Daring Masquarade

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DARING MASQUERADE By Mary Balogh Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five

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"Will you let me kiss you?" Nicholas asked. "Yes," she answered without hesitation. "I think I need to be held close to you. I am feeling decidedly agitated. I do wish I had never met you, you know." "No. you don't," he said, "any more than I wish I had never met you. There is a very strong attraction between you and me, Katherine Mannering."

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She was not given a chance to reply. His mouth came down on hers, and she reached for him with both arms, turning toward him so that her breasts came against his chest. "Katherine," he said against her ear, "I want you. God, how I want you." She knew what he meant. She told herself she was going to push him away and demand to be taken home. But not just yet…

MARY BALOGHwon theRomantic TimesAward for the Best New Regency Author in 1986 and a Waldenbooks Award for her Signet Regency RomanceThe First Snowdropin 1987. Her first Signet Super Regency,Secrets of the Heart, was hailed byRomantic Timesas "a winner."

SIGNET REGENCY ROMANCE COMING IN FEBRUARY

Michelle Kasey The Enterprising Lord Edward

April Kihlstrom The Scholar's Daughter

Mary Balogh A Gift of Daisies

MARY BALOGH

DARING

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MASQUERADE

A SIGNET BOOK NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

Copyright © 1988 by Mary Balogh All rights reserved

SIGNET TRADEMARK REG.U.S.PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO ENCHICAGO,U.S.A.

SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSIC,MENTOR, ONYX, PLUME, MERIDIANand NAL BOOKS are published by NAL PENGUIN INC., Broadway,New York,New York10019 First Printing, January, 1989

PRINTED IN THEUNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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To Marsha Touchstone for whose warm encouragement and constructive criticisms I am always grateful

Chapter One

Early Summer, 1811

"You see?" the little figure in the plain gray bonnet and cloak said accusingly, her face pressed against the carriage window as she peered outside. "I said it would be dark before we could reach Barton Abbey. I can scarcely see the landscape any longer, and where is the Abbey? Nowhere in sight, that's where. We will be beset by highwaymen yet, mark my words. And never say that I did not warn you." "We cannot be more than a few miles away now," a bored male voice said from the opposite corner of the carriage. "And what highwaymen would be doing in this secluded corner of Dorsetshire, I really could not say, Thelma. Not growing very wealthy, at a guess." "It is all very well for you to appear so brave," the girl said petulantly. "You are a man and can fight against ruffians. You really do not care what happens to me, do you, Adam? I could be ra… rav…" "I would relax if I were you," the unruffled Adam said, folding his arms and sinking lower in his seat. "If it turns out to be a lone highwayman who waylays us, I am quite sure the man would have sufficient taste to to ra… rav… Mrs. Mannering rather than you. She is the one who should be trembling and whining." "I shall tell Papa that you do not possess a chivalrous bone in your body," the lady in gray replied indignantly, "for all your education and fashionable clothes and town bronze." The gentleman raised his eyes to the roof of the carriage before closing them and settling himself for a sleep. He seemed remarkably unperturbed by the threat. The other occupant of the carriage, the Mrs. Mannering referred to, sat opposite the lady in gray. She was fashionably dressed in a wine-colored velvet pelisse and matching bonnet lavishly decorated with pink plumes and ribbons. Her clothes gave her an instant advantage over the other young lady. It seemed almost unfair that she also had other advantages. She was almost the same size as her companion but far more shapely. Her hair beneath the bonnet was not a great deal lighter than the other young lady's, but

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the difference was between shining blond and light mouse. Both had gray eyes, but hers were very dark and large, fringed by thick, dark lashes, whereas those of the other girl were quite unremarkable. The rather long, thin face of the girl in gray and her pale complexion were no match for the heart-shaped face of Mrs. Mannering, with its straight little nose, generous mouth, and naturally creamy complexion. Mrs. Mannering smiled now. "I really must agree with your brother, Lady Thelma," she said. "I would think the danger of losing a wheel on this dreadful road is far greater than that of being held up by footpads or highwaymen. And if such an unlikely occurrence should befall us, I am quite sure that our ruse will work." "Do you really think it would?" the girl replied. "But I should feel almost as bad to see you the focus of rude attention, Kate, as to suffer myself. If they were to find that you do not have any real valuables on you, they could become rough. And if you were to get hurt, I should never forgive myself for allowing it to happen." "Oh, you need not worry about me," Kate replied. "Any man who tried to molest me would receive as good as he gave, believe me. I should give him the length of my tongue, at the very least." The young man laughed without opening his eyes or saying anything. "And I am not afraid of using my fists," Mrs. Mannering added, turning to him with great dignity. "I have dealt a black eye and more than one bloody nose in my time." The gentleman laughed again. He still did not open his eyes or move. But he did speak this time. "Is that what did the unfortunate Mr. Mannering to death?" he asked. "Adam!" The shocked exclamation came from his sister. "It is one thing to insult me, but I cannot have yon treating my companion in an unmannerly way. You know that Papa always insists that we treat servants with courtesy. Apologize immediately." Her brother opened his eyes and surveyed the other lady somewhat lazily. "Did I hurt you, Mrs. Mannering?" he asked. "You do not play the part of the devastated widow. I did not imagine you would crumple up under such a joke. My apologies, ma'am." "Do you see me crumpled, sir?" Kate asked, looking him squarely in the face. "Your apology is accepted." Truth to tell, she thought, after the gentleman had re-closed his eyes and his sister had resumed her anxious scrutiny of the almost invisible world beyond the carriage windows, the girl's words had hurt far more. Servants must be treated with courtesy and therefore with condescension. They must be protected by their betters. And was she really a servant? She had not thought of herself by that title yet. A companion, yes. A lady's companion. A paid lady's companion. A servant. Yes, it was quite true. She was a servant. She must accustom herself to the fact. It was really quite a come-down for the daughter of a baronet and the widow of a respected landowner. Bat then, she thought philosophically, life was unpredictable at best. And she had no cause of complaint. There had been choices along the way. Kate's father had a large family, nine children in all, four by his first wife, her mother, and five by his second and present wife. He was not a wealthy man. The six boys must all be educated, of course, and suitable positions in life found for them. The girls must be married as soon and as well as possible. The

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other two daughters were part of the second family and still too young to leave home. But Kate herself had been married six years before at the tender age of seventeen to a man more than twice her age, and widowed almost five years later when Mr. Mannering choked on a chicken bone. She could have gone back home. Her father loved her dearly, of course, and even her stepmother had a fondness for her. She could have excused herself for such a move on the grounds that she was still very young and had been no burden on her family for five years. She could help with the younger children. The best excuse of all was that she was utterly destitute, her late husband having been up to his ears in debt. She did not go home. Charlie was now a curate, but his income was such that he could only barely keep his own body and soul from parting company. Ernest and Walter were both at university, and Gregory and Peter were atHarrow, with Cecil to follow them there shortly. She could well imagine that even one more mouth to feed, though hers was an undemanding one, would put a severe strain on her father's resources. She went toLondonto spend her year of mourning with her Aunt Priscilla and then looked about her for employment. She did not have to do so. Aunt Priscilla had married well and had connections in high places. She wanted to bring Kate out, though that was perhaps not quite the right term to use for a widow of three-and-twenty. She wanted to help her find another husband. Kate had declined. She had had one lengthy experience of marriage and concluded that if the choice must be made between becoming another man's possession and becoming someone's governess, she would become a governess. It was not an enviable prospect, but at least to a certain degree she would remain her own person. If worse came to worst, she could always leave employment. One could not leave a husband. Aunt Priscilla, finally convinced that her stubborn niece was not to be moved in her decision, took it upon herself to find Kate genteel employment. And she had learned that Lady Thelma Seyton, eighteen-year-old daughter of the new Earl of Barton, was in need of a companion. "Much more genteel than being a governess, dear," the aunt had said. "If you are fortunate, you will become a friend as well as a companion, and then, you know, you will be treated almost as one of the family. And it would be quite a distinguished post. The earl is fabulously wealthy, with property all over England. The chief seat is Barton Abbey inDorset. I have never seen it, but it is reputed to be one of the great showcases ofEngland. Who knows, Kate? You may even meet an eligible gentleman before too much time has elapsed. You are beautiful enough, I am sure, even if you do not have anything for a dowry." Kate had allowed her aunt to arrange an interview for her with Lady Thelma. She had found a thin, anxious young lady rather inclined to petulance, though not ill-natured, Kate judged. The girl had just started her come-out Season, apparently enough of an ordeal in itself. She seemed not to be of a naturally sociable disposition. But she had just been catapulted into the limelight by the accession of her father to the earldom of Barton on the death of his uncle. Until then he had been merely Viscount Stoughton, owner of a modest estate in a distant part ofYorkshire. Now he was owner of several large, estates, including the renowned Barton Abbey inDorset, and one of the wealthiest men in the land. The Honorable Miss Thelma Seyton now found herself to be Lady Thelma Seyton and much sought after by people who had treated her with indifference a mere week before. The girl wore mourning, a fact that added to her drab appearance, Kate decided. She was clearly bewildered by her change in status. Kate had felt sorry for her and had accepted the post of companion when it was offered to her after a short interview. Lady Thelma had seemed almost grateful to her, as if Kate were the one bestowing the favor.

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The earl had interviewed her too before she left the house. He told her that he would accept his daughter's choice and that he even approved it after talking to Kate for a few minutes. But he was quite blunt in reminding her that she was to be an employee in their home. He would expect her to dress soberly and always to keep her hair confined at the back of her head. He would not expect her to put herself forward in any company they entertained. Kate's cheeks had burned with mortification, but she had swallowed the hot retort that had risen to her lips. It was surprising, in fact, that she had not thought of herself as a servant at that point. Certainly the earl had made her feel like one. She had not been able to complain since then, though. He always treated her with courtesy. Because she was a servant, if Adam Seyton, the new Viscount Stoughton, were to be believed. All that had happened more than six weeks before. Since then Kate had grown somewhat accustomed to her new post. It really was not arduous. "Companion" was a good word to describe it. Her task was to keep Lady Thelma company wherever she went. Mainly that meant sitting and talking to the girl and giving her the courage to face life beyond the doors of her father's house. There had not been much social life beyond a few private dinners and assemblies. The family was in deep mourning. But Kate had discovered that the girl did have a few friends and that she had an eye for one of her brother's friends, a small, slender young dandy who had nothing particular to recommend him, as far as Kate could judge. She also discovered that Lady Thelma had an unnatural fear of footpads and highwaymen. Even in Londonshe was rigid with fear if they had to travel the streets at night. One evening, when they were traveling back late fromRichmondand her employer was in a worse dither of nerves than usual, Kate had suggested in exasperation that they exchange cloaks and bonnets. Even though Lady Thelma's were black, their fabric and cut proclaimed their superior quality over Kate's gray garments. Anyone who might hold up their carriage, Kate had declared, would mistake her for the lady and concentrate his pistol and his demands on her. Now they had decided on the same ruse. The earl had removed to Barton Abbey a week before. His son and daughter were joining him there. And a week later several of their friends and relatives were to arrive for a house party to last several weeks. The viscount and Lady Thelma were to leave off their mourning when they leftLondon, the earl had decreed. Enough that they had missed two months of the Season. After all, they had never even met their great-uncle. He himself had not seen the deceased earl for more than twenty years, since he married their mother and moved north to the estate she had brought him on the marriage. Yes, she was a servant, Kate decided again, smoothing out the velvet folds of Thelma's pelisse, which she wore. As soon as they arrived at Barton Abbey—surely soon now—she would change back into the gray garments that she would wear alternately with brown for goodness knew how many years. And—an even greater sacrifice to her new status—her hair would be scraped back again into its prim bun. She sighed. Life never had been particularly exciting, but from now on she could not even hope for any adventure to brighten her days. Only dull monotony stretched ahead of her. The carriage lurched suddenly and the coachman was calling to the horses to halt and was dragging back on the ribbons. Thelma stifled a scream, and Lord Stoughton sat up with an oath. "What the deuce?" he said, peering fruitlessly out of the window. It was quite dark outside, and certainly he could see no cause for such an abrupt stop. Kate leaned forward to comfort the terrified girl opposite her. And then in the quiet that ensued on the cessation of movement, they could hear the coachman and the footman scrambling down from the box outside and a clear masculine voice talking to them.

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"Come down slowly, and keep your hands in sight," the voice said. "I would be loath to harm you. Move out into the middle of the road in front of the horses, where I can see you." Thelma's eyes, visible to Kate above the hand that the girl had clapped over her mouth, were so wide that they looked as if they were about to fall from their sockets. "Damn it to hell!" the viscount said, regardless of the sensibilities of his female companions. "I do not even have a pistol. Whoever would have thought it necessary inDorset?" "Stay quiet!" Kate instructed her employer. "Leave this to me." Her heart was knocking against her ribs so loudly that it felt as if it would burst through at any moment. . After a short silence, during which the two servants were presumably doing exactly what they had been told, the door of the carriage opened to reveal black night. "If you have any weapons," the same cool male voice said, "you would be well to throw them outside now. Then you may jump down into the road. Slowly and one at a time, please. I do not wish to have to use my pistol." The accent of the voice was faintly French. "We have no weapons, villain," Kate said in a firm voice that belied the palpitations of her heart. "And how, pray, do you expect us to jump slowly from such a height? Command gravity to suspend its rules?" There was a short silence from outside. "The saucy wench can come first," the voice said at last. Kate rose indignantly to her feet. "I say," Viscount Stoughton said, pushing her back to her seat again with one arm. "Do you wish the ladies to break their necks, blackguard? I come first so that I may assist them to the ground." He jumped out before the highwayman, or whoever the owner of the voice with the French accent was, could reply. He lifted first Kate and then a shrinking Thelma to the ground. Kate glared around her as soon as her feet touched the road, until she saw the enormous dark stallion standing very still to one side of the door, its rider looking disturbingly large and menacing. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, they made out a man wearing a heavy cloak and old-fashioned tricorne. His hair beneath the hat and tied at the nape of his neck gleamed very fair. His face seemed to be in deep shadow, but when she squinted with greater concentration, she could see that it was almost completely hidden behind a dark mask. He held a long pistol trained on them. "Well," she said before anyone else seemed inclined to resume the conversation, "here you have us, you cowardly villain. We are entirely at your mercy. I do not imagine you have many likely victims along this road. I suppose you know with whom you deal. Just in case you are in any doubt, I am Lady Thelma Seyton, the Earl of Barton's daughter. And incidentally, he will see that you swing for this, my man. This is my brother, Lord Stoughton. Now, what was it you wished from us? Money? I have three sovereigns in my reticule. Perhaps my brother has as many more. I also have a pair of pearl earrings of indifferent value in the same reticule. I doubt if my brother has the like about his person. Take what we have and be on your way. And enjoy it while you may. You will be kicking your heels on air before many days have passed." Kate really felt as if her knees would buckle under her at any moment. If this highwayman did not get about his business immediately, she was likely to disgrace herself and fall to the roadway. But no! She

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positively refused to swoon. To her surprise, the highwayman chuckled. She could see the flash of his teeth when she glared up at him. "And the shrinking little female?" he asked, waving his pistol almost carelessly in the direction of Thelma. "My maid," Kate said as Thelma whimpered and hid behind Lord Stoughton. "You would be fortunate to find two farthings on her person. I do not encourage my servants to carry about anything valuable." "A word of advice, mamselle," the highwayman said, leaning forward slightly in his saddle, one elbow resting against the neck of his horse. "Do not say such a thing in future if you have the misfortune to be stopped again by someone of my profession. The first thing that will happen is that your maid will be searched from head to toe and all your jewels discovered. It is not a very subtle hiding place, especially if you protest the poverty of your maid with such studied nonchalance." He chuckled again. Thelma continued to whimper and cower behind her brother as if she thought that she could thereby make herself invisible. "You!" the highwayman straightened up again and pointed his pistol directly at Kate's heart. "Step over here, if you please." He grinned. "Or if you do not please." "I say," Lord Stoughton protested. "What is it you do want? If it is our valuables, then take them and be off with you, fellow." "There is only one valuable that I have any desire for tonight," the highwayman replied. "I told you to step over here, mamselle. You would be well advised to obey. Or are you too afraid to step away from your brother's shadow?" Kate bristled. "Afraid of you?" she said, injecting as much scorn into her voice as she could. "I would as like be frightened of a worm beneath my foot." She stepped boldly to the horse's side and looked defiantly up at the masked figure, who suddenly looked far more menacing. He reached down the hand that was not holding the pistol. "Take my hand and set your foot on my boot, mamselle," he said. "You and I are going to take a ride together." Kate felt more seriously alarmed than she had before. "I would not ride one inch with you, you blackhearted villain," she said, setting her hands on her hips. He grinned again. "I am not asking you to ride an inch," he said. "I amtellingyou that you will be riding a few miles with me. Will you do as you are told, or shall I reach down and sling you across the horse in front of me? Such a mode of travel would be uncomfortable, I can assure you, mamselle." Kate was at a loss. "I say,"Stoughtonsaid. "This has gone far enough, fellow. Let the lady go. I have upward of twenty guineas in my possession. Take those." Thelma was sniveling. She had slid to the ground some time before. The highwayman ignored them both beyond directing the pistol vaguely in their direction. His hand was still extended firmly toward Kate. She looked up at him, her chin very firmly in the air, and slapped her

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hand down into his. Very strong fingers closed immediately around hers. She lifted her skirts with her free hand and placed a slippered foot on his boot as it rested in the stirrup. It seemed that the very next moment she was seated before him on the horse, facing sideways, his arms around her like a vise, the pistol alarmingly close. It was still pointed down into the roadway. "I shall be, ah, borrowing your sister for a time,Stoughton," the highwayman said, his voice sounding deep in Kate's ear. "You will be hearing from me. She will not be harmed." And with that he turned the horse's head and cantered down the roadway for a few yards before turning sharply to the left and making his way through the hedgeway and trees. Viscount Stoughton's voice, mingled with shouts of protest from the coachman and footman, was quickly left behind. "This is an outrage!" Kate said a trifle breathlessly as the pistol disappeared from view. She could not remember ever feeling such a blind terror in her life as she felt at that moment. He laughed and she looked sideways into his face. Then she wished she had not done so. All that was visible beneath the mask was his mouth and jawline and his glittering eyes. She fought panic. She thought she was going to be sick. And it would serve him right, too, if she vomited all over him. His hair was as blond as hers, she thought irrelevantly. "You are very brave," he said. "I regret having to subject you to so much terror, my dear." "Terror?" she said with a brittle laugh. "I would disdain to fear such as you, sir." "Then you would be very foolish," he said. "We are going to stop for just a moment. I regret that I have to frighten you still further, my brave mamselle. I am going to wrap this scarf around your eyes. You are in no real danger, I assure you, though I realize that you will not believe that. But you must sit very still once your eyes are bandaged. One's sense of balance is impaired when one cannot see. I shall hold you safe against me. You must not squirm even if you find my proximity distasteful." Kate saw no possible escape from her situation—at the moment, anyway. She sat still and unprotesting as he removed her bonnet, secured it by the ribbons to his saddle, and tied behind her head the ends of the silk scarf with which he covered her eyes. Then he drew her close against an alarmingly broad and well-muscled chest and gave the horse the signal to start again. "I shall see you hanged for this," she muttered. "So you said before," he replied. "You should not repeat yourself. You have been quite original to this point. I confess I admire you greatly. Most females would have had the vapors long ago, like that scrawny maid of yours." Kate lost her battle against the muscles of her neck. She was forced to rest her head against his shoulder. "Where are you taking me?" she asked. "That is rather an unintelligent question, is it not, my dear?" he asked. "Would I have bandaged your eyes if I were willing for you to know your destination? The blindfold is only an extra precaution, of course. You are a stranger to these parts." "What do you want?" she asked.

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"We will dispense with social chatter until we are indoors," her captor said. "You will be quiet now." "I could scream," she said. "That would attract some attention. I could scream and scream." He chuckled. "You are not accomplished in duplicity, mamselle," he said. "You made a mistake in what you told me of your maid. Now you warn me that you are about to scream. Do you wish me to gag you too?" "You have the scarf about my eyes," she pointed out. "And am unlikely to have another on my person?" he said. "You are quite right. Let me see, now. If you should decide to scream, you would find yourself effectively silenced almost before sound had escaped you. Thus." His mouth was on hers suddenly, open, completely covering her shocked and indignant lips. It was removed almost instantly. "Oh!" Words evaded Kate. She lifted her free arm and swung wildly in what she hoped was the direction of his face. Then she was screeching in earnest as she felt herself lurching forward. His strong arm tightened around her and set her to rights just when she was convinced that she was toppling to her death. "Now perhaps you will heed my warning about sitting still," the highwayman said, having the effrontery to sound amused. "And we will have no more talking or shrieking, my dear. If I am forced to kiss you like that again, I might well lose my sense of caution and end up swinging after all. And I should hate that." "Don't ever touch me like that again!" Kate hissed, raising her hand once more and dragging the back of it ostentatiously across her lips. "Not ever. Do you understand me?" "It was that good, was it?" he asked before lapsing into silence for the seemingly endless ride that lay ahead of them. Finally they stopped and he swung himself to the ground, holding Kate safely in place while he did so. Then she found herself lifted down into his arms and carried a distance, until she realized they were indoors. "Will you see to my horse?" she heard him ask some invisible person. She considered appealing for help to this presence but concluded that he must be able to see her blindfolded and imprisoned and would help of his own accord if he were not in league with this insolent villain who held her. Her feet were deposited oh a hard floor eventually. "You may remove your blindfold, mamselle," the highwayman said. "I shall see to refreshments for you and shall be back in a few minutes to satisfy some of your curiosity at least." By the time she had dragged the silk scarf free of her head, she was alone. Kate looked around her. The room was fairly small and square, neatly but sparsely furnished. The floor was of bare wooden boards, with a woven mat before the fireplace and a worn leather chair beside it. A wooden settle stood at the other side of the fireplace. A square wooden table, with a chair on each of two sides of it, stood in one corner. A smaller table, on which stood a single lamp, was beside the window. Dark cotton curtains covered the window.

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Kate's first move was to cross the room and throw aside the curtains. She did not find the bars that she expected to see. But there was no knowing where the building was, even if she were familiar with the area. All was pitch black outside. She turned and rushed across the room to the door. It was locked, as she expected. She raced back to the window, determined to open it and escape. She had not been carried up any stairs. A leap into the dark' ness was unlikely to break her neck. "I would not waste energy if I were you," that voice with its annoying French accent said from behind her. She had heard the door open but had not given up her struggle with the catch of the window. "That latch has defied the strongest hands since I came here. I believe that the only way to open the window is to punch out the glass." Kate turned and glared at her captor. His cloak and tricorne had been removed, but he still wore the mask. It almost completely covered his face. Its black color contrasted markedly with the gleaming blond of his hair, which he wore long and tied back in an unfashionable queue. He looked just as disturbingly large and strong standing before her without his coat as he had looked when she had gazed up at him on horseback and as he had felt when she leaned against him during their long ride. Her terror and near-panic returned. He could do anything he wished with her, and she would be utterly helpless to resist. She raised her chin and glared at him. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this enforced visit, pray?" she asked icily. She felt instantly proud of the steadiness of her voice. "Shall we discuss the matter over some refreshments?" he suggested politely, indicating the tray he had set on the table. "I cannot produce anything for a delicate palate, I'm afraid. Will bread, cheese, and some cold beef suffice?" "A carriage to convey me to Barton Abbey will suffice," Kate said without moving from her position before the window. "I would not touch your food with a long oar, sir." "A pity, mamselle," he said with a shrug. "You will perhaps lose your shapely figure before you leave here if you keep to your resolve." "And to whom do I owe the indignity of this captivity?" Kate asked haughtily. "Who are you?" "Now that, you will be surprised to hear," he said with that flashing grin she had seen before in the darkness, "I am prepared to answer." He made her a deep bow. "Nicholas Seyton, Earl of Barton, at your service, dear cousin." Kate stared, incredulous, before giving vent to a short and inelegant bark of laughter. "You are as much the Earl of Barton as I am Lady Thelma Seyton," she said. Chapter Two

Autumn, 1786

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The harvest was almost all in. The countryside of northernFrancewas left bare and golden, though the reds, browns, and yellows of the autumn leaves on the trees added a richness to the scene. The air held a fresh coolness that was welcomed by the fashionable traveler after the heat of the summer inItalyand southernFrance. In fact, it felt good to be going home toEnglanddespite the fact that the almost nine months of his Grand Tour had been the most exciting period of his life. He had heard it said before that one appreciated the rains and chill ofEnglandfar more when one had been away for a while. There was no place like home, when all was said and done. Yet Jonathan Seyton, Viscount Stoughton, had one more stop to make before returning home. He had been traveling for months, experiencing places and events beyond his wildest imaginings, meeting innumerable interesting people both from his own land and from the various countries ofEurope. These people had included many lovely females, a few of whom he had possessed, and several more of whom he had engaged in flirtations. Yet he had been unable to put from his mind the first lady of birth and breeding he had met after leavingEngland. He must see her again before returning home to look about him for an English bride. Annette Marcelin. She was not even a girl of any great social significance. Beautiful, yes, with her tiny, very shapely figure, and her very dark hair and eyes. She lived with her widowed mother inBelleville, a small village north ofParis. They were of genteel birth but sadly reduced in circumstances. Viscount Stoughton had rented rooms from them while the friend with whom he was traveling at the time spent a few days with friends nearby. He had chafed at the delay at first and had even considered the idea of going on alone. It had seemed too provoking to be not even inParisyet and to have to spend almost a week in a village that offered nothing out of the ordinary for his entertainment. But it did have something out of the ordinary, he had discovered very soon. It had Annette, beautiful, quiet, yet with a warm charm that soon had him using his self-conscious French without awkwardness or embarrassment. They had talked endlessly and walked out together along country lanes and across fields, despite the cold of winter. The nippy air had served only to bring a rosier glow to her cheeks and a brighter sparkle to her eyes. After a few days he had found himself making her all sorts of rash declarations and promises. And he had made love to her during the last two days, in a cold field the first time and in her bed several times, both of them silent and tense, in fear of discovery by her mother. And yet the stealth, which in some ways had inhibited their love-making, in another way had accentuated the excitement. He had left her on the return of Lord Lindstrom, his traveling companion, full of promises to return that he had no intention of keeping. But the little French girl had wrapped herself around his heartstrings, and he had to go back to see her once more before going home. He had no one to please but himself. Lindstrom had decided to extend his tour by joining a party toGreece. They had parted company inItalyseveral weeks before. A few days with Annette would satisfy his appetites. It would be easy enough to leave her again with promises to return the following summer. Who knew? Perhaps he really would return. He could do a great deal worse for a mistress. When he presented himself at the house inBelleville, however, it was to be greeted by a somewhat cold and formal Madame Marcelin. She sent for her daughter whenStoughtonasked after her health and watched him with wooden expression when a very largely pregnant Annette came into the room, flushed and uncomfortable.

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Viscount Stoughton had lived an easy and privileged existence for his two-and-twenty years. He was not an original thinker. He had always taken for granted that he would in due time take himself a bride from among the British aristocracy and breed an heir and a few other children. He would eventually succeed his father to the estate and earldom of Barton and to the other property and fortune that would come with them. He would amuse himself with hunting and socializing. He would doubtless take mistresses, since from his observations marriage did not seem to bring a great deal of excitement or satisfaction of a man's sexual appetites. He was not of an original turn of mind, but neither was he a vicious or unprincipled man. Annette was gently born. He had brought shame and dishonor on both her and her mother. He had ruined her chances of a decent life. He must marry her. He did not quite know why the notion had not struck him before, in fact. Just because she was French, perhaps? But what was wrong with having a foreign bride? The idea of bringing home with him such a dark little beauty suddenly had great appeal. Not in her present state, of course. It would be in very poor taste, and not a little embarrassing, to present her thus to his father. After the birth of the child. His child! It was a sobering truth. In feet, on further thought, he considered that the whole business of breaking the news to his father was going to be deucedly awkward. If the truth were known, he was a little afraid of the earl, who ruled all around him, including his son, with a heavy hand. Lord Barton would not approve of a French bride, particularly one who had been increasing for all of eight months. Better to provide handsomely for the bastard child and turn his back on that youthful episode of his life, the earl would advise. Command, rather.Stoughtoncould almost hear him. It was not his habit to defy his father. But seeing the well-controlled unhappiness of Madame Marcelin and the almost frightened hope in the eyes of his little Annette gaveStoughtonthe courage that he knew with some discomfort he would not have if his father were anywhere near. He decided to do the decent thing and make an honest woman of Annette and a legitimate child of her offspring. While arrangements were being made for a hasty wedding,Stoughtonbasked in a sense of his own noble gesture. Madame Marcelin was suddenly the charming lady she had been on his first visit. Annette, though huge and ungainly, was again the warm, smiling beauty he had been unable to forget during the months of his tour. He married her one week after his arrival and kissed her farewell the same day. It was impossible for her to travel when she was within a few weeks of her confinement. And it was out of the question for him to stay for long. He must return to Barton Abbey to inform his father that he had taken a wife and that soon there was to be a child, a boy it was to be hoped. The new viscountess was tearful and clung to his neck awkwardly, hindered by her large bulk. But she was forced to admit the wisdom of his decision. He would return within the month, perhaps even before the birth of their child By the time he reached theshoreofEnglandseveral days later, Viscount Stoughton was finding it hard to believe in the reality of the last couple of weeks. He did not feel like a married man. He did not feel any different at all. And his own precipitate action in marrying Annette seemed to him decidely rash under the cloudy skies of home. It was not that he did not love his wife or want his child. If he had only himself to please, he would feel well-satisfied with his choice. But he had to face his father with the news, and the prospect was even more daunting now than it had seemed earlier. In feet, he really did not know how he was to go about it. As his hired carriage carried him closer toDorsetand to home,Stoughtonknew that he would not be able to do it. Not immediately, anyway. He would give himself a week. During that time he would talk to his

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father about his travels, impress upon the earl the new maturity he had acquired while abroad, make a friend of him perhaps. Then gradually, somehow, he would break the news. Was there any way his father could discover his secret by accident before he was ready to tell it himself? Annette knew that he lived at Barton Abbey, bat he considered it very unlikely that she would write. Not until after the birth of the child, anyway, and by that time he would be back inFrance. No one inEngland knew. He was safe. ButStoughtonwas not convinced. The earl had always had an uncanny way of discovering his secrets when he was a child, and always those secrets that his son least wished him to know. There was the time, for example, when he and his cousin Clive had captured and tied up the gardener's daughter, meaning to release her when it was appropriate to their childhood game to do so. The gardener, discovering his daughter in a garden shed before her release, had sworn not to tell the earl, but had taken the alternative—far preferred by the boys themselves—of thrashing the captors himself. But the earl had found out anyway—Stoughtonnever knew how—and they had received a second and far more severe thrashing. The only thing that could possibly incriminate him on this occasion was the marriage papers that he had with him. And there was no reason why the earl should see those unless they were left lying around in the open. However, by the time the carnage was traveling the familiar roads ofDorset, those papers felt as if they were burning a hole in the viscount's pocket. Where could he put them that would be entirely safe from accidental discovery? The answer should have been obvious. The papers should be perfectly safe anywhere in his own bedchamber or dressing room. Who would wish to search his personal possessions anyway, and for what purpose? But Lord Stoughton had been traveling quite alone for several days with nothing to do but think. And by this stage of his journey his thoughts were not at all rational. A hiding place must be found, somewhere where the papers would be quite safe for the week it would take him to find the courage to tell his lather of his marriage. He was almost home before he finally decided upon a suitable place. What made it even more satisfactory was that he would be rid of his guilty burden by the time he greeted his father. There would be no possible danger of the papers falling out of his pocket and landing, open, on the floor as he bowed over the earl's hand. Viscount Stoughton was not renowned for his wisdom. Perhaps his youth accounted for the lack. He had gone to extreme lengths to ensure that his father would not discover his marriage until he had paved the way and could tell the terrible secret himself. And yet he found after only two days at home that his news was fairly bursting from his own lips. It was still impossible to tell his father. The earl had had word of his son from other returned travelers, and he had a tendency to harp on about that occasion when Stoughtonhad lost close to five hundred pounds at a card game inVienna, his rashness in betting caused in large measure by the feet that he had been sadly foxed at the time.Stoughtontold Clive. Clive Seyton and his sister, Alice, had come to live at Barton Abbey twelve years before on the demise of their parents. The Earl of Barton was their uncle.Alicehad stayed only two years before moving to live with an aunt on her mother's side, who had engaged to educate the girl and bring her out when she was older. Clive had remained at Barton Abbey and was treated in the same manner as Jonathan, He was two years younger than the latter, still a student atOxfordwhen the viscount returned from his Grand Tour. The cousins had always been close, the bond between them more like that of brothers than cousins. Clive had always been a placid, good-natured lad who cheerfully followed the lead of his more outward-going and impulsive cousin. Many was the thrashing he endured because he had not had the

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willpower to refuse to join in some piece of mischief suggested by his companion. He had proved his loyalty time and again, once suffering punishment for a crime he had not committed-putting frogs into a pot that the nervous cook used frequently—rather than reveal that his cousin was the real culprit. He could keep a secret even if someone were trying to worm it out of him.Stoughtontold him of his marriage and of the imminent birth of his child. Clive reacted predictably. His cousin grew in his esteem for having done something so manly and so daring. He agreed that his uncle would have to be carefully prepared before the news was broken. He promised solemnly that the secret would never be drawn from him,even by wild horses. News of the marriage would never be revealed if the matter depended on him. He applauded his cousin's intelligence in hiding the marriage papers. Strangely, perhaps,Stoughtondid not tell his cousin where those papers had been left. The matter did not seem of any importance at the time. It became of crucial importance just two days later when the viscount, rashly jumping a high gate on the back of a horse that was not accustomed to his horsemanship after his long absence, fell and broke his neck. He died instantly. Clive Seyton was genuinely distraught over the death of his cousin. It was not until the following day that he consciously remembered that the viscount had died with his secret intact. No one inEnglandbut him knew of the marriage. And clearly those marriage papers had not been hidden onStoughton's person, else they would have been discovered the previous day after the body had been brought home and dressed for burial. Clive realized that the responsibility of telling the earl of the marriage now rested on his shoulders. Despite the promise of undying secrecy he had made, he must reveal the truth. Circumstances had changed so drastically that he could no longer be held by his oath. Yet the thought came unbidden into his mind on the same day that he was now the heir to the earldom of Barton and would remain so if the child of that Frenchwoman were a girl. Even if it were a boy, he would remain the heir if the secret of the marriage never did come to light. If he could find the marriage papers and if he could reach Annette, no one need ever know that the child was the legitimate heir of the Earl of Barton. Clive, good-natured and unassuming by nature, was tempted. And gave in to temptation. He reasoned that ifStoughtonhad not confided in him, he would not have the burden of the secret in the first place. He reasoned that the child might very possibly turn out to be a girl and he would be the rightful heir anyway. He reasoned that his right to the title and the estate and fortune was far more forceful than that of a child who had not even been born yet, who had been conceived out of wedlock, and who would be born to a foreign woman in a foreign land. He decided to search for those papers and destroy them. There was nothing he could do about the wife, of course, because he did not know where she lived or what her maiden name had been. If he were fortunate, the child would be a girl and there would be no problem. But there was just as strong a chance that it would be a boy. He set himself the task of checking the mail himself before his uncle saw it, so that he might intercept any letter fromFrance. He was not quite sure what he would do if a letter announcing the birth of a son did come into his uncle's hands. He would think of that when the time came. But the effort to keep the truth from the earl was at least a worthwhile one. If he failed, well, at least no one would be able to accuse him of any dishonesty. And he would merely see the end of hopes that he had only recently conceived. While his cousin had lived, it had never occurred to Clive that he might one day succeed his uncle. His plans worked, though not quite as smoothly as he would have liked. Try as he would, he could not find the papers, which his cousin had assured him existed. He searched both in the house and outside.

