire." Opening his eyes, he gathered her quickly in his arms, kissed her forehead, then set her away from him as he turned toward the door.

His expression was full of the greatest tenderness as he looked over his shoulder. "One day I will say those words to you in a way that makes you feel full of joy, not despair, as I feel. Good day to you, my most precious Lissa. I do not know when we will see each other again."

Lissa sighed. "Nor do I. Master Cosmo is so angry with me for changing the picture of Mrs. Crossing when he thought he would get so much more for evidence that would ruin the man's poor wife."

"Yes, the last time I saw Mr. and Mrs. Crossing together they looked very cozy in one another's company."

"Well, if I were to have been the means of ruining such good relations, then it was the least I could do." She grinned. "However, I was more concerned about saving Mrs. Crossing. Her husband is not a nice man."

"He's not," Ralph agreed. "I've heard this corroborated in various quarters. Well, my dear, let us hope Cosmo needs you for a lucrative commission soon. Soon, I must leave for Little Nipping but I shall be gone only one night. When I return, I shall do my best to orchestrate an invitation for you on behalf of my employer. Then I shall whip out my cravat, execute my most artful knot and we can pretend that idling our time away in the pursuit of leisure is what we do, everyday."

"I fear it does look like rain." Araminta felt quite pleased about this as she gazed at the overcast sky.

Cousin Stephen had accompanied her to Rotten Row, where Lord Ludbridge would shortly collect her. After that, the two of them would take a bowl through the streets to the outskirts of the city, where Lord Ludbridge would introduce her to—she couldn't believe this part—his mother. Yes, his mother! He'd sent a note round the previous evening to make the final arrangements.

Now Cousin Stephen was levelling at her that censorious look that made her want to slap him. "I trust you will behave, Araminta."

"Behave, Cousin Stephen? I'm sure that is rather rich coming from you, of all people." She dropped her eyes and slanted a sly look up at him. "I declare, I was never more shocked than the day I followed you to the river and found you—"

"Dear God, that is not something to bring up in public!" he exclaimed. "You were...spying on me."

She raised her eyes heavenward in mock forbearance, glad to have embarrassed him. At the time to which she referred, less than a year before, she'd been desperate to snare Cousin Stephen for her own husband. The sight of him lying, naked, on the river bank—in fact, more than simply naked but indulging in some very unrespectable self-pleasuring—had been wickedly erotic. Her pride had been sorely dented when he'd so roundly rejected her and sent her on her way after she'd made herself known.

These days, her once dashing Cousin Stephen was more like a boring uncle, the way he doted on Araminta's mother and the new baby, eschewing all pleasure-loving when he could have been a handsome consort for the occasions Araminta wasn't dancing with someone else. Now Cousin Stephen was spending a few days in town on business but rather than stay for any of the entertainments on offer, he planned to return to The Grange before the end of the week.

"Besides," she added, full of self-righteous indignation, "I think that when compared to my scandalous sister, I should be thoroughly commended for my wise choice of potential husband. Mama will love Lord Ludbridge, do you not think?"

Cousin Stephen's smile softened. "I believe she will. So you are confident, then, of his affections and you truly anticipate success? It's not very long ago that you were pining for Sir Aubrey."

"You make it sound like some coarse competition," Araminta huffed before her lips curved up into a satisfied grin. "Yes, Lord Ludbridge is smitten. And to think that he is taking me to meet his mother after we will have spent twenty minutes alone in an open high-topped phaeton. What could go wrong? I am very confident that he returns my affections, Cousin Stephen."

"And do you return Lord Ludbridge's affection, equally? I mean, it's not just because it's nearly the end of your second season?"

"Goodness, how many times must I repeat myself? I'm hoping to make him my husband, didn't I say? Then it doesn't matter if Papa loses all his money. At least I won't have to work as a dowdy governess like—"

She pressed her lips together. Her half-sister was a complication she would rather not have as part of the family. "Oh look!" She clapped her hands together as she hurried forward. "Here he comes. Goodness, what a fine pair of high-steppers." Araminta knew it was a clever move to admire Lord Ludbridge's two proud bay mares. These things were important to Corinthians like His Lordship; only His Lordship wasn't vain like so many who bore the moniker.

"I'm glad you like them, Miss Partington. Here, let me help you up."

She grasped his hand, laughing as he swung her up over the wheel and deposited her onto the seat beside him. "Goodbye, Cousin Stephen. You mustn't worry too much."

"Miss Partington's in safe hands, I assure you," Lord Ludbridge called out as he flicked the ribbons and the equipage flew forward, catching Araminta by surprise as she was dislodged, falling back against Lord Ludbridge's chest. Already things were going well, she thought as he apologized, for she'd only had to make a small adjustment to the trajectory of her landing.

And now he was snuggling her against his side, first holding the reins in both hands and then relinquishing one hand so he could snake it about her shoulders. She raised her head to smile at him, murmuring loudly enough so he could hear above the noise, "Oh, this is nice."

"Very nice," he agreed. "My dear mama is very much looking forward to meeting you."

"I fear she may disapprove," Araminta replied, making a moue, holding back the feathers of her leghorn bonnet that were being blown about by the wind.

"Disapprove? Why?"

"Because of the scandal involving my sister. I was afraid no one would want to be associated with me after Hetty simply abandoned all her morals and ran away with a man everyone knows is...well, you know what I mean, Lord Ludbridge."

"I cannot hold you responsible for your sister's actions." He looked discomforted as he admitted, "It's true that Mama was concerned but she is a fair woman. When she meets you, she will love you for the kind and virtuous young lady you are, Miss Partington."

"Oh, I do hope so." Impulsively Araminta rested her head on his shoulder and her hand upon his heart, before drawing back quickly, as if remembering herself. "Forgive me, Lord Ludbridge," she cried, biting her lip. "You make me forget myself. I do not think I have ever met such a lovely man as you."

He colored as he stared at her a moment before having to return his attention to the road. "You are truly adorable," he muttered, patting her arm, clearly quite distracted.

Araminta glanced at the sky once more, wishing it would rain so they would have the excuse of having to find shelter somewhere. But they arrived quite dry at the estate by the river which, Araminta soon learned, was the dowager's favorite abode as she did not care for the large, draughty home in the highlands or the antiquated Queen Anne house in Essex.

Her Ladyship greeted her with formal reserve at the bottom of the steps of a large, square, stately building. "I am pleased to meet you at last, Miss Partington. My son has spoken about you in glowing terms, though I believe you've known one another for but a short time."

"One does not always need a long time to know one's heart, Mother," Lord Ludbridge said, thrilling Araminta with his words, though his mother's response suggested this might be a topic they'd been over before.

Once seated in the drawing room, Araminta pretended interest in a stuffed fox in a glass jar upon a nearby table. "Did you used to follow the hunt, my lady?"

"I remain an excellent horsewoman, Miss Partingon, and am not yet too old for the sport."

"I beg your pardon, of course I did not mean to insinuate you were. I'm very partial to riding, too. Especially to hunting."

The dowager leaned back in her chair by the fireplace. "It does not surprise me to hear it, Miss Araminta. You have that look about you."

Lord Ludbridge intervened quickly. "Perhaps we should have refreshments now so that I can show Miss Partington around. Rain is threatening."

Over a dish of tea and cucumber sandwiches, the dowager Lady Ludbridge mentioned her five other sons and the fine marriages some of them had made. "Alas, there is not much left for a sixth son, and so I fear poor Ralph will have to wait awhile before he's in a position to take a wife."

This was pleasing news to Araminta, who said, to shore up opposition to any attempts Mr. Tunley might be making to mitigate his single state, "He is a charming young man." She turned to Lord Ludbridge. "No wonder Miss Hazlett is taken by him, though I suspect her efforts to entice Lord Debenham will bear more fruit."

The dowager sipped her tea. "Lord Debenham? What does he have to do with this?"

Lord Ludbridge looked uncomfortable before smiling at Araminta. "Lord Debenham is a rather different kettle of fish, and not, I believe, someone who could be compared to my brother. I really cannot see that any young lady who found a man of Ralph's character pleasing to her would be similarly interested in Lord Debenham—"

"Oh, I'm not suggesting there's a remote resemblance between the respective characters of your darling brother and his employer. I simply fear Miss Hazlett is using Mr. Tunley as a useful conduit to get the attention of Lord Debenham. Why, she all but admitted it to me, when I saw her leave his supper room at Vauxhall Gardens several weeks ago."

"My, but you are forthcoming," the dowager said, as if this were hardly a good thing.

Lord Ludbridge rose quickly. "Miss Partington, perhaps you'd care for a walk?"

"That would be lovely." Araminta offered her future mother-in-law her sweetest smile as she followed Lord Ludbridge into the lobby. She did not care for the dowager, but that was a problem easily solved. Once she and Teddy were married they'd send the old woman to her majestic Scottish castle or the quaint Queen Anne estate, where she could not interfere with the way Araminta intended to manage things.

She squeezed his arm and offered him an adoring look as he gazed down at her. In fact, she really was feeling most indulgent toward him, so there was no feigning the arrangement of her facial muscles.

"I am so happy to know you, Lord Ludbridge," she murmured as he led her into the garden and onto a gravel path that traversed a formal arrangement of shrubs and flowerbeds, while well-tended grass swept down to the river. She shaded her eyes and imagined grand entertainments with guests being transported from the city by barge up to their front door. It was too exciting for words.

"And I, you, Miss Partington. I...I have never met a more lovely girl, in fact." He seemed lost for words after that, as he continued to stroll with her toward a copse of enormous elm trees a short distance away.

"Oh!" Araminta cried as a drop of rain landed upon her chest, quickly followed by more.

"We must hurry!" Lord Ludbridge seized her hand and together they ran across the last stretch of grass to seek shelter beneath the thick branches of an elm tree. Araminta was breathing heavily, but laughing from the exertion, and in a fit of abandon, she threw her arms about His Lordship's neck and drew down his head to kiss him deeply.

She felt him stiffen momentarily with surprise, but he was quickly kissing her back, sweeping her into his strong embrace and thrilling her with the hardness of his chest and the growing, incendiary passion of his response.

"Darling girl," he murmured between kisses as his hands ran over her back, skimming the top of her bottom, going no farther but creating the most alarming force of desire deep within Araminta's groin.

She pressed herself harder against him, cupping his face as if that could intensify the kiss, wishing they were in a position whereby they could divest their garments and indulge in a mad coupling that would satisfy Araminta on every level.

"Oh, my dear lord," she gasped as she dropped her hands and suddenly found they were upon his rump. Such a hard, manly rump that she could not wait to feel in all its nakedness. This preliminary lead-up to what she would soon be able to enjoy for the rest of her life was almost more than she could bear.

"Miss Partington!" he gasped at last, drawing back and placing his hands on her shoulders as if he did not trust himself. "Forgive me. I have behaved in a most ungentlemanly manner. I have entirely forgotten myself." His breath came rapidly and, appearing distraught, he raked his hands through his hair. "I must atone."

"You need not, please, my lord. I was...I was equally to blame." She averted her eyes to look at the dripping leaves as if she were ashamed of herself. "I do not know what came over me, except...that I wanted this as much as you." She ended on a whisper as he gathered her in his arms.

Araminta wilted against him. This was heavenly. Everything she ever could have dreamed of. Lord Ludbridge was utterly divine. She could not imagine a husband more to her taste. And he was entirely smitten. Entirely!

"Did you? Did you really?"

"Oh, yes!" She raised her head to kiss him again but he shook his head, his look regretful as he put a gentle hand on her shoulder to hold her away.

"Miss Partington, this isn't the right place, I know that. But I will find the right place, very soon." He paused, as if uncertain whether to go on, then said in a rush, "I want to ask you a most important question. A question that will have very great ramifications for you and me for the rest of our lives."

Dear Lord, the moment was upon her, even sooner than she had anticipated. "What are you saying, Lord Ludbridge?" she prompted, her heart beating wildly.

He shook his head. "Not yet, Miss Partington, not yet—"

No! She held out her hands imploringly. He had all but asked her the question upon which hinged her whole future. How could he withhold something so very important at the very last moment?

"Please understand me. I am not in a position right at this moment to say what my heart is pleading for me to say, but I do want you to know of my feelings."

"Why can you not say it now?" She felt like crying with frustration.

"First there is something very important I must do. Do not look so sad." He tilted her chin up with his forefinger and kissed her tenderly on the lips. "It can wait one more day. I should not have said what I did but you make me forget myself. You see, this is not the first time I've said it, is it? I am utterly mad for you, my darling girl."

He offered his arm and reluctantly Araminta laid her hand upon it as they turned back toward the house. A gentle sun now bathed the damp lawn in a faded yellow light, warming his face as he smiled down at her.

"Tomorrow, I will see you. Tomorrow, I will ask you what I hope is the question you anticipate. And that you will give me the answer I wish to hear."

# Chapter 17

Ralph was glad he would only be in Little Nipping for one night. Every couple of months he made the journey with Debenham who went to oversee his landholdings. On this occasion, Ralph had gone up ahead in a hired chaise. His Lordship was due to ride up later in the day.

Now, hunched over his desk in the overseer's office, Ralph dipped his quill into the inkwell for more hated letter-writing. He was glad he did not have to put his own name to half of his employer's correspondence, but increasingly he detested being a party to Debenham's business dealings. The time had almost come when, despite several salary increases, he could no longer do this.

Generally, Lord Debenham left him to his own devices, satisfying himself with terse enquiries as to Ralph's progress or tossing a sheaf of correspondence upon his desk with instructions on how he should expedite certain matters on his irregular visits.

But this afternoon, Lord Debenham strode into Ralph's office, slammed the door behind him, paused, waiting for Ralph to acknowledge him, and when he did not, brought his fist down hard upon the surface close to where Ralph was working. The vibration caused a spattering of ink and Ralph jerked his head up in surprise.

"Don't you glower at me!" His Lordship cried. "Not when I'm travel-stained and weary but fearing I may have to ride poste-haste home. First of all, what's this business you've engaged in with my tenants that threatens to stall the eviction process?"

For a moment, Ralph was at a loss. "The notices have all been served, my lord." Bad business all over, he thought. God, he hated this work.

"You sent a shilling to Rogers, and now he's blessing me for my kindness. It's got the wind up the rest of them, who are no longer convinced their Lucifer of a landlord has no mercy in him. Which of course he has not. Now all of them are dragging their heels because they're under the illusion I have some soft spot that might be tapped!"

Ralph held up his hand so he could voice his protest. "My lord, I met Rogers last year, and his family, personally. How could I not do something? The youngest child is dying and needs medicine. A shilling was, I think—"

"I don't pay you to think. I pay you to carry out my orders! Rogers believes I sent the money. But more to the point, what do you know about a sketch drawn of me at Vauxhall Gardens, which I neither commissioned nor authorized? Tell me that!"

Ralph was so taken aback at the turn in the conversation he didn't know what to say? "A sketch?" he finally managed, hoping his dry throat didn't give him away.

"Are you deaf? Yes, a sketch, that's what I said. A sketch of me with two miscreants I'd liefer not be associated with. It's all a lie, of course. Someone's out to tar me with the same brush as two felonious suspects with Spencean leanings. Not something I'd be involved with, that's to be sure. And now I've been depicted in their midst. A party to their plotting is what it's meant to look like! Yes, well, you look suitably horrified, that's good. But what are you going to do about it?"