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And his search was an informed one. He knew all the likely hiding places that his cousin might have chosen. He felt uneasy at his failure but was at least partly consoled by the fact that no one else came across them either. He had almost begun to hope that the viscountess would not write to the Abbey when, almost two months after the viscount's death, a letter addressed to him did arrive. Unfortunately, it came on one of the few days when Clive was not at home to check the day's post. And the letter was delivered to the Earl of Barton. The first Clive knew of it was on his return home later that afternoon, when his uncle summoned him to his cabinet. "You were close to Jonathan," the older man said, the letter open on the desk before him. "Did he say anything to you of a wife?" "A wife?" Clive drew on acting skills he did not know he possessed. He regarded his uncle with a puzzled frown. "Jonathan?" "There is a Frenchwoman claiming to be the Viscountess Stoughton and writing to my son as if he were her husband," the earl said. "Absurd!" Clive exclaimed. "If there were any truth in that, Jonathan would have told me. We kept no secrets from each other. May I?" He held out a hand for the letter. The earl handed it to him. "There is a son," he said, "whom she claims to be Jonathan's." "That is as may be," Clive said, deeming it wise not to protest too much. "You know, sir, as well as I, that Jonathan liked a willing Wench. In fact, he told me quite freely of a few conquests he made while in Europe. But not one by the name of…"—he glanced at the letter again—"Annette. And she is from a place I have never heard of. An adventuress, sir, I would guess. She has probably heard from some traveler of the demise of my cousin and thinks to benefit from it on behalf of her son." The earl frowned. "I am inclined to agree with you," he said. "My son was too chickenhearted to take such a major step in life as marriage without my consent. On the other hand, he was quite lusty enough to have begotten a bastard during his travels. The woman must be a fool. Does she believe I will welcome her and her son with open arms without an ounce of proof for her claim? If she was married to my son, I shall find out. If she was not, she will be sorry she thought to outwit the Earl of Barton. I shall go to this…"—his hand made circular movements toward the letter still in his nephews's grasp—"whatever the place is and see for myself." "And—with all due respect—you would be laughed at for a dupe for many years to come," Clive said. "It will not do, Uncle, if you will pardon me for saying so. Investigate the claim you must. If the wench is telling the truth, then this child is your grandson and heir. But let me go. No one need even know why I have decided to make a short journey intoFrance, whereas word will quickly leak out if you make the journey. I shall discover the truth. You have been a father to me in the last twelve years, and Jonathan was as dear as any brother. I shall not rest until I have discovered beyond the shadow of a doubt who this woman and her child are." The earl considered. "You are a good boy, Clive," he said at last. "And you have a good head on your shoulders. You are right. I must not dignify the woman's impertinence by investigating her claim in person. But do the thing properly, Clive. If it is true, she is the viscountess and the boy will be the new Viscount Stoughton. They must be brought back to the Abbey with proper ceremony. If she lies, then you may turn your back on her without further thought. But if she is partly telling the truth, if the child is a bastard

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and my son's, then I want him. Buy her off; do what you will; but bring me my grandson. He will be raised here." It was a measure of the earl's deep and inconsolable grief that he was willing, and even eager, to take in the illegitimate child of his son.

Clive Seyton suffered a severe crisis of conscience during his journey toBellevilleinFrance. Like his cousin a few months before, he was alone and had plenty of time to think. He was new to duplicity and deceit and found it difficult to keep rationalizing what he was doing and what he was going to try to do. But he succeeded. Ambition having once been aroused in him, he found himself unwilling to put it to rest for the sake of a French child who had no rightful claim on the Barton property at all except for the fact that Jonathan had married the child's mother on impulse almost at the very moment of his birth. Clive had loved and admired his cousin a great deal, but even he had been aware of the essentially weak will of Lord Stoughton. This Annette and her mother had obviously talked him into a marriage that he would never have contracted of his own free will. Why should they benefit now from their cunning? By the time he reached the village and found the modest home of Madame Marcelin, Clive had convinced himself that what he was doing was morally right even if not quite legally justifiable. He broke the news of Jonathan's death to the ladies and said no more for the first day. He was made uncomfortable by the suffering of the little viscountess. She was damned pretty. But then, he might have guessed as much. Jonathan had always had an eye for a lovely female. And she must have been fond of him. Her grief was total, though not at all ostentatious. He would have been suspicious and a little disgusted by loud wailing and lamenting. But during that day he did satisfy himself that indeed the marriage had taken place. He had known it, of course, from Jonathan himself. But the records were there for all to see in the village church. The knowledge that it had been a Catholic ceremony hardened his resolve. It somehow seemed less of a marriage if performed out of the Anglican church. But legal it was, and it would be difficult for him to cover up its existence. Madame Marcelin and Annette made his task somewhat easier. Knowing that her husband was now dead, Annette had little wish to be taken toEngland. And she had a healthy fear of her father-in-law, instilled no doubt by stories the viscount had told her. Her mother did not want to see her go. She even rallied her spirits sufficiently to confide to Clive when her daughter was absent that another marriage might now be made quite easily. Annette's status as the widow of an English nobleman would make her very eligible. It was easy enough for Clive to inform both ladies that the Earl of Barton was prepared to make a sizable settlement on his daughter-in-law. The other parts of his plan were a little more delicate. Annette was quite eager to stay inFrance, but she naturally assumed that her son would remain with her. Persuading her to give up the boy, who still had not been weaned, was no easy matter. It was natural that his grandfather would want the boy, Clive had explained. The child was now the heir to a vast inheritance and must be brought up to the life he would be expected to lead. He must be brought up as an Englishman. The Earl of Barton would be able to lavish on him the things that Annette, even with her large settlement, would not be able to give him. Annette agreed, but it was more difficult to persuade her that it would be better for the boy to be separated from her. It would be undesirable to confuse him with a double identity. Now that she was widowed, his mother's interests would be focused inFrance. He must be an Englishman with no conflict

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of interest. Finally she agreed. Her mother helped, knowing that it would be easier to marry Annette well if she were unencumbered by a child. But Clive's victory was still not complete. The most difficult part of all was still to come. There would be no safety for him in the situation if at any time Annette might write to Barton Abbey or decide to pay her son a surprise visit. She must be persuaded to sever all ties with her child. Somehow he did it. Money helped. She and her mother had accepted as a settlement a lesser sum than the earl had been willing to pay to buy her off. Now Clive offered the remainder if she would sign a paper, which he represented as a legal document, that she would never again communicate with her son or any of his English relatives. Gentle reasoning completed the argument. The parting would be painful for her, Clive said. Would it not add to her pain to see her son in the years to come, an English boy who would neither know her nor speak her language? And the earl might be angered if she made a claim on the boy when he had been generous enough to take upon himself all the expense and trouble of the child's upbringing and education. He might decide to wash his hands of the boy. Would it not be better for her to make a clean break now? Annette signed the paper with her mother's approval. Neither of them had deemed it necessary to seek outside advice. Clive had a confident yet sympathetic manner that invited trust. Five days after his arrival inBelleville, Clive left again with the two-and-a-half-month-old Nicholas Seyton and a wet nurse, hired for the journey until an Englishwoman-could be engaged at Barton Abbey. He turned away when the time came for Annette to hand over her son. He was afraid he might weaken if he witnessed that scene. Clive had considered not taking the child. If he was willing to deceive the earl about the main issue, he could just as easily have pretended that the child was not Jonathan's. But he was afraid that the disappointment might drive the earl to go to France himself to investigate. It seemed to him wiser to take the safer, though less satisfactory course of admitting the child's paternity and taking him to his grandfather. And he knew he had done the right thing as soon as they returned. Clive had never seen the earl so affected by emotion as he was when he took the sleeping child from the arms of the nurse. He had not shed a tear on the death of his son or during the weeks that followed. Yet he wept when he saw the beautiful dark-haired baby of his son, though the child looked nothing like his father. Barton Abbey remained Clive's nominal home for the next four and a half years, though he was away much of the time, first at university, then on his own Grand Tour, and finally in London or at one of the spas. He was Viscount Stoughton and heir to Barton. Though he was never a handsome man, with his short, rather stout figure, and his thin sandy hair, he was a very eligible bachelor and was able to choose his bride at some leisure. He eventually married the daughter of an untitled but prominent gentleman from the north ofEnglandand took her to live on a modest estate bestowed on them by his bride's proud father. Although he frequently traveled south with her over the next eighteen years until her death, he never visited Barton Abbey. He could not bear to see Nicholas. At four years old, when he last saw him, the boy was already big for his age, very active, mischievous, and intelligent. And he was a beautiful child with the very dark hair he had inherited from his mother and the large blue eyes that were his father's legacy. Yet the eyes were the only part of his father that he seemed to have inherited, except perhaps for his love of mischief. Already he showed signs of being a headstrong character, and he showed little fear of his grandfather. Of course, the earl treated him differently from the way he had treated his son. He doted on little Nicholas as he had never doted on anyone else in his life. Perhaps he was trying in some way to make up to the child for his illegitimacy. Perhaps he saw less reason for being strict with a bastard who would hold no important

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position in life. However it was, Clive grew to hate the child. He was still honest enough at heart to know the reason. He could not look at the boy without being consumed with guilt over what he had done. He could still rationalize his behavior, but in his heart he knew that he had done a dastardly thing. And the fear of discovery ate at him, especially when he was at Barton Abbey. He found himself constantly looking for those elusive marriage papers, even after he had searched and researched every likely and unlikely hiding place. In the end it was easier to stay away. His decision to marry when he was only five-and-twenty years old was made largely because marriage would give him the excuse and means to stay away from his uncle's home. Even the choice of a bride from the North was in a semiconscious way deliberate. He could not be expected to travel intoDorsetfrom such a distance. He hoped never to see Nicholas Seyton again. Chapter Three

Early Summer, 1811

The highwayman continued to grin as he gazed at the indignant and somewhat disheveled figure of his captive. "I take it that you mean to disclaim your identity, Thelma," he said. "That is as may be, my dear, but I am who I say I am nonetheless. I thought perhaps you would be somewhat reassured to know that your captor is a member of your own family." "No part of my family, sir," Kate said, her chin rising, "I thank the good Lord. And no part of my employer's family either, if my guess is correct. Merely a common highwayman, doubtless. And if your idea is to ransom me to the Earl of Barton for a large sum, then you are doomed to great disappointment. He will, I believe, offer a small sum for me, for he is a kind man to his servants. But you can forget about making your fortune from this night's work, I am delighted to inform you." The highwayman crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. He looked quite relaxed and amused, Kate noticed indignantly. "I can scarce believe you to be the daughter of my scoundrel cousin, Mr. Clive Seyton," he said. "But I suppose that like you he must have a measure of courage if he has carried through his imposture for so many years. And of course you share his ability to pretend to be what you are not. You are a servant, are you, my dear? My cousin must be a generous employer if you can afford to dress so richly. I suppose the poor drab little gray creature who was so busy having the vapors outside your carriage was Lady Thelma?" His face was amused, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

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"Precisely!" Kate said, smiling arctically. "Our ruse worked even better than I had expected it to." "Ah," he said. "So some uncanny sixth sense told you that I would be lying in wait for you during your journey, did it? And you very cleverly exchanged clothes with my cousin?". "Lady Thelma Seyton has an unnatural fear of rogues like you," Kate said. "We are in the habit of exchanging clothes during every journey. I have always done it merely to humor her and set her mind more at ease. Now I am very pleased that I have done so. I should hate to see you benefit from so cowardly an attack." "Cowardly?" he said. "You do not know what you say, my dear. You have no idea how much courage it takes to face the unknown peril of a strange carriage at night." "Coward!" Kate repeated. "You knew that Lord Barton was already at the Abbey and that only his children would be in that carriage." "So the gentlemanwasthe son, was he?" the highwayman asked. "He was not a groom or a valet disguised as a gentleman? That was not Lord Stoughton sitting on the box holding the ribbons? I am amazed your ruse did not stretch so far." Kate glared at him. "You know," he said, his eyes lazily roaming over her person, "if you are not Lady Thelma, you should be in great fear and trembling. If I am not to expect a great fortune from your ransom, is it not consistent with my character and calling that I will compensate myself for the loss with the enjoyment of your person? I believe you might prove to be compensation worth taking." Kate had been almost blind with the terror of such a possibility since rashly admitting to the rogue that she was not Lady Thelma Seyton. "You will not lay one lascivious finger on me, sir," she said slowly and very distinctly. "Or you will be sorry." His eyes looked amused. "I begin to shake with fear," he said. "And what will be my ghastly fate if I do, my dear?" "You would not find me a docile victim," she replied, tossing her head in the air and then wishing she had not done so. The gesture felt falsely theatrical. "I am stronger than I look, and I have had some experience at fighting." His grin spread to set his teeth flashing and his eyes dancing with merriment. His voice was unexpectedly gentle when he spoke. "Come, Thelma," he said, "you have nothing to fear from me. You need not deny your identity or try to frighten me off with threats. I would not attack you even if what you say is true. I do not take that sort of advantage of the helplessness of females. And even if it were true, I could not bring myself to harm a lady of such great courage. I admire you greatly, I do assure you. All you will suffer at my hands is a possible night of confinement. I am sure your papa will not withstand my demands for longer than that, especially as I ask so little of him. Come and eat now. You must be hungry." "You may go to the devil, sir," Kate said. "And my name, if you must use it, is Mannering. Mrs. Kate Mannering." She held up her left hand, palm inward, when he continued to smile, to reveal the gold wedding band that she still wore. For the first time he seemed less than confident. He looked searchingly into her face,

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the grin not quite as amused. He pushed his shoulders away from the door and crossed the room to stand in front of her. "You make an almost convincing little liar," he said looking so directly into her eyes that Kate could feel her self blush. His eyes beneath the mask were a very decided shade of blue. "And where is Mr. Mannering, my dear?" "In a churchyard inSussex," she said. "He is dead." "I am almost inclined to believe you," he said, talking more to himself than to her. "If youwereThelma it would be in your own interest to admit as much. You are in far greater danger here with me as a mere Mrs. Mannering.Areyou telling the truth?" "I am not in the habit of lying," Kate said, all dignity. "I did so earlier only to protect my employer. She is a timid soul, I am afraid. She needs protection." "You did this out of the greatness of your soul and not because you were ordered to do so?" he asked, smiling. "I salute you, Mrs. Mannering. Katherine, did you say?" "I said Kate," she replied. "I have never been called by my fall name. But it is 'Mrs. Mannering' to you, sir." He lifted one long bronzed finger and flicked it across her cheek. "You are well-named, Katherine," he said. "William Shakespeare had one not unlike you, I believe. I regret that my name is not Petruchio. Not that I would wish to tame your spirit. But is it true, my dear? Are you really not my cousin Thelma? What a bungling job I have made of tonight. And I will never have another chance, I dare swear. Her father has been thoroughly alerted to the danger. And having told you my identity, I do not know what I am to do with you. If I set you free, you will blab the truth all overDorsetwithin a day." "I certainly shall," Kate declared rashly. "And within that day I believe you will be under lock and key until a rope can be prepared for your neck." "What a ghastly thought!" he exclaimed, shuddering in a violent manner that Kate viewed with suspicion. "I suppose I shall have to keep you here for the rest of your life. I do hope you are older than you look, Katherine. Your captivity might prove to be a long one." "Feeding me for the next fifty years will probably prove a deal more costly than ransoming me for a small sum now," Kate said with a carelessness she was far from feeling. She was so determined not to say anything to this man that could be construed as groveling that she had really said some very unwise words. In reality she was thoroughly alarmed. The alternative to long captivity, if he felt he could not let her go, was appallingly obvious to her. How would he do it? she wondered. Stabbing? Strangulation? Suffocation? None of the possibilities offered her any degree of comfort. "Well," he said in a brisk voice as if he had come to some decision, "I may be falling for a clever lie, but I am inclined to believe your story. The sniveling behavior of that little gray lady is much more what I would expect of Clive Seyton's daughter. And you, Katherine Mannering, I should be very angry with. You have thwarted plans that I have made with great care over the past week. Now I have to think of something different. And I fear that might prove difficult. My cousin will not be an easy man to outwit, I believe." "Why do you persist in calling the Earl of Barton your cousin?" Kate asked. "I think he would not be

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flattered by the connection to a highwayman." "Because heismy cousin," the highwayman answered. "At least, he was my father's cousin. His father and my grandfather were brothers, you see. Have you not heard of the skeleton in the closet of the Seyton family, Katherine? Have you not heard of the bastard?" "The what?" Kate asked, faintly shocked. " 'Bastard' was the word I used," he said. "Should I have been more delicate? 'Illegitimate offspring,' perhaps? 'By-blow'? But I see you have not heard of such a creature. I flattered myself, perhaps, to believe that I would be openly talked about. My father was the only son of the earl who recently died. 'Viscount Stoughton' was his title—that now held by the angry gentleman who shared your coach tonight. He was not married to my mother. At least, that is the story that my grandfather always accepted. But I was brought up at the Abbey nonetheless. He was a stern and rather lonely man, I believe. He treated me most of the time as if I were a legitimate grandson. And indeed, I believe that I am." "I have no interest in listening to such nonsense," Kate said, turning to cling suddenly with one hand to the windowsill behind her. She felt feint from standing so long on the same spot. Her captor reached out and took her firmly by the upper arms. "You must sit down," he said. "This evening's events have been a strain on your nerves. You must have been traveling all day. And have not eaten since luncheon time, at a guess. Come, Katherine. I will not allow this stubbornness any longer, though I clearly recognize your need to defy my wishes. You will sit down and drink a cup of tea. It will still be hot and probably strong too, having been in the pot for some time. No, don't fight me. If you will not walk, I shall pick you up and carry you to the table." Kate walked in some haste and made no verbal protest when he picked up the teapot and poured the dark liquid into her cup. She reached for the sugar bowl. "Are you going to admit to a burning curiosity to hear the rest of my story?" the highwayman asked, seating himself at an adjacent side of the table and picking up a dice of cheese. His voice sounded mocking, but whether he mocked himself or her, Kate could not tell. Kate picked up her cup, sipped the tea, found it not too hot to drink and took a larger mouthful. The tea was rather stronger than she liked, but she found it calming nonetheless. "I am your captive, sir," she said. "If you wish to talk, I have little choice but to listen." "Your interest in my life history is overwhelming," he said with a mock bow. "But I shall tell you anyway, Katherine. I am almost five-and-twenty years old, and I have lived most of my life believing the story that I am a bastard and that my mother was a sorry creature, long dead. It is amazing how one learns to live with unpleasant realities. My illegitimacy never made me actively unhappy." "And what makes you think now that you are legitimate?" Kate asked. When he smiled she could have bitten out her tongue for showing so much interest. She was becoming annoyed by that grin. Beneath the mask he was probably as handsome as his physique was magnificent. And he was doubtless well aware of the fact, and of the effect his smile must have on females. She was spitefully glad he was a bastard and therefore unable to secure the interest of anyone of rank. "My grandfather was ill for only a short time before his death," the highwayman said. "Indeed he was not an old man. But when he was ill, I sat by his bedside for hours at a time. And he reminisced about my father, something he had rarely done through my life. Perhaps he had always thought that I would not

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wish to know a great deal about the man who had done me the great disservice of begetting me out of wedlock. One afternoon he told me about my father's death. I had heard the story before, but not the events that followed it. Katherine, will you please eat? You have seen me do so. Surely I have convinced you that the dishes are not poisoned." " 'Mrs. Mannering' to you," Kate said as a token of her fading defiance. She really was ravenously hungry. She picked up a piece of wafer-thin bread and butter and took a dainty bite before setting it on the plate in front of her. "I had always assumed," he continued, "indeed, 1 do believe that I was actually told as a child, that my mother had died soon after my birth and after making arrangements to have me sent to my father. Yet my grandfather told me when he was dying that he had had a letter from my mother more than a month after my father's death. She had written it to my father and claimed in it that he was her husband." Kate's eyes were wide with interest despite herself. "And was he?" she asked. "Apparently not," the highwayman said. "A messenger was sent toFranceand came back with me and the news that my mother was not married to my father but that I was undoubtedly his son. This despite the fact that I looked nothing like him. My father was fair." Kate glanced at the long blond hair of her captor and frowned slightly. "So you are not legitimate?" she asked. She was surprised to hear her voice sounding almost disappointed. "So I concluded," he agreed. "But I was intrigued and excited to learn that my mother was French, not English, as I had assumed, and that there had never been any notice of her death. She may still be alive, Katherine. In fact, she very possibly is. She was probably young when she had me. My father was only in his early twenties when he died. I wanted to find her. Correction. I want to find her. But my grandfather no longer had that letter she had sent. He could remember only that her name was Annette. He could not remember where she lived, only that it was a place he had never heard of before.Franceis a large country to search for a lady called Annette." "Oh," Kate said, staring at him with wide, sympathetic eyes. She completely forgot for the moment her captive state. "You poor man. Is it a quite Impossible task? But perhaps it is just as well. She might be… I mean…" "A tavern maid? A whore?" he completed for her. "I have considered that. But I believe I want to find her even so. Can you imagine what it is like, Katherine, to have believed all your life that both your parents are dead and then to find that perhaps your mother is alive after all? I am obsessed with the need to find her, or at least to find her grave. I want to know who she is. Or was." "But you have no way of doing so?" she asked. She was gazing at him, spots of color high on her cheeks. She had become oblivious of the mask and the potential menace of this man at whose mercy her virtue and her very life lay. "Oh, yes," he said with a laugh that held no amusement. "There is a way. The messenger who was sent toFrancewas my father's cousin, Mr. Clive Seyton." Kate's jaw dropped. "Then what is the problem?" she asked, puzzled. "I wrote to him in great excitement even before my grandfather died," Nicholas Seyton said, "to ask for the name of my mother and the town or village where she lived five-and-twenty years ago. It did not

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once occur to me before I received his reply that he would deny me the information." "And he did?" Kate was mesmerized. He laughed. "He could not recall either piece of information," he said. "Only that she was a vulgar dancer who had been starving and otherwise neglecting me before he intervened to take me to Barton Abbey. He was very sorry he could remember no more. But he agreed with you, Katherine. It was just as well that I did not find my mother." "How could he forget if he went there?" Kate asked, frowning. "Surely he can remember whereabouts it was and what towns it was close to even if the name of the precise place evades his memory." "My thoughts exactly," he said. "I wrote back to him with more searching questions. This was little more than six weeks ago, shortly after the death of my grandfather. I received a reply from his lawyer almost immediately ordering me to leave his lordship's property without further delay or face prosecution for trespassing. I was advised to leave the district entirely and to desist from harassing his lordship with begging letters. My illegitimate status gave me no claim whatsoever on the property of the Earl of Barton." "Oh," Kate said. "How could he be so cruel? He seems not to be a hard-hearted man." "I believe he made a tactical error in responding in such a manner," Nicholas Seyton said. "My conclusion is that the earl is an imposter. He knows more than he is willing to tell me and thinks to solve the problem by getting rid of me. The only way I can explain his behavior to myself, Katherine, is to believe that I am legitimate. What would make him deny me information that might lead me to my mother? A concern for my feelings if I should discover that she is not respectable? Why would he care? And why would he tell me she is a vulgar dancer? He has not seen me for more than twenty years. A fear that I will discover that she is a lady who was indeed married to my father? I believe so." "But why?" Kate asked. "Why would he do such a thing? And why would your mother have allowed him to take you away? Why would she have remained silent all these years?" "His motive should be obvious," he replied. "If I was legitimate, I would have become the viscount and the heir to my grandfather's title and property. If not, then he was the heir. He was the son of my grandfather's only brother. Of the answers to your other questions I am more uncertain. Was my mother sick, perhaps, and unable to care for me? Did she let me go and maintain a silence because she considered such a course best for me? Did she die, perhaps, soon after I was taken away? Was she poor and forced to let me go and keep silent about me, taking money in exchange? Whatever the truth, my father's cousin must have been confident that she would not suddenly reappear. Does that mean that he knows she is dead? I do not know, Katherine. And I want to know." "You kidnapped me in the hopes of forcing answers from the earl?" Kate asked. He got to his feet, his chair scraping over the bare floor as he pushed it back with his legs. "Yes," he said. "And you were right, Katherine. It was a cowardly thing to do, using a helpless woman as a weapon against a blackguard. The morality of my plan has troubled me, I must admit, but I have always pushed my uneasiness to the back of my mind. Kidnapping is not a pretty crime, even if one has no intention of harming one's victim. My pistol was unloaded tonight, by the way. I would not risk shooting anyone by accident. I am almost glad my plan failed. But you have suffered. And what the deuce am I to do with you?"

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"You will let me go, of course," Kate said, folding her napkin and placing it on her empty plate. Suddenly she found that all her terror had gone. "And why would I do anything so foolish, Katherine?" he asked, turning and looking at her. "Because it is the decent thing to do," she said, pushing back her chair and rising to her feet, "besides being the only practical course of action. If you will not let me go, you will have to kill me. And you will not do that." He grinned. "For someone in captivity with a masked man at least twice your size," he said, "you seem remarkably confident, Katherine. And will you reveal all you have been told to the earl? It is too late now, I suppose, for me to consider that probability. Well…"He sighed. "Perhaps I can go toFranceand start asking at every town and village for females named Annette." "Of course I will not tell!" Kate; declared scornfully. "If you have been spinning a yarn, I should end up looking remarkably foolish to repeat it. If you have been telling the truth, then Lord Barton should not know that you are on his trail." Nicholas Seyton smiled fleetingly. "No, I would not expect you to be so poor-spirited as to spill all," he said. "What an admirable female you are, Katherine Mannering. What was your husband? Did he not leave you the means with which to live in independence?" "My husband had debts," Kate said briskly. "I could have returned to my father's house. But he has a large family to provide for without me. I could have entered society under the sponsorship of my aunt and waited for someone else to make me his chattel. Or I could take employment. I chose employment." "Chattel," he repeated softly. "You have certainly answered one of my questions, my dear. Come. I shall take you home without further delay. As it is, you may find that your reputation will be somewhat tarnished after tonight's escapade." "First I must leave my money and my pearl earrings with you," Kate said, picking up her reticule and rummaging inside it, "and my wedding ring. It must seem that you had theft in mind when you carried me off. Perhaps you should take my whole reticule." Nicholas watched in some amusement as she placed first the individual items and then the whole bag on the table. "They will be here for you whenever you need them," he said. "Are the earrings valuable?" "Not very," she said. "If they had been, Giles would' have taken them long ago." Then she bit her lip painfully. She was grateful that he made no comment. "I shall see what I can learn at the Abbey. Perhaps his lordship will speak of you or ask the servants about you. Perhaps there will be something else to learn. I shall try. But are you not afraid that you will be seen in the neighborhood and word will reach the earl? We rode a long way tonight, but I do not believe we can be a great distance from Barton Abbey." "Only a few miles," he said. "This is one of many cottages scattered along the coast. The sea is close by. A fisherman and his wife have been kind enough to take me in here. Indeed they now behave as if I own the house and they are merely my servants. Buildings are scattered in this part of the world, but in many ways it is a close community. Most people in the vicinity, including the servants at the Abbey, know that I live here, but all will have sealed lips if questioned. And none will have any idea where I have gone. These people can be remarkably stupid when they wish to be." "I do hope you are right," Kate said with a frown. "Did you know that there is to be a house party at

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Barton Abbey next week? Is there any danger of your being recognized by any of the guests?" "I think not," he said. "My grandfather did very little entertaining, and when he did, then I was treated as the bastard he thought me. I was not allowed to embarrass polite company with my less-than-respectable presence. Come, Katherine. I shall take you home." He opened the door and gestured for her to precede him into the narrow hallway beyond. "Why do you not remove that ridiculous mask, Mr. Seyton?" Kate asked as she passed him: "Surely it is not necessary any longer." "On the contrary," he said with a grin. "I believe I trust you, my dear. But with my life? Forgive me for being overcautious. Besides, this way you will honestly be able to say that you cannot identify me. You will be saved from what you hate to do: lying." "Nonsense," said Kate, standing back so that he could open the door into the small cobbled yard and lead the way to the stable. "I would know you anywhere, sir, with your size and that blond hair. You would have been wise to cover that as well as your face if you wished to avoid recognition." He smiled back at her as he threw the saddle onto his horse's back again and proceeded to make it fast. But he made no move to take off his mask. Soon Kate found herself seated sideways on the horse before him once more, one shoulder leaning heavily against his chest again. This time she did not feel the fear she had felt before, but she did feel embarrassment. They traveled in near-silence. He explained to her that he must travel quietly across fields rather than along roads. It was very probable that the earl already had men out searching for her and for him. Kate's eyes were not bandaged this time. She used the silence to concentrate on the route they took. , Finally Nicholas drew his horse to a halt not far from the edge of a copse of trees through which they had been moving. Beyond it Kate could see in the moonlight a high stone wall bordering a road. He dismounted and lifted her down to stand before him. "This wall separates theparkofBarton Abbeyfrom the road," he said. "I dare not take you to the house, Katherine. But I shall see that you do not have to find it alone in the darkness. The main gateway is but a short distance away. The lodgekeeper and his wife live in the stone lodge with their son. Josh is somewhat feebleminded, I am afraid. But he is good-hearted and totally loyal to those he loves. He will take you to the house. His parents are quite elderly. You must not be afraid of him. He will not harm you. He will do whatever I ask him to do. He is especially fond of me because he was quite devoted to my father. In fact, he has never grasped the fact that my father is dead. He still expects him to return." "I am not afraid," Kate said. "If you wish, I shall walk to the lodge alone. I do not want you to put yourself into unnecessary danger." "Danger is part of my life," he said, flicking her cheek as he had done at the cottage. "And you must certainly not put yourself in any, Katherine. Do not ask any questions of your employer that will make him suspicious. I do not know if he is a dangerous man or not. I would not wish to find out at your expense. It will be best for you to forget about the events of this evening. Pretend that it has all been a dream." "What a poor-spirited creature you must think me," Kate said with some scorn. "Oh, no," he said, laying his hands on her shoulders and smiling down into her face. All she could see of him was his teeth. "Never that, Katherine. I wish circumstances were different, my dear. I should like to get to know you better. I will say a personal good-bye to you here. Forgive me, please, for the inconvenience I have caused you tonight. I will not say 'fear,' because I know you would be offended at