Ralph carefully laid down his quill and leaned back in his chair. Lord Debenham was frequently bullying, all too often demanding and unreasonable, but this was the first time Ralph detected real fear in his employer's face. He shook his head. "I'm afraid this is the first I've heard of any sketch."

"Then tell me who has made a name for depicting a face so full of character there is no one who does not instantly recognize the subject?"

Ralph hoped he did not betray himself by the waves of fear that made him glad he was sitting down. He dropped his eyes as he reached for his quill, simply for something to occupy his shaking hand. "I cannot say, my lord."

"There's a name. I agreed that the fellow could do a drawing of me at some garden party. A piece of vanity. A bit of fun at the time. And it was an excellent sketch, I grant you. But I don't recall his name, though he was quite the dandy. You surely remember it?" he insisted. "You've been about more than usual for you. Tell me where I can locate him so I can make him admit he falsified the drawing, that he was bribed by my enemies. By God, I'll make him sorry!"

Ralph furrowed his brow as he forced himself not to react with either defensiveness or fear. "I do recall this artist who is making his name doing commissions," he said slowly. "Though I had not heard of a sketch commissioned of yourself, my lord."

"Well, one has been commissioned, and I need to find out who executed it and who ordered it!"

Ralph wasn't about to mention Sir Archibald Ledger, who'd bought the sketch for such a huge sum. Of course he should have known there was more to the transaction than appeared to be the case.

Lord Debenham pounced. "You do know. Who is it?"

Quickly, Ralph tried to consider a range of ramifications for various answers. Of course, if Debenham discovered he'd deliberately withheld information it would be bad for him. And if Ralph did not tell him, Debenham would easily find out the information, elsewhere. With a sigh, he supplied an answer that would best serve Lissa's interests.

Lissa was staring from the window in the nursery when, to her astonishment, she saw Lord Debenham's carriage pull up at the front door and His Lordship, himself, march up the stairs.

She thought her legs were going to buckle beneath her. "I must...get something for the girls," she said lamely to the nursery maid. "I'll be gone but a minute."

Quietly she crept down the back stairs. If Lord Debenham were after her, she'd be called into the drawing room. Was it about the sketch? Sir Archibald Ledger's willingness to pay her such a huge sum should have alerted her to the fact there was more to it than a skillful drawing.

In just a couple of minutes, she heard his loud voice booming through the drawing room door as she was hurrying down the passage, past that room, hoping to make it into the garden. Lissa couldn't help herself. It wasn't eavesdropping. It was self-preservation. Tiptoeing to the door, she put her ear to the keyhole.

Mr. Cosmo Lamont, the famed sketcher, had apparently drawn Lord Debenham without his permission. His Lordship hadn't seen the sketch but he'd heard that he'd been placed in company with two villains. A false rendition. He'd learned the news, of all places, in a tavern en route to the country and had returned immediately to London.

Clearly, Miss Maria Lamont was a party to this villainy, enticing His Lordship into the library at a specified time during last week's ball, no doubt to blackmail him over the sketch before her courage had failed her. Were the two working together? Upstarts! Social climbers! To whom had Mr. Lamont sold the sketch? If Mr. Lamont didn't divulge this information, Lord Debenham was going to call upon the full force of the law.

Quaking as she listened to this thunderous diatribe, Lissa wondered if she would hear Cosmo admitting that he couldn't sketch a right ear, much less render a human being recognizable. The thought that she might be exposed and have to suffer the wrath of her darling Ralph's employer was too terrifying.

The arrival in the passage of Mrs. Lamont saw Lissa scurrying back to the schoolroom before she could hear the end of the diatribe, but shortly after Lord Debenham stormed out of the house, Cosmo's boots sounded upon the stairs.

"What have you told others about our secret arrangement?" he demanded, throwing open the nursery door. As Clara had just led his sisters downstairs, Lissa was alone. "Were the terms not crystal clear?" In a rage, he paced back and forth, nearly tripping over a small chair and kicking a rag doll into the corner. "We agreed I would get the commissions and, in return, you would deport yourself in society like the lady you've always wanted to be. How much simpler could it be? Clearly, you have gone above and beyond yourself!"

Lissa bridled at the way he sneered this. With an effort to control her anger, she reminded him, "And I would get a third, which, I might add, has not been forthcoming to date, Master Cosmo. Not all of it, by a long stretch. And no, I've said nothing to anyone."

Perhaps it wasn't wise to challenge him so directly. The room was gloomy and isolated and Cosmo could be unpredictable.

He took a menacing step forward, his brow rumpled like an angry bulldog. Lissa glanced nervously at the way he flexed his fingers, as if he really did wish to place them on her person and do her harm.

"So you have taken your revenge, is that it, Miss Hazlett? You think I am not a man of my word?" His nostrils twitched and the whites of his teeth were revealed by the curl of his lip. "You were so impatient for your money that you told lies so that Lord Debenham would threaten me, and you assumed I'd be so terrified I'd hand over the money you believe you're owed."

"I've told Lord Debenham _nothing_ , nor have I told anyone else about our arrangement," Lissa reassured him, assessing her escape route. Cosmo was right when he accused her of not trusting him. "I do not know why he thinks he's been drawn without his knowledge. No one has commissioned a picture of him."

She clapped her hand to her mouth to stop mentioning the sketch in which he'd appeared with Lord Smythe and Buzby for this was clearly what had angered him. No, whatever happened, she could tell neither Lord Debenham nor Cosmo that this sketch had earned her five pounds after it had attracted such interest from Sir Archie Ledger.

Lissa angled herself toward the doorway but Master Cosmo pinched her shoulder and drew her roughly toward him.

"You are a liar, Miss Hazlett, but if you don't want to find yourself walking the pavements without a character, you are going to do something for me."

Araminta's nausea was as regular as clockwork. She'd feel ill mid-afternoon but as soon as she'd thrown up the contents of her stomach half an hour later, she'd be absolutely fine. Her breasts felt tender and she was more tired than usual, but neither had too much of an effect on her general mood which, right now, was ebullient.

She was going to be Lady Ludbridge, mistress of three estates and the cosseted wife of a sweet, handsome, very manageable viscount. She hoped the child she bore would be a girl. It would be only fair to Teddy, to present her new husband with a daughter rather than the desired heir, but regardless, her future was assured.

She had never been so happy.

Jane was busy brushing the hem of her walking dress, which she'd just taken off, in preparation for the gown she'd wear tonight.

Ah yes, the gown that had to be just perfect for her assignation with Teddy. Her grand seduction. The bodice could not be too tight, so that he might be enticed to slip his hand inside. She was glad skirts were fuller this year. That would aid the plans she had made.

"Stop doing that, Jane, and help me with my dress," she said once she'd dabbed at her face with a cold flannel. "And don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

Increasingly, Araminta found Jane's feigned innocence and her tight-lipped attitude beyond irritating. Much as she would love to get rid of the girl, she needed her. In fact, she'd need her until her wedding, when Araminta would find some means of passing her on. It was never wise to have a person who knew too much cluttering up the place.

"Like you disapprove of me. Yes, I know what you're thinking but you'd not do anything differently if you were in my position."

Araminta thought she heard the girl mutter something along the lines that she wouldn't have got herself in Araminta's position, but she pretended she didn't hear. She was in too good a mood to let Jane spoil her wonderful contemplations about the future. Jane was just jealous.

"What do you think about these earrings?" Araminta sat down at her dressing table and tried on a pair of tiny pearl drop earrings.

"Very nice, miss."

"They don't bring out the emerald light in my eyes as well as these others but they are more demure. I think that is the look I should strive for."

"Yes, miss."

"For goodness' sake, will you stop being so wretchedly censorious, Jane!"

Araminta swung round on her seat and glared at her maid, who had just dropped the hairbrush and was rising.

"Sorry, Miss." Jane blanched visibly at her mistress's fury, which made Araminta feel far more charitable toward her. "I bin meaning to ask. Did the young lady like Miss Hetty's green dress?"

Araminta frowned, irritated at the memory of that night, which hadn't at all gone to plan. Teddy should have witnessed Lissa secretly closeted in the library with the dangerous Lord Debenham, but her stupid half-sister had for some unknown reason lent the gown to her employer's social-climbing daughter.

"She didn't wear it, after all. Now will you stop asking how other people enjoyed things and start worrying about whether I'm likely to enjoy tonight with a maid as inept as you dropping everything and being impertinent. Time is galloping and you haven't started on my hair!"

Excitement at her tryst was gaining hold. In truth, it was difficult to imagine anything else but the magical feeling of being in the arms of a man who truly adored her, a man who would lavish upon her beautiful clothes, her own carriage, three houses full of servants.

What's more, a man whose naked body she'd thoroughly enjoy curling against as wicked, wanton happenings took place beneath fine linen sheets—though tonight the only thing missing would be the linen sheets.

For some reason she was suddenly visited by an image of Sir Aubrey's enormous pulsing member, but she quickly banished it. That had not been an encounter she should dwell on for her own peace of mind, though it had provided some useful information on what men's bodies did when they were in the throes of desire. She'd not known about that before.

Well, she'd had sensations when pressed against eager young men, including Jem, but had never seen anything quite so blatant as Sir Aubrey's impressive erection. She hoped Lord Ludbridge were similarly well-endowed.

Jane hadn't responded to her setdown but now she finished doing up the last pearl button at the back of Araminta's gown and stood back to assess her handiwork.

"You look lovely, miss. And I can hear the carriage coming round the front for you. What time will you be back this evening, Miss?"

"Good heavens, how do I know what time I'll be?" Araminta flew to the window, her heart beating wildly as she saw the carriage that had just collected Mrs. Monks, her chaperone for the night.

What a pity Papa wasn't in residence otherwise Teddy could have asked him for Araminta's hand directly, this evening. Instead, he'd be asking Araminta in the summer house at Lord Billingsly's estate, where they were going to be watching fireworks being set off from a barge moored in the middle of the river. There would also be an outdoor buffet and other refreshments laid out in festooned tents, and entertainments and champagne. Lots of it.

Shivers of excitement ran through her as she thought of what would happen next. Earlier, Araminta had sent Jane off on the pretext of selling a basket of fish to Lord Billingsly's cook. Afterwards, Jane had navigated His Lordship's estate, so Araminta knew the exact locations of the most suitable trysting spots. She now knew where she had to lead Teddy, and at what time.

"Mrs. Monks is waiting for you in the vestibule," Cousin Stephen told her. "Enjoy the fireworks. And Araminta...?"

She stopped her preening in front of the mirror above the fireplace in the drawing room to glance at him. "What?"

"Do behave yourself."

"Good heavens, Cousin Stephen, I think it would have been more charitable of you to have suggested I enjoy myself." She took his arm as he led her outside to the carriage and breathed in the balmy evening air with rapture. "And I _am_ going to enjoy myself. You may depend upon it."

It was a perfect evening for such an entertainment. An evening full of promise.

Araminta wrapped her embroidered mantle about her. The tiny beads sparkled, reflecting the stars twinkling in the sky and the hope in Araminta's heart.

She smiled and, turning, caught Teddy's lovelorn look. Oh, but tonight was the beginning of a lifetime of fulfilled hopes and dreams. She had the perfect man by her side: besotted and rich.

Mrs. Monks was ever the millstone, but she knew that this was the night Araminta would get her proposal. Mrs. Monks would allow more than the usual latitude and it was useful that she knew enough of the other gossipy old matrons to be entertained.

"Shall we walk a little?" Teddy enquired. They were now on the banks of the river, surrounded by milling guests, festooned tents offering all manner of refreshments, jugglers, dancing bears and musicians. When he saw her glance about her, he added quickly, "I certainly don't wish to be accused of taking liberties. Perhaps you would rather remain with the crowd."

She could tell how impatient he was to whisk her away, alone, but perhaps a little mingling might be in order. It was always a good idea to whip up a gentleman's desire to the maximum.

"A glass of champagne would be lovely," she suggested.

A table near the water's edge was tended by several bewigged footmen. They were filling champagne coupes borne by a dozen or more of their kind, scurrying along the path that skirted the river. Knots of revelers were laughing or gazing at the sky, watching the preparations that were taking place on the barge a hundred yards away.

Araminta graciously accepted the champagne Teddy offered her and, together with Mrs. Monks, they entered a tent festooned with multicolored chiffon scarves and lanterns hung about on poles. A pair of acrobats was performing in the center of the area. One leapt from the shoulders of his partner, somersaulting in the air before landing in a well-choreographed tumble before swapping positions.

Araminta stared, entranced by their gleaming, muscled torsos. She liked what a real man looked like beneath his linen. She overheard Mrs. Monks mutter something about the unseemliness of such a spectacle and Teddy tugged her arm, as if he felt that she should not be exposed to such rampant masculinity. With a backward look, she reluctantly followed.

"Oh dear! Why...Miss Partington!"

Appearing out of the darkness, a gentleman had inadvertently knocked her arm, causing her to spill her champagne over the front of her pelisse. When she saw it was Mr. Woking, she had to try hard to keep the acid out of her tone, if only for Lord Ludbridge's sake.

But when she saw that her beloved's attention had been caught by their hostess, Araminta sent Mr. Woking a narrow look as she pointedly dabbed at the moisture.

His dark eyes were nervous in his pallid face. "How will you forgive me?" Nervously he ran his hand over his weak, receding chin. "My deepest apologies, Miss Partingon!"

"Oh, do stop it, Mr. Woking. You were very clumsy but there's an end to it and now I must move on. Why don't you go and talk to Miss Harcourt over there? I cannot but notice the interested looks she is sending you."

She quickly got rid of him as she cleaved to Lord Ludbridge's side, encouraging him to take another coupe of champagne, which, she noted, he drank rather quickly.

"The fireworks begin in an hour," he murmured, putting his head close, his breath tickling her hair. "I'm told the best view will be from the top of that rise over there." He pointed in a direction quite distant from the spot at which Araminta intended to enjoy the fireworks.

"How lovely," she replied. "Shall we walk now? I'd like to see the lights on the bridge. I've never done that before."

"Certainly. Where is Mrs. Monks?"

"Perhaps we needn't take Mrs. Monks."

He looked a little scandalized at this, hesitating as he said, "Our departure will be observed, and I would hate to cause whispers, Miss Partington."

"I...I thought you had something important to say to me, Lord Ludbridge," she said a little breathlessly. "Should Mrs. Monks hear it too?"

"Indeed not, but I had in retrospect wondered if tonight was quite the right time."

No! He could not bow out now. Taking a measured breath, Araminta smiled tentatively. "Of course you're right, my lord. We can't have tongues wagging. I'll go and ask Mrs. Monks, who is talking to the dowager Duchess Dalrymple."

She hurried over to the elderly women, and soon had Mrs. Monks alone. "Lord Ludbridge wishes to take a walk. Please will you accompany us?" She paused, weighing up how to couch her request. "He wishes to ask me something...important, but I doubt he will do so with you in attendance. I will therefore give you a sign. When I remark that the sky is full of stars tonight, I would have you say you are not feeling at all the thing and that you wish to leave; that you are confident in leaving me safely in His Lordship's company for just a short time."

With this agreed to, Araminta bore her reliable chaperone back to the cluster of guests of which Lord Ludbridge was a part. He greeted Araminta with a smile, a flourishing bow and his arm, which she took with shaking fingers.