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the suggestion that you were afraid at all. Good-bye, Katherine Mannering." She saw the flash of his teeth for one moment and then his mouth found hers in the darkness. Kate had a horror of any physical contact with a man. She had had no choice but to endure it for five years. But no longer. Now she was free, and no man would ever possess any part of her body again. She splayed her hands against his chest preparatory to pushing him away. But she did not push. The almost nauseating distaste she had always felt whenever Giles had touched her—though mercifully he had rarely kissed her, preferring to move without preamble to the more personally gratifying stages of sexual contact—was absent tonight, and she paused with some interest to examine this new experience. Nicholas held her very loosely in his arms. She could have broken away without a struggle at any moment. His mouth was open on hers, and that in itself should have given her the shudders, she thought. But it was not hard, demanding, selfish, as she had assumed all men's embraces must be. His lips teased hers, tasted them, his tongue flickering across them gently, inviting participation. She did not clamp her lips together when his tongue traced their outline and then pushed gently between. She allowed it to explore the soft, moist flesh behind her lips and moved her hands to his shoulders without realizing she did so in order to feel the firm muscles of his chest with her breasts. He drew back from her long before she had analyzed in her mind exactly what it was about him that did not disgust her. She even made a little noise of protest when his mouth withdrew from hers, and immediately felt foolish. "Katherine Mannering," he said, "I suspect you of sorcery. I almost wish that I really had decided to keep you and take compensation for that large ransom I was to exact for the return of Lady Thelma. You are a very desirable woman. Come, while there is still common sense buzzing in my brain. Let's get to the lodge." He took her by the hand and drew her out into the roadway after looking carefully to right and left to make sure that there was no one about. Soon they were turning into a wide driveway leading to enormous iron gates and a stone lodge beside them. Nicholas tapped on the outer door, opened it, and stepped inside, drawing Kate in after him. "Lord bless us, it's Master Nick," an elderly lady said, taking her hands from a bowl of water and drying them on her white apron. "Is it one of the nights, then?" Nicholas waved a hand before his lips and the old woman fell silent. An elderly man, was who smoking a pipe, rose from a chair beside a small fire and touched his forelock. "It's good to see you again, Master Nick," he said. That greeting was echoed by another man, who scrambled down a ladder leading to an attic room. This man had a round, ruddy face, with pale, vacant eyes and big, widely spaced teeth. His sandy hair looked more like straw than hair, Kate decided. He was smiling and giggling nervously as he bobbed his head to Nicholas and then noticed her. Nicholas introduced her and explained that she needed a guide to take her to the house. The sandy-haired Josh shuffled outside to fetch a lantern while Mrs. Pickering, the lodgekeeper's wife, spoke again. "There be a dreadful to-do up at the house, Master Nick," she said, "because a highwayman made off with the young lady here, thinking he had her ladyship. The coast guard be out scouring the countryside. Were it you, sir? I nope the young lady be not harmed." She gazed severely at Nicholas, whom none of

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them had had any difficulty recognizing despite the mask, Kate had noticed. "I am not harmed, Mrs. Pickering," Kate said, "but will be very glad to reach the Abbey at last." "Josh will take you safe there, miss… er, missus," Mrs. Pickering said, still wiping her hands on her apron. Nicholas held out a hand to Kate when Josh returned with the lit lantern. "Good-bye, Mrs. Mannering," he said. "It has been a pleasure to meet you." His blue eyes twinkled behind the mask. "And, Josh, if anyone asks you, you have not seen Master Nick this long time. Mrs. Mannering knocked on your father's door alone tonight. Do you understand?" Josh giggled. "Never seen you, Master Nick," he said. "Josh ain't seen Master Nick this long time. And Josh ain't seen Master Jonathan this long time. They'll both come back sometime. Josh'll wait. Josh ain't in no hurry. He ain't going nowhere." He leered up at Kate and led the way out of the door, which Nicholas held open for them. Kate smiled fleetingly as she passed Nicholas and followed her guide to a narrow pathway that skirted the closed gate and along the driveway, whose borders of tall elms shut out most of the moonlight that had lit the way across country earlier. She found herself thinking of Nicholas Seyton as she stumbled along in the wake of the springy stride of Josh Pickering, wondering if she were a fool to believe his story. Anyway, she thought, whether she believed him or not, she was fortunate enough to be free again and unharmed. And her mind would be better employed thinking of a story she was going to tell when she reached the house, if she were given a chance to speak up and was not dismissed in disgrace on the spot. Even though she had been abducted at pistol point, the fact was that she had been alone with a man for several hours. Kate knew many people who would consider the reputation of such a woman hopelessly compromised. She hoped Lord Barton was not one of them. Chapter Four

Nicholas Seyton sat in the worn armchair before the fireplace, one booted leg hooked over the arm closest to the fire that Mrs. Evans had lit in his absence. His body welcomed the warmth after the chill of his ride home from Barton Abbey, but he was not really conscious of it. He was feeling depressed. His grandfather had been dead for not quite two months, and already everyone concerned with his death appeared to have forgotten him. The new earl, he had heard, had ordered the servants to leave off their mourning and wore none himself. None of this evening's arrivals had been wearing so much as a black armband. And what of himself? He wore black pantaloons and waistcoat, it was true, but the color had been chosen more for the occasion than out of respect for his grandfather. He really did miss the old man, Nicholas reflected, and genuinely grieved his loss. Perhaps he should have gone away completely when he was ordered to leave the Abbey. He had another home. His grandfather had left him a small estate inShropshirethat had been his personal property, to dispose of as

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he wished. He had also left his grandson a small income. Nicholas was by no means a wealthy man, but he had the means with which to live the life of a gentleman. And what more could he ask? He was unable to take a place in society anyway. Perhaps he should have gone. There he could have observed a decent period of mourning. And everyone deserved to have at least one person mourn him and miss him after his death, he believed. Who would wish to feel that his passing made no difference to any living soul? Unfortunately Nicholas had not gone away. He had put his own selfish concerns first. His illegitimacy had never particularly bothered him. He had known from infancy that he was somehow different from other children of his social class. He had accepted the fact that no one of high rank except his grandfather would find his company socially acceptable. He had never felt particularly bitter over the fact that he would never be Earl of Barton or owner of the fortune and properties that went along with the title, despite the fact that he was the earl's only direct descendant. Children easily accept such harsh realities when they have never known anything different. But one afternoon spent at his grandfather's bedside had changed all that. Suddenly his world was a different place, a place in which it was possible to dream and to look beyond horizons. At first his excitement had all focused on the possibility that his mother was still alive and that perhaps she was not a woman of the streets. He had not thought too much about the possibility of his legitimacy. But after Clive Seyton's two replies to his queries, his life had begun to throb with hope. And his grief for his grandfather's death had been pushed somewhat into the background. Was he wrong to pursue the issue? What if his father's cousin genuinely could not remember his mother's name or the place where she had lived? It had all happened five-and-twenty years before. If his mother really had been a dancer and an adventuress, it was possible that the episode would have seemed unimportant enough to Clive Seyton that he had allowed the memories to slip from his mind. And surely the only really satisfactory explanation of his mother's silence all these years was that she was dead. What about the new earl's dismissal of him? That too could have a perfectly reasonable explanation. He was intending to take up residence at the Abbey and to bring his son and daughter with him. The presence there of a bastard cousin would be understandably embarrassing. And even Nicholas' presence in the neighborhood could be awkward. Hence the command to leave the vicinity of Barton Abbey entirely. There was no reason to expect the new earl to be charitable. He had not known Nicholas beyond babyhood. He had not visited or sent any member of his family to visit the uncle who had brought him up like a son. It was quite possibly the presence of Nicholas that had kept him away, in fact. It could well be that he was upsetting his own peace of mind over nothing, Nicholas thought. But the possibility was depressing. There had to be something more to the story of his birth. There had to be some way of finding his mother or at least of finding out who she was. And he still could not rid himself of the notion that the new earl's hasty dismissal of him had something to do with his past. The earl knew something about him that he did not want to reveal. No matter how much he was aware of the reasonable explanation of what had happened in the last few weeks, Nicholas could not let the matter drop. And so he had stayed inDorset, a mere three miles from the boundaries of Barton Abbey in fact. Of course, there were other reasons for staying. His life had been spent here. It was home. And there were activities and companions here that he was loath to give up. But he had to admit that his real reason for staying was his determination to find out more from the only man who seemed able to help him. Able but unwilling. Nicholas had moved to a stone cottage owned by Russ Evans, a former groom at Barton Abbey, who had bought the house and turned fisherman when he married the daughter of another fisherman. Nicholas

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had always been friendly with the man and now he paid for rooms in their cottage. In fact, though, they treated him as if he were the owner and they the servants, despite his protests. The parlor where he now sat had become exclusively his domain, the kitchen theirs. He was fortunate to have the affection of all the servants at the Abbey and of almost all the villagers and fishermen for miles around. He supposed that they had always been more inclined to like him because of his status. They always treated him as if he were above them in rank, but his illegitimacy brought him closer to their level. They were not as aloof and suspicious as they might have been of the heir to an earldom. The friendship of all these people certainly worked to his advantage now. Everyone seemed to know that he had been told to leaveDorset. He knew for certain that he had told only one person—Parkin, his grandfather's elderly, valet, who was now his and living in the cottage with him, lording it over the Evanses in a manner Nicholas himself would not have dreamed of doing. But news traveled fast in a rural community. And only three people had been told that he did not wish the new earl to know he was still there—the same valet and the Evanses. But he was well aware, without anyone having to tell him so, that servants, fisherfolk, and villagers were all joined in a conspiracy of silence. If the Earl of Barton discovered his presence, it would not be because of anything any of the local people said to him. In fact, there was only one group of people who were not part of the conspiracy. Even the neighboring gentry, Nicholas believed, knew of his whereabouts but would keep their peace for reasons of their own. Only the coast guard would not know. But then, the soldiers who made up its numbers were mostly strangers to this part of the country, and their very profession set them beyond the circles of friendship and loyalty formed by the local folk of all classes. The problem now was what to do. Ever since the arrival of the earl at Barton Abbey and the news filtering out via the servants that his son and daughter were to follow him this very day, Nicholas' mind had been caught up in the kidnapping plan. It had seemed the surest way of forcing some answers from Clive Seyton. He had deliberately blanked from his mind all the arguments against such a plan. There was all the danger of being caught during the several hours during which he would probably have to lurk close to the road waiting for the carriage to come. There was the danger of being shot if someone inside the carriage had both courage and a gun. There was the more obvious danger of being arrested after the release of Thelma, since the earl would necessarily know who her captor had been. And—worst of all—there was the whole moral question of kidnapping an innocent girl to use as a pawn in an ugly game. He was glad now that his plan had gone awry. It would not have been worthy of him or his upbringing to behave in such a way. If the earl had acted dishonorably, then Nicholas was merely bringing himself down to his level by resorting to kidnapping. But what else was there? Visit Barton Abbey, grab his cousin by the throat, and shake answers from him? Spend his inheritance on a journey throughFrancein search of a mother whose full name he did not even know? If only there were some way of returning to the Abbey. Somehow he felt helpless being three miles away, not knowing what was happening, not knowing if his cousin was restless or complacent, if he believed Katherine's story or suspected the identity and motive of the highwayman who had tried to kidnap his daughter. Mrs. Mannering had said there was to be a house party at the Abbey. Who were the guests to be? he wondered. Was there any chance that he knew any of them? He doubted it. His grandfather had not entertained a great deal. And Nicholas had not ventured far beyondDorsetexcept for the three years he had spent atCambridge. The former earl had not sent him away to school, preferring to hire an expensive

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tutor to teach him at home. But he had encouraged his grandson to go to university, arguing that there the stigma of illegitimacy would be less regarded man at school. But it was unlikely that anyone he had met there would be part of the house party. Unless Dalrymple… Unlikely. But he wished he could be at the Abbey. Even apart from his desire to observe and listen to the new earl, he was missing the place. He had always loved it quite consciously. He could not imagine a building, more magnificent than the house, which bore little resemblance now to the monastery it had been until the sixteenth century, when King Henry VIII had confiscated the property and given it to an ancestor of his grandfather. Successive earls had added to the building and its contents over the years so that now it was rich with architectural detail and decorations and with treasures of painting and sculpture. He had always known that the house and the equally splendid park and acres of farmland would never be his. But even so, it was home, and it was torture to be three miles away and yet unable to ride or stroll up the elm-lined driveway that was so familiar to him. Now there was another reason for his wish to go to the Abbey. He had a very strong desire to see Mrs. Katherine Mannering again. He had never met a more fascinating creature. In fact, he was glad after all that he had carried out his mad kidnapping plan. If he had not, he might never have met her. She had been terrified, as well she might. Being carried off blindfold into the darkness by a masked highwayman would be enough to give most females a quite genuine fit of the vapors. He knew she was frightened. Her body had shivered against his all the way back to the cottage, and her face when he entered the parlor with the tea tray had been as white as parchment. Yet she had not once begged or groveled or shed tears. She had put her chin in the air and thrown insult and defiance in his face. And she had believed his story. She had even shown sympathy and the desire to help him. She seemed to bear no grudge for the rough treatment she had received at his hands. He should have removed his disguise when she asked. He should have trusted her that much. But truth to tell, he had been feeling rather pleased with its success. He had worn it before, of course, but had never been quite sure that it looked convincing. She had sworn she would know his blond hair anywhere. It really was not glaringly obvious, then, that it was a wig? Nicholas reached up a hand and ran his fingers through his short and very dark hair. He should not wish to see her again. She could gain nothing from an association with him. It was true that she was in an unenviable position, forced as she was to earn her own living as a lady's companion. No, not forced. She could have lived with her aunt, she had said, and looked for another husband. How had she phrased it? She could have become another man's chattel. The late Mr. Mannering must have been quite a husband! However it was, it would not be good for Katherine Mannering to become in any way involved with him. He had some property and some money, it was true, but he was also a viscount's by-blow. And his one experience as a highwayman was by no means his only experience with the wrong side of the law. She might yet see him swing. He should not wish to see her again. He had said quite a firm good-bye to her outside the walls of Barton earlier. But he did wish to see her. He had meant that kiss to be teasing. It certainly had not turned out that way. She might have turned her back on marriage out of a dislike of her late husband, but she certainly possessed a great deal of latent passion. He could almost have lost his powers of reason when her mouth had responded to his teasing lips and tongue and when her body had fitted itself to his. He felt little doubt that making love to Katherine Mannering would be a more than gratifying experience. The very thought was enough to make him feel uncomfortably warm. However, he must not indulge such imaginings. It was unlikely that he would see her again except

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perhaps from a distance. And it would not be in her interest anyway to become involved in a flirtation. His problem was merely that he had been too long without a woman. Living in a close and friendly neighborhood had its advantages, but it had one distinct disadvantage. Although several of the local girls had signaled in that way girls had, without the medium of words, that they would not be averse to his attentions, he had never availed himself of the offers. How would he be able to look one of his friendly acquaintances in the eye if he had secretly tumbled his daughter for the satisfaction of a physical craving? AtCambridgeit had been different. What he should do, Nicholas thought, realizing in something of a daze that the fire in the hearth before him had burned itself completely out while he had stared, unseeing, into its heart, was go to his property in Shropshire, look around him for a wife of humble background who would not care for the stigma on his name, and raise himself a large family. He had never seen hair quite that shade of silver-blond. And yet the lashes around her large gray eyes were thick and dark. Nicholas Seyton passed one hand over his eyes and shook his head vigorously.

The Earl of Barton had somehow managed to live with himself during the nearly five-and-twenty years since his great deception. He had almost persuaded himself that what he had done had been honestly justifiable. All his latent doubts had been ruthlessly put to rest after he married and left the Abbey. He remained in touch with his uncle by letter, writing to him twice a year. And in the meantime he concentrated on living a blameless life, almost as if he felt he could earn the right to be his uncle's heir. He had been a good husband right up to the time of his wife's death. He had never once been unfaithful to her, and he had indulged her love of society by taking her toLondonthree times for the Season and to Tunbridge Wells once andHarrogatetwice. It did not signify that he too liked to mix with the fashionable set. He would have taken her, he convinced himself, even if he had not. And he would have taken her away more often if his income had only been higher. He had always been a good father. He had sacrificed a great deal in order to engage a governess for Thelma and in order to send Adam to school and to university. More recently he had made his son a generous allowance to enable him to take rooms inLondonand become a fashionable young man-about-town. And finally he had taken Thelma toLondonso that she might be presented at court as befitted her rank. His sister, Alice, Lady Toucher, had offered to sponsor the girl. She had been quite delighted to do so, in fact, being childless herself. His uncle had decided to take himself off at a fortunate time. Viscount Stoughton had been finding the expenses of bringing a daughter out quite exorbitantly high. Not that he had wished for the demise of his relative, he hastened to assure himself. The old earl had treated him with great kindness before he married and left the Abbey of his own free will. The new earl had lived well, he felt. He had never been so far in debt that he could not extricate himself. He had always been friendly and hospitable to his neighbors, charitable to the church and the poor, just and even perhaps generous in his treatment of servants and laborers. His guilt over what he had done after his cousin Jonathan's death had all but disappeared over the years. When news reached him inLondonthat he was now Earl of Barton and owner of a vast fortune, as well as being Viscount Stoughton, he did not lose even one night's sleep over the knowledge that a young man, then living at Barton Abbey, was now indeed being defrauded of his rightful inheritance.

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But already the signs were there that the past was not going to leave him in peace. Even before his uncle's death he had received a letter from Nicholas Seyton that had given him a nasty jolt. On first reading the letter, indeed, he had felt that his most secret nightmare was going to be realized. The boy—young man, rather; he must be almost five-and-twenty already—had found out that his mother was French and still alive as far as his grandfather knew. He wished to know her name and that of the place where she had lived when Clive had visited her. The letter seemed distinctly threatening until its recipient calmed down and studied it a few more times. It was really just an open and civil request. The boy clearly knew nothing, and his grandfather obviously did not remember the pertinent details. It would be very easy for Clive to write back pretending that he too had forgotten. The answer seemed realistic enough. After all, the events he was being asked to recall had happened a quarter of a century before. He added the lie about the profession of Nicholas' mother, believing that the boy would be less likely to wish to pursue his interest if he thought she was no lady. Viscount Stoughton wrote the reply in his own hand and put the matter from his mind. Nicholas Seyton was not so easily pacified, however. When the new Earl of Barton was already basking in his new title and prestige and already making plans for a glorious future, he was unpleasantly shocked one day to receive another, longer missive from his cousin's son. The young man was not prepared to accept the answers he had been given, though nowhere did his letter accuse the earl of deliberately lying to him. The letter was filled with searching questions. At which port inFrancehad the new earl landed? How many days' journey had he made before meeting Annette? Was it north ofParisor south? West or east? Had he met her at a town or village? Was it on a main highway or somewhere off the beaten track? Did his mother have any other family? What were their names? Or friends. What were theirs? And so on. The new earl had found himself in a serious dilemma. If he answered the letter, he must address each of the questions. But how would he answer? If he pretended to have forgotten everything, he would never be believed. He felt it far too dangerous to give out any of the truth, even if he chose to reveal a few seemingly unimportant details. The safest course, he had thought at first, was to make up a whole parcel of lies. But Barton was not a stupid man. He had discovered as a child, often painfully as the recipient of one of his uncle's thrashings, that being a successful liar was not easy. One lie led to more lies, and soon it was impossible to remember one's own story or to avoid inconsistencies. He had learned that telling the truth was always best unless tying was unavoidable. He guessed that if he lied to Nicholas, the young man would pester him for more and more information until the whole nasty truth was somehow revealed. Finally Barton took the course of playing the high-handed' aristocrat, unwilling to communicate with a relative's bastard offspring, unwilling to allow such a creature on his property. He was perfectly within his rights to command Nicholas to leave. His uncle should never have allowed the child onto his property in the first place. The new earl fully intended to take up residence at Barton Abbey and to take his son and daughter there. He could not allow them to be contaminated by contact with their less-than-respectable second cousin. It perhaps said something about the effectiveness of his self-discipline over the years that the earl almost genuinely forgot for a while that really there was nothing at all unrespectable about the birth of Nicholas Seyton, beyond the fact that he had been born little more man a month after the marriage of his parents. The Earl of Barton proceeded to give the order through his lawyer. He chose to take offense at Nicholas' letter, which was impertinent, coming as it did after Barton had already informed him that he did not remember the slight incident involving his mother and his coming toEngland. Nicholas Seyton was to remove himself from the Abbey and the entire neighborhood if he did not wish to be prosecuted for making a nuisance of himself. The earl decided to try this bluff. He had no wish to find his cousin's boy

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camped at his gate persistently demanding information about the past. He convinced himself he was quite safe. There was no likely way Nicholas or anyone else could discover the truth. The only possible detail that could go wrong was for that Frenchwoman to break her promise and decide to search for her son. But she had maintained her silence for almost five-and-twenty years. It was very possible that she was dead. It was certainly very improbable that she would break her vow at this late date. This was the way the Earl of Barton felt when he arrived at his new home. The park was even larger and the house more magnificent than he remembered them. And everything was as well-managed as it had ever been. Nicholas Seyton, he was assured, had taken himself off a week before. None of the servants had any idea where he had gone. Certainly no one had seen him since he left, taking with him only his personal possessions and the elderly valet of his uncle. All the other servants had remained at the Abbey. The earl even remembered a few of them, notably Dobson, the head gardener, who had been a mere assistant twenty years before, and Pickering, the porter, who must surely be too old to do his job efficiently. That feebleminded son of his was still alive too, the one that had used to follow Jonathan around like a faithful hound when they were boys. Clive had never considered that such a character at the main gate gave a good first impression of the Abbey to visitors. Perhaps he would dismiss the family and hire a new porter after he had established himself for a few weeks. The Earl of Barton felt secure. At least, he thought he felt secure. But after a mere day he discovered an uneasiness and restlessness in himself. Everything was so much the same as it had always been. It was hard to believe that twenty years had passed since he had been there last. He found himself quickly regressing to the way he had been during those four and a half years after he had brought Nicholas from France. He had always felt insecure during those years and haunted by his failure to find the marriage papers that Jonathan had assured him he had brought fromFrance. It was absurd now to worry about those papers. It was downright lunacy to search for them again. If they had not surfaced in almost five-and-twenty years, they were either not in existence at all or they had been so well-hidden that they would never come to light. But search he did. He searched in his mind, going over again as he had a thousand times years ago all the possible places Jonathan could have chosen as a hiding place. And he searched in fact, going painstakingly through all his uncle's papers. He cursed himself for a fool. If the marriage papers were among his uncle's effects, then the fraud would have been exposed long ago. But he could not seem to stop himself. The day before his son and daughter were to arrive, he began to search the library. With several thousand volumes covering two walls of the long, high room from floor to ceiling, it was likely that the vast majority of the books had not been opened for well over twenty years. Had Jonathan been mad enough to choose one of them as a hiding place for his papers? It was very unlikely. Jonathan had always stayed as far away from books as he could. But the earl found, to his own irritation, that he was setting himself the task of taking down and searching each volume in the library. He longed for the arrival of his children. He congratulated himself on his earlier decision to arrange a house party for the following week. Perhaps when there was company at the house, he would forget about this ridiculous obsession of his. In the event, though, the arrival of Adam and Thelma added to his unease rather than lightened it. He would have been concerned enough at the kidnapping of his daughter's companion even if the evidence had not been strong that Thelma herself was the intended victim. He would have been concerned enough about the presence of a highwayman in the vicinity of the Abbey even if the coast guard, hastily

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summoned that same night, had not assured him that such a criminal had not been heard of inDorsetfor many years. As matters stood, a strange highwayman had suddenly appeared close to the Abbey and had attempted to kidnap the earl's daughter. The man had apparently shown little interest in searching the Barton carriage and occupants for valuables. It did not take a great deal of intelligence to make the possible connection between the highwayman and the inquisitive and dissatisfied son of Barton's cousin. It was not even any comfort to know that the highwayman did not fit the description of Nicholas Seyton as he remembered him. Nicholas as a child had had very dark hair. The earl's new life was not going to be a peaceful one, he realized. Chapter Five

Kate's first day at Barton Abbey was one of mixed emotions. She was treated kindly by the family. She was expected to take her meals with them and was included in their conversations. The servants treated her with deference. Certainly she could not ask for more magnificent surroundings. The housekeeper took Lady Thelma and Lord Stoughton on a tour of the Abbey in which she was included. It was breathtakingly splendid, with the state apartments on the lower level as well as the library, and the main living apartments and bedchambers on the upper level. She looked forward to wandering around alone when she had the leisure. There was too much beauty to absorb on one conducted tour. She loved her own bedchamber, square and small in comparison with most of the other rooms she had seen, but light and cheerful with its chintz curtains and bed hangings, flowers and birds painted on a white background. The dressing room beyond it had a small but elegant Chippendale desk and chair as well as the usual furnishings. She had been assigned her own maid, a quiet, seemingly sensible girl named Audrey. All day long, though, she was constantly aware of the fact that she was amidst all this splendor only in the capacity of a glorified servant. She did not have the freedom of a member of the family or even of a guest. Even though she had had more than a month inLondonto get used to the idea, she realized that country life would make her more aware of her own essential lack of freedom. She loved the outdoors, and the park surrounding the Abbey was spacious and looked every bit as glorious as the building itself. The day was sunny and warm. She would have loved nothing more than a long walk across the lawns, through the shrubberies and flower gardens she could glimpse in the distance, and up the hillsides. Instead Lady Thelma chose to take only a half-hour stroll through the formal gardens immediately south of the house, and even then she complained of the heat and of the difficulty of walking easily on the piled gravel of the walks. The gardens were lovely, ablaze with the colors of numerous varieties of flowers, heavy with their perfumes, and cooled by the sight and sound at the northern end of a high fountain of water spouting from the mouths of three stone cherubs into a huge stone basin. But after two days of travel Kate wanted to walk, to stride, to draw in healthy lungfuls of fresh air. Most of the day they spent in Lady Thelma's dressing room, really a misnomer, Kate decided.. The room was large and comfortably furnished. "Sitting room" would have been a better description. Its new

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occupant busied herself with rearranging the room to her taste. Or rather, she busied Kate with the task. Kate found herself moving ornaments, repositioning cushions, sharpening quill pens, running to the library on two occasions to fetch books, which she guessed were to be used for decorative purposes only, and performing a dozen other trivial tasks. Altogether she found the day rather irksome. She liked her employer well enough, but she did find the girl rather insipid and somewhat plaintive in manner. Remaining cheerful in such an atmosphere took all Kate's willpower. The best she could do for herself was to take refuge in her thoughts. And what more obvious topic for thought was there than Nicholas Seyton and the events of the evening before? Kate relived those events several times in her mind. She decided anew after a night's sleep that she believed his story and that she wished to help him prove his legitimacy. Why she wished to become involved in a matter that was really none of her concern, she was not quite sure. She rather thought it must be because her energies needed an outlet. Life was going to be decidedly dull if it consisted wholly of being companion to Lady Thelma. It did not even offer her a chance to think for herself. All she had to do was follow the lead of her employer, do whatever that rather lethargic girl wished to do. It was not even worth thinking of fashions or new hairstyles. Her choice of clothes was between gray and brown garments. Her choice of hairstyle was nonexistent. There was only one way a lady could dress her hair in a bun at the back of her neck. So the prospect of being something of a spy was appealing. She was not sure what it was she was looking for, of course, and even the most innocent behavior could look suspicious to someone desperate for some excitement. Like Lord Barton shaking all his books in the library by the spine, for example. He had been doing that both times she entered the library to fetch books for Lady Thelma. Maybe it was just his eccentric way of freeing them all from years of dust. But she found herself entering wholeheartedly into the game. What if he were searching for something that concerned Nicholas? She supposed it was no game to Mr. Seyton, though. Now that she had seen something of Barton Abbey, she realized just how much he might have been defrauded of if his suspicions were true. Perhaps, although she tried to deny the idea to herself, Kate's motive for becoming involved in the affairs of Nicholas Seyton had something to do with that kiss they had shared outside the Abbey wall me night before. She really had been intrigued by it. To Kate kissing had always been either a rather meaningless sign of affection shared by members of a family or a thoroughly distasteful prelude to even less-pleasant intimacies. She had hated being kissed by Giles. What followed, she had endured; it was the main part of her marriage duty, after all. And at least there was point to that. It was the way children were begotten, though that had never happened to her. But kissing was so thoroughly without practical purpose. But she had enjoyed kissing Nicholas Seyton, and after a day of relative boredom in her employment she had still not pinpointed what it was about his kiss that had pleased her. He had done much the same as Giles had ever done. He had opened his mouth over hers as Giles had done. The only difference was that Giles had never used his tongue—for which mercy she was truly thankful. Nicholas, of course, had not clutched her to him as if it were his ambition to crush every rib in her body, and he had not kissed her so hard that the inside of her mouth was cut against her teeth. But of course he could not have done that and let his tongue play over the flesh behind her lips the way he had. No, she really could not understand quite why she had not been disgusted by the experience. It amazed her to remember that she had even responded sufficiently to move her body against his. She had certainly never done any such thing with Giles. Of course there had never been any need. He had always crushed her against him as soon as he was feeling "that way," as she had always described it to herself, and she had always known that she would not be released again until he had done "that" to her, as she had always described the next and culminating stage of his passion—always mercifully brief and equally mercifully

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infrequent after the first few months of their marriage. Perhaps that latter point explained the fact that she had never conceived. However it was, Kate felt a strong curiosity to discover if kissing Nicholas Seyton would be equally pleasurable a second time. In fact, the thought aroused quite a tingle in a part of her anatomy where she had no business feeling any tingles at all, considering her widowed status. She had certainly never felt such a naughty feeling either before or during her marriage, If she could only discover some evidence that could benefit him in his search, she would have an excuse to seek him out. Then perhaps he would kiss her again. She would probably be disappointed—she undoubtedly would. But at least she would have satisfied her curiosity. The earl's somewhat peculiar behavior in the library did not seem quite excuse enough to sally forth in search of that cottage where she had been held captive the night before. But another event of the day certainly did. In feet, even if she had decided not to involve herself with Nicholas Seyton, even if she had found his kiss as nauseating as she had found Giles's, she would still have felt it imperative to warn him that his identity was suspected and his arrest imminent. When Kate bad arrived at the Abbey the night before, she had been taken straight to the earl's cabinet, the office attached to his bedchamber, from which the old earl had conducted all his business. Lord Stoughton and Lady Thelma had been there too. All three had made much of Kate, listened to her story, and appeared to accept it. The following afternoon, however, Kate overheard part of a conversation between the earl and the captain of the coast guard, who had come to report on the search for the kidnapper. She had been sent downstairs by Lady Thelma to invite the earl to tea, and she stood politely in the great hall until Lord Barton should have time to turn to her. Lord Barton had just been explaining to the captain that Nicholas Seyton perhaps bore a grudge at being forced to move away from the Abbey and perhaps had something to do with the kidnapping, which had clearly been designed for Lady Thelma. The theory was at least worth looking into, the earl had added, before nodding a gracious dismissal to the man and turning to Kate to ask what he could do for her. Kate had decided before another hour had passed that she was going to have to seek out Mr. Seyton for herself. And quickly. The members of the coast guard doubtless knew what he looked like. He had lived in this house all his life. And he might be captured very easily if he did not know that he was being looked for. That blond hair was very distinctive. The foolish man should disguise it somehow. The problem was, how was she going to get to that cottage? She could find it right enough, she was sure. But how was she to get away from the Abbey? She could not just don a pair of walking shoes, grab a maid as chaperon, and announce to all and sundry that she would see them later. It was even less possible to saddle a horse and ride into the horizon. It would have to be done at night. By stealth. Truth to tell, the idea rather appealed to Kate. Should she tell anyone? The servants were all his friends, Nicholas had said. But what if she chose to confide in the very one who was not? Most rules had exceptions, life had taught her. She could confide in that rather lovable porter's son who had lit her way to the house last evening, talking and giggling the whole way about "Master Nick" and "Master Jonathan," who, the fellow was convinced, was going to come back one day. He would probably accompany her and make sure that she did not get lost. But then she would not be alone with Mr. Seyton, and it was very unlikely that he would kiss her in someone's company. No, she would go alone.