Soon. Soon she would be the happiest girl in the world.

Lord Ludbridge took up a lantern and leisurely they strolled along the path that rose gently above the river toward a high vantage point, Araminta chatting as if she had no idea of the momentous question she intended he would ask. When they reached a fork in the path, one option rising to a distant spot just out of sight, the other in full view of all the revelers by the river's edge, Araminta stopped and gazed upward. "Oh my, but the sky is full of stars tonight," she murmured.

Like a well-trained pug, Mrs. Monks quickly fulfilled her part in the arrangement and within a few moments, Araminta was alone with His Lordship. Pretending she did not notice his concerned look, she pointed up the hill, tugging his hand as she said, "Oh, do let's see if we can see the fireworks from there."

In less than a minute they were at the top of the rise, where they discovered, nestled in a dip but with magnificent views of the river, a small rotunda.

"It's like a tiny fairy castle!" Araminta exclaimed. "How utterly darling. Come, Lord Ludbridge! Come and let's see inside!"

He was reluctant to go so far from the crowds but Araminta had already darted ahead.

Thrusting open the door, she gasped. "How beautiful." Reverently she touched the silk cushions arranged on the banquette and around the walls. "What do you suppose this little bower is used for? I can imagine someone coming here to write great compositions. I know Lady Marks is very fond of music. Perhaps she comes here."

Mullioned windows overlooked the river and a large bowl of fruit was set on a table in the center of the room.

Lord Ludbridge hung his lantern on a hook by the doorway as he gazed around. He too seemed equally entranced by Araminta's discovery. When next he looked down, Araminta was standing so close, staring through the windows, that he bumped against her and, startled, she gasped.

"I was lost in another world," she declared. "I feel like I've entered some magical fairy palace. Look, the fireworks have just begun, and we can see them from here."

As she spoke, a cascade of colored embers burst in the sky, sending trails in all directions, which floated like sparling gossamer until they disappeared into the river. Araminta clapped her hands in delight and, seemingly unconsciously, rested against Lord Ludbridge's side.

She felt his hand caress the side of her face, and looked up to see him smiling tentatively.

"My Lord?"

Then his mouth was on hers, drawing her into a kiss of exquisite rapture that threatened to send her into that other world of bliss, while another burst of fireworks dazzled the sky.

The multicolored effect was so spectacular they broke the kiss at the same time. Lord Ludbridge turned and gazed at Araminta as if lost in the wonder of the moment.

"Yes, My Lord?' she murmured, though he'd not spoken.

He seemed mesmerized, cupping her face as he whispered, "Miss Partington, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

A deep satisfaction reverberated to the depths of her very soul.

At last. Her moment had come.

Lord Ludbridge had gone down on one knee and was now gazing up at her as if hanging on her answer. Tears pricked her eyes and she did not stem their flow when they brimmed over. Reverently she bent to touch her lips to his forehead. Her joy was almost overwhelming. "Darling Teddy, I can think of nothing I want more in this world," she murmured, her heart thundering. She cupped his face and gently drew him to his feet and into another kiss, a prelude to a more passionate coupling.

No, it would not end with a simple proposal. And what joy that she could throw herself with such genuine rapture into what lay ahead. Her desire was gaining hold as he deepened the kiss. She'd never wanted a man like this before and she couldn't wait. To her chagrin, despite his ardor, he was showing magnificent restraint. She shifted a little in his arms, turning slightly and standing on tiptoe, so he would be unable to resist the temptation of her breasts swelling above her bodice when he felt her so exposed.

Lord Ludbridge kissed her like a drowning man but it was beyond irritating that he did not avail himself of the opportunity she was affording him.

"Darling Teddy, I've wanted this from the moment I first met you," she murmured against his lips. With a judicious shifting of her person, she managed to orchestrate his hands coming into contact with her flesh, wriggling then giving a little hop and a jerk so that his fingers were beneath the fabric.

"Oh, Teddy!" she gasped as she put her hand upon his, guiding it over her bare breast, beneath her bodice, while tendrils of want spiraled through her. Her nipples were crying out for attention but he reacted as if in shock as he withdrew his hand. Clearly, he intended going no farther, though he continued to rain kisses upon her face and throat.

At last, Araminta managed to draw him away from the center of the room to the banquette, and to slide down upon it so that he was half on top of her, kissing her all the while.

Her womb was on fire. She wanted him. Needed him. Oh, dear God, she needed him now. Jane had told her that she would have to secure a marriage proposal, followed up with a joyful coupling by the end of this week, if there was any chance that the child she was carrying could be passed off as another's. Even then, there would be questions if the child were large and went full term, Jane had warned her. However, Araminta chose to forget this bit.

"My lovely girl, my sweet Araminta," His Lordship murmured against her mouth, as Araminta now guided his hand to her thigh. She'd rucked her skirt high and wore no impeding pantalettes. No, there was a clear path to where he surely wanted to go, now that the marriage proposal was out of the way. To where she _needed_ him to go.

She felt the bulge of his erection against her stomach and the evidence of his arousal only deepened hers. She was conscious of the wetness between the juncture of her legs and she could barely wait for what would come next.

To her dismay, Lord Ludbridge suddenly broke the kiss and sat up, causing her to fall a little clumsily against the wall and seat.

"Miss Partington. Araminta," he said, breathlessly, as he helped her assume a more demure position beside him. "We are not married yet. We cannot do this."

"But we _will_ be married. Soon, my lord." She didn't want to sound as desperate as she was. "You...you are not taking liberties. I want this as much as you do. I...I have never been kissed by a man before. It's as if you've set me on fire." She slid onto his lap and twined her arms about his neck once more, murmuring against his cheek, "Please kiss me again, Lord Ludbridge. Teddy." She drew her head back and smiled coyly. "Now that we're about to be married."

Tenderly he looked down into her face. "Yes, but we may not be married for a couple of months."

She thought she'd misheard him but when she studied his face she saw his regret. A deafening roar sounded in her head as she repeated, uncertainly, "A couple of months?"

He nodded. "You see, dear heart, there is something very important I must do first." He took her hands and began to explain, speaking gently, smiling, as if it were only natural she would understand the reason for the delay.

Araminta stared while the silent screams of protest grew more deafening. He seemed not to notice for he went on in the same measured tone, "I had a dear friend once, a long time ago. Five years ago, in fact. Mother mentioned her to you—"

"You are in love with another?" Shocked, she pulled away but he captured her in his arms with a gentle, reassuring laugh, and rested his cheek against hers. "I was, but not anymore, for I love you only, dearest. However, listen to me, and then you'll understand."

Araminta was quite convinced that even if he were about to rescue his baby sister from Bluebeard himself, she'd not understand. She had no choice, however, but to hear him out.

"It's been five years since my old friend, Bella, disappeared, and since then, I've felt I've existed in a desert. I truly believed I would never again experience feeling in this old heart of mine." Lord Ludbridge touched his chest. She could hear the smile in his voice, which did nothing to soften her own heart. "Then you came into my life. With your beauty and spirit and passion, I realized I could love again, at last."

"But you are going away to be...with this old love? Teddy, I don't understand it!" She tried not to cry.

"Not to be with her, but to save her. You see, I made a vow to protect her, and although I no longer love her, I owe her this. Only two nights ago, I received an unexpected message after all these years. Her situation is not at all as I'd come to believe. It is very terrible in fact, but I have the means to extricate her from her dreadful life. And so that is what I must do. Ah, Araminta, please do not cry."

"But you cannot leave me. You cannot ask me to be your wife and then leave me for two months!"

Tenderly he kissed away her tears. "My precious love, I have to live with my conscience, and though my heart is here with you, I am honor-bound to make this journey."

"Journey? Where?"

"Across the Aegean. I know it all sounds unbelievable and wild but the truth is, I've discovered my old friend is being held a prisoner and about to be forced into marriage against her will. Only now has she finally got a message out that reached me. She needs my help."

"But can't someone else help her?"

Lord Ludbridge looked censorious for a split-second, before his expression softened. "I know this is difficult for you to understand, especially in the wake of my marriage offer. But Bella is my childhood friend. I am the one person she is able to trust. Please allow me the time I need to salvage my conscience. After that, you will be my entire focus in life. When I return, we will make arrangements for our wedding to take place in just the three weeks required for calling the banns, though you are at liberty to announce to whomever you choose that I have vowed to wed you on my return. I will write to you every day. I promise."

Araminta couldn't believe it.

He rose, though she'd snaked her hand up his arm to try to elicit another bout of passion. It seemed, though, that he had made up his mind to put aside all possibility of carnal delights.

Her brain was in a desperate whirl. She had to make him change his mind. At least before he left. "When are you going?"

"I leave on the dawn crossing tomorrow."

"So soon!"

"The sooner I leave, the sooner I'll be back." He smiled as if this would please her, drawing her toward the door, toward the destruction of her dreams, her best-laid plans. "Bella is in terrible trouble. I may not in fact be in time to avert the disaster that threatens to destroy her life. I know this sounds very dramatic, but please be assured that all my loyalties lie with you, Araminta...my only true love."

At the door, he drew her up against him, and rested her head against his chest. "I have to behave as honor dictates." Softly, he stroked her hair. "I have found you. It seems incredible to me, but you have saved me. Now we can look forward to a long and wonderful life together. You have made me the happiest man, and I thank you for that." His voice was thick with emotion. "But first I must do what is right. This other long-distant part of my life will not interfere with our happiness but the only way I can live with my conscience is if I set to rights what I have been asked to do. And what it is in my power to do."

"So you leave...in the morning?"

"Yes. But my love, I have sent a letter to your father, requesting that I might visit him upon my return. I've also brought my journey forward by several days in order to reduce the time I will be away. I felt that was preferable."

"Oh no, I'd have rather have had another couple of days together. I...can't bear it, Teddy. I'll die without you!"

He chuckled and hugged her closer against him, shaking his head at her attempts to claw him into another passionate kiss. "Too dangerous, my precious," he whispered. "And we have been away long enough. Come, let us return to the merry throng, where we can announce our news."

"Perhaps my father should give his consent first." She felt dead inside, her words wooden, yet her brain was in a whirl as to how she could manage this death knell to her hopes and dreams. So he would leave in the morning? She couldn't let him just go like this without...

He took her hand and drew her outside. "Of course, you are right. My goodness, look at those fireworks. I shall always remember this as the happiest night of my life. The night you consented to be my wife."

Araminta nodded, tears threatening at the back of her eyes, her throat nearly closed up with the bitter taste of impending doom.

As a shower of sparks lit up the sky, she felt as if she too were about to burst into a million tiny fragments.

# Chapter 18

Once again, Lissa rattled the doorknob of her attic bedchamber and called for help. Through the grubby glass, she could see the attic rooms of many of the four-square houses about her but no frightened faces pressed to any of them. No faces at all.

The servants could hear her, she was certain. The attic was only one floor up from the nursery and two floors up from the family's bedchambers. Perhaps the children had been removed so they'd not remark upon her surely audible cries. Perhaps the servants had been cautioned not to make contact.

Perhaps she'd be imprisoned here forever.

She heard the clock chime 9 p.m. Then ten.

Cosmo had left her three hours since, triumphantly bearing the sketch she'd tried to hide from him. A lie. An evil lie and if only she could get a message to Ralph, those in high places would know it too. Cosmo had laughed when he'd come upon her portfolio of work, a sketchbook filled with likenesses of various personages.

"Oh my, just look at those feathers drooping down to tickle that turkey neck. It's Lady Smythe to a tee," he'd remarked, becoming conversational when he'd discovered this resource that gave him such an edge. "You never told me about these."

Lissa just sat hunched on a chair by the window. "They were for practice only," she muttered. "I never intended that anyone should see them."

"Indeed, you could hardly have induced Her Ladyship to pay for something that so cruelly exposed her dubious claims to beauty. Such clever caricatures, I will give you that." He'd continued to turn the pages, shaking his head and frowning as he'd assessed each sketch. It was only when he turned to the final page and beheld the sketch she'd done of Sir Aubrey in company with Lord Smythe that he nodded approvingly.

"You appear to have caught them in earnest conversation. Or perhaps in the midst of plotting the government's downfall, they look so serious." Without asking, he neatly tore the page from the sketchbook. "Thank you, Miss Hazlett. I think this will please Lord Debenham. At least it'll get me off the hook."

"And what about me?"

He looked pained at this. "I really don't know what to do about you, Miss Hazlett. Wicked governesses are not within my realms of experience or expertise. I think I shall have to ask Lord Debenham when I hand him this."

So here she was, alone and vulnerable. Seemingly friendless. Cosmo was taking the sketch of Sir Aubrey to Lord Debenham himself, and then what would happen? If Lord Smythe were indeed a traitor, perhaps his close ties to Sir Aubrey, as evidenced by her drawing, would be enough to convict them both in the court of public opinion, failing more substantive evidence. If only Araminta had not burned the letter that revealed the truth.

It was long since the dinner hour but no one had brought her refreshment, other than a jug of water, which had been left on a chest of drawers at the time of her incarceration.

She was desperately hungry, yet terrified when several taps sounded at the door.

"Miss Hazlett, I have a message for you." Without waiting for a response before she left, the maid passed her a plate with a single slice of pie, beside which was a folded note. Lissa recognized Cosmo's hand-writing. Her legs were shaking so much she had to sit down to read it.

"Change into travelling clothes. Lord Debenham will fetch you."

She swallowed but it did not help the dryness at the back of her throat. At the same time her palms felt clammy and the back of her neck prickled with fear.

So she was to be kidnapped and discredited. Or would she be disposed of in some more permanent manner? After all, if Lord Debenham thought she'd seen what was in the letter, who knew what he might do?

In an attempt to keep her terror at bay, she began to pace until finally she collapsed upon her bed, pulling the thin gray coverlet up around her shoulders. Travelling clothes? As if she had a wardrobe that encompassed a variety of changes. The drab cotton gown she wore would have to do service for whatever was in store.

Lissa had known deprivation. The small home in the village by the bridge, which she'd shared with her mother and sister and brother before she'd been sent away to become a governess, had not been commodious or luxurious. Yet it was where her father chose to spend most of his time, cocooned with her mother, the two of them living in a world of their own, which took little account of their growing brood of illegitimate children.

She'd never been close to her mother, or her father; home had not been a place of warmth, but, oh, how she longed to feel the warmth that only Ralph had ever made her feel.

She exhaled on a sob, then straightened at the sound of raindrops.

She hoped it poured, and that Master Cosmo and his sketch were drenched. He was a cruel, spoilt boy, and his sister was no better. Miss Maria had marched up the stairs, shrieking at her through the door that Lissa obviously planned to ruin Maria's chances of a good match. Of course, the girl's encounter with Lord Debenham had terrified her but if she hadn't purloined the green dress that was meant for Lissa she wouldn't have found herself in such a frightening situation. It was a sad reflection on Miss Maria's character that she insisted that evil machinations on Lissa's part were behind the unfortunate encounters both she and her brother had had with His Lordship.

The rain appeared to have subsided, though another smattering of raindrops sounded an odd note. Lissa stood up and peered through the window, but her view was limited to mostly rooftops. By standing on the bed, however, and looking down she could just manage to see onto the street.

After a minute or so she heard a single "ping" against the window. Picking up the candlestick that flickered on the chest of drawers, she held it to her face. Somebody, she suspected, was down in the street.

Her body quivered with hope and excitement.