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The evening was irksome. The earl chose to keepLondonhours even in this remotecountyofEngland. They dined at eight and then adjourned to the drawing room for tea. They seemed to sit an eternity over that before deciding to move to the adjoining music room, which was graced with a pianoforte as well as a spinet, a harp, and a violin. Lady Thelma had once been told in her father's hearing that she had a sweet voice. Kate could not entirely disagree, but did the fond papa really have to insist on nine different songs to prove the point on this of all evenings? And certainly no one in his right senses could have ever told Lord Stoughton that he played sweetly on the violin. But he played it anyway. On any other occasion Kate might have amused herself by converting the violin in her imagination into a cat during a mating ritual, the neck its outstretched tail. On this occasion she was merely aware of the ormolu clock on the high marble mantelpiece ticking away the minutes. It was well afterten o'clockbefore a yawning Thelma announced that she was going to bed and her dutiful companion could rise to accompany her. Lady Thelma had never called on her services during the night. Even so, Kate found her heart thumping uncomfortably as she slipped down the servants' stairs half an hour later and out through a door that she hoped would remain unbolted until her return. How she would explain a nocturnal outing if she were caught, she did not know. She would invent some story of insomnia, she supposed. Three and a half miles had seemed a short distance when it was covered on the back of a powerful horse the evening before. It seemed a very long way when one was on foot and not quite certain of the way at times. It took Kate well over an hour to reach the cottage, and then she was discouraged to discover that it was in darkness. But of course, it must be pastmidnight. Strangely, it was only then that the extreme awkwardness of the situation struck her. Until then she had seen only the excitement and intrigue of the visit. Now she realized its terrible impropriety. She was almost ready to turn back until she remembered the words exchanged between Lord Barton and the captain of the coast guard. She must warn Mr. Seyton. Indeed, perhaps she was already too late. If the coast guard knew where he was staying—and they might, despite what he had said the evening before—they might have arrested him hours before. Perhaps she realty would see him swing after all. The thought sent her scurrying through the gate into the little cobbled courtyard she remembered from the night before. She knocked loudly on the door before she could lose her courage. She had to knock again before a feint light appeared in the window of the room above the door and a head wearing a tasseled nightcap peered down at her. "Who be it?" asked a gruff masculine voice. Kate craned her neck and looked up. "Please," she said, "I wish to speak to Mr. Seyton." There was a short silence. "Ain't no one by the name of Seyton here, wench," the voice said. "I was here last evening, do you not remember?" Kate asked. "It is imperative for his own safety that I see him. Please tell him that Mrs. Mannering must speak to him." Kate was thoroughly thankful for the darkness, which hid her blush of mortification. "Wait there, missus," the man in the room above said, and the head was withdrawn and the light disappeared. Kate stood there for what seemed like interminable minutes. How very foolish she was to have come. He would think her a trollop, no doubt, when she could have just as easily written a letter and entrusted it

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to one of the more likely servants or to Josh Pickering. A lone nocturnal visit aftermidnight! She would die of mortification. She turned to leave before she could be dragged inside into the light. But it was too late. She could hear a bolt drawn back behind the door, and the next moment the light from a lamp was shining out on her. The man before her was not wearing a nightcap, though his thin hair was very unruly. He wore breeches and an imperfectly buttoned shirt. The voice was the same as had come from above her several minutes before, though. "Come inside, missus," he said. "Master Nick'll be down in a minute." Kate followed him along the passageway and to the room where she had been taken the night before. She tried to look dignified and unconcerned, as if paying calls on single gentlemen aftermidnightwere a quite unexceptionable activity for a lady. "Thank you," she said, bowing her head graciously to the servant—no, he was not a servant, was he? He was the owner of this cottage. Kate blushed and was thankful that the man set the lamp down on the small table and left the room without looking at her. Fortunately she did not have long to wait. Her stomach was too full of butterflies to enable her to sit and wait in patience. The door opened abruptly not more than two minutes after she had been left alone, and Nicholas Seyton came into the room. "Oh," she said, "you are wearing that ridiculous mask again. Do you sleep in it?" "Perhaps you would like to discover the answer for yourself, Mrs. Mannering," he said in tones that she found far from encouraging. "What in the name of all that is wonderful are you doing here, ma'am? And at this hour?" Kate drew herself up to her full unimpressive height. "I am an employee, if you will remember, sir," she said. "I may not pay calls at my leisure during the daytime. Only the nights I can call my own." He grinned suddenly. "There is no possible use in trying to imitate a dowager duchess, Katherine," he said. "Your air of superior dignity is totally inappropriate in every way. Are you in the habit of paying calls on gentlemen at this hour of the night? And in such clothes? They are dreadfully unbecoming, are they not?" Kate shrugged. "The uniform of my employment, I am afraid," she said, untying the ribbons of her gray bonnet and tossing it onto the chair by the fireplace before sending her cloak to join it. "Good God!" he said. "Your hair. Is that part of the uniform too? It is my cousin that insists on this? No doubt he fears that you will outshine Thelma. But do not despair, my dear. Your charms are shockingly obvious despite the heavy disguise. To what do I owe this visit, Katherine? I take it is not merely a social call?" "By no means," she said dramatically. "I came to warn you that your life is in danger." Unexpectedly he grinned. "I suppose half the country is in search of the highwayman," he said. "Worse than that," said Kate. "They know it is you." "Indeed?" he said. "Did you tell them, Katherine?"

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"Of course not," she said indignantly. "Do you think I would betray you and then walk almost four miles across country in the darkness to warn you? Do you think I have windmills in my head?" "Did you walk here?" he asked. "And all alone? That was very brave but very foolhardy, my dear. Why did you not ask Josh to accompany you? Or send him with a message? Josh can memorize a simple message, you know, and nothing will worm it out of him until he can deliver it to the right person." Kate blushed, recalling at this inopportune moment her reason for deciding not to bring Josh. "I was afraid to trust anyone," she said. "I heard the earl this afternoon telling the captain of the coast guard that he suspects the highwayman was you or someone associated with you. They will be after you now. They will arrest you." "Then perhaps you will have your wish after all," he said cheerfully. "Perhaps you will see me hang, Katherine." "Don't," she said indignantly. "You know I said that only before I knew the truth about you." "Well," he said, moving for the first time and motioning her to a chair at the table, "don't alarm yourself. The law ofEnglandrequires proof before a man can be convicted of any crime." "Are you mad?" said Kate, ignoring the offer of a chair and pacing across to the window and back to stand a short distance away from him. "There is every proof in the world. Lord Stoughton and Lady Thelma saw you, not to mention the coachman and the footman." "Masked, though," he pointed out. "The mask is about as much disguise as a patch would be fixed next to your mouth," Kate said scornfully. "That hair! Have you never considered disguising it? There cannot be another man for twenty miles who has hair quite as blond as yours and who wears it as unfashionably long. At least have it cut short, sir. Oh, do stop grinning at me in that thoroughly imbecilic manner. This is serious. Your life is at stake!" He continued to grin. "How very delightful you are, Katherine," he said. "Does my safety matter so much to you?" "Well, of course it does," she said. "You have been treated unjustly all your life." "Being hanged or transported for kidnapping would not be unjust, though, would it?" he said. "I did kidnap you, Katherine. And I believe I am more and more glad that I did. I should not feel that way, of course. Do I owe you an apology for that kiss, by the way? I do hope not. I do not feel sorry at all." He waited for an answer. Kate blushed. "Oh, that," she said carelessly. "I had quite forgotten it, sir." He threw back his head and laughed loudly. "Katherine," he said, "do you not know that that is the surest way to wound a man's pride? I kissed you last night, and you have forgotten it by tonight! I shall have to try to do better so that you will not forget again. Come here." "Like a puppy?" she said indignantly. "Absolutely not, sir." "It is interesting to notice that is my peremptory summons to which you object," Nicholas Seyton said,

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"not the idea of being kissed. You are quite right, of course. That was the arrogant male in me talking. I shall come to you. There, is that more to your liking?" Kate, looking up into the blue eyes behind the mask, would have liked to tell him with great dignity that she objected to both his command and his intention. But she could not. He might believe her, and she wished very much to be kissed again. She satisfied herself with looking him in the eye and saying with great dignity, "Yes, thank you. It is." He laughed again before taking her by the shoulders and drawing her against him. Oh, he felt good, she thought, feeling him along the length of her body, all solid muscle and masculinity. One of his hands clasped her throat, the thumb and forefinger raising her chin. It was a quite unnecessary gesture; her face was already raised for his kiss. She drew a deep and not-quite-steady bream. She would die if his kiss was unpleasant this time. But it was not. Oh, it was very definitely not. Soon she was clinging to his shoulders as if only by doing so could she save herself from drowning. At first, his mouth covered hers as lightly as it had the night before, his tongue teasing her lips until she sizzled with sensation and reached up her arms to twine them around his neck. She opened her mouth. And then his tongue was teasing its way past the barrier of her teeth to explore and caress the warm cavity beyond. His one hand held the back of her head. The other reached up to take hers when she was about to twine her fingers in his hair. She clung to his hand. The room and the world around her were receding. She was becoming only warm and pleasurable sensation. Aching sensation. "Katherine…" His voice was murmuring warmly into her ear. He took her earlobe between his teeth and bit it gently. Kate shivered and slipped both arms around his waist. She tipped her head back farther so that she could feel his mouth against her throat, against the pulse there. And she could feel his hands unbuttoning the back of her high-necked dress. She pressed her breasts against his chest and drew her shoulders back to make the task easier. "Katherine…" Her dress was off her shoulders and halfway down her arms. The straps of her shift followed it. And she drew her breasts away from him so that both garments could fall to her waist and his hands could cover her instead. Beautiful. Oh, beautiful. A man's hands worshiping her breasts, caressing them, massaging them with his palms, covering the hardening nipples with his thumbs and moving them in rhythmic circles. A man's head moving down to them, kissing them, taking the nipple of first one and then the other into his mouth and sucking, his tongue moving over their tips, driving her mad with pleasure that felt almost like pain. He took her gently by the wrists when her hands moved to his hair, drew her arms behind her, and held them there. And she stood captive, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, wanting and wanting and wanting. "Katherine…" Her naked breasts were against his shirt. His mouth was over hers again, tantalizingly close, not quite touching. "Oh, my beautiful Katherine. Do you realize what very great danger you are in?" "Kiss me," she pleaded. "Kiss me." And was aware of the extent of her danger as she pressed herself along the length of him. He lowered his mouth to hers again, and his tongue danced against hers, drawing it out and into his own mouth. His hands still held her wrists loosely behind her back. And then his very blue eyes were looking down into hers. He laid his forehead against her own. She was very aware of the mask.

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"We must stop," he said. "I cannot control my desire beyond even one more kiss. I want you, Katherine. I want you right now in bed. But we must not. We mustn't. Tell me we mustn't." Kate pulled her hands free of his clasp and pushed firmly against his shoulders. "You want me in bed so that you can have your pleasure and spoil mine," she said. She could hear the hurt in her own voice and tried to control it. "You are as selfish as any other man. Oh, I thought perhaps you were different." "Take my pleasure and spoil yours?" he asked. She could feel rather than see his frown. The mask hid his expression. "Have I been imagining things? Have you not been enjoying this as I have? Have you not been feeling the same desire as I?" "Of course I have," she said. "And you want to spoil it all by taking me to bed?" There was a short silence. "Has bed never been pleasurable for you, Katherine?" he asked softly. "Of course not," she said. "It is only for men, though I cannot imagine why. It is disgusting." "Did your husband never pleasure you?" he asked. "Did he never touch you and caress you until you were as ready as he? Did he never take you slowly so that you could have pleasure too?" "Heaven forbid!" Kate said with a shudder. "He could not do it fast enough for me." "Poor Katherine," he said, bending his head and kissing her gently on the cheek. He took one lock of her hair in his hand. When had she lost the neat bun at her neck? she wondered. "I wish I had the freedom and the leisure to teach you the depths of your own passion. You were halfway there a minute ago and did not know it. But enough." He straightened up and released the lock of hair. His manner became noticeably more brisk. "We must get you home and to bed—alone—as soon as possible if you are to be good for anything tomorrow. I shall go and saddle my horse. You may wait here." "I can walk," Kate said. Why was she feeling so dreadfully empty and depressed? "Katherine Mannering," he said firmly, "this time I shall play the heavy-handed male and brook no argument. Turn around and let me help you with those buttons. They seem to be causing you a great deal of trouble." It was only as they were riding toward Barton Abbey later, Kate's bonneted head resting on Nicholas' shoulder, that she remembered her other reason for wishing to talk to him that night. "The earl is searching for something," she said abruptly. "What?" he asked. "And where?" "In the library," she said. "He is searching through all the books, shaking them as if he expected something to fell out." "What makes you think this has anything to do with me?" he asked. "Nothing," she admitted. "But it does seem peculiar. I thought perhaps I would offer to help him. I can pretend I think he wishes to clean or organize the books."

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"Katherine, listen to me," he said after a short pause. "You are not to involve yourself further in my affairs. I am grateful for your warning of this evening. I do not believe the danger is as acute as you believe, but it is as well to be warned. But no more. You must make no effort to find out more. If by pure chance you do find something that seems of life-or-death importance, you must tell Barret, the head groom—do you know him? Or write a note and send it with Josh, though I always think it wiser to commit as little as possible to writing. But you must not come to me yourself ever again." "You did not enjoy kissing me?" Kate asked. He squeezed her shoulder and laughed softly. "Katherine Mannering, you know very well how much I enjoyed kissing you," he said. "That is not the point at all. The point is that this thing might possibly get ugly, and I do not wish you to be involved in any way. Besides, there are all sorts of things you do not know about me. I am not at all an eligible suitor for you." "Suitor?" she said. "I am not looking for a suitor. I am never goingtomarry again. If I did, I would have to allow…" "… that humiliating physical exercise that brings pleasure only to the husband," he completed for her when she did not do so for herself. "You must stay away from me, Katherine. Promise me. You must promise." "No," she said into his shirt front. "I cannot promise because then I should be bound. But I will not come again, for all that. I will not come where I am not wanted." He made an impatient duckling noise. He looked down at her as if he were about to say something, but he maintained his silence and they rode on without another word. This time he took her through a side gate and across the park until they were close to the house. "That is the door you came out of?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the west side of the house. "Go, then. I shall stay here until I am sure you are safely inside. If by chance the door has been bolted, do not panic. I know ways of getting inside this house. I was a boy here, remember." He grinned at her in the darkness before dismounting and lifting her to the ground. He did not immediately relinquish his hold of her waist. "Thank you for coming tonight, Katherine. You are an incredibly brave lady. And very kind. This must be good-bye. It must be. And that had nothing whatsoever to do with my liking or not liking to kiss you. You are very beautiful and very desirable." He kissed her briefly and hard on the lips. Kate said nothing. She turned and sped across the grass that lay between the small copse of trees where he hid with his horse, whisked herself inside the door without taking the precaution of looking around it first, and ran a little more cautiously up to her room. She stood for a long time, her back against the door, her hands behind her still clasping the knob, her eyes tight shut. She would not cry. She never cried. Ever. Not even that time when Giles had turned her facedown on the bed and beaten her until she bit the inside of her mouth raw, because she had tried to ease her way out from beneath him while he was snoring heavily on top of her. She would not cry. No man could ever treat her badly enough that she would cry. She would never give any man that satisfaction, even if he were not present to witness the tears. She would not cry for a man who had wanted to ruin her pleasure by taking her to bed and doing "that" to her. Or for a man who did not want to see her again because she had had the temerity to tell him how selfish his desire was. The wind had got at her eyes. She had noticed how windy it was. And they had been riding into it. It was the wind. Kate brushed fiercely at the tears the wind had caused, which were now spilling over and

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down her cheeks. Chapter Six

Nicholas did not immediately ride away after the side door closed behind Kate. He continued to gaze with dull pain at the home he could no longer enter. He could see along the southern front with its long windows and massive stone pilasters, the stone balustrade and statues on the roof, the twin curved marble stairways like a horseshoe connecting the terrace and the double front doors and the large hall beyond. He could both see and hear the fountain opposite the entryway at the head of the formal gardens. Nicholas sighed. It was the only home he had ever known, and that fact alone would explain his love of it. But there was far more than that. He had always consciously appreciated the magnificence of the architecture and the furnishings and art treasures within. He had never taken his surroundings for granted. He had studied his home as if it were a history book, and he knew it in minute detail. He could conduct a guided tour of the park and the house with his eyes bandaged and his hands bound behind his back. And perhaps he would never be inside the house again. Perhaps he would always view it like this, if at all, a trespasser at night. Yet he was becoming more and more convinced that it was all rightfully his. In the more than twenty-four hours since he had bungled his kidnapping scheme, he had been able to formulate no new plan to force information from the only man who seemed able to help him discover the secrets of his past. There was only one very slim chance. And he was not even sure that that would help him a great deal. However, it seemed to be the only possibility. He must leave in the morning as early as possible to find out if there really was any chance. He must call on Dalrymple. And if he was to leave early in the morning, he must return to the cottage without delay in order to snatch a few hours of sleep at least. But he did not immediately turn to leave. His eyes came to rest again on the door through which Katherine Mannering had entered the house a few minutes before. He had behaved very self-indulgently with her. He had been quite aghast earlier when Russ Evans had knocked on his bedchamber door to announce that the disturbance he was trying to ignore had been caused by the arrival of Mrs. Mannering to speak with him. He had dressed and donned his disguise in some haste, rejecting the help of a frowningly disapproving Parkin. And he had gone downstairs determined to get rid of her with all speed and to discourage her from calling on him ever again. She really must not have any sort of connection with him. She knew only about his activities as a highwayman, and those were unsavory enough. She did not know about anything else. How quickly his resolve had been forgotten! He had been very quickly amused and somewhat touched by her sense of urgency. And he had been intrigued by her failure yet again to see through his disguise. He had never thought that anyone having a good look at his wig would be fooled by it. He had had it made and had worn it only so that his own identity would be more difficult to discover. Yet Katherine thought the blond hair was really his and had even scolded him for being foolhardy enough to display it so openly. He should not have allowed himself to be diverted. He certainly should not have allowed himself to give

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in to the temptation to kiss her again. Having done so, his resolve to stay away from her was going to be more difficult to keep. He found her so achingly desirable. Although he had told her that they must break the embrace, he knew that just one word of doubt or protest from her would have set him to laying her down on the floor-uncomfortable a bed as it would have made—and taking their lovemaking to its natural conclusion. How could he have stayed away from her after that? How could he stay away from her even now? That husband of hers must have been a lout of the first order to have given her such a disgust of the sexual act. But he could teach her just how very pleasurable that act could be. He knew he could. She had enjoyed his kisses and his touch. There was no doubt about that. She had not even tried to hide or deny the fact. He did not know how long she had been married, but she must still be incredibly innocent if she did not realize that all the pleasure she had been experiencing was merely a prelude to the far greater satisfaction he could have given her in bed. The temptation to try to teach her that was going to nag at him, he knew. Not to mention the temptation to seek her out for his own satisfaction. It was not just the physical craving that drew him to Katherine, though, Nicholas thought, his eyes moving along the windows of the west wing, trying to guess which one was hers. Which of the guest bedchambers would she have been allotted? He supposed that if his need were merely for a woman, he could find one somewhere without offending any of his acquaintances. But there was something about Katherine Mannering. She was beautiful. But it was more than that too. She had a very strong and forceful character. She would make a very interesting friend, he suspected. Well. He turned his horse's head resolutely in the direction of the side gate by which he had entered BartonPark. Stay away from her he must. If his visit to Dalrympie were successful, of course, he would see plenty of her again. But she would not know it was he. And he must ensure that she did not find out. He must not allow his attraction to her to show. All that depended on what Dalrymple could tell him, of course. He must not start making plans yet. Not until there was some possibility of putting them into effect. "I believe I like the library best of all the rooms in the house, my lord," Kate said at breakfast the following morning. "The library?" Lord Stoughton said in some surprise. "Yet it is not one-quarter the size of the great hall, Mrs. Mannering, and not one-half that of the salon. Now, the salon is my idea of magnificence, with that coved and painted ceiling, and all the gold leaf, and all the portraits on the walls. I would have to say it is my favorite room." "I cannot say I like any room as well as those at Wragley," Thelma said. "And you do not have to raise your eyes to the ceiling with such contempt, Adam. There is nothing wrong with Wragley, for all that it is very small in comparison with Barton Abbey. It is where we grew up and it is home. Everything here is so very large and so very stately. There is nothing comfortable here at all." "You will change your mind next week when our guests arrive," her father said. "You will see how impressed they will all be, Thelma, and with what respect they will treat you as my daughter. I shall be able to marry you a great deal higher than when I merely had the prospect of such a position, you know." "Well," Thelma said rather wistfully, "I wish Great-Uncle had lived until after I was wed, Papa. I was quite content with being what I was. I have no wish to attract fortune hunters." The earl clucked his tongue. "Trust me to choose someone quite unexceptionable for you, my love," he said. "And to return to your comment, Mrs. Mannering, yes, you are to be commended for your

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appreciation of the library. It used to be the state bedchamber, you know. Until the late earl's time, there was no separate library. He decided that there was no need of the bedchamber any longer but that there was great need of a library. A great reader was my uncle, though even he admitted that the large bulk of the volumes now in the library was purchased merely to fill the shelves that he had built into the walls." "The books must be in great need of a thorough cleaning and organizing," Kate said. "I noticed yesterday, my lord, that you were attempting to remove the dust from some of them. It is a huge task you have taken upon yourself." "Yes, indeed," Lord Barton replied, "but books fascinate me, Mrs. Mannering. I shall undertake the task of setting the library to rights quite cheerfully." "If I might make so bold, my lord," Kate said, "I must say that I too have a love of books. My father has a modest library, and it was always my task to organize and keep the volumes clean. It has occurred to me that with the arrival of your guests next week, Lady Thelma will not have as great a need of my company as she does now. And I hate to be idle. Perhaps I could be of some help to you?" "That is a very civil offer, Mrs. Mannering," the earl said. "I would indeed be glad of your assistance." "Splendid," Kate said. "I shall come to the library whenever Lady Thelma has no need of me." "You really do not have to do so, you know, Kate," Thelma said. "You are my companion, after all, not a servant. And I do not expect you to be busy all the time." "Oh, but I have never been used to a life of idleness," Kate assured her with a smile. "And indeed working in the library will be a pleasure far greater than sitting in my room twiddling my thumbs." "Perhaps I can find some use for your time too, Mrs. Mannering," Lord Stoughton said with something of a leer, but he did have the grace to look somewhat uncomfortable when his father leveled a steady look, at him. Kate yawned behind her hand. She had found it very difficult to rise at her usual hour that morning. However, she quickly stifled and forgot about the yawn at the viscount's next words. "Papa," he said, "whatever happened to the illegitimate son of your cousin? He used to live here, did he not?" The earl's expression did not flicker, Kate noticed. "Nicholas Seyton?" he said. "He left here on the death of his grandfather. Must have realized that his presence here would be an embarrassment to both himself and us if he stayed." "I had forgotten about him," Thelma said. "I used to think it quite romantic to have an illegitimate second cousin living here. I wish we could have met him." "It would be quite improper for you to do so," her father said sternly. "My uncle came under severe criticism for keeping him here. It made a very embarrassing situation for would-be visitors." "How did he get here in the first place?"Stoughtonasked. "Did his mother bring him? It would have been priceless to witness the meeting between her and the old earl, I'll wager. He was something of a tartar, was he not, Papa?"

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"He was," the earl said, "though not with young Nicholas. He had gone rather soft in the head, I believe, over Jonathan's death." "Poor little boy!" Thelma said. "Perhaps your cousin would have married the mother if he had lived, Papa, and Nicholas would have been respectable. What was she like?" "Not the sort of female you would wish to hear about, my love," the earl said, a note of finality in his voice. "It must be a relief to you to know that such a person has gone away, my lord," Kate said, a note of polite concern in her voice. "Did he return to his mother?" "I have not been interested enough to find out, Mrs. Mannering," Lord Barton said. "I have assumed he has gone toShropshire, where he has property, left him by a doting grandfather. Really I think Nicholas Seyton does not need the pity of any of us. He has done quite well for himself considering the lowness of his birth." "Do you think it will be safe for Kate and me to drive into the village this morning, Papa, if we take some extra servants?" Thelma asked. "I wish to discover if there are any shops worth patronizing there." Kate found that she had been almost holding her breath. But she relaxed again now. The subject had been effectively changed. And it was quite obvious anyway that the earl was not going to let slip any of the real truth concerning his relationship with Nicholas Seyton. She was pleased with her minor triumph, though. She was going to be allowed to work in the library. Somehow perhaps this activity would lead her to the discovery of some fact pertinent to Nicholas. And even if it did not, she had been quite sincere in saying that working in the library would be preferable to sitting idle in her room while Thelma was involved in activities with her guests. The two ladies left the breakfast room and retired to their rooms to get ready for the proposed trip to Trecoombe, the small fishing village that was a mere four miles from Barton Abbey. Kate took her gray cloak from the wardrobe and arranged her gray bonnet over her smooth hair. She pulled a face at herself when she glanced into the pier glass in her dressing room. Perhaps she should have worn brown today. It was hard to decide which color was the more unbecoming. She remembered Nicholas' reaction when he had seen her the night before, wearing just these garments. And she must stop thinking about Nicholas in any remotely personal way, she told herself firmly as she tied the ribbons of her cloak at her throat. She would try in any way she could to learn more about him at the Abbey, despite his command that she involve herself no further in his affairs. But she would do so merely because she needed something to add a small measure of purpose and excitement to her existence. She would not think of him as a person at all. But she did just that as she drew her worn black leather gloves slowly over her hands. Why must he have turned out to be such a selfish man? She had thought while he was kissing her that he was deliberately trying to make the experience pleasant for her. She had not realized that her own pleasure had been quite incidental, of no real concern to him at all. In reality he had been concerned only with his own sensations. He could not have proved that point more cruelly. Suggesting taking her to bed indeed! Had he really expected her meekly to agree? Of course, perhaps he really had been deliberately trying to please her, hoping that she would be so caught up in the delight of his embrace that she would consent to show her gratitude by allowing him to do "that" to her. Some chance indeed! And when he knew that she was not going to allow him that liberty, he had quickly changed his attitude.

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He did not want to see her again. She must not try to visit him again. If she needed to see him urgently, she must send a message via one of the servants. Well, and so she would, too. She had no wish whatsoever to see Nicholas Seyton. His kisses were quite delightful, but she could never enjoy them again, knowing as she did that he used them merely as a trap to hurt and humiliate her. He did not need to order her to stay away, or even to ask. She would stay away from him of her own free will. The idea that she would give him freely what she had been obliged to give for five years to Giles all those dreadful times he had felt "that way"! "I am no desirable suitor for you," he had said, or words to that effect. Did he think she was quite mad? What woman, having once lived through the experience of marriage and been granted the blessed release of her husband's demise, would ever freely subject herself to a life of such degradation again? And yet there were such women. Kate pitied them heartily. They must have far less freedom of choice than she had enjoyed in the previous year. The boredom that life with Lady Thelma promised was sheer heaven in comparison with the life she might have been called upon to lead. Her father could have put much pressure on her to marry again, she supposed. And it was very difficult to be an openly disobliging daughter. Kate felt almost cheerful as she left her chamber to join her employer for their morning drive.

Three days later Nicholas was riding back along the road toDorset. He was alone, though Parkin had wanted to go with him. The elderly valet could never quite accept the fact that Nicholas was a grown man now and perfectly capable of looking after himself. Of course, sometimes the poor man had plenty to worry about. But not on this occasion. The journey into Wiltshire had been worthwhile after all. Dalrymple had been at home, and as luck would have it, he really had been invited to join the house party at Barton Abbey and was intending to come. Nicholas had not been at all confident that it would be so. Even if the new earl had decided to invite all his relatives, Charles Dalrymple was quite a distant connection, his grandfather having been a cousin of the old earl and the new earl's father. Nicholas had met him at university. The discovery of their fairly remote relationship had brought them together at first, they had become fast friends later because of their similar interests and compatible personalities. Dalrymple was one of the few members of society who had visited the Abbey in the last few years of the earl's life. And Nicholas had visited him a few times. His parents had apparently raised no objection to Seyton's illegitimate birth. Now the two friends had met fleetingly again, and Charles Dalrymple had agreed, though reluctantly, to Nicholas' request. It was a mad scheme, he had said. Even if the earl and his son and daughter would not know Nicholas, just about everyone else for miles around certainly would, including all the servants on the estate. It was all very well for his friend to claim that everyone in the vicinity was his friend, with the possible exception of the coast guard. Even friends sometimes made mistakes or dropped their guard. It was just too much to expect dozens of people of all classes and occupations to remember for a few weeks that he was no longer Mr. Nicholas Seyton but Sir Harry Tate. Someone was bound to slip up. Nicholas had argued that he had proved over the past year that a large number of people could be trusted to keep secrets and to protect one another. He had trusted these people with his life during that year. Surely now he could trust them with this extra secret. Most of them were people who lived dull lives. They would welcome this extra challenge to their ingenuity. All he needed from Dalrymple was an introduction to the house. The rest could be left to him.

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Nicholas had decided, after some deliberation, to tell his friend the truth. There was no reason to lie, after all. Dalrymple knew, then, that the new earl was possibly an impostor, that he had quite probably covered up the truth surrounding Nicholas' birth. He knew that Nicholas felt it necessary to be at the house, free to look and listen and to take advantage of any opportunity to find out more about himself. The plan was no more definite than that. Nicholas did not know what it was he looked for or listened for. He knew only that he must find a way to make his cousin talk. And so it had been decided that Nicholas would meet his friend on the morning of the letter's expected arrival at Barton Abbey. In the meanwhile Dalrymple would write to Lord Barton announcing that an old friend of his had arrived unexpectedly for a visit and asking that he be allowed to bring that friend with him to the Abbey. They had decided to provide the fictitious Harry Tate with a title to make his acceptance by the earl more probable. During the intervening days Nicholas was to return home and spread the word of his intentions among the people of the neighborhood. This was not such a formidable task as it might have seemed. There was already a quite effective network of communications in the area. If Barret, the head groom, were given some important information, the whole staff of Barton Abbey, from the butler to the lowliest scullery maid, would soon know it too. If Russ Evans had the same information, all the fishermen and their wives and all the inhabitants of thevillageofTrecoombesoon possessed the knowledge also. And if a significant word was dropped in the ear of Mr. Markham, gentleman farmer, that word would be in the ear of all the other members of the gentry for a five-mile radius within a day. The efficiency of this system had been proved several times over the year since Nicholas had become aware of it. Now he used the network to spread the word that Sir Harry Tate, a young gentleman bearing a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Nicholas Seyton, was to join the house party at Barton Abbey the following week. An important part of the message, of course, was that the earl was not to be informed of the interesting resemblance between this visiting baronet and the bastard grandson of the late earl. Nicholas felt no qualms about the workability of this scheme. The only people he had to fear were the soldiers of the coast guard, some of whom had met him when his grandfather was still alive. They were the only people he would have to avoid at all costs. And then, of course, there was Katherine Mannering. It was very unlikely that she would recognize him from his appearance. Some details might give him away: his smile, perhaps; some chance mannerism that he was unaware of; his voice. He was thankful, at least, that he had always talked to her in that French accent, which she must have realized was fake, but which might now make his own voice less recognizable. But he was going to have to playact a little. He must practice over the days ahead. He had not told Dalrymple about Katherine. He had not seen any necessity to do so. He had also not mentioned what she had told him that evening as he took her back to Barton Abbey. In fact, he had not thought of it a great deal himself until his journey home from Wiltshire. What on earth was the earl searching for in the library? He had not been there long enough to have lost anything. And he had been away for twenty years. Of course, perhaps he was not searching at all. Perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what Katherine had seen. But Nicholas had so little to work with by way of evidence. His mind was prepared to grapple with anything that appeared in any way out of the ordinary. Assuming the earl was searching, what was he searching for twenty years after he had left? That letter from Nicholas' mother? The old earl, always methodical and well-organized in his business dealings, had not been able to produce that letter for his

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grandson, yet he had not destroyed it. It had just disappeared, he had said, and the loss had annoyed him for years. He would have liked to have that at least to give his grandson when he himself was on his deathbed. For how long had that letter been missing? Had Clive taken it? Or had it been lost some other way and he too wondered about its whereabouts? But would a man search for something lost twenty years before in a house that had been inhabited for all of those twenty years? Would he? Nicholas tried to put himself in Clive's place. He tried to think himself into his position. He had defrauded a boy of his birthright, and documentary evidence that could lead to an exposure of that fraud had disappeared in a building that he searched and left almost five years later. Twenty years after that his fraud finally paid off in a big way and he returned to that same building. Obviously that document had not been found in the meanwhile, or his fraud would also have been exposed. What would he do? Nicholas knew what he would do. He would search, against all reason. He would feel anxious and insecure until he had found that letter. If it was the letter. It was actually very unlikely that that would have disappeared purely by accident. What else could there be, equally important, perhaps even more so? What other document? It must be paper if the new earl was searching between the pages of books for it. Anything he had brought back with Nicholas as a baby he surely would have guarded with such care that it could not be lost. It would have to be something else. Something his father had brought back fromFrancewith him,, perhaps? What would his father have brought back? Nicholas had not been born yet, presumably. If he had and if his father and mother had been married, then surely he would have brought the two of them home with him. And they probably had not been married long. Again, if they had, surely his father would have broken the news to the old earl sometime before his death. His father and mother must have been married, then, shortly before the former's return toEngland. But if they were married, then his father must have intended to return for his wife and child after the latter's birth. Yet he had not told the earl during the few days that elapsed between the day of his return and the day of his death. Had he been afraid, then, to broach the topic? What would he have brought with him fromFrance? Some letter from his wife? He would have destroyed that surely if he did not wish anyone to see it. Papers, some certificate, to prove that the marriage really had taken place? Would he have felt that such papers would be necessary to prove the truth to his father when he finally summoned the courage to break the news to him? What would he have done with those papers in the meantime? He probably would have kept them safe in his room. Yet if that were the case, they would have been found soon after his death, either by the earl or by his cousin Clive. Nicholas frowned. He was concentrating very hard to try to think his way back into the past. Had he completely missed the mark? His grandfather had never talked a great deal about his father. But from the little he had said, Nicholas had gathered that the earl had somewhat despised his son for timidity. If it were true and his father had been unnaturally afraid of revealing the truth about his marriage to the earl, how would he have felt about leaving those marriage papers in his room, even if they were safely secreted in a drawer? Would he have tried to hide them in a safer place? The idea seemed absurd. Was it possible? But even if it were so, would Clive have reasoned the same way as he was doing now and be searching for those papers on the remote possibility that they had ever existed? Nicholas became so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts that he drew his horse almost to a complete

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halt on the road. His father and Clive Seyton had been very close until the former's death, far more like brothers than cousins. He had learned that both from his grandfather and from some of the servants. If his father was too terrified to tell the earl about his marriage, was it possible that he had confided in his cousin? And would he have told his cousin about the papers without, perhaps, telling him where he had hidden them? Again the idea seemed absurd. Perhaps he was trying to be just too clever, Nicholas thought. He was not even quite sure that his parents had been married. He was not quite sure that the new earl was deliberately withholding information from him. He was not quite sure that the earl was now searching for something. Every other conjecture he had worked out painstakingly in his mind might be so many wild thoughts with no substance whatsoever. Perhaps. But he meant to pursue those conjectures, nevertheless. He had become too involved in uncovering the secrets of his own past to shrug off the whole matter now. Even if he was illegitimate, even if his mother was a street prostitute, he had to know the truth now. He could rest once he knew the truth, even if it confirmed all his worst fears. He could not rest with the uncertainties. Especially when those uncertainties held the possibility that he had lived all his life under a great injustice. Nicholas spurred his horse on. He was close enough to home that he must ride with more caution. He did not wish to risk being seen by any of the family at the Abbey, Katherine Mannering included. They might recall next week that Sir Harry Tate had been ambling along the road nearby only the week before. And he did not want any members of the coast guard to see him and know that Mr. Nicholas Seyton was indeed still in the area. He drew his horse off the road after a while and took the safer route across country. Chapter Seven

Kate had not expected to be present for the arrival of the guests the following week. She had taken the label of servant much to heart. But Lady Thelma, who was not naturally sociable, felt the need of her companion's presence as moral support. Wearing her best day dress, therefore, a light brown muslin, her hair smoothed back from her face and dressed in a neat bun at her neck, Kate witnessed the arrival of all the guests and was presented to each of them. Lord Barton's sister and her husband were the first to arrive. Lady Toucher looked remarkably like her brother: fair-haired and rather plump. She seemed somewhat placid in nature. She nodded kindly at Kate and remarked that she was pleased to know that dear Thelma had the company of a sensible young lady. Kate was not at all sure why the aunt had decided at one glance that she was sensible. Her hairstyle and the color and plain style of her dress, perhaps? Two of Thelma's particular friends were the next to arrive, with the mother of one of them as chaperon. The Honorable Miss Christine Barr-Smythe had a tendency to squeal as a reaction to any emotion, while Miss Julie Carstairs had an equal addiction to giggling. Kate noticed the good-humored expression of Mrs. Carstairs and thought sympathetically that the lady must have needed all her good nature to tolerate the company of those two girls on the journey fromLondon. Each reacted in her characteristic way to the first sight of the great hall of Barton Abbey and Thelma waiting there to greet them.

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Lord Barton's cousin on his mother's side arrived soon after these ladies, bringing with him his wife and daughter. Sir Peregrine Lacey and Lady Barbara appeared to be a quiet and genteel couple, Kate judged. Their daughter Angela must be close to her own age. She was a tall, graceful girl with masses of very dark hair. She appeared serious and quiet and would perhaps be a welcome contrast to Thelma's two friends. Another relative of the earl's was next to arrive. Everyone else was already in the drawing room taking tea when Mr. Charles Dalrymple, a distant cousin of the earl's, was announced by the butler. Kate took particular note of him, as he had written to Lord Barton a few days before asking if he might bring another guest with him. And indeed the butler also announced Sir Harry Tate. Mr. Dalrymple was a tall thin young man, rather stooped in the shoulders, as if he were conscious of his height. He had sharp features and an aristocratic air. But he had kindly eyes, Kate noticed. She always noticed people's eyes, as she believed firmly that they were a mirror of the soul. She rose to her feet when the two gentlemen were announced, as indeed did everyone else. She curtsied when she was presented. She turned her attention in some curiosity to the mysterious Sir Harry Tate. Neither Lord Barton nor Lord Stoughton had ever met him, but of course good breeding had dictated that they reply to Mr. Dalrymple's letter assuring him that his friend would be very welcome at Barton Abbey. Kate secretly thought it rather forward of the man to push himself thus into a house party where he knew no one, including the host. Surely a normally sensitive gentleman would have insisted to his friend that he would return home or direct his travels elsewhere under such circumstances. Having looked rather hard at Sir Harry for a few minutes, however, during the bustle of everyone's sitting down again and Thelma pouring tea for the newcomers, Kate was less surprised. The man was extremely handsome, having a physique and facial features in which it would be difficult to find a single fault, and thick dark hair to boot. But he clearly was well aware of his good looks and had a noticeable air of conceit. He was dressed impeccably, his Hessian boots shining like a mirror though he must have worn them during his journey, his coat of dark green superfine tightly fitting at shoulders that obviously need no padding, his neckcloth knotted to perfection and yet not overfussy, his shirt points high and starched and yet not quite high enough to restrict the movement of his head. His shining dark hair was short and fashionably disheveled. She could not find fault with any of these details, Kate admitted to herself. One could not blame a gentleman for dressing well or accuse him of conceit merely because he had good taste. It was his face that made her immediately dislike him. He looked at the company in the drawing room along a straight and well-shaped nose with cynical blue eyes, their lids half-lowered to give him a bored expression. His mouth, which was not at all misshapen by nature, was marred by the suggestion of a sneer that drew it up slightly at one corner. His voice, when he had greeted Lord Barton and the other people present, had drawled a little, again as if he found the whole procedure tedious. His whole attitude suggested an air of superiority. How could he have had the effrontery to come here with such an attitude when he had not even been invited? Kate wondered indignantly. She felt like shaking the Misses Barr-Smythe and Carstairs, who were seated close together and were in the process of nudging each other significantly and stealing glances at the very handsome figure of the sneering guest. Well, she did not like him anyway, Kate decided, and she was not going to humble herself before the likes of him, servant though she was in this house. She rose to her feet to take Lady Toucher's cup across to the tea tray in order to fill it again. She could almost feel the eyes of the man on her and looked

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defiantly at him as she sat down again, chin in the air. He was viewing her with that bored expression. When he met her look, he deliberately let his eyes roam over her from head to foot, one of his hands playing with the riband of his quizzing glass, and lifted one cynical eyebrow as he looked up into her face again. Kate's nostrils flared, and she refused to break the eye contact. He looked away eventually with a slight half-smile. "It must be thirty years and more since I was here last, Clive," Lady Toucher was saying. "It is hard to believe. The place has not changed a great deal, has it?" "Uncle was always at pains to keep everything in good order," the earl replied, "after creating the library out of the state bedchamber, of course. But that was before our time,Alice." "I am so looking forward to being shown the house and park, Clive," Lady Barbara Lacey said. "Barton Abbey is so renowned for its magnificence. I am quite delighted that it now belongs to Peregrine's cousin and we have a reason to visit. If the grand hall and the staircase and this room are any indication, then the stories have not been exaggerated." "Tomorrow morning will be the best time for a tour," Lord Barton said, acknowledging the compliment with a gracious nod of the head. "Today I am sure you will all wish to rest before dinner. And a few of our guests are still to arrive." "I really should have come down to visit Uncle when he was still alive," the earl's sister said. "But Toucher always opposed my wish, you know, after our marriage. He did not want me exposed to the awkward situation of having to meet that son of poor Jonathan's." "Quite so," the earl agreed. "Whatever happened to him, Clive?" she asked. "Took himself off toShropshire, I imagine," Lord Barton said. "Uncle left him some property there, you know." "Well, I am glad to hear it," Lady Toucher said, "Poor boy. I always felt that he was not to blame for the circumstances of his birth." "Do you speak of Nicholas Seyton?" Charles Dalrymple asked. "I knew him atCambridge, you know. Splendid fellow." Kate directed her gaze and the whole of her attention on Mr. Dalrymple. "Oh, did you?" Lady Toucher said. "I am so glad." "I had hoped to see him here again," Dalrymple continued, looking politely at Lord Barton. "I had not realized, he had moved away. He was very attached to both the Abbey and his grandfather, as I remember." "I imagine he felt the awkwardness of his situation after my uncle died," the earl said. "Mrs. Carstairs, will you have more tea? Mrs. Mannering will pour." "Is that the same Seyton as you had visiting some years ago when I arrived, Charles?" the rather bored drawl of Sir Harry Tate asked. "I must confess that I found the situation something of an embarrassment.

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One is not used to associating with persons of doubtful birth." "Seyton was raised here," his friend replied. "He was as well-bred and as well-educated as you or I, Harry." Sir Harry turned his lazy eyes on Lord Barton, "And how, pray, did the bastard come to be taken in here?" he asked. "My information was that the late Earl of Barton was something of a high stickler." The earl seemed reluctant to reply. But all his guests appeared interested in this slightly scandalous turn the conversation had taken. He smiled. "He was brought here as a child soon after the sudden death of my cousin, his father," he said. "In his grief, my uncle took him in. After that, I suppose he did not like to turn him off again. And he did well by the boy. He left him the means with which to live independently." "Mr. Nicholas Seyton is a fortunate young man," Sir Harry said with a languid sigh. "The aristocracy would be soon beggared, my lord, if all by-blows had to be provided for. And what happened to the mother, pray?" "I believe my uncle settled with her," the earl said, "It is not difficult to deal with such creatures, I understand. But I am sure we should not bore the ladies with such ancient and rather unsavory history. Perhaps you would like to retire to your room with the young ladies, Mrs. Carstairs? You will wish to rest before dinner." Kate was bristling with indignation against the insufferable snobbery of Sir Harry Tate. Even so, she was disappointed that Lord Barton had so effectively put an end to that particular line of conversation. She rose to her feet to accompany the ladies to the west wing, where the bedchambers were situated. She realized almost simultaneously that the conversation about Nicholas Seyton would soon have been interrupted anyway. Even before the ladies had had time to withdraw, the butler was ushering in two new arrivals, both young friends of Lord Stoughton whom she had seen inLondon. Mr. Sidney Moreton and Lord Poole were both dressed with the flashiness and exaggeration of young dandies. They had always somewhat amused Kate, though Lord Poole could be something of a nuisance, since he fancied himself a ladies' man and liked to direct his gallantries her way. Mr. Moreton, small, slim, and quite undistinguished in any way Kate could see, was the young man whom Thelma secretly sighed over. He was not averse to Thelma's charms, either, if one could judge by the flush that rose along his neck and up into his face as he bowed over her hand. The only guests Kate had not met when she retired to her room, having accompanied Lady Thelma to hers, were the guests of honor, the Marquess of Uppington and his sister, Lady Emma North, the son and daughter of the Duke of Oakleigh. No one except Lord Barton appeared to be at all well-acquainted with these two. The earl had cultivated the acquaintance of their father only in the few weeks that preceded his leaving for the country.

Nicholas Seyton closed the door of his room behind him and blew out from puffed cheeks. Dairymple had been given his old room just next door. But he had always liked this one, its painted Chinese wallpaper and green bed hangings and curtains making him feel as if he were in a garden. He crossed to the mirror that hung in its heavy frame above the mantel and changed his expression again into that of Sir Harry Tate. Was it convincing? he wondered. He must be sure that he did not slip into his real self even for one moment beyond these four walls.

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Dalrymple had reasoned with him yet again when they had met earlier that day at a distant inn, as arranged the week before. He would never get away with his deception, his friend had argued, when everyone and his dog for miles around knew him well. Surely there were at least a few people who would be only too glad to reveal his secret to the earl. And even more surely, someone who meant him no harm would forget the charade and call him by his real name. But Nicholas had insisted on proceeding with the plan. He did not know of anyone who wished him harm. He had always been at pains to be friendly with the local folk even before the closer ties he had enjoyed with them over the last year. And how could people resent a young man whose birth had doomed him to an obscure and humble life? There was nothing in him that could draw anyone's envy and therefore hatred and malice. Even if all this had not been true, Nicholas doubted that he would have listened to his friend's cautionary words. Life had been necessarily dull for him, except perhaps for those few years he had spent at Cambridge. He had acquired a taste for adventure and danger, especially in the last year. What could be more adventurous than to masquerade so openly before his father's cousin at Barton Abbey, surrounded by servants who had known him all his life? The challenge was quite irresistible. And the first hour had proceeded without a flaw. The footman who had opened the door to Dalrymple's knock; the butler, who had made his dignified way across the hall to bow before them and offer to conduct them to the drawing room; the housekeeper, who had conducted them to their rooms: all three had performed their tasks without the merest flicker of recognition. Truth to tell, Nicholas admitted as he unknotted his neckcloth and removed his high collar with a sigh of relief, he had enjoyed his hour in the house enormously. He had not yet had a chance to enjoy the sheer pleasure of being at home again. But he found that playacting was to his liking. He had not intended to make himself quite so obnoxiously toplofty, but he rather thought that the image was a good one. It would give him the chance to ask all sorts of impudent questions and to wander into places that a well-bred guest would avoid without invitation. He grinned suddenly as he tried to shake his arms free of the skintight coat and wished that he could have brought Parkin with him. The disguise appeared to have worked quite effectively on Katherine Mannering. He had been a little afraid of her. The woman had a sharp mind. It would not have altogether surprised him if she had recognized him immediately. But she had not. And she had thoroughly disapproved of him. He had enjoyed looking at her rather insolently when he knew she was aware of him and watching her bristle with indignation. He had come to Barton Abbey determined to steer well clear of her. And he must still persuade himself to ignore her, forget her presence. But he realized now that the task was going to be far more difficult than he had thought. The sight of her had quickened his pulse as soon as he entered the drawing room. She seemed drab at first glance, her brown, unadorned dress dull in comparison with the bright and expensive silks and muslins of the other ladies, her hairstyle very severe and plain. But if Barton had hoped to disguise the woman's charms by insisting that she dress thus, he was doomed to disappointment. Somehow the other ladies had looked gaudy, overdressed, and overfrizzed in comparison with her. He had not been able to resist looking at her several times. And he had not been able to resist provoking her to indignation. The trouble with Katherine was that her behavior was always so stimulating. He had never lost a staring match with a female before. Not nearly. Most females blushed hotly and lowered their lashes as soon as they saw themselves observed, whether in genuine embarrassment or from coquetry. Not so Katherine Mannering. She had stared boldly back, hostility flashing from unwavering eyes. He

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had been forced to look away eventually before he either grinned or winked. And neither reaction would have suited the character he had set himself to play. He must leave her alone. He must not respond to the challenge of causing her anger to explode or—even more tempting—of bringing her to respond to the advances of such a bored snob as Sir Harry Tate. No, he really must not. How was he to proceed now? Nicholas wondered. It was exhilarating, of course, to be accepted as a guest in a house from which he had been banished only a few weeks before. But this episode was not just an adventurous escapade. He was here to find out anything he could about himself. The conversation in the drawing room earlier was all very well, and such a topic was worth pursuing. But of course he must not expect the earl to let anything of value slip. The man had had nearly five-and-twenty years in which to perfect his story. He was not likely to say anything careless or foolish at this late date. He must discover if it were true that the earl was searching the library and perhaps elsewhere too. Then perhaps he would be more sure of whether his own conjectures about that letter from his mother or marriage papers his father had brought home had any basis in fact. If so, then he too must put his knowledge of the Abbey and the park to use and make sure he found the hidden document first. Though the task seemed formidable, if not downright absurd. He had had the freedom of the Abbey since he was a child. If there really were anything lying around that was of such importance to his own destiny, he would surely have found it long ago. There were no secret hiding places at Barton Abbey. Nicholas wandered to the window of his room, rested his palms on the sill, and leaned forward to look across the lawns and flowerbeds below to the wooded hills that rose eventually to the stone wall and the road beyond. The view was almost identical to the one he had seen from the room next door almost every day of his life. He leaned his forehand against the glass and closed his eyes. Home! Oh, God, he was home again. He would do anything, he felt at that moment, anything, no matter how apparently pointless or even dangerous, to make his stay permanent again. He could not bear to think of it all belonging to that man, his father's cousin, the stranger earl he had met in the drawing room this afternoon. "My lord. My lady." Kate curtsied deeply as she was presented to the Marquess of Uppington and his sister, the newest and last arrivals at Barton Abbey. They had arrived an hour before and had just now made an appearance in the drawing room, dressed for dinner. The evening meal had been held back all of twenty minutes on their account. Kate again had not expected to be amongst the house guests for dinner. But of course she must dress and come down, Lady Thelma had assured her. Without Kate there would be unequal numbers at table, and how would they cope with that disaster? So Kate had donned her best gray silk gown, the one with the scoop neckline that actually bared the whole of her throat, dressed her hair again into the smooth bun at the back of her neck, and came down early to the drawing room so that she might stand unnoticed in the shadows. But her employer was indeed treating her more like a friend than a servant. She had brought the newest arrivals to Kate as to everyone else to make introductions. "Is your husband one of the Norfolk Mannerings?" Lady Emma Worth asked Kate. "I did not know any of them were untitled." "No," Kate replied. "My husband was fromSussex, and as far as I know, none of his relatives were ever titled." She smiled. "I see," the girl said, ice dripping from both words. She opened her fan and turned to stare about the room, clearly having decided that Mrs. Mannering was beneath her notice.

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The marquess did not turn away. "Do I take it from the tense of the verb you chose that your husband is deceased?" he asked. Kate inclined her head. "My sympathies, ma'am," Uppington said, looking directly into her eyes. Kate felt an inner shudder. She knew this man very well indeed. She had never seen him before, of course, and never heard of him until a few days before, when Lord Barton had announced that he would grace their house party. But she knew him very well nonetheless. The early signs of dissipation and self-indulgence and the boldness of manner were all too familiar to Kate. Just so her husband had been. She had never been in love with Giles and had never been really keen to marry him. But at the age of seventeen she had not been averse to the match either. There had been something rather exciting about the prospect of marrying a man who had something of a reputation as a drinker and gambler. Not a very bad reputation. Kate did not believe her father would have favored the match if Giles had been obviously depraved. He had seemed very masculine. Kate had been rather proud of the fact that such a man of the world had chosen her for a bride. She had been the envy of her friends. But over the following five years she had discovered just how difficult life with such a man could be. She never knew from one hour to the next what his mood would be. If he was sober, or if he had won at cards, he could be charming at best, heartily cheerful at worst. If he was charming, he might kiss her hand, buy her some bauble, or take her visiting. If he was cheerful, he might kiss her or slap her playfully on the rump or take her to bed. If he had been drinking heavily, or if he had lost at cards, he could be morose at best, vicious and abusive at worst. She had learned to dread him in those moods. Only once, in bed, had he given her a sustained and severe beating. But he had abused her verbally, accusing her of every wifely failing, from coldness to ugliness to disobedience. His behavior outside his home had never been bad enough for anyone to suspect the full truth, Kate guessed. And she supposed that she could have done a great deal worse. Only that one beating, and that had been with his bare hand, not with belt or whip. But she had hated him by the time he died. She had never been able to mourn his death or to feel sorry that it had happened, though she had been present to witness the full horror of his choking, and she had genuinely tried to help him. And she would always recognize his type. The surface charm, the earthy sort of attractiveness, the apparently flattering attention on a woman's person: none of those qualities could hide from her opened eyes the self-centered focus of such a man. And such a man was the Marquess of Uppington, she knew. She would stake her reputation on the fact. And his desires were focused on her. She knew that too as surely as she knew that the Earl of Barton had brought him there as a suitor for Lady Thelma. As she bowed her head in acknowledgment of his words of sympathy, Kate was mentally assuring the Marquess of Uppington that he would have either her or Lady Thelma when hell froze, if she had any say in the matter. Dinner was announced without further ado, and Kate felt all the awkwardness of her situation as Uppington bowed over Thelma's hand and led her toward the dining room in the wake of her father and aunt. Viscount Stoughton and Lady Emma followed. Who would lead her in? Kate wondered. Perhaps she should not wait and put some poor gentleman into the awkward position of having to offer his arm to a servant. Perhaps she should quietly follow her employer. Oh, bother, she thought, feeling herself flush, she did not really know a great deal about correct protocol, especially that which applied to ladies'

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companions. "Mrs. Mannering, since I am more or less a self-invited guest and you are not a guest at all, perhaps we would do well to combine forces." How all this longish sentence could be delivered on one languid sigh, Kate did not stop to analyze. She knew only that at the moment at least she was grateful to Sir Harry Tate, who was standing before her, his arm outstretched for hers. She smiled and placed her hand on it. "Thank you, sir," she said. "I am sure Lord Barton would not wish you to feel unwelcome merely because you were not part of his original guest list. He is, I know, quite delighted to receive you as Mr. Dalrymple's friend." "Quite so," he said. "And you really do not need to exert yourself to do the honors of the house, Mrs. Mannering. Invited or not, Sir Harry Tate invariably makes himself welcome wherever he goes." Kate's gratitude evaporated. The conceited…fop! she thought, bursting with indignation, and glancing with some contempt at the lavender silk sleeve on which her hand rested. He had offered her his arm, doubtless with the conviction that she would swoon quite away at the honor he was doing her. All the dislike she had felt that afternoon returned in a rush. "That is a very sensible attitude to take, sir," she said sweetly. "That way you may be sure there is always at least one person to welcome you." He drew breath as if to reply, but did not do so. Kate, gazing candidly up into his face, was favored with a sidelong look from those lazy, cynical eyes and mentally scored one point for herself. She waited for Sir Harry to draw back her chair, and seated herself regally. She turned to smile at Sir Peregrine Lacey at her other side. Kate was surprised during dinner to find that despite her quite unmannerly snub, Sir Harry was prepared to engage her in conversation. She had expected that she would be quite beneath the notice of such a self-important gentleman when he had Christine Barr-Smythe on his right and Lady Toucher across the table. "And what sort of arduous activities does a… companion have to engage in, Mrs. Mannering?" he asked. "I must confess I am all admiration for you females, who are willing to work for your living rather than live on credit, as we males are more inclined to do." His voice was so heavy with boredom that Kate wondered why he even bothered to ask the question. "The work is not arduous at all, sir," she said. "And the task is just what it says. I am a companion. I provide company and friendship for Lady Thelma." "Is she so lacking in the resources for self-employment, then?" he asked. "Ladies do not have the freedom that you men enjoy," Kate reminded him. "We may not travel around without chaperonage. There are countless hours when we must be alone at some quiet activity, while you men can be out riding or attending races or boxing mills or any number of other activities. Being quite alone can be burdensome to a lady." "And what happens if the companion is livelier than the lady?" he asked. "Does she not find the shared activities irksome?"

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Kate give him a sharp look. He had shown unexpected insight into the boredom of her position. "I suppose it could happen," she said. "But at least such a woman can keep her self-respect. I believe the type of man you spoke of could not." His eyes moved slowly and rather insolently over her severe hairstyle and the very conservative neckline of her dress. "I would disagree, ma'am," he said. "A man can be in debt to his ears and no one the wiser except his creditors. A woman in service on the other hand, is immediately recognizable. Which has the more self-respect?" She would dearly love to slap his face, Kate thought, schooling her features to blandness so that he would not know how his words had infuriated and humiliated her. "We are talking aboutself-respect, not the respect of others, are we not, sir?" she asked. "Is it not more dignified and honest to admit the truth before the world than to hide it in lies and deceit?" "There is a certain sort of argument that can proceed in circles, ma'am," Sir Harry said, his mouth curled into the sneer that Kate guessed to be habitual with him. "This is one of them, I believe. Shall we change the subject? I have been hearing that you experienced all the excitement of being kidnapped by a highwayman a week ago." "You speak as if you think it to have been an enviable experience, sir," Kate said. "I imagine that every female in the room envies you," he said, "whether she will admit it or not. Highwaymen are perceived by females to be unutterably romantic figures, are they not? And this one was masked? Entirely irresistible, I would guess." "I think your opinion of women must be very low, sir," Kate said, not even trying to hide her indignation. "Do you think we welcome having our persons, our honor, and our very lives at the mercy of men?" He chewed a mouthful of food with studied slowness before answering. "In a word, yes," he said. "Come, ma'am, will you not admit to having felt even a small thrill of delight at being so forcefully abducted?" "I certainly will not, sir," Kate said, her own food completely forgotten for the moment. "And I find your attitude toward women quite insufferable. Do you think us quite without self-respect? No, I will not phrase that as a question and give you another opportunity to express your contempt for my gender. Any man who uses the superiority of his physical strength to subject a woman to his will deserves to hang. That is my opinion, sir, and my answer to your impertinent suggestion that I must have felt some kind of erotic thrill to be carried off by a highwayman." He patted her hand lightly, and she looked down in come contempt at the shower of lace that half-covered his hand. She was rather disappointed to note that the hand itself was not the white, effete aristocrat's hand that she expected, but one that looked as if it might have done its fair share of work. She pulled her hand away. "Pick up your knife and fork, Mrs. Mannering," his hateful, bored voice said quietly for her ear only. "You indignation is becoming marked enough to attract attention. You would find that situation insufferably embarrassing, I would guess. You might even find your employment in jeopardy." Kate did as she was bidden without looking at him or replying to his words. It was a humiliation to admit

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on this occasion that he was right. She had even been on the verge of pushing her chair back and stalking from the room. The very thought now made her turn hot and cold. She kept her eyes on her plate for the next few minutes while she felt her heartbeat return to normal. The greatest humiliation was that her words, which had sounded so noble to her own ears, were really not true at all. She had felt a thrill of excitement in Nicholas Seyton's presence, so much so that she had allowed him to kiss her the very night of the kidnapping and had returned the night after with a great eagerness to be kissed again. Of course, she thought in her own defense, she had not felt any of that attraction to her captor until he had convinced her that he was not in reality a common highwayman or kidnapper at all. Kate turned in gratitude to Sir Peregrine when he made a commonplace remark to her, and began a conversation with him that lasted until Lady Thelma rose to lead the ladies back to the drawing room so that the gentlemen might be left to their port and their masculine conversation. Chapter Eight

The Earl of Barton conducted his guests on a tour of his home late the following morning. Kate would have declined to join the company, but again her employer insisted on her presence. "I will not have you look upon yourself as some sort of servant, Kate," Thelma said. "You are my companion, my friend. And one cannot be really friendly with a servant, can one? Besides, you are as much a lady by birth as I am. No, really, you must consider yourself to be a part of this house party." "You are very kind," Kate said, much affected. "I merely thought you would prefer now to spend your time with your friends. Miss Barr-Smythe and Miss Carstairs are more of an age with you." "Yes, they are," Thelma agreed. "But I do like you, Kate. And admire you. I wish that I could acquire some of your courage to face life. I like to be with you. That is why I chose you as my companion, you know." Kate smiled. "Thank you," she said. Thelma frowned. "When do you plan to leave off your half-mourning for your husband?" she asked. "It has been more than a year, has it not? You must have loved him a great deal, Kate, to be still wearing such dull colors. Yet you are so lovely. You will put us all in the shade when you do start wearing brighter colors and fashionable designs again." Kate said nothing. The earl's instructions regarding appearance were not known to his daughter, men. So she joined the other guests in their tour of the Abbey. The only persons missing, in fact, were Viscount Stoughton and Lady Emma Worth, who had announced the evening before that she never rose beforenoon. Kate was not sorry for this second formal showing of Barton Abbey. She felt as if she would wander through the house for a lifetime and still find new wonders to marvel at.

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Most of the guests exclaimed in awe at the contrast between the white stone and marble hall, massive and Palladian in design, and the richly decorated salon beyond, its walls and furnishings covered with deep crimson Genoese velvet, its coved ceiling bright with paintings and gold-leaf decorations, its walls hung with large canvases, all family portraits. The Marquess of Uppington said little and contrived to look somewhat bored, Kate noticed. She turned to observe the obnoxious Sir Harry Tate, expecting to see a similar expression on his face. However, he was standing before a painting that was smaller than most, one that showed a smiling fair-haired body standing with one hand resting on the neck of a seated greyhound dog. It was the portrait of a former Viscount Stoughton, she had discovered on her first tour of the house, Nicholas Seyton's father, in fact. She had gazed at the portrait herself a few days before, wondering if without his mask Mr. Seyton resembled his father at all. Sir Harry, hands clasped behind his back, seemed absorbed in me painting, while the other guests exclaimed over the larger canvases or the more obvious magnificence of the ceiling or the carved and pillared doorcase that connected the salon to the hall. He turned while Kate still watched him and met her eyes. Immediately his eyelids drooped to half-cover his eyes, and one eyebrow rose as he fingered the riband of his quizzing glass and raised it to his eye. He looked languidly through it at the figures carved around the marble chimneypiece. They moved on to the east wing, beyond which the chapel and part of the cloisters of the old Abbey still stood. Nicholas was finding the tour painful. His cousin's descriptions were for the main part accurate but woefully shallow. It hurt to hear the home that he loved and knew in such minute detail being treated as a mere showpiece. The paintings were seen as decoration merely, while to him they represented his heritage, his ancestors, even if there was a possibility that he had only an illegitimate connection to them. The old Abbey chapel and the open, pillared cloisters along one side of it were presented as quaint but unimportant relics by the earl. To Nicholas they were live history and still held the presence of God as they must have done when this whole property was occupied by monks. For many years he had been in the habit of visiting the chapel to pray or merely to sit and think. But he endured the whole tour. And he succeeded, he felt, in hiding his own pain, with only one slip. Katherine Mannering had altogether too sharp a mind for his comfort. She had been watching him with quite penetrating eyes as he stood looking at his father's portrait. And he knew that for that minute or so he must have dropped his guard. The portrait had always fascinated him. His father! What had he been like? That portrait was the only surviving one of him, and there was nothing else—no writings. The viscount had not been a studious young man. It had not been a serious lapse, Nicholas decided. His back must have been toward Katherine as she watched. But he must be careful. It would not be disastrous, he supposed, if she discovered the truth. She would not give away his secret. But if his disguise was too weak to deceive her, then perhaps other people too would discover the truth. And that would be serious. Besides, he did not want Katherine to know his real identity. It was vastly amusing to tease her in the guise of Sir Harry Tate. He had thoroughly enjoyed himself the evening before at the dinner table, though he had felt some pangs of conscience after making her so indignant that she almost disgraced herself before the whole company. He looked forward to further such encounters. He should not continue that game, of course. One of his main reasons for keeping his identity secret from Katherine was to make sure that they kept their distance from each other. But he felt fairly safe in his present line of teasing. She had clearly taken a thorough dislike to Sir Harry Tate, and he intended to keep matters that way. She at least would feel no temptation to taste his kisses again.