That somebody might just be Ralph.

In a growing fever of hopeful anticipation, she waited.

She was expecting the sound of footsteps in the passage. After all, the only way to gain entry to her room was via an internal staircase. So it was to her horror, after a noisy flutter of wings and squawking drew her to the window, that she saw illuminated in the faint gaslight cast from a nearby attic window her ever-faithful and trusty Ralph Tunley climbing the drainpipe two stories down.

With a cry of fear, she banged on the window, shaking her head furiously as if that might do any good when he was already more up than down.

He raised his head and grinned at her horrified fury, kissing his fingertips and blowing his appreciation toward her. He was probably too far away for her to hear him but he clearly did not wish to make any noise, for he indicated his intended movements by pointing toward what she could only assume was a window he could enter. Her window was too tiny and besides, her room was locked.

But there were people in the house. Servants and the Lamont family themselves. Lissa quaked at the potential for discovery. The Lamonts had no mercy. They'd claim he was a burglar and throw him down the stairs. He might break his neck or end up in Newgate Prison. Lord Debenham was not likely to vouch for him.

No, Ralph had gone out on a limb in all senses of the word, and he'd done it for her. Lissa. No one had ever striven to such an extent on her behalf. No one had ever really taken much notice of her, ever, but it was not the fact Ralph was the only man who could melt her heart that made him so special. No, Ralph was truly a remarkable young man in his own right.

Her thoughts were still travelling along these lines when she heard the key turn slowly in the lock. Suddenly the door was thrust open and there stood Ralph, grinning as if he was presenting her with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers, rather than offering her freedom.

She flew into his arms and kissed him roundly on the lips, drew back to grin right at him, then kissed him again. All without a sound.

He looked remarkably pleased by the attention and then, without a word, he took her hand, put his finger to his lips, and quietly led her down the stairs.

Her hopes were confirmed that there was no one about on the nursery floor.

The next floor down, where the bedrooms were, ought to be empty too. It was this floor where Ralph had made his entry, for Lissa could feel the breeze from an open window. Now she realized that it was toward this very window Ralph was drawing her, and she froze with horror.

There was a tremendous drop to the pavement. How would she navigate the descent in her skirts? She tried to resist but he was insistent, albeit without making a sound.

"Trust me," he whispered in her ear when they drew closer. "I have secured a rope. Just hold on to me and let me do the work. We can't go down the stairs. There is no way we'll not be seen."

As the window was already half open, there wasn't the fear of it making a sound. The rope was securely tied from the bannister a few feet into the room, and further secured to the window handles themselves, but the drop looked outrageously high. Her breath started to come in rasping gasps until Ralph turned and, in the dark, held her close against him. For several seconds they simply stood, taking in the warmth and comfort of each other, holding hands, eyes closed.

"Trust me, Lissa. If one of us falls, we both fall. But it is the only way out of a perilous situation. You must believe me."

She nodded, sick with fear. "Before I go out of the window, will you kiss me properly, Ralph? Just in case I break my head on the cobblestones and never get another chance again."

He didn't answer, just tipped her face upward and brought his mouth gently down upon hers, kissing her sweetly at first, and then thoroughly, and, finally, with resounding passion.

They were both trembling when they drew apart and Ralph whispered, almost matter-of-factly, "Take your skirts in one hand as I help you onto the window ledge and keep steady until I join you there. Then put your arms around my waist, hold as tightly as you can...and just trust me."

"Is everything all right, Miss? Were the fireworks grand? You're back earlier than I'd 'spected." Jane, who was polishing the silver bottles on her mistress's dressing table, looked up nervously as Araminta entered the room.

Without a word, Araminta brought one arm across the entire surface and sent powder bottles, perfume vials, hairbrushes and jewelry boxes crashing to the floor.

Then she threw herself onto her bed and burst into noisy tears.

"Oh, Miss, I take it things didn't go to plan," said Jane, going down on her knees to start to clean up the mess before changing her mind and putting a tentatively soothing hand upon Araminta's back.

"No, they did not!" Araminta shrieked, beating her fists upon the counterpane.

"So, His Lordship didn't ask you to marry him, then?"

"Yes he did!" Araminta rolled onto her back and glared at Jane. "He asked me to marry him and then said he had to go away on important business for two months! Two _months_! Where does that leave me? In an impossible situation, I don't need to tell you. I might as well throw myself in the river, except the water's far too cold and I'm hardly about to copy bacon-brained Edgar. There must be another way."

"Poison?"

"I mean to get _out of this mess_ , you stupid girl!" Araminta screamed. Feverishly, she began to bite her fingernails before realizing the damage she was doing to an important asset. "Oh, Jane, don't look like you're related to a mule. Come up with a plan, for dear Lord's sake!"

Jane took a seat by the bed. "Well, Miss, you could always go and see him and suggest you marry earlier or that you elope. I know it's not respectable—"

Aramaminta was ready to clutch at anything right now. "Well, Hetty eloped it, didn't she? And no one seems to be condemning her for her deplorable behavior." She sat up, thinking. "So you think I should go now, do you?"

"Now?" Jane frowned. "No, of course not now. It's the middle of the night. But...later on."

"What do you mean, later on? He's leaving in a ship for some distant land at dawn. So, of course I must go and talk sense into him tonight. Excellent plan. Quick, Jane, we must waste no time! I don't know why I didn't entreat him more artfully than I did. I was simply too shocked and horrified by what he was telling me."

"But, Miss, how can we simply go out on the streets in the middle of the night?"

"We put on long dark cloaks and cover our hair and faces and we slip out of the door. Have you no imagination, Jane? No common sense? Now, where's that lovely crimson-lined black cloak of mine? Or should I wear the ermine-edged? Yes, that will do, in case he suggests we elope this very minute."

"And what would I do then, Miss?"

"Go with me, of course. I can't possibly elope without a maid."

"But I can't leave Jem without telling 'im."

"You'd have to, because I'd need you. Now stop this nonsense, Jane, and do as I say. Yes, that's the one. And I'll take some of my jewelry. One never knows when one might need pin money, but oh, Jane, he's even richer than I'd thought. Why, that down-at-heel baby brother of his, the secretary to dreadful, awful Lord Debenham, made me think Lord Ludbridge was one of these titled chaps with not a feather to fly with. But you know, his mother was dressed in the first stare, not last season at all. And I'd do anything to have a ruby necklace like the one she was wearing."

"You certainly would, Miss."

"Now, stop dithering, Jane. Are you ready?"

Ensconced in a hackney cab outside Lord Ludbridge's townhouse, Araminta was feeling immeasurably reassured by the success of her new plan as Jane made her way down the stairs to the servants' entrance to knock upon the kitchen door. Jane would glean the necessary information, Araminta's desperate note to Lord Ludbridge would be passed on and all would be well.

The moon was high in the sky and Araminta thought again of the burst of fireworks that had first thrilled her, just hours ago, before her world had come crashing down. Soon she'd be experiencing fireworks again, but of a different kind. Fireworks that would culminate in success, not disappointment.

She shifted impatiently on the uncomfortable leather seat.

Araminta's last clandestine encounter in a hired hackney cab with Lord Debenham had had her weighing up her options between him and Sir Aubrey as she'd suggested His Lordship might like to make it worth her while to give him the letter. But now, only Lord Ludbridge would do.

Lord Ludbridge was wonderful and kind...and he was manageable and rich enough. Araminta thought she'd acquired a great deal of wisdom in just a few short months to be happy making such compromises. Her mother would have been proud of her.

She put her face to the window. Where was Jane? Probably gossiping with the scullery maid, and completely forgetting that her mistress's life and happiness were hanging by a veritable thread.

A few minutes later, she heard the quick tapping of Jane's shoes upon the cobbles and then Jane hauled herself into the dark space opposite her.

"Well?" Araminta demanded. "Shall I go to him now? Or in the morning? You took so long, I can only imagine you were waiting for an answer to my letter."

"Oh miss, your letter ain't going to get to His Lordship in time."

"What do you mean, in time?"

"I mean His Lordship left more 'n an hour ago on horseback. He took his valet with him and together they rode through the moonlight to catch the boat to Dover.

"Then we must follow them!"

"It's impossible, miss. They're on horseback. They'll cover three times as much ground as we would in the same time. Besides, we'd need to hire a chaise and I don't know how we'd do that. No, it simply can't be done." Jane's voice trembled. "I'm afraid, miss, there's nothing for it. You'll have to make another plan."

She rapped on the roof for the jarvey to pick up his reins and get moving, partly so the occupants of Lord Ludbridge's London townhouse would not hear her mistress's hearty wails, which did not subside for a full five minutes.

They were three blocks from home when Araminta finally raised her head, wiped her cheeks and, with a gasp, pressed her nose once more to the window.

"I say, Jane, stop the carriage this instant! Is that Mr. Woking I see walking along the pavement?"

# Chapter 19

Jane had been highly reluctant to let Araminta step out of the carriage and into the street, alone, in the middle of the night while she continued around the corner.

Indeed, for Araminta, the idea of stepping out onto a deserted street without company would have been unthinkable a few hours ago. No, a few moments ago, even. Jane had wailed that Araminta was grasping at straws. Right now, Araminta was grasping for anything or anyone, and Mr. Woking might just answer.

"Please, sir! A terrible accident has happened!" she cried, appearing in front of him with her face lowered, her hood covering her head. "The carriage conveying me and my chaperone has bolted. Please help me!"

"Good god, madam! And you are alone?"

Araminta huddled into herself and gave a little sob. "Entirely sir! I don't know what to do." She paused, raised her face as she let her hood fall from her head, and uttered in shocked tones, "Mr. Woking!"

"Miss Partington!" he cried at the same time, before looking desperately around. "You really have no chaperone?" he asked, sounding even more aghast.

"Yes, and I've hurt my foot. Please help me." She put out both her hands in a gesture of the utmost entreaty and limped several steps, before losing her balance and falling into his arms.

He held her while he looked around again, wildly. There was no carriage in sight, no sign of anyone. "I...I don't know what to do," he said lamely. "My residence is right here but I can hardly take you there, Miss Partington."

"Yes, you can. It is this one? I need to sit down and see if my ankle is injured. Just for a moment. Can you not do this one thing for me?" She tried to keep the acid from her tone as she gazed soulfully into his face while maintaining her firm grip on his wrist.

Yet still he glanced about him, furtively, as if he were terrified and about to refuse. Araminta began walking him toward the portico steps. If he needed her to lead him on to do anything that required some backbone, she'd have an easy time with him in the future, she thought, grasping for consolation at what she was being forced to do.

When the butler opened the door with a mild grunt of surprise, Araminta kept her head well down and covered by her cloak while Mr. Woking nervously explained that he was rendering a friend assistance; that medicinal brandy was required, and perhaps a doctor, but that Doderidge could retire for the night.

A couple of lamps burned low in the drawing room where he led her, easing Araminta onto a sofa before fetching them both a glass of brandy. The room was furnished in sparse, masculine style, not to Araminta's taste, but the brandy was another matter, and after two in quick succession she felt much more up to the task ahead of her.

"Is there bruising or swelling around my ankle, Mr. Woking?" she asked in a small, timid voice, extending her leg. "It is painful but not so very that I think it necessary to call a doctor." She took a shuddering breath. "I don't know what has become of my chaperone but I thank the good Lord I was lucky enough to be rescued by you."

He hovered uncertainly in the center of the room, his wits clearly addled, for he did not blush at her praise as he might have done otherwise. Indeed, he seemed positively doltish as he continued to shy away from the tremendous opportunities she was clearly offering him. "You want me to look at your ankle?"

"That's right." She smiled her most disingenuous smile as she raised her skirt to just above her slipper. "I don't know why, but there was something comforting about seeing it was you, Mr. Woking. I mean, because we know one another so well. It made me feel...safe. Yes, put your hand around it and see if you feel any bones sticking out. I'd hate anything to snap if I put pressure on it when I try to stand."

Obediently Mr. Woking went onto his haunches and gently grasped Araminta's ankle. He began to run his hands over the contours, almost reverently, and Araminta reached forward and put her hand gently on the top of his head. He looked up in surprise.

"I have never given you credit for being such a fine gentleman," she murmured.

His eyes widened and his stupid mouth dropped open. Gritting her teeth, Araminta forced a tender smile. "You were always so kind to Hetty, who then repaid us with such unexpected, scandalous behavior. She didn't deserve you but you are so worthy, Mr. Woking."

"Worthy? Of what, Miss Partington?" His eyes were even wider now as Araminta leaned closer. It seemed that unconsciously his hands had strayed a little higher toward her knee. Araminta tried to keep from shuddering; tried to keep from her mind the rapture of just hours before, which she could never relive. Her life was in ruins, or it would be unless she could find a father for her child.

"Of love, Mr. Woking," she murmured, closing the gap between their faces and touching her lips to his wet, flaccid mouth.

He might be a ninny but it seemed he came alive to all possibilities at such a touch. With a low groan, Mr. Woking's arms wrapped around Araminta's shoulders and before she knew it, he'd joined her on the sofa.

Dear God, it was a nightmare, the feel of his slimy tongue plunging into her mouth, but she had to keep up the charade. Somehow it felt less personal if she could get him to concentrate on doing what she needed him to do, away from her face.

He was still slightly in his cups, she realized. He'd been stumbling along the pavement though apparently very much aware of the dangers to her reputation during their initial encounter, but now it seemed such reservations were put to rest by her encouragement. The bodice whose cut she was so keen to ensure could comfortably fit Lord Ludbridge's hand was now tugged and mauled to accommodate Mr. Woking's eager, seeking, hairy hand, and her fuller skirts, smoothed and pressed with such care with thoughts of Lord Ludbridge's advances proving the prelude to a glorious marriage proposal, were now nearly ripped from the high bodice by Mr. Woking in his haste to do what Araminta needed but despised him for.

Still, with time running out for Araminta, the dreadful, unwelcome but necessary deed had to be done. So she suffered his mouth on hers, his seeking clammy hands mauling her breasts, her thighs.

Wordlessly, she helped him with the buttons that secured the front fall of his breeches so that his member sprang forth, joyfully. Araminta closed her eyes. What choice did she have when ruin was her only alternative?

With a little judicious help, she angled herself so that he had access to her cavern of delight with as few preliminaries as possible, gritting her teeth once again as he entered her. He grunted, and after a few quick thrusts, finished the act, rolling onto his back with a groan of pure pleasure.

Araminta tried not to cry as she lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. This was not how tonight was supposed to end. She swiveled her eyes to the right, expecting to be faced with Mr. Woking's limpid gaze, but his lids were closed and he was snoring softly.

She jabbed him sharply in the ribs and he opened his eyes, giving her a shocked look as if he'd not truly expected to see her beside him. Well, she wished it was all just a bad dream, too.

When his gaze travelled down the length of her dress, which was rucked up to her thighs, he appeared to gather his wits. Leaping up, he grasped Araminta's wrists and helped her to her feet.

"Miss Partington, what have I done? Dear Lord, what has just happened?" he cried in horrified tones, as if he'd not known what he was about before.

Araminta stepped into his embrace and rested her head against his chest as she looked up at him with an adoring smile.

"I've just agreed to be your wife, Mr. Woking. That's what just happened."

Snuggled together in the carriage, Ralph held Lissa's hand and, between kisses, explained that he was taking her to someone who "mattered" in government, someone he believed could help them.