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And that thought was enough to set Nicholas to looking about him with more languid attentiveness as the party entered the music room. He must not think of kissing Katherine Mannering. That had been a very pleasant experience from his past. And it must remain in his past. When this was all over and he had somehow gained some satisfactory answers about his origins, he would go away from Barton Abbey and find himself a desirable woman, perhaps even a wife, and with her rid himself of all the frustrations of his present chaste way of life. But not with Katherine. And not now. If he could prove that he was legitimate, of course… But he did not yet dare look upon that possibility with any great hope.

Despite Lady Thelma's assurances of the morning, Kate found herself with an unexpectedly free afternoon. Mr. Sidney Moreton and Lord Poole invited Thelma and Julie Carstairs to drive with them into Trecoombe to see the harbor and the fishing boats and the few shops. Mrs. Carstairs said that her daughter might go, provided the two young ladies promised not to leave each other's sides, and the earl gave his permission. Thelma was the nearest to excited Kate had ever seen her. "You may have the afternoon off, Kate," Lady Thelma said immediately after luncheon. "You may wish to go walking. I know you like doing so and have been held back by me. I hate to walk when I might just as conveniently be driven. Now you may do as you wish. I shall see you at teatime or perhaps later." Kate smiled. "Perhaps I will walk farther into the park than I have done so far," she agreed. "Mr. Moreton is to describe the boats in the harbor," Thelma said. "He is fromCornwall, you see, and knows all about fishing. He has even worked with the fishermen from his home on occasion. Is not that very brave, Kate? I do not believe I could have the courage to set out upon the sea in such frail craft." Kate noticed that the girl showed no nervousness about leaving the estate to travel the distance to the village. She seemed to have no thought to possible highwaymen lying in wait for her. Clearly Mr. Sidney Moreton was seen as protection enough against the dangers of the road. Kate failed to see the attraction. Mr. Moreton was not handsome in either face or physique. He was small and slight of figure. And he was a quiet man. Kate did admit to herself that she had never conversed with him. Perhaps he had a charm of manner that accounted for Thelma's infatuation, but was not obvious from mere observation. Kate did feel somewhat uneasy for her employer on another matter. She did not believe she imagined that the Marquess of Uppington had been brought to Barton as the girl's suitor. The earl treated him with great deference. There seemed to be no other reason why he would have been invited, since he had no intimate among the other guests. And Kate had noticed more than once the previous evening the proprietary, though somewhat contemptuous way in which the marquess looked at Thelma. What chance would Mr. Moreton have with the girl if her father had ambitions of arranging an alliance between her and a marquess? Kate shrugged off the concern. She had the luxury of an afternoon to herself, and she must decide what to do with it. The prospect of a walk was very appealing. The day was not brilliantly sunny, but the air was fresh. And she longed to wander about the park. She knew that it was lovely just from the glimpses she had had of it from close to the house and from the driveway. And she had discovered since her arrival that it had been set out by Mr. Capability Brown himself. But she decided after all not to walk. She would ask Lord Barton if she might begin working in the library. Cleaning the books and perhaps reorganizing them would be a formidable task. She had realized

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that in her few visits to the room, when she had looked about her and realized just how many volumes there were covering the two long walls of the library from floor to high ceiling. And apart from the challenge of the task itself, she had do real hope of any great reward. She did not know what the earl was looking for—if anything—or if his search was in any way connected with Mr. Seyton. And if she found what he was looking for, she was not at all sure . she would recognize it. But Kate felt the need to do something. Her indignation over Nicholas' selfish desire to take her to bed had subsided in the week since they had last met. Perhaps he had not meant to be selfish. Perhaps he did not realize that "that" brought no pleasure to a woman. Perhaps her eager reaction to his kisses and caresses had led him to believe that she would not be averse to allowing him to possess her. Perhaps. Or perhaps her willingness to make excuses for him stemmed from the fact that she missed him. It was stupid, of course, to think about missing someone one had met on only two occasions. But her two meetings with Nicholas Seyton had brought her the only excitement she had felt in years. She wanted him to kiss her again. She had been left unsatisfied the last time. His very upsetting suggestion had put an end to the pleasure that had been building in her. She ached physically for another chance to experience those pleasurable feelings. But it was not just his kisses that she missed. There was something else about the man that exhilarated her, something that appealed to a kindred spirit in her. Mr. Seyton was a man with a goal in life, and he was willing to work toward that goal even at the expense of his own safety. There was a spirit of adventure in him. Kate found herself envying him greatly. If only there could be more adventure in her life! She would burst soon at the boredom of her present existence. So she decided to begin searching the library for she knew not what. At least while doing so she would be able to pretend that she was doing something furtive and highly dangerous. Perhaps she would find some document for which the earl would be prepared to kill, a document of such crucial importance to Mr. Seyton that she would not be able to entrust its care even to the servants he had named. She would have to deliver it herself. And then… Kate made a face at herself in her glass as she smoothed her hair into place again, smoothed out the folds of her brown cotton dress, and left her dressing room in search of the earl. She found him without any effort at all. He was standing at the top of the marble steps outside the main doors, apparently describing the fountain to Lady Barbara Lacey and her daughter Angela. Kate waited respectfully in the doorway until the ladies began to descend the steps and the earl turned to reenter the house. "My lord," she said, "if it is convenient to you, I should like to spend a few hours in the library cleaning and perhaps beginning to catalog the books." "Ah, Mrs. Mannering," he said, "what a good idea. I am pleased to see that you know your place and that you do not take advantage of the absence of my daughter. It would not be the thing, you know, for you to mingle with the other guests while she is gone." "Quite so, my lord," Kate said briskly, her hands gripping each other almost painfully. "Do you have a spare moment to tell me exactly what you wish me to do in the library?" The earl led the way there. "You may begin at the top of this side," he said, waving an arm in the direction of one long wall. "Those are probably the volumes least used over the years. Dust them carefully, Mrs Mannering, and make sure that nothing is enclosed in any of them. I am afraid my uncle was a poorly organized man. From my years with him I remember that he had the habit of using any papers he could lay his hands on to mark his place in the books he read. And he was. haphazard reader.

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He rarely came back to the same book once he laid it down. Many was the time we searched for some paper of importance that had apparently disappeared, only to find it between the pages of some obscure volume." He chuckled. "What an alarming habit in someone of importance," Kate murmured. "Yes, indeed," he agreed. "If you find any papers, Mrs. Mannering, you need not trouble your head examining them or deciding if they are of any importance. Set them on the desk and I shall look them over myself." "I shall certainly do so," Kate said agreeably, tying around her waist an apron she had brought with her. "If you wish to take note of the titles and begin planning some organization of the books, you may do so and make your proposals to me at a later date," the earl said. "Yes, my lord," Kate said, and she curtsied as he left her alone in the library. She felt like a conspirator as she gazed along the shelves all jammed full with leather-bound volumes. Oh, dear, what a formidable task it was, and how unlikely that she would come across anything that would be of any assistance to Mr. Seyton in his quest. What sort of document was likely to be of importance to either him or the earl anyway? Something that named his mother and the place where she had lived five-and-twenty years before? Was it possible that that letter his mother was reputed to have written after his birth still survived? Was that what she was looking for? Kate sighed and pushed the movable staircase along the wall until she could climb it and reach the heavy books in the top corner. More than an hour later she looked back along the shelf to view the books she had already cleaned and examined. It was a depressingly small number. The trouble with her, Kate decided, was that she could not open a book without having to examine and become engrossed in its contents. In fact she had almost forgotten her main purpose in opening each volume. It was only the slim and yellowed piece of paper she had found in this particular one that had brought her mind back to the task at hand. The paper appeared to be an ancient bill for candles and quite unimportant. But she dutifully climbed down the steps and placed it on the desk. She was climbing back up again when the door opened and she turned to see who had decided that the library was a suitable retreat for the afternoon. She was not at all pleased to discover that it was Sir Harry Tate. "Good afternoon, sir," Kate said as curtly as she dared, and she continued on her way to the top of the stairs and removed a book from the top shelf. "Well, if it is not Mrs. Mannering playing at being bookworm;" he said in that bored drawl that had begun to grate on Kate's nerves. "And an apron, ma'am? Never tell me that you have taken on the task of housemaid and are actually dusting the books." Kate turned to stare down at him, not bothering to try to smile or look polite. She was quite unsurprised to find herself being surveyed through a quizzing glass. "I doubt if many housemaids are entrusted with the task of dusting valuable books, sir," she said. "I have volunteered for the task." "Dear me," he said. "Lord Barton must consider that he has hired a treasure, ma'am. Companion, housemaid, librarian all in one deliciously attractive parcel." Kate dusted the book with care and leafed through the pages before answering. "I am Lady Thelma's

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employee, sir," she said at last. "I am employed as her companion. But I would disdain to offer only those services I am contracted for. I believe in using my time wisely and well, no matter what the circumstances. Some things are done for personal satisfaction and not for monetary gain." She looked down at him, she hoped with great dignity. "And my appearance has nothing to do with anything, sir." Sir Harry lowered his quizzing glass and strolled across the room until he stood at the foot of the library stairs. "Why are you leafing through each volume, Mrs. Mannering?" he asked. "Are you hoping to discover that the late earl was eccentric enough to line the pages with treasure maps?" Kate flushed and glared down at him. "I do not believe it is any of your concern what I do or why, sir," she said. "Did you come for a book? Pray do not let me delay you. If you do not find it and start reading soon, it will be time for tea and you will have lost the chance." "I really had no particular plan, ma'am," he said, his drawl so pronounced it sounded almost like a yawn. "Some of the guests are resting in their rooms, four took a drive into Trecoombe, and the others are out walking. None of those activities appealed to me. Perhaps I shall help you. Busying myself cleaning books will at least be a novel amusement. Is there room for two at the top of the stairs, do you suppose?" Kate bristled, "I am quite sure there is not, sir," she said, "and I will not have my work hampered by one who does not take it seriously at all. I should be obliged if you would remove yourself." "Mrs. Mannering," Sir Harry said with a sigh, setting his foot on the bottom stair, "What a veritable hedgehog you are. I thought my offer particularly obliging and condescending. Your refusal has cut me to the quick." He did not mean to do it. He was quite sure that even beneath the conscious level he did not mean to do it. After all, she might have been hurt. But deliberately or not, Nicholas' foot pushed too hard against the edge of the stair and the whole contraption moved several inches. Kate shrieked, swayed, tried to regain her balance, and came hurtling down the stairs, her feet moving not quite fast enough to support her weight. She ended up falling heavily against Nicholas' chest, almost bowling him backward in the process. He found himself, quite without design, holding against him the very shapely body of Katherine Mannering and staring down into her flushed and furious face. He lowered his eyelids and sneered. "Really, Mrs. Mannering," he said, "you do not need to hurl yourself at me with such desperate intent. I am really quite approachable by more normal means." "Oh!" she said, her bosom heaving against his chest in a manner that set his temperature to rising to a quite alarming degree. "Oh! Unhand me this instant, you, you… rake! You did that quite deliberately. You are despicable, sir. Insufferable. Let go of me. You… toad." It really had not been deliberate, he assured himself. Would he have voluntarily put himself through such torture? The temptation to bend his head and take those indignant lips inside his own was almost overwhelming. The desire to move his hands forward to caress those breasts that were still heaving against his chest set his fingers to itching. He raised one eyebrow and let his half-closed eyes move lazily and impudently over her face. "You seem to think yourself irresistible, Mrs. Mannering," he said, staring at her lips. "The moving of the stairs was an accident. And if you were not so intent on being thrilled by my nearness, ma'am, you would

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have realized moments ago that you are by no means being held prisoner against my person. You may remove yourself 'whenever you wish." "Oh!" Her eyes grew round. She pushed herself away from him as if indeed he were a toad. And then she slapped him—a stroke that was poorly aimed and caught him painfully on the side of the nose and across the lips as well as on the cheek. Nicholas winced, but forced himself to regard her cynically, one eyebrow raised. He wondered how she would look—alarmed or even more angry than she was now—if she knew just what very great danger she was in at that moment. He had only just resisted the instinct to grab her, drag her against him again… He fingered his lip gingerly and realized that the inside had been cut against his teeth. "Well, ma'am," he said, "I take it this is your way of declining my offer to help you clean the books and search them for treasure maps. A pity. We might have done it in half the time together. Have you found any great possibility of fortune yet, by the way?" Kate was standing before him, her hands in tight fists at her side. "Yes," she said, and smiled. "I found the essays of Sir Francis Bacon inside one of the books. They are a great treasure to the inquiring mind, sir." She was startled when his eyes danced into life and a grin flashed across his face. The expression was gone in a moment, leaving her wondering if she had imagined it. The bored, cynical face of Sir Harry Tate was regarding her. She frowned, reaching into her mind for some elusive memory. He sighed. "Au revoir, Mrs. Mannering," he said. "Now I perceive I am doomed to spend the next hour in my room until the imprint of your fingers has disappeared from my face. Though I fear my nose might resemble a beacon for a somewhat longer time." He made her a mock bow and sauntered from the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Insufferable, conceited, insolent… fop! Kate thought, hands on hips, staring after him. He had moved the stairs deliberately. He had wanted to embarrass her. And he had succeeded admirably. He was just the sort of man she despised most, the sort who liked to think himself irresistible to women. He had wanted her to blush and sigh and stammer merely because she was in his arms. "God's gift to women," she muttered under her breath as she tested the staircase for steadiness and climbed to the top again. It was just good for her that indignation had been the strongest of her emotions. He could not know—indeed she did not want to admit to herself—that she had felt uncomfortably heated at his closeness. She had thought he was going to kiss her. Indeed, some cool, remote part of her mind had been preparing itself to discover how his kisses would compare with Giles's and Nicholas' kisses. It would have been horrible. She knew it would. His obvious contempt of women would have made it horrible. But he was large and very strong. Attractive. And of course damnably good-looking. Well, he could not know that she had felt momentarily attracted. And she was not really attracted, anyway. It was just that his size had reminded her somehow of Nicholas, and she was missing Nicholas. Oh, how she was missing him! She was aching for him even now. Kate sighed and reached for a book on the shelf before her. If only she could discover something that would give her the excuse to visit him again. She wanted to see him, ridiculous mask and all, and she wanted to talk to him. She felt as if she had known him for years. She felt as if he were her friend. She wanted to kiss him.

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Kate shuddered suddenly as she replaced the book on the shelf. What a toad that Sir Harry Tate was. And she had been attracted. What a horrifying and humiliating thought it was to know that one could be attracted to someone one knew to be thoroughly despicable. As if the physical could sometimes be more powerful than one's common sense or one's moral sense. She reached up for another book.

All the guests at Barton Abbey, with the exception of the four who had gone to Trecoombe and were not yet returned, gathered in the drawing room for tea later in the afternoon. The earl even summoned Kate from her task in the library so that she could preside at the tea tray. The Earl of Barton was not finding the presence of his guests as effective as he had hoped in distracting his mind from its uneasiness. He was unable to forget about Nicholas Seyton and his curiosity to find his mother. Alice and Charles Dalrymple had both asked about that young man. The soldiers of the coast guard had been unable to find any trace of either the highwayman or Seyton in their search, and none of the servants appeared to know of his whereabouts. But Lord Barton was not satisfied. His cousin's son was not inShropshireeither. He had received a reply to his inquiry on that matter earlier in the day. Where was he? If he were still in the vicinity, surely someone would have seen him. And everyone for miles around must know him. He had lived most of his life at Barton Abbey. The sensible answer, of course, was that Seyton had taken himself off somewhere to seek his fortune or to squander the modest inheritance he had been left. He had probably forgotten all about finding his mother once he realized that it would be almost impossible to do so. That was what he should believe, the earl kept on telling himself during an afternoon spent in his cabinet. But he could not convince himself. The myriad questions of Nicholas' second letter had been a clear indication that the boy was very eager indeed to discover the secrets of his past. Was he likely to have given up so easily? And Lord Barton was nagged by the certain knowledge that he had done the wrong thing in replying the way he had to that second letter. In fact, his refusal to answer all questions was enough to make even a less than normally intelligent person suspicious. He wished he could go back and respond differently. And that kidnapping scheme still troubled him. Highway robbery was unheard-of in this part of the world. And this had not even been highway robbery. The sole purpose of the villain had seemed to be to kidnap Thelma. Why? For ransom merely? Or for information that he knew the earl would not be able to withhold? It was the only explanation that made any sense. If the highwayman had wanted a ransom, he could have exacted a modest sum even for Mrs. Mannering. Instead he had let her go free after thoroughly frightening the poor young woman. The masked man that his son and daughter and Mrs. Mannering herself had described did not resemble the type of man he imagined Nicholas must have grown into. This rogue was tall and well-built. Both Jonathan and his uncle had been of only medium height and quite slender in build. And most unexpected of all, the highwayman had had long and very blond hair. That could have been a wig, of course. Or it was equally possible that Seyton had an accomplice, that he had someone else to do the dangerous part of his task for him. But whatever the answer, Barton was convinced that Nicholas Seyton was lurking somewhere in the vicinity of the Abbey and that he was growing desperate for answers. Those marriage papers still haunted Lord Barton. He was quite delighted to make use of Mrs. Mannering's eagerness to ingratiate herself with him. She could search the library without any inkling of

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what she was involved in. But finding those papers was a forlorn hope. Better to concentrate on finding Seyton and somehow eliminating the danger he posed. If he could find him and prove that he was the kidnapper, of course, his task would be well done. He would be safe for the rest of his life. The Earl of Barton smiled around on his chattering guests. "Alice," he said, "I had an interesting letter just today about Jonathan's poor son. Strange that you should mention him yesterday. I had written to him in Shropshireto assure him of my goodwill, but had a reply from the housekeeper to say that he is not there." "Indeed?" she said, setting her cup in its saucer and giving her brother her full attention. "I wonder where he went, Clive. He was here when Uncle died? He must have felt obliged to leave. I know it is most improper of me to say so, but I have a great curiosity to see him. Do none of the servants know where he went?" "Apparently not," the earl replied. "The groom says he took his horse and left. The butler was inclined to believe that he took the stage." "But what about all his belongings?" Lady Toucher said. "Surely they were sent on to some definite address." "I understand he took his few personal possessions with him" the earl said. "I suppose that fact makes it unlikely that he left on horseback." Kate was pouring tea for Mrs. Carstairs and trying to block out the sound of a conversation that was taking place between Lord Toucher and Lady Emma North beside her. "I have a theory," the earl said carefully. "There is probably nothing in it, of course. But I have a theory that our illegitimate cousin did not leaveDorsetat all." "Whatever can you mean, Clive?" his sister asked. "Barton Abbey has been his home all his life," the earl said. "And as you observed,Alice, the poor boy must have felt obliged to leave when the property passed into my hands. He was quite right to do so, of course. It would be an embarrassment—now, for example—to have him hanging on here. But one cannot but feel sorry for him. This is the only home he had known. What would be more natural than for him to stay close for a time, anyway, until he can summon up the courage to put the past behind him and begin a new life?" "Seyton did not strike me as a man of great sensibility when I knew him inCambridge," Charles Dalrymple said. "What you say makes sense, Clive, but not in his case, I am afraid. It seems far more likely to me that he has taken himself off adventuring before settling down inShropshire. And the servants would know if he were in the vicinity. In my experience I have found that it is well nigh impossible to keep anything from servants." "He would probably keep himself well-hidden," Lord Barton said. "He surely would not like to have the embarrassment of being found skulking around the home that is no longer his. Poor boy. I feel quite sorry for him, Alice." "If he still is in the area," the languid voice of Sir Harry Tate said, "you can be sure, my lord, that he is intent on playing on just the sympathy that you are showing. It is altogether possible that he even holds out hopes of being received by you. In my opinion, all persons of unmentionable birth should be treated

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as if they never had been born at all. Ignore him. He will go away eventually." , Kate folded her hands demurely in her lap. Nicholas Seyton was twice the man that fop was, for all his unmentionable birth, she thought indignantly. She was pleased to believe that Sir Harry's upper lip was looking slightly swollen even if the disfigurement was apparent to no one but her. She hoped that the hot tea hurt his mouth like a thousand daggers. "Quite so," the earl said, nodding to his guest. "You are quite right, sir. However, unfortunately, sentiment sometimes intrudes on one's judgment. I cannot forget, you see, that this young man is the son of the cousin who was like a brother to me until his death. I should like to shake his hand and assure him that I am his friend as far as circumstances will allow." "And so should I," Lady Toucher said, glancing at her husband, who was still engrossed in his own conversation with Lady Emma. "You know Seyton," the earl said, directing his attention to Charles Dalrymple. "You said you and he are still friends? Perhaps I may enlist your help, Charles. If he is somewhere close and in seclusion, perhaps he would reveal himself for a friend. And then he could discover that I and my sister are his friends too." "I still have strong doubts about your theory," Charles Dalrymple said. "But of course I will be more than willing to do as you ask, Clive. I shall ask around. If he is here, someone must know, who is perhaps reluctant to admit as much to you. I shall find him if he is close by, you may depend on it." Sir Harry Tate lifted his quizzing glass in order to examine the marble cherubs cavorting beneath the mantelpiece above the fireplace. "I do not believe I could forget that face either," he said, his drawl very pronounced. "I cannot tell you how mortifying it was, my lord, to discover just to whom Dalrymple here had presented me. In feet, it is amazing that our friendship survived the incident. I shall keep an eye and an ear open too, though I do hope that you would have no plans to receive Mr. Seyton into the bosom of his family while your house party is in progress." Kate, sitting idle behind the teapot, felt an almost overpowering urge to cause his lower lip to swell to match the upper. He, an uninvited guest! Her indignation was quickly swallowed, though, in fright. The earl knew that Nicholas had not leftDorset. He was intent on finding him. And he was quite calculatedly enlisting the help of an unsuspecting guest. And it was quite possible that the servants and others would let down their guard with this man who was Nicholas' friend. He was going to be found out, she thought. The stupid man seemed wholly unaware of the danger to himself of staying in the area. He was going to be caught. And he would hang for highway robbery and kidnapping. Kate stared downward, thankful that no one was in need of another cup of tea. She did not think her hands would be steady enough to enable her to direct the liquid into the cup. Chapter Nine

The Marquess of Uppington and Lady Emma went riding in the park with Thelma and Lord Stoughton the following afternoon. The outing was not at all to Thelma's liking.

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"I promised Mr. Moreton that I would show him the greenhouses after luncheon," she told Kate when the latter was sitting with her in her dressing room before the appointed ride. "But Papa said that I must go with the marquess. I do not see why I should, Kate. After all, a promise first made is the one that should be kept, even if the second does concern a person of higher rank. I cannot see why his lordship does not escort Christine or Julie or Angela. It is not as if he and Lady Emma need a guide. Adam will be with them." "Unfortunately, when one is a hostess, one must frequently forgo one's personal wishes," Kate murmured soothingly. "You did spend yesterday with Mr. Moreton, after all." "I do not like the Marquess," Thelma confided. "He is stiff and cold in manner. I believe he is toplofty." "Perhaps merely a little uncomfortable because he knows no one here except your father," Kate said. "Well, I suppose I must go." Thelma sighed as she rang for her maid to help her into her riding domes. Kate remained in the dressing room after Thelma had left. Stiff and cold in manner! Yes, she supposed the description fit the Marquess of Uppington as he had appeared during most of the past two days. He treated Lord Barton with some deference, everyone else as his social inferior. He showed marked but formal attention to Thelma, leading her in to meals, sitting beside her during the taking of tea. It was very obvious to Kate, even if Thelma herself had not realized the fact yet, that some agreement had been reached between the earl and the marquess. The poor girl was going to receive the addresses of the latter before too much time had elapsed. Kate really did pity her employer. And it was not just the fact that the girl appeared not to like the marquess, while she did favor a man who was socially insignificant. Kate pitied her because she knew what kind of man the marquess was. She had known as soon as she set eyes on him two days before. But the events of the previous evening had confirmed her suspicions. After dinner, a few tables of cards had been set up in the drawing room, while some of the young people wandered into the adjoining music room. Kate had felt her presence to be superfluous. She was embarrassed, feeling that she belonged to neither group. When she could do so without being conspicuous, she slipped from the drawing room and went to the library to resume her task there. But the library proved to be a disastrous place for her that day. She had not been there half an hour when she looked down from the top of the stairs to find the marquess staring up at her from inside the closed door, his arms folded. "Oh," Kate said, "you startled me, my lord. I did not hear the door open." Or close, her mind added with a little flicker of alarm. "Whatever you are pretending to do," he said, "you may abandon now." A smile curved one side of his mouth. "Come down from there, Kate. I saw you leave and followed as soon as I decently could." Kate understood his meaning perfectly. She felt indignation, but with it some alarm. She had not felt that way earlier in the afternoon with Sir Harry Tate. That man was conceited, annoying, and impudent, but she had not felt in any great danger from him. This man was dangerous. She could sense the fact even as she weighed the volume she held in her hand and wondered if it would be the tight tactical move to hurl it at his head. "I am helping Lord Barton reorganize his library, my lord," she said. "It is a huge task and I plan to get

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some of it done this evening." She spoke briskly and turned back to the shelves. "It is always well to have a good story on hand in the event that one is caught," he said. "But we are alone and everyone else occupied. Come down from there, Kate, or I shall be obliged to come and get you." He meant it. Kate did not think she was quite up to the ignominy of a struggle on top of a movable staircase. She came down. After all, she thought, as a last resort she could scream. Giles had told her she had a good pair of lungs on the only occasion she had been indiscreet enough to lose her temper with him. Someone would hear her and rescue her from a fate worse than death. Besides, she had feet and fingernails, and teeth too if worse came to worst. The Marquess of Uppington was a tall, thin man with a long, aristocratic face and thin lips. He would be attractive to some women, Kate thought, to the type who liked to be dominated and treated with less than courteous respect. But not to her. She looked boldly up into his face, her eyebrows raised in inquiry, her brain calculating whether her first attack should be made with fists or feet. "It is easy to see why Lady Thelma Seyton keeps you clad thus," he said, his eyes roaming over her gray dress. "What puzzles me is why she keeps you at all, Kate. You must draw off all her admirers. Perhaps, though, she is clever enough to realize that as long as she has you by her side those admirers will keep coming back." "I find your words insulting, my lord," Kate said, not changing her expression. "She will probably keep you even after her marriage to ensure that her husband comes home regularly," he continued, reaching out to touch her face. Kate leaned backward and evaded his touch. "I do not allow anyone to talk to me this way," she said. "I would ask you to leave, my lord." "Oh, come now," he said, "you need not practice your coy ways with me, Kate. We understand each other, do we not? Why waste precious days avoiding what we both know is inevitable and utterly desirable?" "I know perfectly well what you mean," Kate said, standing her ground despite the strong urge she felt to take a step backward. "You mean to take me as your whore because I am a servant and appear to have very little choice. I do have a choice, my lord. I choose to decline your kind offer." "You think because I am likely to offer for your employer that I will expect your favors free of charge?" he said. "I would find it distasteful, my dear, to have my intended or my wife pay for my pleasures. You may name your price. I am sure we can come to an amicable agreement. Come, Kate. I have no intention of haggling with you for several days. I want you now. Tonight. Does she ever call on you at night? You must make sure that it will be safe for me to come to your room." "You can rest easy," Kate said. "The room has a lock. The door will be locked tonight—with you on the outside, my lord." "You are a tease, I perceive," he said. "I do not like that, Kate, as you will learn. All my women do, you know. I like my mistresses docile and obedient." "Yes, I know," Kate said. Giles all over again. Thank providence that she was not married to this man and had a choice about both the docility and the obedience. "Would you kindly leave now, my lord? I am

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not interested in being one of your women." "Come here," he said, taking her upper arm in a hand whose strength instantly alarmed her. She was pulled hard against his body before she could draw breath, and those thin lips were pressed hard against her own. One of his hands twined itself painfully in her drawn-back hair so that she could not twist away from him. Kate felt nausea, quickly replaced by panic. She could not even beat against his chest; her hands were trapped between them. He lifted his head after what seemed like many minutes, though Kate supposed it was really only a few, seconds. "If I am to be married to Lady Thelma," he said, "I believe it would be to your advantage, Kate, to cultivate my goodwill. I have needs, and I cannot in all honesty imagine that that poor dab of a female will satisfy them. I shall expect her companion to be mine also." He smiled that knowing, one-sided- smile again one moment before Kate's foot kicked out at his shin. She could not have hurt him. There are limits to the wounds one small female can inflict with the toe of a soft slipper. However, she took him enough by surprise that he released his hold on her and she had time to whisk herself behind the heavy wood-and-leather desk chair. "Come on step closer, my lord," she said breathlessly, "and I shall scream. I am well aware that I shall probably end up being dismissed, while you will be admired as a fine figure of a man. But so be it. I would rather be a beggar in the streets than endure one more of your touches. And if you think I am teasing or being coy, just take one step closer. One step!" He laughed suddenly, the first time she had seen any sign of emotion in the man. "If you really mean what you say, Kate," he said, "you are going about things in quite the wrong way. You are making yourself quite irresistible by this behavior. One cannot but imagine what passion you might be induced to display in bed, my dear." "One step!" Kate warned. "I am going to take that step in just a moment," he said. "I do not believe you will scream, Kate. Think just how embarrassing the scene would be: servants, guests, your employer all rushing in here. Besides, I believe I shall be able to stop your mouth before you have had a chance to make yourself heard." Kate opened her mouth and drew in a lungful of air. She was going to screech so loudly that the most distant scullery maid would blanch with terror. However, she was saved from the necessity of doing anything so drastic when the library door suddenly opened again—she heard it quite distinctly this time—and the languid figure of Sir Harry Tate wandered in. Kate had never thought that she would be glad to see that particular gentleman. "Ah, I do beg your pardon," he said on a sigh, raising his quizzing glass to his eye and surveying first Kate and then Lord Uppington through it. "Am I interrupting clandestine business?" Kate seethed with indignation. But this was more healthy, she realized immediately. Her fear had evaporated. "Three is rather a crowd," Uppington said, apparently not even embarrassed that his intentions were obvious to the new arrival. "Quite, quite," Sir Harry agreed. "It is just that I remembered, you see, that this afternoon I became so engrossed in a delightful conversation with Mrs. Mannering that I completely forgot my purpose in

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coming here. It was to choose a book, of course. I find myself quite unable to sleep at night unless I first bore myself with some sermon or moralizing treatise or such. An affectation of mine. I regret to say that it usually takes me an interminable time to find something quite boring enough. You will not object to my browsing? Do not mind me. Carry on as if I were not here, please." "I believe I have done enough work for tonight," Kate said. "I shall say good night. My lord? Sir Harry?" She curtsied to each and left the room unhurriedly and with what she considered to be admirable dignity. And this was the nobleman designed as a marriage partner for Thelma, Kate thought now, rising from the chaise longue on which she had been seated and leaving for her own room. Poor Thelma! She did wonder whether she should say something to Lord Barton. But Kate had not lived three-and-twenty years without knowing something of the world. She guessed that the prospect of netting a live marquess and heir to a dukedom for his daughter would outweigh all considerations of character with the Earl of Barton. She might as well keep her knowledge to herself. There was, after all, nothing so very unusual about the Marquess of Uppington's behavior. Kate was faced with another free afternoon, but she did not believe she would spend this one in the library. Too many unpleasant events had happened there the day before. Besides, during the hours she had worked there, she had realized that her task would be a formidable one and that there was very little likelihood anyway that she would discover any very significant documents. On the other hand, something else had happened the day before to alarm her considerably. The earl was convinced, it seemed, that Nicholas Seyton was indeed in the area. And he seemed intent on finding him. Kate could no longer be in any doubt about his motives. The man had quite brazenly lied, pretending a concern for his cousin's son, denying in so many words that he himself had ordered Nicholas to leave Barton Abbey. And it seemed that what she feared really had happened. Someone who knew Nicholas was among the house guests. Mr. Dalrymple was his friend, and even Sir Harry Tate claimed that he would recognize the man he had met once. Those facts were bad enough. Worse was the fact that Lord Barton had cleverly enlisted their help in looking for Mr. Seyton. Kate liked Mr. Dalrymple. He seemed a kindly and sensible gentleman. But he did not realize that he would be leading his friend into a trap if he found him. Sir Harry, of course, would probably delight in exposing Nicholas' whereabouts even if he knew the truth. Kate had been very tempted the night before to slip out of the house again and run to the cottage where Nicholas lived, to warn him of the impending danger. Pride had held her back, in addition perhaps to a little leftover fear after her encounter with the Marquess of Uppington. The safety of her room seemed too precious to abandon for that night. How did she know that the marquess was not lurking outside her room hoping that she would for some reason unlock the door? What she must do was to send a message to Nicholas. She should have done so during the morning, in fact, but she had procrastinated. What if the servants were not as loyal as he thought them to be? What if they went straight to the earl and revealed the message she had entrusted to them? She would be dismissed immediately and probably interrogated about her knowledge of Nicholas' whereabouts. She would end up doing him far more harm than good. Finally, however, she persuaded herself that she must trust the servants. After all, Nicholas had said that they all knew where he was, and yet obviously none of them had breathed a word to Lord Barton. She took a shawl from her room and set out for the stables and Barret, the head groom. She found him directing the work of a stableboy, who was forking out the stalls of the horses which had been taken out for the afternoon. He withdrew to the cobbled stableyard when Kate indicated that she wished to speak

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with him. "I have been told by Mr. Nicholas Seyton that I may trust you with any message for him," she began, her eyes watching the groom carefully. "Mr. Seyton has been gone for some time, ma'am," he said after a short silence. "But I know that he is still in the neighborhood," Kate said. "I have been to his cottage and talked to him on two occasions. I wish to help him. He told me that I might contact him through you if the matter was of sufficient importance." The groom was looking at her with narrowed eyes. "I don't think you need worry about Master Nick, ma'am," he said. "He is quite well able to take care of himself, wherever he may be." "But what if there is some danger that he does not know of?" Kate asked. This man was not believing her. Had Nicholas not been in touch with him about her? "What is this danger, ma'am?" he asked. "If I did happen to hear where he has gone, what message would you like passed on to him?" Kate hesitated. The groom's manner was far from encouraging. But she had to trust someone. She had to let Nicholas know. And he had said specifically that this taciturn, burly man was his friend. "There are two guests here who know him," she said, "and they know he is in the area. They are going to be looking for him. He is a wanted man. Did you know that? It would be dangerous for him to be recognized." "I shall let him know what you have said if I happen to hear of him, ma'am," the man said, turning away as if to return to work. "Wait a minute," Kate said, frowning. "Do you not wish to know which two guests?" "I reckon you could give me their names, ma'am," he said. Kate was feeling very indignant. She was not believed. This man was not taking her seriously at all. It was doubtful that her message would ever find its way to Nicholas. "Mr. Charles Dalrymple and Sir Harry Tate," she said, and watched, incredulous, as the man merely touched his hat and strode away from her back into the stables. Well, she thought, so much for Barret. Nicholas Seyton was obviously an incredibly careless man. He was living on the brink of disaster and did not even know who his friends were. If the servants had not told Lord Barton of his whereabouts, the reason seemed to be more apathy than deliberate conspiracy. He almost deserved to end up at the gallows. But that thought immediately sent her scurrying in the direction of the driveway that led to the main gates. Perhaps Josh Pickering would be more helpful. Surely he would agree to take a message for her. She might have to write it down, of course. She was not sure she trusted him to remember a verbal message, though Nicholas had assured her that Josh was capable of doing so. Unfortunately, she was fast losing faith in Mr. Seyton's judgment.