"He was formerly attaché to Rear Admiral Lord Worthington, an MP who was involved in the initial case that never really got up against Sir Aubrey in which he was accused of Spencean sympathies," Ralph told her. "I've made extensive, _discreet_ enquiries regarding the best person to deal with in this matter and was referred to Sir William Keane. He wants to learn everything he can about Lord Debenham, whom he suspects of being the real villain—not Sir Aubrey, as I think we both know—in the plot to assassinate Lord Castlereagh and bring down the government. So my dear, are you up to this?"

Lissa felt dazed, both with love for the darling, enterprising man beside her, and at the sudden turn of events. "I think that after climbing two stories down a rope in the middle of the night, I'm up for anything," she said, pretending mild indignation.

"That's my girl. Don't mind my question. Lip service, that's all it was." He grinned and gave her a playful dig in the ribs. "Of course I knew you were up to it. Now, aren't you going to tell me how clever I was to rescue you and to source someone who could help us?"

"Are you in danger, too, Ralph?" Lissa was suddenly worried. "Have _I_ put you in danger?"

"I'm in danger every moment I work for that blackguard," Ralph responded pleasantly. He patted her hand and Lissa rested her head upon his shoulder and felt as if her heart really would burst for joy.

"If Debenham were committed for at least one of his misdemeanors—one that is technically against the law—I could seek another position without fearing retribution. But beggars can't be choosers, and I felt it safer to remain within the viper's nest rather than risk the viper's bite by going elsewhere."

"Yes, I do see that. And to answer your other question, yes, I do think you were astonishingly clever in rescuing me, and, yes, I _am_ dying to know how you knew I was in danger."

His expression grew serious. "I knew you could be in danger after Debenham stormed in, furious that a sketch had been done without his knowledge. I fobbed him off with a false name but I knew it wouldn't be long before he tracked down Master Cosmo." He squeezed Lissa's hand. "The problem was, I was in Little Nipping, and unable to get home for a full day. Debenham had come on horseback. In fact, he'd only just arrived at his estate before he thundered back to London."

"Oh, Ralph, how awful! And you really were worried for me?" Now that she was safe, she couldn't help but want him to enlarge upon what he'd put himself through on her account.

"With Debenham on the warpath and Cosmo acting proxy as your... _protector_?" He shook his head, not smiling. "Lud, but I had the devil of a time getting back to London, myself. Little Nipping is not exactly on the beaten track. First it took me hours to arrange transport. And then all that was available was an ancient chaise which only got half way before an axle broke. It was dark when I arrived."

"And you came straight to the Lamonts'?"

"I did. That is, after having dispatched a missive to the gentleman we are about to see and with whom I'd already made brief contact." He tapped her nose, gently, with a smile. "Now, to save repetition, my love, no more questions, for all is about to be revealed."

Lissa lifted her hand to stroke Ralph's cheek. "You know, I've never met such a brave and clever man. And Ralph, you know I would believe anything you said. I don't think you could tell me a lie, even to spare me."

"Certainly not! He put his arms about her and hugged her close. "I think too highly of your intelligence to try and fob you off with sweeteners." He sighed, capturing her hand and gazing with intense earnestness into her eyes. "One day I will be in a position to support a wife, my darling girl. You really are quite astonishing, and despite all the honorable things I said about leaving you free to accept a well-appointed suitor, I do hope you'll be patient because I believe I shall be rising in the world soon. I have a feeling here." He tapped his breast. "That's another reason I had to kidnap you. Over my turtle soup the other night, I realized that I can be rather persuasive, despite my modest nature, and that you really might take me at my word and cast your net elsewhere."

Lissa twined her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek, her heart overflowing with affection. "After I met you, Ralph, I never for a moment entertained any ideas of finding anyone else."

With a heartrendingly grateful smile, Ralph kissed her back, and then the carriage jolted to a halt and Ralph jumped out first before helping her to the pavement. "We're here, dearest. Nothing to worry about, and yes, I'm sorry for the state of your dress, which I shall explain to Sir William, but as soon as I'm able I'll buy you a new one, and Mrs. Nipkins can fashion you up something in the meantime. Now, prepare to meet His Excellency Sir William Keane, British envoy to Constantinople, now briefly back on English soil. I believe he could just be the answer to everything."

Lissa wanted to ask how a diplomatist to a foreign court could be their answer to _anything_ but then her thoughts became occupied by the damage to her gown as they mounted the stairs. When she caught sight of her face in the reflection of a large silver epergne on a low table by the entrance to the withdrawing room in which they were told to wait, she turned to Ralph in panic.

"I look like a costermonger," she whispered. "My hair is all over the place. What can I say that will be of any interest to a man like Sir William?"

It soon transpired that Sir William was indeed very keen to engage Lissa in what she knew of certain matters, but for a moment, all Lissa could do was stare and veritably tremble with shock at her meeting with this tall, handsome, broad-shouldered gentleman with the firm jaw and piercing blue eyes.

She had to blink three times in order to dispel the image of him sporting very few clothes and a pair of very well-formed thighs, writhing on a red-upholstered banquette in the supper house at Vauxhall Gardens with Mrs. Crossing.

She was aware of Ralph gently squeezing her arm while he repeated what had obviously been Sir William's question to her.

Lissa jerked into awareness to hear her beloved add, "Poor Miss Hazlett is still dazed. Until a short while ago, she was being held against her will by the man who claims to be the sketcher of the remarkable likenesses that have so interested the ton. The sad state of her dress is on account of a rather hasty exit from her attic prison. We came straight here, as you requested."

Sir William, who Lissa judged to be in his mid thirties, nodded. Despite his aura of authority there was a kindness about him. A kindness lacking in Mr. Crossing, that was certain. He moved the Argand lamp closer so that the light shone on Lissa's face. "Will you tell me who asked you to render these likenesses?"

Lissa licked dry lips. Would he deal so kindly with her if he knew she had sketched him with Mrs. Crossing? She tried to put out of her mind the image of the pair that kept intruding. She'd never seen anything like it. But now he was smiling kindly at her, soliciting information in the quest for justice. She had to concentrate on the facts that were relevant.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "Some weeks ago my employer's son asked me to sketch a young lady, as his efforts had failed to capture her likeness. I did so, and then gave him the drawing to present to her so he could claim credit and win her regard. After that there were a number of commissions, which I sketched on his behalf, for which he claimed credit."

"A number? Who else commissioned a sketch, Miss Hazlett?"

"Lady Smythe commissioned a sketch of her husband."

He drew a notebook towards him and began to take notes. "Any other commissions?"

Lissa dropped her eyes then sent a panicked look at Ralph. But then, Ralph had no idea this was the man she'd sketched in company with Mrs. Crossing.

"Please, don't feel overawed by the situation, Miss Hazlett. You are not on trial here but it is my hope that your evidence will help put a dangerous gentleman in the dock. He is guilty of a litany of crimes and I hope that proof of his hitherto denied association with two dangerous radicals will help achieve the government's aim to ultimately keep our country safer than it might otherwise be."

"So you want me to tell you about my sketch of Lord Debenham? Of how it came to pass that I sketched him with Lord Smythe and another man I'd never seen before, though I remember one of them referred to him as Buzby."

"Excellent, excellent, Miss Hazlett. Your recollection is quite on the mark. Buzby is indeed the man you have sketched together with Lords Debenham and Smythe. Can you tell me the date, time and circumstances of this sketch?"

So Lissa told Sir William about the night at Vauxhall, of the conversations she'd overheard and of the accident that led to her sketching the three men, when it was only Lord Smythe whose sketch she'd thought was of any interest.

"And indeed all might have ended there had it not been for a colleague of mine, Sir Archibald Ledger, who knows of our suspicions and who happened upon your sketch when he picked it up after you'd dropped it in a passage. Immediately he was cognizant of the potential value of this sketch. Might I commend you on the astonishing detail and accuracy of your rendition?" Sir William paused to take a pinch of snuff, before asking her a number of other questions regarding the layout of the room and what she might have overheard.

Finally he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "My dear Miss Hazlett, you have been of inestimable value and I have kept you long enough. But before I let you leave, I suppose I should ask if there were any other sketches done, either that night, prior or subsequently?"

Lissa nodded earnestly as she leant forward. "Indeed, I _was_ going to tell you this. You see, Your Excellency, a few hours ago, Mr. Lamont visited me in the room in which he was keeping me prisoner. He found my sketchbook, containing one of two gentlemen I'd done some weeks ago. I'd never intended that it be made public as I was practicing caricatures. But Mr. Lamont took it, saying it would prove a closer association between two men who are under scrutiny for a close relationship they deny."

Sir William raised one eyebrow. "Mr. Lamont is a devious fellow."

"I know it," Lissa remarked as Ralph reached across to put his hand on her shoulder, muttering, "And you'll have to step over my dead body to return to that household, Miss Hazlett. Trust me, I will make arrangements for your safety."

Lissa looked at him gratefully, turning as Sir William asked, "And who were the two men in the sketch taken by Mr. Lamont?"

"Lord Smythe, Your Excellency, and...Sir Aubrey."

"My, my, how fortuitous for Mr. Lamont and the man he is working for to discover such a picture. Would you say it was a good likeness?"

"My future wife's ability to create a likeness with a few rapid strokes of the pencil is remarkable," Ralph interjected proudly.

"Oh Ralph!" Lissa cried, overjoyed at his reference to her altered status and her talent. They turned when Sir William cleared his throat.

"I'm honored to be a witness to what I gather is a rather oblique marriage proposal, but before you leave I have one final question for you, Miss Hazlett?"

Lissa steeled herself.

"Was Mr. Lamont requested to sketch any other personage? At the moment we are only interested in Lords Debenham and Smythe and Sir Aubrey."

Lissa was saved from answering when Ralph leaned forward to rest both hands on the table. "Forgive the interruption, Your Excellency, but I have not known, before, what to do with information I have that I believe is critical to the case regarding Sir Aubrey and Lord Debenham's involvement in the Castlereagh business."

"You have!" Lissa and Sir William spoke at the same time, and Ralph sent an apologetic look in Lissa's direction. "I didn't want to tell you, Miss Hazlett, as I feared such knowledge might endanger you. It's only been a very short while since I gained possession of it and I wanted to be sure I handed it to the right person. I now know Sir William is the man to entrust with something so important and sensitive."

"Well, what is this evidence?" Sir William sounded a trifle impatient and Ralph nodded, as if he understood the need to get to the point.

"A letter written by Sir Aubrey's late wife lays out the whole affair. It exonerates Sir Aubrey and incriminates Lord Debenham."

"But Miss Partington burned the letter!" Lissa cried.

Ralph turned from Sir William's shocked expression to Lissa's outrage, with a smile. "She burned what she _believed_ was the letter. I had a copy made and paid the sum required to gain possession of the _real_ letter. It's under my mattress."

"Good Lord! Well, this does alter matters. Pray, enlarge upon the contents of this letter."

After Ralph had given a concise summary of the whole affair, which did not implicate either Jem or Araminta, Sir William leaned back, laced his hands across his lean torso, and slowly shook his head. "My word, but this has been a profitable meeting. I shall be leaving the country soon but before that I will be meeting with some colleagues of mine to discuss the matter. Though I am now based in Constantinople, I will still be involved in ongoing developments with this case due to a...surprising connection." He shifted in his chair and looked intently at Lissa. "Do you have anything further to add, Miss Hazlett? I take it you have informed me of all the sketches you were required to do? Mr. Lamont is a devious miscreant. We need to understand the full extent of his activities in case he's involved in greater criminal activity. If he has been recruited as a spy, we need to know the names of everyone he might have spied upon."

He sent Lissa a questioning look at her quick intake of breath and she dropped her eyes.

"Your Excellency, I should have mentioned it, earlier, but I was too..." She shook her head, unable to finish until, at Sir William's prompting, she gathered her courage and said in a rush, "Mr. Lamont was asked by a certain Mr. Crossing to follow his wife. It was the same night I sketched Lords Smythe and Debenham. At Vauxhall Gardens. He requested that she be sketched with whomever we found her."

Predictably, there was silence at this pronouncement. Carefully, Lissa raised her eyes to find Sir William staring at her with an expression difficult to fathom.

He turned to Ralph. "If you will excuse us for a few moments, Mr. Tunley, I would like to speak to Miss Hazlett in private." Calmly, he led the way to the door, saying conversationally, "This is more serious than I thought. In the interests of national security, I cannot have her evidence given in the presence of a third person."

After Ralph had bowed himself out of the room, Sir William slowly returned to his seat, steepled his fingers and sent Lissa a long, considering look. "I take it you did not sketch Mrs. Crossing after all, else her husband would have made it a matter to bring before the divorce courts."

Lissa looked down at the great tear to her drab print skirts. Such a pity, for it was one of her most serviceable gowns.

Well, there was nothing for it. She'd have to be frank.

"I did, in fact, Your Excellency. I sketched her as I saw her. Mr. Lamont made me follow him to a supper box and she was there. With a man, Sir William, as you well know. As Mr. Lamont was looking over my shoulder, I had no choice but to sketch what I saw."

Sir William raised one eyebrow, but beyond that gave no further indication that he understood she recognized him as that man. "Then the sketch was not given to Mr. Crossing?"

Lissa shook her head. "Mr. Lamont anticipated a great deal of money for such sensational evidence. It's true that I sketched Mrs. Crossing with...the man she was with, however I had taken a great dislike to Mr. Crossing. He gave the appearance of being a cruel, vengeful husband. And when I saw how sweet and...vulnerable...Mrs. Crossing seemed, I was afraid he would hurt her."

"You are perfectly correct on all counts, Miss Hazlett." A nervous tic worked at the corner of Sir William's mouth. He dropped his voice and his look gentled. "Go on. I presume you found a means of denying Mr. Lamont what he wanted."

"Mr. Lamont wanted me to give the drawing to Mr. Crossing immediately but I made an excuse to keep it until two nights later, when I was fortunate enough to encounter Mrs. Crossing and warn her. I asked her if she had perchance a brother who could be substituted for her lo—"

Lissa blushed at nearly saying the word lover.

"I understand what you're saying. I also understand that a fiery redheaded brother, if such coloring could be indicated, might have greatly aided her cause."

"That was indeed the case. I believe Mr. and Mrs. Crossing have been observed in great felicitation since."

Only the faintest flicker of an eyebrow indicated that this meant anything to Sir William. He rose with a bow, indicating their interview was at an end. "You have been of great assistance, Miss Hazlett. More than I can truly say." The tenseness behind his eyes relaxed and he smiled. "You are free to leave but I would request that you do not quit London for at least another three days—until I have been in touch with further questions." He hesitated. "I gather you will not be returning to the Lamonts, in view of recent events."

Lissa shook her head. "My belongings are still there but I would be afraid to go back."

"I would suggest it would be most unwise." He cocked his head. "Mr. Tunley appears to have taken on the matter of ensuring your safety. These are grave matters beyond your ken, Miss Hazlett, so this relieves my concern. I know Mr. Tunley is in Lord Debenham's employ but your young man is an excellent fellow. You'd be wise to follow his counsel."

Lissa smiled her gratitude as she prepared to issue out of the door and into the corridor. "I would trust Mr. Tunley with my life, Your Excellency."

"I do not think he would let you down, Miss Hazlett." Sir William nodded, then closed the door after her and Lissa felt the jolt of excitement to see Ralph coming towards her, appearing from the gloom like the good-natured savior he was.