Nicholas Seyton was almost enjoying himself. Not entirely, of course. He was still at a loss to know how he was to get the information he wanted. Clearly his father's cousin was not going to reveal anything in the ordinary course of events. A search of the library was going to be a very slow business and was very

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unlikely to turn up anything useful anyway. Katherine Mannering, of course, seemed to have thrown her energies into the hunt. He might have expected that she would do so despite his express command to her not to become further involved in his affairs. But despite the frustrating situation in which his affairs seemed to be at present, Nicholas was almost enjoying himself. He found the danger of his situation exhilarating. Finding himself free to wander around his former home, deferred to as a guest by the earl, treated as a stranger by all the servants, who knew him so well, was quite stimulating. Each time Cousin Clive looked full at him and talked to him, he felt a wicked glow of triumph. He was used to operating behind a mask, though almost disappointingly no one except Katherine Mannering had ever put it to the test. To be able to walk around without a literal mask but to remain unknown nevertheless was an exciting irony. The knowledge he had gained the day before had stimulated him even more. So the earl knew that he had not gone away fromDorset, did he? Katherine had been quite right about that. And he was attempting to ferret him out of his hiding place. What a marvelous scene that had been: Barton enlisting the help of Dalrymple and himself to find himself! One fact of that scene had particularly satisfied Nicholas. He now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all his conclusions about the new earl were not wild conjecture. The man had lied quite brazenly. Clearly he really did have something to hide. And he had shown a weakness. Once one begins to lie, Nicholas believed, even in a small and seemingly insignificant way, one is vulnerable. Barton's best self-defense would have been to convince himself utterly of the truth of his own story concerning Nicholas' past and to act forever after as if that story were true. If he had told Nicholas two months before that he must leave Barton Abbey because his presence there was an offense to decency, then he should have kept to that attitude even if it showed him in an unsympathetic light to his sister and his guests. But he had shifted ground. He was vulnerable. The thought was some small encouragement. Nicholas had not been totally idle in his three days at the Abbey. His thoughts on the way back from Wiltshire had convinced him that at one time at least some important papers had been lost at Barton Abbey: his mother's letter to his father and probably some papers his father had brought back from Franceto prove the legality of his marriage. He did not really expect to find those papers, but it did strike him that his new knowledge could be tested on the servants, several of whom had been in service at the Abbey for a longer period than five-and-twenty years. Speaking to the servants at length was, of course, a tricky business. It was unlikely that a man of Sir Harry Tate's character would spend a great deal of his time conversing with servants. Such behavior might arouse suspicion even if he had decided to make Sir Harry a pleasant character. So the questioning had to be done gradually, as opportunity arose. So far he had talked with the butler, whom he had engaged that morning to show him the salon again and explain whom the various portraits represented. The Earl of Barton had appeared quite touched by his interest. Beneath the occasional bored and inane comments intended for any casual observer, Nicholas had questioned the butler about those events that had happened so long ago. Unfortunately, the man could remember little. Yes, the present Lord Barton had journeyed toFranceafter the death of the viscount and come home with him, Master Nick, and a wet nurse. No, the wet nurse had not stayed beyond a few days. She was French and had presumably returned to her own country. No, he did not recall where the woman came from. She could not speak English, anyway. He knew nothing about the late earl's papers. They had always been handled by his lordship's secretary. He had left Barton Abbey ten years or more before and died soon after. He did remember the letter from Francethat was addressed to the dead viscount. He remembered that the butler at that time—he himself

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had been only a second footman—had not known whether he should risk upsetting his lordship by delivering the letter to him or whether he should destroy it. It must have been delivered because Master Clive had gone toFrancesoon afterward and they had all assumed belowstairs that his departure had had something to do with that letter. No, he could not say what had happened to the letter. Yes, the butler said, his brow furrowing with his effort to remember events from so long ago, he could remember Master Clive—his present lordship, that was—showing a marked interest in going through the viscount's effects. He remembered because he as second footman had been sent with his lordship's secretary to turn out Master Jonathan's bedchamber and cabinet and set his clothes, papers, and personal possessions in order. But they had not had to do the job because Master Clive was there before them and insisted on doing it all himself. He remembered that because it had struck him at the time that it must be painful for Master Clive to go through his cousin's things like that when they had been as close as brothers. He did not even want help, though the secretary had volunteered the services of the second footman. Master Clive had spent days shut up in his cousin's rooms. The butler's memories seemed to confirm Nicholas' suspicions without providing him with any answers. But there were several more servants to question. Perhaps one of them would recall some trivial detail that would prove to be the key to solving the whole mystery. In the meantime Nicholas had other, more pressing matters to attend to that day. He had to resist the temptation to pay a visit to the library again. The urge was strong. He had thoroughly enjoyed his encounter with Katherine Mannering the afternoon before, though he really had not meant to precipitate them into physical contact. That moving of the staircase really had been accidental. But its outcome had been achingly delightful. He was becoming almost obsessed by his desire for that very sprightly young lady. He ran his tongue over the still-painful torn flesh behind his upper lip and grinned. He had never had his face slapped before and could not say he craved a repetition of the experience, but it had been worth the pain just to see her vibrant with anger. He really should not take such delight in provoking her. Poor lady. She was trying to help him, in his other persona, of course. His grin faded fast. He believed he had rescued her from a nasty situation the evening before. It had not taken a great deal of intelligence to notice from the start that Uppington was interested in her. and Nicholas had had a good idea that that nobleman's interest would not show itself in a desire to converse with her or even flirt with her. He looked at her as if she were a lower servant, his for the taking. In his mind Uppington had Katherine consigned to his bed already. Nicholas had noticed Katherine leaving the drawing room. He knew, without even having to look, when she was present and when she was not. Fortunately he had also seen Uppington slip from the room not more than half an hour later. He had not been able to leave immediately himself without attracting attention, but fortunately, when he did leave, he guessed right the first time that he would find them in the library. And he had not been wrong. Her face, which was toward him as he entered, was furiously angry. But there had been fright there too, the sort of fright that he had detected in her in his cottage that first evening when he had kidnapped her. But he knew this time that she had good reason to fear. He had had to exercise all his self-control to be Sir Harry Tate instead of Nicholas Seyton. Poor Katherine. With her fear of being bedded, it was a cruel fate to have an unprincipled rake like Uppington in the house. However, Nicholas thought now, he must forgo seeing her for this afternoon. He would have to postpone the pleasure of infuriating her until another day. And he did not have to fear for her safety.

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Uppington had gone off riding with three other people. He had other things to do. Dalrymple was coming with him. He had confided all his secrets—except those concerning Katherine Mannering—to his friend. It seemed the only sensible thing to do. Dalrymple did not approve, of course. "Listen, Nick," he said as they rode out of the stable-yard after Nicholas had had a brief talk with Barret, "luck cannot continue on your side the way it has so far. It is little short of a miracle that in three days your identity is still unknown to Barton. You cannot plan on staying much longer." "Nonsense!" Nicholas said, flashing his grin at his friend and then remembering that even when unobserved it was wise to remain Sir Harry Tate whenever possible. "You have seen how remarkably loyal all the servants here are, Dalrymple. Not a slip from any of them yet." "This is all a great deal more serious than I thought, though," his friend persisted. "Barton knows you are nearby, and he is not going to give up until he finds you. You are mad to stay. You should take to your heels today. I shall stay and keep my ears open for anything that might help you." "Very often the safest place to be when someone is looking for you is right under that someone's nose," Nicholas said, gazing languidly around him at the deserted lawn that formed a shortcut to the lodge. "My cousin would not even dream of looking for me among his guests, Dalrymple." "And then to add tonight's business to the whole dangerous situation," Charles Dalrymple said, gesticulating with the hand that did not hold his horse's reins. "You are quite mad, Nick. You could hang. And I very strongly disapprove." Nicholas shrugged. "One cannot always control the timing of events," he said. "It just happens to be tonight. And morality is not always a black-and-white thing, my friend. These are poor people who live here. I am not convinced that there is great morality in our present social situation. Why should some people be rich and others poor just because of the accident of birth? What I help these people do is no great sin. We really do not harm anyone. Quite the contrary. We please a great number of people." "You are mad," Charles Dalrymple repeated. "Here we are," Nicholas said in the languid voice of Sir Harry Tate. "Lead the horses around to the back, Dalrymple. I shall go and see if Josh is at home." A couple of minutes later he appeared in the small yard behind the house with a grinning Josh, who bobbed his head in half a dozen bows when he saw the other gentleman. "Right, Josh," Nicholas said, "tonight is the night. Are you ready for it?" Josh giggled. "I am that, Master Nick," he said, bobbing his head again. "I am that." "Your task will be the same as usual," Nicholas continued. "You know that you are the only one capable of doing it properly, don't you, Josh, and that your part is vital to the whole operation?" Josh giggled again. "Josh won't let Master Nick down," he said. "Josh won't let Master Nick get caught." "Remember, you must not show yourself unless you have to," Nicholas said. "Otherwise we will not be able to use you for the task again, Josh. Just watch the barracks of the coast guard carefully to make sure there is no unusual activity there. Only if there is must you show yourself. And then what must you do?"

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"Josh go to them and say some nasty men set upon him and steal his money and beat him," Josh said. "Josh point toward the rising sun. Master Nick will be toward the setting sun." "Right, Josh," Nicholas said, patting him on the shoulder. "Your father will tell you when it is time to leave. We will all be safe if you do your job right. I shall see you tomorrow." "Josh see that Master Nick not get caught," Josh said. "He see Master Nick tomorrow. Master Jonathan not come no more." He sounded sad. "Well, Dalrymple." Nicholas became Sir Harry Tate again after one broad grin at his friend. "With luck on his side, your friend might see the light of another day. Josh here will be an invaluable help. All I have to do is slip from this house tonight and take myself off to Evans' cottage. The stage is all carefully set for the rest. And if I am to have such a busy night, my friend, I do believe I should return to the house and rest." He raised his quizzing glass to his eye, surveyed his friend through it, and grinned again. "I still don't like it," Charles Dalrymple said, troubled. "I am not convinced of the morality of what you plan to do." Nicholas swung himself into the saddle, winked at a grinning and bobbing Josh, and turned his horse into the park again. Kate, standing very still at the front of the house, where she had arrived but a minute before, had paled. They had found him already. They knew exactly where he was. And Sir Harry Tate was going to catch him that very night. It was not even an innocent piece of work. Sir Harry must realize that Nicholas was a wanted man. Mr. Dalrymple's words suggested that he realize that there was something wrong in what they were doing. And Sir Harry had chosen that night for his Judas act. And he had done it again. Nicholas Seyton had miscalculated the loyalty of his friends. Josh Pickering, probably not realizing what he was doing, was going to help Sir Harry. Oh, that stupid Nicholas Seyton, she thought in a gust of anger. How had he ever survived until now without her to look after him? It was perfectly clear that he was in great danger, and equally clear that she could not rely on his "friends" to warn him. She would just have to do it herself. She would have to swallow her pride and go to him again. But when? It was dangerous to wait until the night. Sir Harry might reach the cottage before she did. Now? But even as the thought occurred to her, she became aware of the approach of a gig to the gates. Lady Barbara Lacey and her daughter were inside, and Lady Barbara was leaning over the side graciously offering Kate a ride back to the Abbey. Well, tonight it would have to be, Kate decided, climbing into the gig with a smile and agreeing that, yes, it must be almost teatime. Chapter Ten

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It was almosteleven o'clockat night again before Kate could leave Barton Abbey. It was indeed teatime when she and the other two ladies arrived in the gig, and immediately after that the riders returned and Kate was required to sit with Lady Thelma in her dressing room until it was time to dress for dinner. After dinner Kate was hoping to plead a headache and retire early, but the Marquess of Uppington wished to take Thelma walking in the formal gardens and Kate was called upon to accompany them. Lord Barton seemed to consider such chaperonage unnecessary, but Thelma insisted. And despite her eagerness to be gone, Kate could not resent that particular task. But when they returned to the drawing room, she found that Sir Harry Tate was absent. When Thelma asked about him, Mr. Dalrymple explained that his friend had retired just a short while before, as he suffered frequently from insomnia and was very tired. Kate was in an agony. She forced herself to wait five whole minutes before asking her employer if she might be excused, then speeding to her room for cloak and bonnet. Perhaps she would be too late, she thought. Probably she would be too late. She must go to the cottage on foot, while Sir Harry would undoubtedly ride. Her only hope was that he would not go directly to the cottage. If he knew of the earl's suspicions and intended purpose to have Nicholas Seyton arrested—why else would he be going after him at night in this furtive manner?—then surely he would take help along with him. Some of the soldiers attached to the coast guard, perhaps? She would not think of that, Kate thought as she half-ran across the darkened park and out into the countryside beyond. She would not think of being too late. She must reach Nicholas in time. The foolish man. Perhaps this time she would convince him that he was in great danger. Perhaps this time she could persuade him to go away. And why the possibility should depress her, she did not know. Perhaps this time she would see him without his mask. If he had still not retired to bed, he might not have time to don the mask before she was admitted. A lamp was burning in a downstairs window, Kate saw with some relief as she approached the cottage. At least this time she would not face the embarrassment of having to wake the household after they had all retired. Unless they had already been wakened, of course, by Sir Harry and the coast guard. Kate felt her heart begin to thump, and she moved more cautiously. It would not do at all to allow herself to be seen by those people. And even as she crept closer, she became aware of two figures standing against the hedge of bushes to one side of the gateway. Two men. Sir Harry and someone else? Kate opened her mouth and deliberately took a few deep, silent breaths. Her thumping heart was making it impossible for her to breathe normally. Fortunately, she was close to some bushes and had a chance to creep nearer unseen. She must find out who they were and why they were standing there. And she must think of some way to get to Nicholas inside the house before they did and without their seeing her. It took Kate several minutes to creep along the edge of the bushes until she was almost within hearing distance of the two men, who still stood where they had before. One of them, she could see now despite the darkness, was the man who had opened the door to her the last time she was here. Mr. Evans, the owner. And with him was Sir Harry Tate himself. Her eyes grew wide. How should she interpret this scene? Was Evans too in league with Sir Harry? Or was he trying to turn back a man he recognized as an enemy of his lodger? Impossible to say. Although Kate could hear the murmur of voices, she could not quite make out what they were saying. And where were the coast guard? In ambush all around the house? Kate could feel the flesh of her back creep.

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She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but no one was there ready to march her off into custody. If only Evans could keep Sir Harry talking at the gate for a while longer, perhaps she would still have time to warn Nicholas, assuming that he did not know what was going on outside the house. Was there a back entrance? Could she reach it without being seen? Even if there was no back door, there would surely be a window she could tap on. Kate was very aware of the danger to herself, but she must try. The hedge surrounded the house. Kate kept close to it, moving as fast as she dared, watching where she set her feet so that she did not give away her presence with the snapping of a twig. Fortunately the night was not particularly dark despite a cloud cover that completely hid any sign of moon or stars. She believed it was the time of a new moon, anyway. There was an opening in the hedge at the back of the house, and Kate, peering cautiously around one end of it, was relieved to see that indeed there was a back door. She would have to cross a patch of open garden to reach it, and the garden might already be filled with soldiers lying in wait. But she was not going to turn craven now. She took a deep breath and stepped into the opening of the hedge. But before she could taken even one step forward, she felt herself grabbed roughly from behind, one iron-hard arm completely enclosing her upper body and arms, and one large hand clamped over her mouth. Struggling was useless, as she discovered within a very few seconds. How could one struggle when one had no arms with which to do so and when one's kick did not even cause one Is captor to wince? Trying to scream was equally useless. Nothing but a pathetic little "Mmmmm!" could get past the clamped hand. A head covered with a woolen cap, the face blackened with some substance, appeared in front of her and looked into her face. Kate glared back. He was the strangest-looking coast guardsman she had ever seen. "She's not a wench from these parts," he said to her captor. "A pity. We could 'ave just turned 'er over to 'er pa or 'usband for thrashing. She must be from the 'ouse." Kate's captor grunted. "If she be a lady," he said, "I can't think what she would be doing so far from the 'ouse and snooping around 'ere." "What are we to do with 'er?" the first man asked. "Take'er inside?" "Na," the captor said. " 'E'll be just getting everything ready now. 'E won't want to be troubled with no wench. We'll 'ave to take 'er down with us an' keep an eye on 'er. 'E'll deal with 'er later. Yer'll find that it don't pay to try to meddle with Dorest smugglers, my fine lady." Dorsetsmugglers! Kate's eyes widened if that were possible. Had the world gone mad? She had risked her own safety to come to the cottage of a highwayman and kidnapper to save him from the imminent arrival of a Judas and the coast guard, and she had had the misfortune to run into a band of smugglers? She was suddenly seriously alarmed. These rogues were going to take her with them until they had completed their night's work, and then they were going to have their leader deal with her.Dealwith her? That could mean only one thing, could it not? They would not be able to release her now that she knew so much. And she was likely to learn more within the next few hours. These thoughts did not have a chance to formulate themselves clearly in her mind. Kate was too absorbed with a consuming terror as the hand over her mouth was removed, only to be replaced immediately by a foul-smelling handkerchief that the blackened man pulled so tight at the back of her head that it forced her mouth open painfully. She still could not scream past it, she discovered when she

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tried. Her captor meanwhile had grabbed one of her wrists in each large hand, twisted them behind her back, and tied them with something, tightly enough to cut off the circulation of blood. While her mind was still in a whirl of bewilderment and terror, she was spun around to face her captor, who stooped and slung her over his shoulder. She saw in that one brief instant that he was disguised in the same way as his companion. "A good thing we was passing this way," her captor said with a grunt. Even her terror became of little importance to Kate for the following ten minutes. It was replaced entirely by pain. The two men walked quietly but briskly away from the cottage in the direction of the cliffs and the sea and then clambered down a cliff path to a small pebbled beach below. Kate, hanging head-down against the back of the larger man, felt as if her head would burst from the pressure of the blood pounding through it and as if her mouth were being cut to ribbons by the handkerchief. She almost choked and had to fight in a blind panic for breath when she tried to swallow. She tried to keep her bound hands against her back, but sometimes they swung backward painfully, pulling at the muscles of her shoulders. Once during the descent her knuckles grazed against some rock. She tried to keep her eyes shut but could not seem to stop herself from watching in terror the precipices that swung below her vision as they descended. Finally they were down on the beach and she became aware of other hushed male voices. "What 'as Fred got there?" she heard one voice whisper. "There was a wench snooping outside the cottage," Fred's companion explained. "From the 'ouse, like as not. We brought 'er down 'ere." "Are you mad?" someone hissed. "She hadna seen anything. Nothing's 'appened yet. Yer should 'ave just bumped 'er over the 'ead and dumped 'er somewhere close to the 'ouse. Now she'll know bloody well what's going on. We'll 'ave the coast guard at our 'eads." "Fred and Jake never were ones for sensible thinking," someone else said. "Lord," another voice said in an awed whisper. "It's Mrs. Mannering. She's from the house, all right. You numbskull, Fred. Why bring her here? Now we'll have to do something about her. And we have never had to do violence before." "I'm taking 'er into the cave," Fred said sullenly. " 'E can decide later what to do with 'er." Kate felt half-dead by the time she was finally set down. She was sitting on sand; she could feel that much. But it was several minutes before she could raise her head and take note of her surroundings. She was sitting inside a cave, which was large enough to delight children per-haps, but not as large as she would have expected a smuggler's hideout to be. It was empty of anything except one dim lamp hanging from a projection of rock in such a manner that its light would be visible only from inside the cave. There was one man standing at the entrance, his back to her. She suspected it was probably the man she had first seen: Jake. She would not be able to save Nicholas now. Sir Harry Tate had found him and somehow he would bring him harm. There did not seem to be any soldiers around, but anyway, Sir Harry could be up to no good. "Your friend may live to see another day," he had said to Mr. Dalrymple that afternoon, ominous words if she had ever heard any. Nicholas was going to be led into a trap, and he would hang. The one consolation to her was that she would not be there to see it. She would already be long dead, her throat

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slit on the sand of this cave. Terror came bounding back.

Nicholas Seyton arrived at the cottage rather later than he would have liked. But he had not wished to retire too early at Barton Abbey. Even insomniacs do not go to bed immediately after dinner. When he did arrive, it was to find Russ Evans standing at the gate, looking dubiously up at the sky. As usual, the night of a new moon had been chosen so that there would be as much darkness as possible. But the clouds this evening actually made the sky light and luminous. Well, Nicholas said, clapping his friend heartily on the shoulder eventually, there was nothing they could do about the matter now. The ship from Francewould be sending its boat into the bay within the next hour or so. They would just have to trust to good fortune and the sharp senses of Josh Pickering and a few other men who had been stationed in places where they might note the approach of the coast guard. He was pleased to discover that all was ready. The cellar at the cottage had been cleared out ready to receive the boxes and casks that would fill it for the next two days until the smuggled items could be distributed. It was a risky business, hauling all those items up from the beach and across the open ground to the cottage, but it was really the only sensible thing to do. The cave was neither large enough nor sufficiently concealed for them to risk leaving everything there. So he was not late after all. All he had to do was go inside the house to don his wig and mask and then follow Russ to the beach. Mrs. Evans and Parkin would remain at the cottage to oversee the arrival of the smuggled goods and their orderly stowing in the cellar. He had worn the mask and wig almost from the start of his work with the smugglers, rather than the woolen cap and the coal-blackened face favored by the other men. He supposed that their disguise was more practical, but he liked the idea of his own. He knew that the very blond hair was especially unwise. But it was so different from his own hair that he felt it would offer sufficient protection from recognition if he were spotted from a distance. In actual fact, he never had been spotted. This smuggling business was by no means a frequent event. Sometimes two months, sometimes three passed between shipments. And although the coast guard knew that smuggling did happen in the area, they had never come close to catching any of the culprits. Indeed sometimes a whole operation was conducted without their seeming aware that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. When Nicholas reached the beach, he walked to the water's edge. The other men—some dozen of them—were also watching the water tensely. And they did not have long to wait. Soon a ship's boat was rowed almost silently up onto the beach and all the men went to work lifting boxes of silk and lace and kegs of brandy out of the boat and carrying them up the beach to be stowed temporarily in the cave. All worked quickly and silently. They had done this often enough that each man knew his job. Nicholas meanwhile spoke with the French captain who had come with the boat to receive his payment and to make arrangements for the next run. The usual wrangling continued during most of the hauling process. The captain asked too much for his cargo. He must be satisfied with less. He pressed too hard for an earlier run. The next one must not be within two months at the soonest. Finally the last box had been carried to the cave, and the Frenchman climbed back into the boat, shrugging and gesticulating, but satisfied with his night's work. Nicholas watched the boat grow smaller as it drew out into the bay, and turned to watch the men, stretching and resting themselves for a few minutes before beginning the far more demanding haul up the cliff path and across to the cottage. One of them wandered toward him.

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"Begging pardon, Master Nick," he said, "but there be one small problem tonight." Nicholas was alert immediately. His eyes moved to the clifftop. "What is it, Jake?" he asked. "There were a wench snooping around the cottage," Jake said. "Fred and me caught 'er at it." Nicholas' eyes narrowed. "Snooping?" he said. "What did you do about her?" "Fred carried 'er down 'ere," Jake explained. "She's trussed up inside the cave, Master Nick. She won't escape, 'ave no fear." Nicholas stared at him, speechless for a moment. "You have her a prisoner in the cave?" he said. "Are you mad? Who is she, in the name of all that "is wonderful?" "She's from the 'ouse," Jake said a little uncertainly. He did not like the look- in the eyes that gleamed through the black mask. "Mrs. Mannering, Barret says." Nicholas closed his eyes, relief washing over him for the first moment. Then he snapped his eyes open again. "And you have her… 'trussed up,' as you put it? And she has been there since before the boat came? Why did you not tell me this before? You had better assure me now, Jake, that neither you nor Fred has laid one violent hand on her." He was striding up the beach even as Jake, trotting along beside him, was assuring him that they had not harmed one hair of Mrs. Mannering's head. Kate was at the back of the cave behind piled boxes and kegs. Her mouth was cruelly bound, Nicholas could see as he elbowed and kneed his way past the obstructions. Her hands were tied behind her, the handkerchief that was knotted around her wrists also tied to the handle of one of the boxes. She was staring at him, her eyes growing wider… with fury. "All right, Katherine," he said, kneeling in front of her and tackling the knot at the back of her head, "I shall have you free in a moment, and you may rip up at me to your heart's content. Only quietly, please. Just don't screech." "How can I screech… Oh!" Kate grimaced with pain as her mouth and jaw moved freely again. Her tongue felt like a dry rag in her mouth. "When my mouth has been cut to ribbons. Ouch! Oh, ouch!" This last was a response to the freeing of her wrists, which set up an almost unbearable tingling in her hands. "Katherine," he said. "Oh, my poor Katherine. Are you badly hurt?" "Get away from me," she said as he tried to take one of her hands in order to chafe her wrist and start the blood circulating again. "Don't touch me, you blackguard, you. Highwayman. Ouch! Kidnapper. Seducer. Ooh, ow! Smuggler. And to think I risked coming out tonight to warn you of danger again. You deserve everything that will finally happen to you, Nicholas Seyton. Ohhh!" She gasped and hung her hands helplessly before her. Men entered the cave at that moment and began to lift the boxes closest to the entrance. One or two of them peered in curiously. One of them came a little way inside and called to Nicholas in a hoarse whisper.

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"What do you think, Master Nick?" he asked. "Do you want me to take care of the wench? Snooping around, she was, sir." "No, thank you, Fred," Nicholas said dryly. "I think you have taken care of her well enough for tonight. Fortunately for you, my man, Mrs. Mannering is a friend and will not betray us. Otherwise you would have placed us in an awkward situation indeed." "I am certainly not a friend!" Kate retorted. "And I can hardly wait to get away from here so that I might inform the coast guard of just what is going on under their very noses." Nicholas turned toward her and grinned. "Not so loudly, love," he said. "Some of the men might believe you." "Then some of the men have more sense than you," she said. He grinned again. "We will talk later," he said. "Stay here, Katherine, until I come back. And please do not try any heroics. If you try to leave, one of the men will catch you and haul you back here again. And I cannot guarantee that they will do so with any more gentleness than Fred and Jake seem to have shown. Stay here please." He left the cave, but he did not do his share of carrying as he usually did. He merely made sure that Russ Evans was the first up the cliff path so that he could stand watch at the top and halt any movement below him if any unauthorized person happened to be within sight. And he stood and watched the line of men disappearing up the path, each laden with goods. He did not have to give directions because every man knew his job. Almost as soon as the last man reached the top of the cliff, the first was on his way back down again. He stood there for nearly half an hour until the last of the boxes had been taken away. And then he waited for Russ to, join him and they spent their usual amount of time brushing the sand of the beach so that there was no sign left of telltale footprints. He sent Russ home, promising to sweep out the sand of the cave himself. Then he went back inside. Kate had stayed inside the cave. Not that she had done so at all meekly. But weighing the odds against her chance of escaping, she had wisely decided that she had better wait. It had seemed as if dozens of men had entered and reentered the cave, first bringing the boxes in and then taking them all out again. And they all looked like hefty brutes, with their blackened faces and wool caps pulled low over their brows. She had no wish to be caught by one of them again. And she certainly had not liked the look of that cliff path, though she admitted that it might not look quite so formidable when viewed from the right way up. But what chiefly convinced her to stay was her need to see Nicholas Seyton face-to-face again so that she could tell him exactly what she thought of him. She was not going to miss that opportunity! So she was pacing the floor of the cave when he came back inside. Her hands had long ago recovered from the dreadfully painful pins-and-needles sensation, and her tongue felt like a tongue again. One of the men had brought her a scoop of water from goodness knew where and she had gulped it down gratefully. She was ready. "Katherine," Nicholas said, coming toward her with extended hands, "are you fully recovered? I seem doomed to bring you terror." "Terror!" Kate said with a contemptuous toss of her head. "Contempt, more like, sir. I might have

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guessed you would be worth no more than to be the leader of a band of ruffians. Smuggling, sir! How low can you get! And I do not doubt that you would have added murder to your crimes tonight if my identity had turned out to be any other." "Ah, Katherine," he said, smiling at her, "you cannot believe that, surely. I admit that that oaf of a Fred might have placed us all in a damnably awkward situation, but there would have been no murder, my dear. We would have had to solve the problem somehow. I suspect this would have been our last such enterprise." "I suspect it will be anyway," Kate said. "I have no intention of keeping my mouth shut about this, Nicholas Seyton. This is a terrible crime you are involved in." "Is it?" He asked quietly. "Are you quite sure of that, Katherine? Oh, I grant you that what we do is against the law and a capital offense to boot. But whom are we really harming? This is a small operation. We bring scarce and desirable goods to those families that can afford their price. We bring a little extra money to the poor families who live with the constant threat of starvation. A poor fishing season, a poor crop of vegetables, a number of other seemingly minor disasters: all these things can spell the difference between survival and starvation to many of the people living hereabouts. I have lived all my life here, Katherine. I have seen it on occasion: thin, crying children, and even worse, thin children who are too exhausted and hopeless to cry." "And what about you?" she accused. "Are you starving?" "No," he admitted. "I have always lived a life of privilege, Katherine. I believe I was as outraged as you when I first knew there were smugglers in this area. I set out to find them, and did better than I hoped for one night. They found me, as they found you tonight. Fortunately, most of them felt kindly disposed toward me, especially the servants from the Abbey who are of their number. After they had finished talking to me, I had agreed to be their interpreter with the French captain who puts in here. And I discovered on my first encounter with him that he was driving an impossibly hard bargain with these poor folk. Before I knew it, I was far more than the mere interpreter. I was accepted as the leader of the group. I do not have the heart to abandon them. They need the money that these runs bring them." "And you enjoy the danger and excitement too," Kate said. He grinned. "Yes, I do," he said. "You are quite right. And you must not betray us, Katherine. Not them, anyway. Betray me as your kidnapper, if you must, and I shall fight my own case before a magistrate. But leave these people be. Think of all the wives and children who will suffer if their menfolk land in jail, never to return to them again." "Ohhh!" Kate beat the air at her sides with her fists. "Why do you always do this to me? I know you are wrong. I know there are all sorts of arguments that could be used against you. What would happen to law and order, for example, if everyone could choose which laws he was justified in breaking? Why can I not argue against you?" "I think because you have a kind heart," he said with a smile. "A bleeding heart is what you mean," she said. "One should not feel kindly disposed toward lawbreakers. And you. You seem quite determined to put your neck in a noose."