"Right, my girl, I think we've had enough excitement for one day. Off to Mrs. Nipkins for a good night's sleep, eh? I shall arrange lodgings for myself next door. How are you feeling?"

Lissa exhaled on a huge breath that made her shoulders slump yet she felt strangely exhilarated. "It _has_ been a big day, I will admit it, Ralph, but it's been exciting too. So much more exciting than being just an everyday sort of governess. Her smile broadened. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world." He threw his arms about her shoulders and pulled her into an impulsive hug before letting her go. "Now, off for some well-earned rest. The villains aren't vanquished but together we've almost saved the day. Aren't we a great team, Miss Hazlett?"

# Chapter 20

Araminta awoke in a cold sweat. Was it only last night she'd felt so joyous with her dreams about to come true? Was it only last night that she'd received a marriage offer that would make her the wife of charming, rich and titled Lord Ludbridge?

Yet how had it all ended? With her agreeing to marry Mr. Woking. In fact, precipitating Mr. Woking's marriage proposal, which was only to add insult to injury. And, now, here in the dismal precincts of her garment-strewn room, which Jane had not even tidied properly, was an enormous bouquet of red roses with a card Jane was settling down to read.

Araminta pulled the covers up to her chin and muttered, "I don't want to hear it," but it appeared Jane did not hear her.

" ' _To the incomparable Miss Partington, who has made me the happiest man alive by agreeing to become my wife. Ever your slave, Lord Ludbridge_...' That is rather romantic," Jane observed with a sniff, placing the roses across the seat of a small bentwood chair by the dressing table. "What a pity you couldn't have married him, after all. And, oh, my goodness, here's another one."

Araminta rolled her eyes at Jane's sarcasm and tried to block her ears as her maid read the card attached to a second enormous bouquet, this time of yellow roses. " ' _Everlasting love to the sweet and ravishing Miss Araminta Partington who has conferred upon me the greatest of gifts: her undying loyalty. From her devoted husband-to-be, Mr. Roderick Woking.'_ " Jane tossed the second bouquet rather unceremoniously across the first and sent a contemplative look in Araminta's direction. "You deserve congratulations, Miss Araminta, for you do know how to get yourself out of a situation." She bent to pick up a rumpled stocking. "That is, once you've already got yourself _into_ a situation."

Araminta narrowed her eyes then pulled the covers over her head. As soon as she was married, she'd get rid of Jane and her impertinence.

Married. She shuddered and stuffed her hand in her mouth to stop herself from crying.

"Oh, and in other good news," she heard Jane's muffled voice through the covers, "Miss Hetty writes that she is having the most wonderful wedding tour and that, happily, she is already with child."

"Argghhh!" Araminta cried from her stuffy nest. "Get out, Jane!" But when she heard Jane taking her at her bidding, she threw back the covers and called her back.

"Fetch me more water. I need to scrub myself." She shuddered at the memory of Mr. Woking's dirty paws and everything else contaminating her pristine—well, almost pristine—being. "Then you can lay out my jonquil pelisse and sprigged muslin. Mr. Woking will no doubt be on his way to make arrangements and to ask Cousin Stephen, who can act as proxy for Papa. Oh dear Lord, I can't believe I'm going to marry Mr. Woking! If only there were another way, but if there is I can't see it." She gave a little sob as she put her feet to the ground. "Mr. Woking wishes our marriage to take place imminently, as do I."

"You mean in view of what you did to him last night, miss?"

"How dare you speak like that, Jane?" Araminta stood up and whipped the dripping flannel from her maid's grasp. "Do not ever make reference to this again."

Jane ignored her as she sat to smooth out Araminta's other stocking. "Have you thought how you're going to explain matters to Lord Ludbridge, who is no doubt also happily making arrangements for your wedding in the belief you'll be his bride on his return? What might he say when he learns you've married Mr. Woking?"

Araminta tossed aside the stocking she'd been in the process of slipping onto her foot and threw herself onto her back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. "Why do you plague me with all these questions? I'll think of something in good time. I'll say...I'll say Mr. Woking attacked me, and to preserve honor, I believed the only decent thing was to marry him, since Lord Ludbridge insisted on leaving me just when I needed him. He'll never forgive himself, and nor should he!"

"Oh, you'd accuse Mr. Woking, would you, when I reckon the shoe was on the other foot? I can't say I like Mr. Woking overly but you can't blame a feller for som'at like what you gone and done."

"When did you start telling me what I can and can't do, Jane?" Araminta snapped, sitting up suddenly. She gasped as a wave of nausea engulfed her, opening her eyes to find Jane had already positioned the chamber pot under her nose. As it hadn't been emptied, she gagged more than usual.

Collapsing once more onto her back, she threw out her arms and wailed. If she'd had the courage, she'd have gone to visit one of those filthy creatures who got rid of mistakes like the one she'd made, but she'd been so terrified by the tales of almost certain death, which Jane had gleefully passed on to her, that three times she'd lost her nerve and Jane had said only last night it was too late.

Soon Araminta was dressed in her pretty afternoon gown, ready for the inevitable visit that she both welcomed and dreaded, since all her hopes hinged on this one necessary, dreadful union with a man she despised. She didn't want to think of the one she could have had. No, she'd have to spend some time in the country to save the pain of being confronted with what she'd lost through simple misfortune.

"No girl is as unlucky as I am," she muttered as Jane did up her buttons and a knock on the door proclaimed a visitor.

"Surprise!" called her mother, sailing into the room with a radiant smile and bearing a bundle of swaddling, which of course turned out to be the sister whose name Araminta couldn't immediately remember.

In Lady Partington's wake came Cousin Stephen, who was smiling more broadly than usual, for Araminta had certainly thought him a grumpy old thing to have about the place the past few weeks.

He was cooing at the tiny, downy-haired beast whose fat pink face was wreathed with answering smiles as she grasped his finger.

"Watch out, Araminta, she's going to rival you as a beauty to be remarked upon," he teased. "Though of course, you'll be in your dotage with, quite possibly, grandchildren by the time little Celia has her come-out."

"Don't vex Araminta like that, Stephen, you know she has no sense of humor when it comes to such matters," her mother chided him gently.

"Goodness, I have a sense of humor far more in evidence than grumpy old Cousin Stephen's," Araminta muttered. "I don't think I've heard him say one nice thing to me this whole season."

To Araminta's horrified disgust, her mother leveled a look of mock disapproval upon the young man. "Poor Araminta, she seems quite out of sorts yet she's looking as pretty as a picture. Indeed you look blooming, Araminta, and that's the truth."

Stephen became serious. "I've been conscious of the need to ensure we have no further scandals attached to the family's good name. Hetty's behavior was scandalous enough, and now I hear whispers circulating about you, Araminta, that trouble me, and I'm sorry for bringing it up now."

"Whispers?" Araminta sat down quickly on the edge of her bed and fanned herself, offering a bland smile at her mother and Cousin Stephen, who were now _both_ looking quite censorious. "Goodness, what can you mean?"

"You were seen alone with Lord Ludbridge last night, dearest," her mother said. "I heard it from the dowager Dalrymple, who was most stern at the fact you'd slipped away from Mrs. Monks." Her mother took a seat beside her and stroked her hand. "You know how careful you must be of your reputation, and that the slightest bad behavior will bring the gossips around your ears. Do be careful, darling."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm marrying Mr. Woking, and if that's the door knocker I can hear it's probably him now to ask permission."

She could have heard a pin drop. Mutinously, she raised her face. "Well, aren't you going to congratulate me?"

Cousin Stephen didn't seem to know what to say. Her mother just looked confused. "Mr. Woking? I've heard nothing of this gentleman. Well, nothing...complimentary. Why, I thought you favored—"

"Well, it doesn't matter who I _once_ favored, I'm marrying Mr. Woking, who has been in love with me for two seasons and whom I finally _have_ favored with my acceptance."

Stephen turned to her mother as he reached for the baby. "Mr. Woking is the nephew of Lord Debenham."

"Goodness... _dangerous_ Lord Debenham?" her mother asked, uncertainly.

"The nephew is a different kettle of fish." Cousin Stephen began to rock the child, who was starting to grizzle. "Nothing dangerous about him at all," he added, though not in a tone that suggested this was a good thing. He looked suspiciously at Araminta. "Why are you marrying him?"

Araminta took a walk to the window. "Because it's nearly the end of my second season and I have to marry _someone_ ," she said breezily. "He's in line to inherit extensive landholdings, he's pleasant enough, and he'll be a good husband."

"You mean easy to manage," Cousin Stephen said.

Araminta bristled at his tone as she turned. "I have quite lost my heart to the gentleman," she said as a dreadful pang regarding lost Lord Ludbridge threatened to undo her. "I am going to marry him, and now you're going to come downstairs and give Mr. Woking your blessing."

"Don't you speak to your cousin like that," her mother admonished her. "I own I am just as astonished to hear this announcement. It's not like you to settle for...well, second best."

"Second best?" Araminta took a few angry steps into the center of the room and raised her chin. "I will _never_ settle for second best and I will never _be_ second best. This suits me in every way, and I will not hear another word to dissuade me."

She turned back toward the stairs and put her hand to her belly. Were those flutterings of fear or something else? No, Jane had said it took at least four months before any movement could be felt and she was only a little over one.

In the nick of time, she'd managed to find a father for her baby, even if she would forever pine for the one who'd got away.

And she wasn't referring to Sir Aubrey.

The entire bon ton, it appeared, had turned up to celebrate the impending nuptials of Miss Susana Hoskings and Mr. Edmund Dunstable at the lavishly decorated home of the bride-to-be. Swathes of red and gold silk adorned the lintels, enormous vases of luxurious blooms perfumed the air and the jewels of the richly-garbed crowd sparkled beneath the chandeliers.

Yet the uninvited might have been excused for thinking it a celebration in honor of Miss Araminta Partington and Mr. Roderick Woking.

"Congratulations, Miss Partington! Congratulations, Mr. Woking!"

The good cheer was abundant this evening as Araminta stood a few yards from the front door beside her new affianced, who was beaming like the cat who'd got the cream. Araminta looked at him askance and was about to remark upon the crumb clinging to his lip when she realized it was a pimple.

Yes, she was marrying a pimply boy. Her heart shriveled a little more at the thought.

"Everyone seems so pleased for us, I feel a trifle guilty." Mr. Woking—Roderick—picked up her hand and kissed it as another gathering of guests was announced. "Why, thank you, Mr. Crossing, Mrs. Crossing. So kind, and yes, I am the luckiest of bride grooms."

Araminta managed a weak smile as she responded to the latest well wishes. "Yes, such a lovely evening," she agreed before murmuring to Roderick, "Don't feel guilty. We've managed to steal the attention from Miss Hoskings' lackluster match. Look at the dreary girl, standing on the other side of the doorway. Doesn't she know she cannot wear that shade of puce with a complexion like hers? Yet she's made a decent match, can you believe it? Five thousand a year, though I can't imagine he'll want to spend much time away from his club. Nevertheless, she looks like she'd put up with anything. I'm sure tonight is the most exciting she's ever likely to have. She's lucky she received an offer at all, with such a hatchet-face, poor dear."

"The girl is nice enough." Roderick lowered his head and his eyes glittered. "Her aunt was ruined by my uncle, don't you know?" He gave a slow nod of his head, as if proud of the fact. "My uncle, Lord Debenham, has quite a reputation with the ladies. Don't think your family is the only one to be mired in scandal, though of course it's not the gentlemen who need to worry about reputations and that sort of thing. Your sister should have been more mindful of the consequences her actions had on you, Araminta, my love. Have no fear, however, that I hold her—or you—in contempt."

"I don't," Araminta responded acidly. "But can you really believe that a roly-poly like Miss Hoskings had an aunt who caught the attention of Lord Debenham?" The mention of the gentleman with whom she'd nearly courted disaster made her shiver.

"Appearances are deceptive, aren't they, my dear-heart?" He sent her a sly look, which made Araminta think she was going to be sick again.

When she did not respond, he went on, a trifle too eagerly for the fact they were in public—or anywhere, for that matter. "The manner in which you pretended to hold me in such disdain when in fact you were mad for me has made me all the wilder for _you_."

He'd dropped his voice to a rushed whisper and his normally pasty face, now shiny red in the glow of the candles, reminded her of an overripe tomato as he slanted an impassioned gaze across at her. "My goodness, but last night was magnificent, and I am so glad you see the merit in a hasty wedding, though of course we need not observe the abstinence that would ordinarily be necessary, given what has already occurred." He chuckled as he clearly dwelt on their grubby, thirty-second encounter on a banquette in his drawing room the previous night.

"Please excuse me, I'm suddenly not feeling quite the thing," Araminta whispered hurriedly over her shoulder as she left his side and dashed into the corridor in search of a chamber pot. This time she really _was_ going to be sick.

She was not familiar with the house, and the labyrinth of passages presented more of a challenge than she'd expected. Finally she found what she was looking for and, whipping aside the curtain, gasped her stomach's contents into the gaping hole.

It took her a few minutes to gather herself. She walked shakily back into the dark corridor and leaned against the wall with her eyes closed, her head tilted upward.

What nightmare was this? Was she really going to marry Mr. Woking in three weeks? Right now it was almost as if God were punishing her. But why, when it was Hetty who had behaved so wretchedly—meaning Araminta had had to work so hard to save the family's wealth and reputation from ruin?

"Lost your way, Miss Partington?"

The voice struck real fear into her and she gasped, snapping to attention and opening her eyes to see Lord Debenham looming.

"I'm not feeling too well," she responded weakly.

"Too weak to return to the ball? Why, that's not like you. Perhaps you should come along with me. You definitely look like you need to rest. I've never seen you look so wan, when you're such a vibrant beauty on any other day."

Araminta put her hand against the wall to steady herself. "I really should go back. Roderick will be wondering what's happened to me."

Lord Debenham continued to stand before her in a disconcerting, slightly menacing way. She wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"Roderick. Yes." He drew the words out consideringly. "That _was_ a surprise."

Araminta shrugged. "I don't know why. You were the one to cite his many qualities, I seem to remember."

"When I was rejecting your overtures, Miss Partington." He sighed. "My, how I've lived to rue the day."

She blinked her eyes wide in surprise. "You made your lack of interest quite plain, sir. And now Roderick is to be my husband, and you and I shall be cousins in marriage." She smiled, feeling more confident now she could speak like that.

"But what if that isn't enough for me?" He put out his hand and touched her cheek.

Araminta flinched, though a frisson of excitement made the contact far more exhilarating than when Roderick had pawed her.

"I don't understand you, My Lord," she whispered, repulsed yet irresistibly drawn to the danger he exuded. "I am about to be married."

"Don't play the innocent with me. You know exactly what I mean." He'd drawn closer now. He was playing with her, stroking her cheek, her neck, her décolletage with the tips of his fingers, his voice a soothing murmur as he led her along the passage. "If you are so weary, I can take you to a room where you'll be comfortable. I'm a regular guest of this house, in fact. Hoskings and I have enjoyed many a cribbage evening together and I'm not always in a position to return to my own bed. Let me take you somewhere you can lie down."

Despite every instinct screaming caution, Araminta's breasts tingled and she felt again that increasingly familiar throbbing desire between her legs. She'd thought she'd never feel it again except in Teddy's presence, but he'd left her, meaning pimply, groping Roderick was her only means of salvation.

"Here we are, my dear."

Self-preservation kicked in when he pushed open the door to one of the many guest chambers along the passage. She stopped, turning back toward the ballroom. "I must return to Roderick," she said, drawing on every reserve she had to make it sound as if that was what she truly wished.

Lord Debenham stood very close to her in the doorway. "Do you desire my nephew, Miss Partington...like you desire me?"

The suggestiveness in his tone was more thrilling than terrifying. In the light of the candle resting in a sconce just above them, his eyes glittered like a satyr's.

"And like I desire _you_?" He grasped her hand and placed it on the front of his bulging black pantaloons.

Araminta swallowed, her body in a state of the wildest excitement. But she did not take her hand away. She closed her eyes and shuddered slightly. "My Lord, I am saving myself for Roderick," she whispered.

"That little sapskull? Why, you're too ripe and ready for half, aren't you, my tempting armful, but I don't think my nephew's the answer."

Araminta swayed as she felt his arms go about her. Giddy with desire, she was, this time, determined to cling to the safest course. That is, until he slipped his hand into her bodice, beneath her stays and chemise, and gently pinched her nipple.

This man was terrifying, but surely one taste of him would make no difference after what she'd already done? No, she'd not marry him if he were the last man on earth. He was far too dangerous to have as a husband—foolish, naïve girl that she'd once been to believe she'd have the necessary control over him that she required.

Heat engulfed her, her skin prickled and her breath came in short, desperate bursts.

One wild, wanton, wicked taste of this sinfully villainous blackguard while her pimply, boring, ghastly husband-to-be waited in the ballroom would be utterly and deliciously thrilling.

"You do flatter yourself, Lord Debenham," she whispered, as she pressed closer against him, angling her body to ease the way for his exploring hands. "Why would I give my virtue to you when I owe everything to Roderick for making me such a gallant and enticing offer before the end of the season?"

"An offer of marriage, maybe, but my offer is much more exciting, don't you think?"

His touch seared her skin as he kneaded her right nipple. Suddenly he pulled her against him and thrust his tongue into her mouth. She moaned, sagging against him, squeaking with delighted surprise when his hand went up her skirts and he cupped her heated mound.

"My, you _are_ wet," he growled. "Wet and willing." Lightly at first, then with a little more pressure, he began to massage the swollen nub between her legs.

Araminta thought she would die from pleasure. "So this is what it feels like?" she gasped, shifting slightly to give him greater access. Seducing Sir Aubrey had been nothing like this. Though she'd been damp with desire, she'd merely plunged onto him and he, thinking she was...someone else—she shuddered as she reflected that that someone was her sister, though Hetty was welcome to Sir Aubrey—had then furiously berated her.

What a terrible man Sir Aubrey was to have led her on to believe he wished to marry her and now—she gave a little sob—she had no choice but to marry Mr. Woking. At least, though, Mr. Woking would be infinitely more pliable than this dangerous devil whose ministrations were nearly driving her insane.

She liked his roughness, and moaned again as he dipped a finger inside her before resuming his pleasuring, returning pressure to the outer lips of her secret, sensitive parts.

"Oh my, you are on fire," he muttered as he swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedchamber, where a single candle guttered on a chest of drawers by the large mahogany tester bed.

Without ceremony, he tossed her onto the crimson counterpane. Quickly, he unbuttoned the flap of his breeches, which he then kicked off, together with his shoes. Shrugging out of his tailcoat and waistcoat, he then threw himself—naked but for his shirt—on top of her.

Araminta managed to wriggle out from under him, gasping, "Not so fast, Lord Debenham. If I am going to gift you what by rights I should be gifting Roderick, I want more of what you were doing before."

Oh, she wasn't stupid. She knew how to get what she wanted at the same time as reassuring him that she was unspoiled. This was going to be even more important in a few months' time when the baby came a little earlier than it ought.

"More of this?" His satyr-like eyes bored into hers, only an inch away, but obligingly he supported himself on one elbow, his lean, hairy flanks fascinating her before she gasped in delight as once more he slipped a finger inside her entrance, then out, slowly massaging the ever-swelling nub of her desire.

"Mmm, more of that." She relaxed into the soft mattress and exhaled on a deep, satisfied moan at the exquisite sensations. So this is what she'd been missing out on? Closing her eyes, she was sinking into even more pleasurable euphoria when to her annoyance he stopped abruptly, rolled her over, and began to undo her buttons so that he could pull first her dress, then her petticoats, and finally her short stays and chemise over her head.

"My Lord!"

"Don't worry, I'll have you dressed in a trice when I'm done but _this_ is how I want to see you."

She smiled coyly, enjoying her nakedness, or rather the raw appraisal in his eye as she flaunted herself without shame. "I suppose I'd better not spoil those if I'm going back to the ball," she conceded, glancing at the pile of her clothes as she drew the counterpane up to her chin.

"Now why do you suppose I went to the trouble of undressing you?" he asked, dragging it away again so he could look at her. He raised his eyebrows. "My, but you are rather a delectable little thing. Despite the fact you're insufferably haughty and immeasurably vain, you have the body of a racehorse. I shall enjoy getting used to this."

"Well, get used to it now, because this is the only time you will." She grinned up at him, feeling smug. Yes she had the measure of him. He was in thrall to her and she was—thank goodness—getting a little pleasure for once out of this sport.

"The only time? What makes you think that, Miss Partington?" He chuckled as he resumed stroking the swollen lips about her entrance, then bent to suckle her right nipple.

"I'm marrying Roderick in a little over a fortnight."

"Maybe I want to marry you myself."

"You're far too dangerous, My Lord, and besides, I've changed my mind about thinking that was a good idea. Oh! Ooooh!"

He'd caught her by surprise. Her body exploded with sensation and she bucked and jerked, but she was not ready to cast herself completely into the abyss of pleasure just yet. Lord Debenham had more work to do in order to make up for all the terrible things she'd been forced into, just to get respectably married.

She threw her head back and opened herself up even wider to him, making clear with her sighs exactly what pleased her. "Further up. That's right. Oh yes, just a little faster and a little harder. Yes, oh my goodness, oh my goodness!" Her climax was sudden and intense and the most thrilling sensation she'd ever experienced. Dear Lord, so this was why people got into trouble.

For a few minutes she lay there, gasping, then Lord Debenham took hold of a handful of her hair and drew her into a sitting position. She looked at him in surprise. He wasn't rough but it certainly wasn't a gentle act, either.

"My turn now," he said, thrusting apart his legs so his member sprang out before him.

She blinked as she was forced to wriggle onto her knees on the soft, though lumpy mattress. He was still gripping a hank of her hair. "What do you mean?"

"Take me in your mouth."

"What?"

"You heard me. Take me in your mouth. Like this," he said, pushing her head down so that his pulsing member nearly choked her. "And careful of your teeth. Yes, up and down, slowly, that's right."

She was horrified, but his pleasure was infectious, and soon she felt her own body swell again with desire.

The timing was perfect, for just as she felt her juices build up to nearly explosive quantities, His Lordship hoisted her up under her arms, pushed her onto her back and thrust himself unceremoniously inside her.

"God, this is magnificent!" he shouted joyously as he began to pump himself madly in and out.

The tension was mounting for Araminta, too. Every nerve ending was on fire as Lord Debenham continued his frenzied thrusting. She was vaguely conscious of the counterpane slipping to the floor, the protesting groans of the squeaking bed, the slapping noise of their thighs. She wrapped her legs about his waist and dug her fingers into his buttocks in her escalating frenzy as the tension tightened.

And tightened.

Then, with a gasp of utter rapture, she shattered once more as he exploded inside her.

The only sounds in the sudden silence were the chiming of a clock in the dim recesses of the house—and the protesting creak of the door as it was thrust open upon a horrified wail, a small shriek and a cry of anguished dismay.

Araminta wriggled up onto her elbows and peered over Lord Debenham's shoulder.

She was met by the disbelieving look of her husband-to-be, the scandalized fury of her hostess, Miss Hoskings' mother, and the incredulous look of Cousin Stephen.

Dropping back onto the mattress—Lord Debenham hadn't moved, but still presented his bare buttocks to the assembled onlookers—her last sight was of the triumphant grin of her seducer.

# Chapter 21

"T _here's_ a nice piece of court gossip." Ralph, standing at Lissa's shoulder at Mrs. Nipkins' round wooden dining table in the tiny parlor, reached across to point out a paragraph in _The Times_ newspaper she was reading.

Lissa rested her head on his shoulder and nodded, more occupied with dreams of their happy, shared future, than gossip sheet news.

"What does it say, dear?" Mrs. Nipkins raised her head and smiled from where she was sewing the skirt of white sarsnet to the bodice of a beautiful ball gown. Her owlish eyes glittered with interest, but they were kind eyes and her interest was never inspired by prurient scandal.

Lissa enjoyed living with her. It was a small house but it pulsed with warmth and good humor. Since Lissa had arrived, Ralph had moved from the second bedroom to a tiny attic, while pretending he'd moved lodgings to next door. It broke Lissa's heart that she'd been the cause of his having to compromise his comfort, but he'd joked that Lissa's arrival was the instigator of him rising in the world. And from his attic room he could see the whole of London.

Lissa, caught up with affectionately tracing the veins on the back of Ralph's hand, let Ralph do the reading while she and her landlady listened.

"Miss Kitty La Bijou, who has taken London by storm with her sensational rendition of Juliet in Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ , is rumored to have secured the forthcoming role of Desdemona—and the attentions of a certain Lord X."

He was about to continue reading when Mrs. Nipkins asked, "Ooh, yes, I have heard about Miss La Bijou. Very popular she is and quite the beauty. Have you see her? I know how much you like the theatre, Mr. Tunley."

"She was excellent when I saw her in _Romeo and Juliet_ ," Ralph conceded, "but she'd better not get mixed up with this Lord X. The gossip reporter is wasting his time being cryptic, for all the world knows he's referring to Silverton. And Lord Silverton is part of the fast set to which my not-so-very esteemed employer, Lord Debenham, belongs." He raised one eyebrow as he explained. "Debenham is fond of the gaming hells. So is Silverton."

Lissa couldn't meet Ralph's smile. Her mind was racing too fast.

Kitty La Bijou was the name her younger sister had always said she'd adopt if she ran away to London. A few weeks before, Lissa had received a letter from their mother admitting that Kitty had been gone for some weeks; that following another of their regular arguments, she'd stormed out of their cottage. Her mother said she'd been certain she'd return, however, Kitty had finally written to say she'd found work in London and wasn't coming back.

Kitty had never hidden the fact she loathed her life in the small village in which they'd been born. While Lissa and Ned had both kept a low profile and ignored the taunts from the village children regarding their shameful birthrights, Kitty had been more outspoken. Often, Kitty would return from having trespassed onto the grounds of The Grange, their father's estate, where she'd gone to spy on their half-sisters. Enviously, she would describe the lavish clothes and other luxuries their half-sisters took for granted.

Lissa let Ralph continue to read while her thoughts ran riot. _Kitty La Bijou_. It couldn't be _her_ Kitty? Surely? Having her name associated with a man of dubious reputation, or any man at all, in a news sheet? No, it couldn't be.

Mrs. Nipkins bit off her cotton thread and put down her work. "Lord Debenham is your employer, Mr. Tunley. Regardless of what you feel, it's unwise to speak uncomplimentary of him."

"Even to the two ladies I trust most in the world?" He grinned. "Should I fear losing my job or worse because I confide intimacies to you?"

"Of course not, Mr. Tunley, but you never know who's listening or standing behind a door at this very moment."

A loud rap on the thin door to their cramped living quarters made them all jump. Now Lissa and Ralph did exchange fearful glances.

Just as Ralph reached the door to open it, the rapping continued, and a lady's hurried, anxious voice intruded.

"Forgive me for arriving so late and with no warning."

Lissa watched with surprise as a slight young woman entered. With graceful hands their visitor pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing, to Lissa's shock and incomprehension, the familiar face of Mrs. Crossing.

Astonished, she made the introductions and then Mrs. Nipkins rose to say goodnight, so that Mrs. Crossing could occupy her seat once it had been established that her visit was in strict confidence.

Immediately Mrs. Crossing folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward. "I am leaving tonight for France but I had to see you first." She looked at Lissa then nodded toward the window. "My carriage is waiting for me outside, and I shall be meeting Sir William in Calais in three days' time. He is returning to Constantinople and I shall accompany him."

Lissa wasn't sure how to respond. Perhaps asking the obvious question would help. "You are leaving your husband?"

"Sir William and I have planned this for some time. We were waiting for his position to be secured so that he would have a permanent residence where I could safely join him. Of course, our elopement is a closely guarded secret, and no one must know."

"Then, with respect, why tell us?" asked Ralph.

"Because Sir William desires your involvement, Mr. Tunley, in an important mission, which was the reason for his brief return to London."

Lissa jerked her head around to see Ralph's expression flicker between hope and concern. For her own part, she didn't know what to think.

"We know something of the matter about which you speak, but why is Sir William not asking me, himself?"

Mrs. Crossing handed him a sealed missive. "He entrusted this to me to deliver to you before I left London."

"Rather cloak and dagger." Ralph laughed uncertainly.

"It is," Mrs. Crossing agreed. "A new world to me, also, but I am slowly learning. Mr. Tunley, I understand you are still officially in the employ of Lord Debenham, who will be back from his wedding tour in a month?"

The scandal involving the elopement of Miss Araminta Partington with dangerous Lord Debenham had had London town agog and Miss Partington's name considerably sullied. Word was that the daring debutante had accepted a marriage offer from Lord Debenham's nephew, Mr. Woking, the night prior to her elopement with her betrothed's uncle.

"I am," agreed Ralph.

"It is Sir William's desire that you will accept his offer of a position as his attaché, as you will read in his missive. I shall be living in Sir William's household as his widowed cousin, and his hostess. There are other matters for which he has enlisted my help, and this is one."

Pain slashed through Lissa like a sword. This was the kind of work Ralph had always dreamed of. But there was no place in such a new life for her. An attaché was constantly roaming the world.

Ralph cleared his throat. "I would be honored, however, Miss Hazlett and I are affianced. I could not abandon her to live abroad."

Lissa gasped. He was refusing an opportunity that promised him so much? This was the most concrete affirmation of his loyalty and intention to keep her safely by his side that she'd received, though she had no doubt of his affection.

Mrs. Crossing cocked her head. "When are you to be married?"

Ralph shifted uncomfortably. "No date is set for, alas, I have not the means to support a wife, but as soon as that situation changes, yes, Miss Hazlett and I will be married."

A warm glow suffused Lissa, even as she knew she couldn't be the means of standing between Ralph and his rising in the world. She gripped his hand. "You must accept, Ralph. Our time will come."

The light in Mrs. Crossing's eye brightened as she leaned farther forward in the cramped parlor. "I believe it is greatly to everyone's benefit that the two of you have such an understanding." She smiled her sweet smile at both of them. "Miss Hazlett, your astonishing skill at rendering a likeness with a few rapid strokes of a pencil will be of enormous benefit in the work Sir William is doing. I had not realized there was such a definite understanding between you but this is wonderful." She hesitated as doubt clouded her brow. "That is, if you are amenable to the proposition I'm about to put to you, speaking as Sir William's, proxy. Although it is not something he has not yet endorsed I am confident of persuading him of the merits."

Lissa could feel Ralph's interest sharpen while her own heart beat harder.

"What proposition?" Ralph's voice sounded dry and tense.

"As you are well aware, there are a number of dangerous gentlemen—indeed, several who are peers of the realm—who are under suspicion for past misdeeds, including the attempted assassination of Lord Castlereagh. It is thought these same men are involved in a more heinous plot that threatens our country's sovereignty."

Lissa felt her hands go clammy.

"Lord Debenham is their principal person of interest, together with a small group of close associates whom the government believes to be involved in a conspiracy with several foreign operatives." She took a breath and looked at Lissa. "It was your drawing of Lord Debenham in company with Lord Smythe and Mr. Buzby—men who have hitherto denied any close association—that reignited a suspicion long held by Sir William. I do understand you already know this. However, his investigations have, to date, revealed nothing that would result in a conviction. Nevertheless, he is anxious that these men, and several others with whom they associate, be watched closely."

Lissa must have revealed her confusion for Mrs. Crossing gave an apologetic laugh. "Sir William would have explained this a great deal better than I am doing, which is why he is the diplomatist."

Lissa and Ralph waited for her to elucidate.

"As you already know, Sir William wants Lord Debenham watched. Debenham claims Mr. Lamont falsified the sketch in which he was seen in close consultation with Lord Smythe and Mr. Buzby."

"A good thing Mr. Lamont's duplicity has finally been revealed," remarked Lissa before being struck dumb by Mrs. Crossing's next words.

"Surprisingly, it would appear that Mr. Lamont is now in Lord Debenham's employ. Furthermore, Lord Debenham had Miss Partington testify that she spent the entire evening with him in his supper room at Vauxhall that evening."

"Good Lord!" Lissa and Ralph spoke at once, and Lissa went on in shocked tones, "So, he gave her no choice but to elope with him? I gather she'd set her sights on..." She blushed as she turned to Ralph, adding, "Lord Ludbridge who is Mr. Tunley's eldest brother."

"Teddy made a lucky escape," Ralph muttered, rolling his eyes before appealing once more to Mrs. Crossing for more information. "Where am I to be based, if I accept Sir William's extraordinary offer?"

"Initially you are to remain in Lord Debenham's employ." At Ralph's crestfallen look she added hurriedly, "However, you'd be well remunerated for doing so as you would, in effect, be working for both Debenham and Sir William."

"A double agent?"

"Oh Ralph, but spying is such an ungentlemanly pursuit," cried Lissa.

Mrs. Crossing raised one pale, finely arched eyebrow. "Even if it is to safeguard the British people?"

Lissa conceded her point, reluctantly. She felt both nervous and excited for Ralph, yet disappointed, too. Ralph would be sent to the Continent to work for Sir William at some stage and what would become of her?

"Miss Hazlett, you are no longer employed in the Lamont household, I gather. I am fearful of putting this proposition to you, for there _could_ be dangers associated, however, you have already proved yourself both daring and loyal, as well as gifted. Is it possible you could entertain the idea of being installed as governess in the household of a man whom Sir William believes is heavily involved in dealings with Lord Debenham? Dealings that threaten the safety of this country."

Lissa pressed her lips together in surprise.

Then, at her suddenly interested look, Mrs. Crossing went on, "Lord Beecham has a ward—a young lady who will have her come-out next year. In the interim he is, I understand, looking for a governess to instill in this young lady the...er...graces which her previous half a dozen governesses have failed to do. It is perhaps a position that will not be of long tenure, given Miss Martindale's hoydenish reputation, but even a few weeks ensconced in his household would give you the opportunity to sketch his associates. The position does not come without danger but it would be well remunerated."

Lissa turned shining eyes to Ralph and found his were dark with concern.

"If it's dangerous, I could not possibly consent."

"How dare you tell me what I can and cannot do when I am not yet your wife!" Lissa cried indignantly, turning back to Mrs. Crossing to say with great determination, "I would be delighted to accept. If Mr. Tunley is to be in any danger in this operation, the least I can do is to show him my support."

"What, by agreeing to put _yourself_ in danger?"

Ralph shook his head but Lissa leaned over and gripped his wrist. "Please be glad for me, Ralph. If you're going to be involved in all manner of dangerous havey-cavey affairs, I need to know I'm doing my part. And how could being governess to a little hoyden be more dangerous than being a governess in the Lamont household?"

"Lord, Lissa, but why am I not surprised?" Ralph stared at her, admiringly. "When I dragged you from that carriage accident I thought you a dashing, daring debutante."

"Only to discover me a lowly governess." Lissa smiled as Ralph gripped her hand.

"And, when I rescued you through the window, I discovered you to be a very _daring_ governess."

"But still a lowly governess."

"Well, perhaps," Ralph conceded. "Now, though, you'll only be _pretending_ to be a lowly governess, living a life cloaked in danger and mystery and intrigue. And that, I think, is far more to your taste." His tone was jocular before he revealed his concern once more. "Are you sure you're up to this, Larissa? I could not forgive myself if harm came to you."

"Working for my country to keep _you_ safe, Ralph, is the best alternative to not having you with me." Lissa sent him an arch look and Ralph in turn grinned a quick apology at Mrs. Crossing as he took his beloved in a quick hug.

"Ah, my mysterious governess, you will never stop surprising me."

Lissa sighed happily. "And when we have worked together to fulfill our joint mission on behalf of the government and have brought these dangerous men to justice, I hope I won't stop surprising you."

She pushed herself out of her chair and fully into Ralph's arms as he rose, too. Over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Crossing's expression. There was understanding and compassion there as their visitor stood up and covered her hair once again with the hood of her cloak.

"Thank you for your visit, Mrs. Crossing." Ralph broke away to bow to her in farewell and to raise the candle to light the way as he opened the door for her. "I am very happy to accept Sir William's proposal and to serve the kingdom to the best of my ability."

Lissa nodded. "And I, too, will do whatever I am asked to keep this country safe." She smiled and reached for Ralph's hand. "Even if it's to become a spy, which it seems is what I must be in order to assist my dearest Ralph."

As the door closed softly behind Mrs. Crossing, Ralph wrapped his arms around Lissa and kissed her deeply.

Suddenly the tiny, cramped quarters, which was all they could afford, seemed like the first step in a whole new world opening up before them. The moment they stepped over its scuffed threshold and into the cobbled alleyway, they'd be embarking on the adventure of their lives. Lissa couldn't wait to taste what the real world was like, knowing her brave, darling Ralph was her greatest ally. Even when they could not be together.

"I cannot tell you how thrilling it is to learn of the depths to which you're prepared to sink for me, my most beloved," he murmured against her lips.

"You say that in jest, Ralph darling, but who knows what challenges this new adventure will throw at both of us. _Then_ you'll realise how much I'm willing to sacrifice for you, and the true depth of my love," she whispered, before deepening the kiss.

THE END

Lissa might have found the man of her dreams but she and Ralph still have a dangerous villain to apprehend. When Lissa's sister Kitty becomes the toast of London town, will the popular young actress become a help or a hindrance?

Buy **Beyond Rubies here **to find out.

# What Happens Next...?

### Beyond Rubies - Book 4

**Fame. Fortune. And finally a marriage proposal!**

Well, you now know a bit about Lissa's sister, Kitty, and her ambitions to become an actress, and while Kitty is a major figure in this story, **Beyond Rubies** also follows Araminta as she uses her beauty and wiles to sort out the difficulties surrounding an impending child that is going to be born way too early for respectability.

Unlike conscientious, hardworking Lissa, Kitty can't get away from family duties and expectations fast enough.

So, she runs away to London where her trusting and superstitious nature find her quickly embroiled in an unsuitable love affair and surrounded by an unusual assortment of even more unsuitable friends.

When Kitty stumbles across Araminta about to give birth, her actions plunge both girls into a scandalous deception involving a ruthless brothel madam, a priceless ruby necklace and the future heir to a dazzling fortune.

**Buy here.**

* * *

The entire Box set of the Daughters of Sin Series: Her Gilded Prison, Dangerous Gentlemen, The Mysterious Governess, Beyond Rubies and Lady Unveiled: the Cuckold's Conspiracy. Buy all five and save!

**Or get the entire Box Set**

**here.**

# The Beautiful Brightwell series

Do you want more sizzling passion and Regency glamour—this time with a pair of irrepressible matchmaking sisters?

If you do, you might enjoy my _Scandalous Miss Brightwell_ series. All can be read as stand-alone stories and are laced with scandal and humor. **Rake's Honour** is steamy and sizzling, **Rogue's Kiss** has more twists and turns than a French farce, and **Devil's Run** includes a good dose of poignancy layered over the outrageous events of a matchmaking wager gone wrong.

**_Here's the order of the stories:_**

**Rake's Honour (#1)**

**Rogue's Kiss (#2)**

**Devil's Run (#3)**

**The Accidental Elopement (#4)**

![Beautiful, impoverished Fanny Brightwell has a few scores to settle—and a heart to win—before she can secure the title her ambitious mama demands.
          Fanny is used to trading on her wits and Patrician beauty to ensure her family retains its tenuous hold on respectability. While her reprobate brother gambles away their fortune, and her feather-brained sister threatens to destroy the girls' collective reputation by succumbing to any lure cast her way, Fanny is regarded as the Brightwell family's saviour.
          Pressured by her mother into accepting a marriage offer from lecherous Lord Slyther, a desperately unhappy Fanny is given one final opportunity to pull out of her nuptials—provided she secures an equally rich and titled suitor within two weeks. For if Fanny doesn't make a good match, she and her sister can look forward to a lifetime attending to Great Aunt Seraphina's chilblains.
          During a single lapse of good judgment one evening while in masquerade as a fairy sprite, Fanny, discovers dashing rake, Viscount Fenton is just the man to satisfy the exacting criteria of both her mama and herself; a discovery which gives the lie to the refrain she's been told since infancy: that she has no heart.](images/beverley_oakley_bigger.jpg)

**_RAKE'S HONOUR_**

**_Beautiful, impoverished Fanny Brightwell has a few scores to settle—and a heart to win—before she can secure the title her ambitious mama demands._**

Fanny is used to trading on her wits and Patrician beauty to ensure her family retains its tenuous hold on respectability. While her reprobate brother gambles away their fortune, and her feather-brained sister threatens to destroy the girls' collective reputation by succumbing to any lure cast her way, Fanny is regarded as the Brightwell family's saviour.

Pressured by her mother into accepting a marriage offer from lecherous Lord Slyther, a desperately unhappy Fanny is given one final opportunity to pull out of her nuptials—provided she secures an equally rich and titled suitor within two weeks. For if Fanny doesn't make a good match, she and her sister can look forward to a lifetime attending to Great Aunt Seraphina's chilblains.

During a single lapse of good judgment one evening while in masquerade as a fairy sprite, Fanny, discovers dashing rake, Viscount Fenton is just the man to satisfy the exacting criteria of both her mama and herself; a discovery which gives the lie to the refrain she's been told since infancy: that she has no heart.

**Read in KU or buy here.**

* * *

**ROGUE'S KISS**

**_Would a potential suitor be bolder if he were told the object of his desire had only six months to live?_**

Sweet, pretty Thea Brightwell's dull, quiet life with her crotchety aunt is about to be turned upside down by a visit to Bath.

A chance encounter in the spa town with wealthy, handsome Mr Grayling sets Thea's heart aflutter, but the fledgeling affair is quickly nipped in the bud by her aunt who has no intention of losing her unpaid nurse and companion.

Unbeknownst to penniless Thea, she has an unlikely champion in her well-meaning but 'not-too-bright' Cousin Bertram who has decided to play matchmaker.

If the lack of a dowry is the only impediment to Mr Grayling making an offer of marriage, Bertram reasons the gentleman would play a riskier hand if he were told that the damsel he covets were destined for her deathbed within six months?

Crotchety maiden aunts, love letters gone astray, and 'old flames' appearing from the woodwork lead to a most disconcerting outcome!

ROGUE'S KISS can be read as a stand-alone. It follows award-winning racy Regency romp RAKE'S HONOUR.

**Read in KU or buy here.**

**Miss Eliza Montrose will do anything to be reunited with her son — even if it means marrying a man she does not love.**

When Eliza discovers that the boy she was forced to give up after an indiscretion is now a foster child living in the household of the earl of Quamby, she accepts the marriage offer of Lord Quamby's odious nephew, George Bramley.

But when true love unexpectedly intervenes, Eliza must choose between her love for her child and her love for handsome, dashing Sylvester, a kind and honourable man who wants to make her his wife.

Unfortunately some well-meaning meddling from the once-hostile Fanny and Antoinette — her unexpected new friends — causes mayhem and potential disaster.

**Read in KU or buy here.**

**Or get the complete series and save.**

**Read in KU or buy here.**

# About the Author

Beverley was seventeen when she bundled up her first 500+ page romance and sent it to a publisher. Rejection followed swiftly. Drowning one's heroine on the last page, she was informed, was not in line with the expectations of romance readers.

So Beverley became a journalist.

After a whirlwind romance with a handsome Norwegian bush pilot she met in Botswana's beautiful Okavango Delta, Beverley discovered what real romance was all about, saved her heroine from a watery grave in her next manuscript and published her first romance in 2009.

Since then, she's written more than twenty-two sizzling historical romances laced with mystery and intrigue under the name Beverley Oakley.

She also writes psychological historical mysteries, and Colonial-Africa-set romantic suspense, as Beverley Eikli.

With an inspiring view of a Gothic nineteenth-century insane asylum across the road, Beverley lives north of Melbourne with her gorgeous husband, two lovely daughters and a rambunctious Rhodesian Ridgeback called Mombo, named after the safari lodge where she and her husband met.

* * *

You can read more at www.beverleyoakley.com

* * *

www.beverleyoakley.com

beverley.oakley@gmail.com

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# Acknowledgments

Love and huge appreciation, as ever, to my wonderful husband, Eivind. Thank you for your support and encouragement. I couldn't continue to write the stories I love without you!

I'd also like to thank my two wonderful critique partners, Lexi Greene and Nina Campbell, who have made the journey so much more rewarding and exciting.

And a special thank-you to my wonderful readers!

An author enjoys hearing about which characters their readers enjoyed reading about, and what they want. In fact, part of the fun of writing series is when readers communicate this.

And if you enjoyed the Daughters of Sin collection and want to leave a review it would mean a lot.

Warm wishes,

Beverley Oakley

# Get A Free Book

I really hope you enjoyed reading the first three stories in the **Daughters of Sin series.** The sequel to **The Mysterious Governess** is **Beyond Rubies,** which is followed by the final book, **Lady Unveiled.** These complete the _Daughters of Sin_ series.

Currently, I'm writing four novellas that will be available only to my newsletter subscribers. These include the story of what really happened to cause Araminta's first season to end so disastrously, and also the sideline story of Lord Ludbridge's rush to save his childhood friend.

If you want to know when I release new books and to have access to these exclusive novellas, you can sign up on my website or through the link to get **Saving Grace** for free. Here are some ways to stay connected:

  * Join my mailing list and get a free book here.
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And if you have any problems with these links, just email me at beverley (at) eikli (dot) com.

Thank you so much - and happy reading!

**_Beverley Oakley_**

Yes, I would like to get a Free Book and News Updates!