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"By no means," he said. "Come, Katherine. Let us sit down for a while and you shall tell me of the danger you came to warn me of tonight. Will you spread your cloak on the sand? I am afraid I have none." "Oh." Kate's eyes widened as he took the cloak from her shoulders and spread it on the sand of the cave floor. She had totally forgotten. "That man was after you. He was at the cottage." "What man?" he asked, indicating with a sweep of the hand that she could sit down. "Sir Harry Tate," she said. "He is one of the guests at the Abbey. And he knows you. He met you, he said, at Mr. Dalrymple's home. And Mr. Dalrymple is at the Abbey too." "Yes," he agreed. "Charles Dalrymple and I were atCambridgetogether. And I recall meeting Tate." "He knows where you are living," Kate said. "And he came to the cottage tonight. I saw him talking to Mr. Evans just before I was caught and brought here. I was creeping around to the back of the house in the hope of getting to you before he did." He seated himself beside her and reached out to take one of her hands. "You are incredibly brave, Katherine," he said. "You came tonight to warn me that Tate was after my blood? Why might it not have been a social call?" "Because I heard him this afternoon behind the lodge planning to come here late tonight. And he was going to use Josh to help him. You must be careful of whom you trust, Nicholas. What has happened to Sir Harry? Maybe he has hidden somewhere and has witnessed everything that has happened tonight." He squeezed her hand. "Do not worry about Tate," he said. "You saw him outside the cottage? Talking to Evans? I have a loyal follower there, you know. Evans quite convinced the man that I was not at the cottage and never have been. And he watched him ride for the Abbey again." "Are you sure?" Kate asked. "I do not trust the man. He appears to be lazy and bored, but I have the feeling that he is very alert and very clever behind the facade. He is dangerous. Dangerous to you. I am sure of it. I wish he had not come. He was not invited, you know. But he was visiting Mr. Dalrymple and came here with him." "Has he been molesting you, Katherine?" he asked with a smile. "Only with insults," she said. "Nothing to worry about. I have as ready a tongue as anyone. He will not get the better of me with words, never fear. I really do dislike him intensely." "Do you?" he said. "Poor man. I pity him. And do you dislike me intensely too, Katherine? I seem to remember that you were quite out of charity with me the last time we met." "Well, I really should dislike you," she said candidly. "But you are so like a child that needs to be protected. You seem to have no sense of danger at all." "And you wish to protect me from harm?" he asked. "Stupid, is it not?" she said. "I should be cheering the hangman on." "Will you let me kiss you, Katherine?"

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"Yes," she said without hesitation. "I think I need to be held close to you. I am feeling decidedly agitated. I do wish I had never met you, you know." "No, you don't," he said, putting one arm around her shoulders and drawing her against him, "any more than I wish I had never met you. Despite the fact that you have a habit of coming into my life at the most awkward moments. There is a very strong attraction between you and me, Katherine Mannering." She was not given a chance to reply. His mouth came down on hers, open, light, teasing, and she reached for him with both arms, turning toward him so that her breasts came against his chest. He raised his head. She was aware in the dim, flickering light of the lamp, of very blue eyes looking at her through the slits of his mask. "Is your mouth sore?" he asked. She shook her head and tightened her hold of his shoulder to bring his mourn back to hers. His kiss had not lost its magic. It was as wonderful this time as it had been the last. She relaxed against him and gave herself up to sensation as his tongue explored her lips, the flesh behind, and the cavity of her mouth. He took her hands when they would have moved into his hair and placed them against his chest. She accepted the invitation, unbuttoning the shirt beneath his open jacket and spreading his hands over the warm, lightly hairy surface of his chest. His hands had released the untidy knot of hair from the nape of her neck and were now unbuttoning the back of her dress. His mouth moved away from hers to kiss her eyes, her temples, her ears, her throat, her breasts, which were at least free of her dress and shift. Kate moaned and pushed against him. He was sucking on one nipple and she threw back her head and gave herself up to raw sensation. And then his face was above her again, his eyes gazing deeply into hers, and one strong arm supported her as he lowered her down onto the cloak. Kate reached up for him. Somehow his coat and his shirt were gone and she reveled in the feel of her naked breasts against his chest and finally in the heavy weight of him pressing her against the sand, his hands in her hair, his mouth deeply embracing hers again. "Katherine," he was saying then against her ear. "Katherine, my beautiful love. I want you. God, how I want you." She knew what he meant. She felt betrayed again. She was going to push him away again and demand to be taken home. In just a little while. Her brain was sluggish. Just too much excitement for one night. In just a little while. For the moment she did not wish to put an end to her own pleasure. Her hands roamed his broad shoulders and she tipped back her head again, lips parted, inviting his kiss. "Yes," she said against his mouth. "Yes, Nicholas. I want more. Give me more. Please give me more." She had never been naked with Giles. Yet even in five years of marriage she had never failed to feel exposed and humiliated when her nightgown was pushed up to her hips so that he might take his pleasure of her. She lifted her hips for Nicholas to slide her clothes off her. She watched his eyes as they roamed over her naked body. She watched as he unclothed himself and turned to her again. And she reached up her arms for him, never once thinking of asking him to put out the lamp. And she spread her legs across her cloak as he came down on top of her. If he would only kiss her more before he did "that" to her. If he would only massage her breasts like this a little longer, his thumbs rubbing against her nipples until she felt a raw ache all they way from her throat

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to her spread legs. If only he would then let his hands slide down her sides, as he was doing now, tracing the outline of her waist, her hips, her legs. And if only he would raise himself like this so that he could take her nipples in his mouth again and trail a line of kisses all the way down to her navel and even beyond. And let his hands trail up her exposed thighs until they buried themselves "there," his fingers teasing and probing until she cried out and lifted her arms to him and raised her knees so that she could set her feet on the cloak on either side of his kneeling body. And if only he would brace his hands on either side of her head and lower his weight so tantalizingly slowly along her full length once more. If only. If only he would do those things to her—and he had done them all, and more—then she would be only too willing out of the gratitude of a body humming with desire to give him "that." If that was what he needed as a man, then he should have it. She would endure the unpleasantness. She would give herself as a free gift because she loved him. Yes, she loved Nicholas Seyton. So she lifted herself of her own free will when his hands moved beneath her, and pivoted her hips so that he would have easy entrance. And she gave herself in love and gratitude to Nicholas in return for the pleasures he had given her. Kate gasped. Her body was deeply occupied, and immediately all the throbbings and achings that had set her body humming since his first touch were focused. It was there. Oh, it was there that she needed him. It was there she would find the answer, the final soothing for all the unfulfilled longings his embraces had aroused in her. There. Oh, yes, there. As he stroked, slowly into her and into her, the ache increased almost beyond endurance and she gasped against him, lying still and tense, her eyes closing tightly when he moved to a faster and deeper pace. "There. Oh, yes, there. There." One hand was twisted in her hair again and his mouth brushed hers, "I am taking you there, my love," he whispered. "You will come with me. I promise." And then there was no more energy for words. He was driving into her with an urgency that she braced herself against, every muscle tightening, straining against him for release. And then, finally, it was coming. She could feel it coming. She was going to lose herself. She could not fight the driving demands of his body any longer. She was going to lose herself. She clung to his back with desperate hands and lifted her head away from the cloak to bury it against his shoulder. And then she cried out. And shuddered violently against him as he continued to move in her. And cried out again. And shook and shook within his embrace as if she had lost control of every muscle in her body. And then he too was still, buried deep and throbbing inside her, holding her and murmuring to her until her shaking became less convulsive. And then she lost touch with herself. Chapter Eleven

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Beforenoonof the following day Sir Harry Tate had decided that he must get rid of Nicholas Seyton. Not by death, though he did toy with the idea. But that would be too tricky. There would be all the necessity of having a convenient body at hand. He must send him away fromDorsetto rusticate on his estate in Shropshire. He made the decision reluctantly. If he were to leave in a hurry, then he would not be able to participate in the distribution of the smuggled items the following night. And he rather liked to see the earl anxious that he might be kidnapped and throttled at any moment. But there were far more pressing reasons for sending Nicholas Seyton a safe distance away. He wanted the earl lulled into a false feeling of security. Perhaps he would give something away if he considered himself no longer in any danger. And if he did not—Sir Harry did not really expect him to do so—and if nothing came out of the gradual questioning of the older servants, then there was another possibility. Merely the germ of an idea that would have to be weighed and pondered over. But still, it was a chance. His main reason for sending Seyton away, though, concerned Katherine Mannering. He had not expected her to come to the cottage again. And he had certainly not planned to become her lover. He had given into temptation, of course. He seemed to have no strength of character as far as she was concerned. And he had to be honest with himself—after hours of agonized pondering, he could not be otherwise. If Nicholas Seyton stayed, he would continue to be her lover. He felt a hopeless attraction to her, and it appeared that she felt the same way about him. Although neither of them had said anything about another meeting, he knew that sooner or later they would seek each other out again. And each time they met and made love, it would be harder to break off the relationship. And break it off he must. He always laughed at Katherine's fears for his safety. And indeed he had never been overly concerned about the dangers of his way of life until he met her. But he was aware of them now. He was a smuggler. He had been a highwayman and a kidnapper, who could possibly be identified by four persons apart from Katherine. And he was a man dispossessed of his inheritance by a powerful nobleman who might be desperate enough to destroy him if he possibly could. And Katherine had become involved in all three of those dangerous elements of his life. And would continue to be involved if he stayed. It was pointless to tell her to keep clear of his affairs. She might be an obedient servant, but in her personal life Katherine Mannering did whatever she pleased to do. He owed it to her to have Nicholas disappear from her life. He did not want her involved. If she were hurt in any way, he would never be able to forgive himself. But it was one of the most difficult decisions he had ever made in his life. After the night before, he wanted nothing more than to stay and develop an affair with her. It was an almost irresistible need. But resist it he must. After all, he would still see her daily, still be able to converse with her, watch her, tease her, protect her from that swine Uppington. But he would be locked away from her in the persona of Sir Harry Tate, his only enjoyment of her coming from besting her in a matching of insults. Under the circumstances, seeing her frequently was going to be almost worse than not seeing her at all. He wondered, in fact, who would suffer the more: he or she. He did not think it was conceited of him to believe that she would suffer. The night before had been as wonderful an experience for her as it had for him. She had said so. Not that words had been necessary. Her body had shouted its own joy. He had not expected their embrace to go that far. It had been a surprise to see her again in his own

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person and to be free to smile and talk to her without the encumbrance of the personality of Sir Harry Tate. He had wanted to hold her and kiss her for a few minutes before taking her back to the Abbey. But he should have known from earlier encounters that matters would not be that simple once he touched her. That kiss had quickly developed into a heavy embrace. Even so, he had not been completely beyond rational thought when he looked down at her and told her that he wanted her. He had expected the same reaction as before, had resigned himself to the fact that their embrace was at an end. He was preparing himself to cope with his own lack of fulfillment. But she had said yes. She had offered herself to him without any apparent fear or revulsion. And he had held himself in check, concentrated entirely on holding back his need for her so that she would not be shocked and revolted when he entered her body. He did not know what her husband had done or not done to give her such a disgust of the sexual act, but he set himself to erase the memories, to teach her that the joining of man and woman was the very pinnacle of physical love, the end to which all the. excitement of kissing and touching was leading. So he had worshiped her body, slowly, lingeringly, the blood pounding at his temples, his own need of her a pain, glorying in the signs of her mounting passion, finally knowing with his body as well as his Read that she was ready, that she would discover all the wonder and glory of the act that would unite them. And even when he was inside her, he had fought to keep his awareness of her needs, to give her time to feel the rhythm of his strokes, to feel the building and tightening of her passion, to make sure that he did not climax before she had time to reach the world beyond. And in the end he had found that it was not a fight at all. It was not he and she reaching for their own individual satisfaction. They were one. His body knew hers on the sand of the cave. He now understood what that biblical word meant. He could not have finished and left her wanting. It would have been a physical impossibility. He knew the moment of her release even before she cried out, and he spilled into her, holding in his arms the shuddering body of the woman who was the other part of himself. She was already asleep when he lifted himself away from her a few minutes later. She moaned and curled into his body without fully waking. And he had lain, cradling her damp body against his and staring out into the darkness beyond the cave, knowing that he had committed an unforgivable sin against her. A man wanted to be able to offer stability, safety, and protection to his woman. And a good name. He could offer none of those things to Katherine. Only the opposite, in fact. He had the power to lead her only into danger and disgrace. She did not have a very happy life as it was, but what she had was infinitely better than life as his mistress would be. Mistress! The word echoing in his mind was distasteful. Katherine deserved to be a wife, not a mistress. She deserved to be respected and respectable. For one moment he told himself that he could make her his wife and that together they could build respect in a limited social circle if he took her toShropshireand settled quietly on his estate there for the rest of their lives. But even as the thought came, he knew that he could not do it. Was it that he put his ambition before his love of her? Perhaps. But he did not think so. Six months ago he could have offered her that life. But no longer. He knew that he could not be happy or settled anywhere until he had found out the truth of his birth, whatever that truth turned out to be. In the meanwhile Nicholas Seyton must go away. The unwelcome thought was already there in his mind before Katherine awoke. And he hated to think what his disappearance would do to her. He had just helped her discover her own sexuality. The fact that she slept now proved more than any words that she had been utterly pleased and satisfied. Would she think that to him she had merely been an available woman? Would she come to hate herself as well as him? Perhaps he should tell her that he must leave, explain to her the reason. But no, he could not do that. It was safer for her to hate and despise him. If she

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could see him as a heartless seducer, she would stay out of his affairs. And she would be safe. When he had turned his head to her again, she was smiling sleepily up at him. Her hand moved to his chest. "Nicholas!" she said, and sighed happily. "You are beautiful." He swallowed and bent his head to kiss her lingeringly oh the lips. "It was good for you, Katherine?" he said, more statement than question. "I told you it would be so, did I not?" "Yes," she said. "You were right. I didn't dream… Oh, Nicholas, I never dreamed it could be like that. Thank you." He chuckled. "Thank you?" he said. "Do you think all that was done solely for your benefit, my dear? It was really quite good for me too." "When am I going to see you without your mask?" she asked. Then she giggled. "It is really quite absurd that you have allowed me to view every inch of your body except your face from the mouth up. And really you are being very silly. I would recognize you in a flash if I were to see you without the mask. You do not believe you could fool me, do you?" He rested one finger along her nose. "I dread to think what time it must be, Katherine," he said. "I must take you home." "Oh, so soon?" she asked, burrowing her head beneath his chin. "Yes, so soon," he said. "I imagine you are expected to get up in the morning, my dear. Come. Get dressed and I shall take you." He had become more and more convinced as he dressed that Nicholas must decide to leave. How could he stay away from her else? She stood watching him as he pulled on his coat, already dressed herself. And she came into his arms unbidden and raised her face for his kiss. It was very hard to put her from him a minute later, sweep the marks from the sand, and douse the lamp before taking her. by the hand and leading her out into the night. He had had no sleep that night. By the time he had taken her to the Abbey, returned to the cottage to change into the clothes of Sir Harry Tate, and ridden back to the Abbey again, there was very little of the night left. He had lain awake, hands clasped behind his head, longing for Katherine, knowing that he would not be able to have her again. And his willpower as far as she was concerned being what it was, not having her meant going away from her. And yet remaining with her as her tormentor, Sir Harry Tate. Bynoonhe had sent Nicholas Seyton away.

The ladies were all gathered in the morning room, sewing. All except Lady Emma, that is. She kept to her room each day until luncheon. Most of the gentlemen had gone riding out to view the estate. The marquess was also still in bed. Sir Harry Tate and Mr. Charles Dalrymple had ridden into the village. Kate too was sitting quietly over her embroidery, taking no part in the plans for an afternoon picnic going on around her. She was wondering what those two gentlemen were doing in the village. If they had gone

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there, that was. Perhaps they had returned to the cottage to try again to find Nicholas there. She did not think Sir Harry would have been so easily satisfied by the denials of Evans. Or perhaps they were searching elsewhere, asking questions. Would they find him? And would they bring their news back to Lord Barton before confronting him? Did they know he was a wanted man? There was no point in worrying. She had warned Nicholas the night before. He must realize the danger as well as she. It would do no good at all to make some excuse to leave Lady Thelma and go running across the countryside to the cottage to warn him again that Mr. Dalrymple and Sir Harry were out in search of him. But, oh, she wanted to go. She wished there were an excuse to go. She had not even realized until she was safely in her room the night before, lying fully clothed on her bed, smiling up into the darkness, that they had made no definite arrangement to meet again. It was unsettling, depressing almost, not to know the exact hour and minute. He knew how to get inside the house, he had told her on an earlier occasion. He would be able to come to her at any time. She hoped, even as the thought struck her, though, that he would not try that. It would be just like Nicholas to risk something so very dangerous. No, she supposed that she would have to go out to him. But when? Certainly not tonight. They both needed a night of sleep. And tomorrow night, she gathered, was their time for distributing those smuggled goods. Her stomach lurched with anxiety at the thought. What if he were caught? She would not think of it. And the night after that he would need to rest again. That meant that the earliest she could go to him was four nights hence. It was an interminable time! Perhaps he would not want her to come even that soon. Maybe for him their lovemaking had not been such an earth-shattering experience. Perhaps he would not want her at all now that he had had what he wanted of her. But the thought caused Kate to smile. What an absurd idea! Of course it had been wonderful for him. She had felt that during each moment from the time he first touched her until she awoke and looked into his eyes. There had been a quite unmistakable feeling of closeness. And having been married to Giles, she was even more certain of that feeling. Giles had always been concerned solely with his own physical satisfaction. Nicholas had made love to her. It was a lovely phrase, one that she had always considered to be a dreadful misnomer. He loved her. And she loved him. And they had become lovers. She relived again in the morning room, moment by moment, as she had done several times during the short night in her bedchamber, every kiss, touch, and movement. And she hugged herself mentally as her hand mechanically and sedately plied her needle. She looked around at the other ladies, all placidly talking and planning. She wanted to shout at them, "Look at me! Can't you tell? I made love last night with a masked smuggler on the sandy floor of a cave, and it was the most wonderful experience of my life. I am in love and I am loved." She did not say any such thing, of course.. She smiled at Lady Thelma and said that yes, of course she would be delighted to go down to the kitchen and make arrangements for a picnic tea to be prepared for the afternoon. She folded her work and put it away in her work basket. Kate was smiling as she made her way down the back stairs. Why did Nicholas insist on wearing his mask still with her? It was a comical affectation. As if he could ever really disguise himself from her. Even though she had never seen any more of his face than his mouth and his blue eyes, she would know him anywhere. And even though he wore a wig. Yes, she had realized that the night before, at the moment of waking and looking up at him, in fact. It was a good wig. There was no hair of a different color showing beneath it. But she knew nevertheless. Perhaps it was because there was never a hair out of place. Her own, after such energetic lovemaking, was in wild disarray and spread all over her shoulders. Perhaps it was because she suddenly recalled that he would never let her hands roam to his hair, though it was the

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most natural gesture to make when one was making love. She was intrigued by the discovery, though she had said nothing. What color was his hair? she wondered. It was probably dark if he wore such a blond wig as a disguise. But it did not matter. She would know him anyway. How could one love a man so totally, how could one have become one with him in the physical act of love and not be aware of his identity again? Her recognition of Nicholas did not depend on her eyes. She would feel his presence at any time and in any place. However, if it pleased him to keep the mystery alive by wearing the mask and the wig, she would not resent it. It seemed that it was not only a loved one whose presence she could feel, Kate thought with a tightening of the lips as she turned at the bottom of the stairs to enter the kitchen. She seemed to have a sixth sense as far as Sir Harry Tate was concerned too. She almost knew he was there even before her eyes rested on him. He was sitting on the edge of the large wooden, table, one booted leg swinging free, a partly eaten apple in one hand, talking to the elderly cook. His back was to her. The cook looked somewhat startled when Kate appeared from the direction of the servants' stairs. "Why, Mrs. Mannering," she said, rather more loudly than seemed necessary, "what can I do for you, ma'am?" Sir Harry turned slowly to face her, his free hand reaching languidly for his quizzing glass and raising it to his eye. "Ah," he said, holding up the apple, "caught in the act. After a busy morning I found myself unwilling to wait the extra few minutes for luncheon, Mrs. Mannering, and came belowstairs to charm the cook. She has a heart of gold, as you can see." Kate, looking at his heavy-lidded eyes and cynically raised eyebrow, and listening to his bored, affected drawl, guessed that the cook had given the apple more out of a desire to get rid of an unwelcome visitor than out of any goldenness of heart. She said nothing but merely smiled arctically and turned to the cook. "Lady Thelma has sent me with a request that I am afraid will put you to some trouble, Mrs. Bains," she said, smiling more warmly. "Well." Sir Harry yawned discreetly behind a hand and pulled himself to his feet. "I shall take myself off and hope that no one of any significance sees me with an apple clutched in my hand. There would be a veritable invasion of your kitchen if anyone did, Mrs. Bains." Kate would have loved to tell him that the others were unlikely to be so ill-mannered as to raid the kitchen of a house in which they were merely guests, but she did not wish to give vent to such malice in front of an audience. She did not know why she always felt such urges to be rude to the man, anyway. She just found him impossibly irritating. She turned her attention back to Mrs. Bains.

Conversation at the luncheon table was almost exclusively male and concerned crops, drainage, enclosures, and other farming matters. Kate listened with half an ear. But Mr. Dalrymple seemed to feel the exclusion of the ladies and introduced a more general topic. "Well, Clive," he said to Lord Barton at the head of the table, "It seems that you were quite right in your surmise. Nicholas Seyton has indeed been living close by ever since the death of his grandfather." Kate felt her heart and stomach turn over inside her, and became aware of a mouthful of potatoes stranded in her mouth. It was impossible to swallow. The interest of most of those around the table was

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piqued. "Indeed?" Lord Barton had himself under control within seconds of his first eager response. He smiled and looked at his sister. "You see,Alice? I knew the poor young man would find it hard to drag himself away from here. Splendid, my dear Charles. Only tell me where I may find him, and I shall ride out to greet him even before attending Thelma's picnic this afternoon." "I am afraid that will be impossible, Clive," Mr. Dalrymple said. "By some strange irony, Tate and I ran into him in Trecoombe this morning a mere half-hour before he left on the stagecoach." "What?" Lord Barton's hand opened and closed convulsively on the table beside his plate. "It seems that he lingered here out of nostalgia, as you guessed," Mr. Dalrymple continued, "and out of some reluctance to face the unknown, I suppose. It seems he has lived very quietly with a fisherman friend of his so that no one in the area seems to have known that he was here. But yesterday, having heard that Tate was asking about him, he decided that it was time to go away and settle on his own estate." "I was much impressed by the man's good sense," Sir Harry Tate drawled. "He understood, of course, that if his presence here were known, he would hopelessly embarrass both Dalrymple and me as former acquaintances, and ultimately you too, my lord. He realized that he would present you with the dilemma of deciding whether you should receive him or not. And he was quite right, of course. For my part, I felt somewhat uncomfortable at being seen talking to Seyton on the street." Kate felt a surge of anger, but she was hanging too closely on every word that passed to pay it any attention. "But did you not explain to him that I wished to see him, to shake him by the hand, Charles?" Lord Barton asked. "Assuredly I did," Mr. Dalrymple assured him. "Did I not, Tate? And I begged him for my sake to stay for a few days at least so that we might renew our friendship. But Seyton was ever stubborn, as I recall. His mind was made up to leave, his box was waiting to be strapped onto the stage, and he would go. We watched him on his way, as did several village folk, all surprised to see him, apparently, when they had assumed that he had left long ago. I do hate to be the bringer of such disappointing news. I know you and Alice truly wished to see him again, Clive." "Poor boy!" Lady Toucher said. "And to go away on the stagecoach. What a blessing that you were there, at least, Charles, to assure him of all our good wishes." "I shall write to him within the next day or so to satisfy myself that he has arrived safely inShropshire," Mr. Dalrymple said. "Well," Sir Harry said, leaning to one side so that a footman could place his dessert dish before him, "I will still say that the affair is well-ended, Dalrymple. Just imagine how improper it would be for the ladies to be called upon to rub shoulders with such as he. I am sure Mrs. Mannering agrees with me. Do you not, ma'am?" He had briefly rubbed shoulders with her as he leaned to one side. She pulled sharply away from him, though the contact was only momentary and accidental. An alarming feeling of physical awareness and hatred made it impossible for her to answer his question. She wanted to turn and scream and pound at

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him with her fists. She wanted to claw the complacent, bored look from his face, and scream the languid drawl from his voice. "I quite agree with Sir Harry," Lady Emma said. "One of the least pleasant aspects of being a person of rank is the way in which one is plagued by one's inferiors. Do you remember, Gregory, how when poor Grandpapa died, all our poor relations came to call on Papa? I was particularly mortified to be called upon to receive a mere curate and his sister who had come to beg some boon." "Clearly," her brother agreed. "But I think we do not have to concern ourselves about their repeating that visit, Emma. And I congratulate you, my lord, on having rid yourself of an embarrassment with such ease." "Well…" Lord Barton said doubtfully. "But you are sure, Charles, that he did indeed leave and did not merely pretend to do so in order to set our minds at rest?" "Oh, no," Charles Dalrymple assured him. "We even followed the coach along the road for a mile out of town before turning for the Abbey, Clive." "You have not touched your dessert, Mrs. Mannering," Sir Harry said, turning to Kate and fingering the ribbon of his quizzing glass. "Perhaps some exercise this morning would have given you more appetite." "Perhaps so, sir," she said stiffly. "I really am not hungry." "Would anyone care for a game of billiards before this picnic?" Viscount Stoughton asked, looking around at the men. "The ladies, I suppose, will wish to rest for an hour or so." Kate was eternally grateful that the ladies did indeed wish to rest. Lady Thelma usually preferred to relax in her sitting room talking instead of lying down. But on this occasion she dismissed Kate, claiming that the exertions of a picnic would make it necessary for her to sleep first. "But I will want you to come with us this afternoon, Kate," she said. "The outing will do you good. I notice that you always stay in the background at all our gatherings, which is quite unnecessary, you know. And I noticed that you retired early last night. It is silly of you to feel inferior. You are not so at all. In fact, I think you are vastly superior to Lady Emma, for all her airs. I do not like her, Kate. Nor do I like her brother. You must make sure that I am not left alone with him for even a minute this afternoon. Will you?" Kate retired to her own room, scarce knowing how she had got there or what she had said in answer to her employer. She felt as if she were living in the middle of a nightmare from which she would soon awake. Nicholas gone! Without a word to her? The very day after they had become lovers? And to his property inShropshire, to settle? It could not be possible. He must have pretended to leave merely to throw Lord Barton off his scent. He would return, surely, to the cottage and carry on as before. He would not so easily give up his attempts to find his mother. And he would not give up his leadership of the smugglers. He would not leave her! She threw herself facedown across her bed. She felt physically sick. She could tell herself over and over again that it was not so, that his leaving was merely a ruse. She could tell herself that in four nights' time she would slip out to the cottage and he would be there waiting for her, ready to talk to her, to tease away her fears, to love her. She could tell herself these things, but all the time there was a dull certainty inside her that it was true. He had gone away.

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It was what she had wanted, of course. It was what she had gone to plead with him to do. And she should be glad that he had finally seen his danger and decided to remove himself to safety. She would not have to worry about him any longer. She should be glad that he had gone. Shewasglad. But no, she was not, Kate thought, grabbing a pillow fiercely and propping her chin on it. If he had left by the stage that morning, he must have planned it. He must have known last night that he was going. And he had said nothing to her. He had made love to her, knowing that today he was going away to stay. And he had not told her. That meant that she was nothing to him. She had merely provided a pleasant ending to a busy and exciting evening. He would have treated any woman so who had happened to cross his path. No, she would not believe so. She could not. What if he had not known the night before that he was leaving? What if he had decided on the spur of the moment? What would have forced such a decision? A careful assessment of the dangers of staying? Possibly. A reaction to what had happened between the two of them? He had not, after all, expected to see her that night. It was very possible that he had reacted unthinkingly to the opportunity to take her. Did he perhaps not want such involvement? Had he taken fright, imagining perhaps that she would make demands on him now that she had given herself to him? Was he imagining that she would demand that he marry her? Was he afraid that perhaps he had impregnated her and would be trapped into marriage? He could not know, as she did, that her month had only just begun and such an outcome was not probable. Was he running from her? The possibility was dreadfully hurtful. But it seemed so very likely. He must have lived with danger for a long time. Perhaps that danger alone would have sent him away with such little forethought. He did not love her. He had enjoyed her, and then run from the fear of being trapped by her. Kate buried her face in the pillow that she clutched to herself. She had been alone the night before after all. She had only imagined that their lovemaking had been a shared ecstasy. He was worse than Giles. Many times worse. At least Giles had never pretended an interest in her own feelings or pleasure. At least he had always been openly selfish. Nicholas had gained his satisfaction from conquering her heart as well as her body. And how well he had succeeded, Kate thought bitterly. The night before, she had allowed him to occupy not only her body but also the very core of her being. She had fallen in love with him. And it turned out that he was worse than Giles. Giles had never let her down. He had never given her expectations whose unfulfillment could disappoint her. Or hurt her. She hated him. Kate lifted herself away from the pillow and punched it with both fists, her teeth tightly clenched. She had been right all along. She was the only person she could trust. She had been freed from the domination of one man when Giles died and had vowed never to allow any other man into her life again. Yet little more than a year later she had offered herself, body and soul, to a heartless wretch and criminal, merely because at some time during his life he had learned how to please a woman's body. How could she have been so weak? She had reacted just like any other woman who did not know better. Well, it would not happen again. She had learned an expensive lesson, but she would learn it well this time. She hated him. She punched the pillow again. Nicholas. Oh, Nicholas. Now she hated him worse than she had ever hated anyone in her life. No man had ever made her cry. And here she was, watching the wet drops land on the pillow and spread as they soaked in. Nicholas! She surprised and humiliated herself suddenly with a gulping sob and buried her face in the pillow again. Perhaps she was just being silly. Perhaps it was as she had thought at first. He had not really gone. He just wanted Lord Barton, Mr. Dalrymple, and Sir Harry Tate to believe that he had left. He could not have left without a word to her.

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She would die. She hated him. Nicholas! Chapter Twelve

The well-kept lawn to the north of Barton Abbey descended gradually for a whole mile before having to divide itself into two branches in order to skirt a long, narrow lake. Wooded hillsides rose on either side of the lake and the grassy banks. In the western hillside, hidden from view among the trees, was a cave that was reputed to have been used as a hermitage in the time when the Abbey had been used as such, before the dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of King Henry VIII. Other structures had been built more recently: small stone shelters with benches to accommodate two persons, imposingly structured with pedimented roofs and tall Grecian columns. Several of these had been built on the slopes, where they could afford the energetic climber a picturesque view of the lake and valley below. One, somewhat larger than the others, had been set on the very top of the eastern hillside. At the end of the lake closest to the house was a rotunda, also designed as a resting shelter. Its roof was domed, and supported on slim columns. It had a waist-high wall, around the inside of which was a stone bench. To Nicholas the scene was very familiar. It had always been a favorite play area when he was a child. The cave had been a retreat on the rare occasion when he had been out of favor with his grandfather or when he had succeeded in escaping some unwelcome lesson or chore. Looking about him now, he still marveled at the fact that he was there, quite unmolested, enjoying the surroundings that had always been dear to him. All the house guests had decided to join the picnic party and all had agreed to walk the mile to the lake. Nicholas had Angela Lacey on his arm. She was a sensible young lady, he concluded, though she was somewhat too shy to shine in company. He rather regretted the necessity of being the haughty, bored Sir Harry Tate. Katherine, he could see, was walking with Mrs. Carstairs. She looked very pretty despite the light brown dress and plain straw bonnet she wore. Her silver-blond hair gleamed beneath the brim of the bonnet and at the nape of her neck. She could so easily make all the other ladies look too fussily dressed. He regretted teasing her at the luncheon table. He had not meant to touch her. For his own sake he must refrain from doing that. But he had quite deliberately maligned the birth of Nicholas Seyton and drawn her attention to the fact that she had stopped eating. She had clearly been upset. He did not think it was merely conceit that made him believe so. And the moment had presented him with too good an opportunity to increase her dislike and contempt of Sir Harry. But he regretted it. He had wanted to cover her hand with his and whisper to her that all was well. He loved her. He had not abandoned her out of indifference, but for just the opposite reason. And he found it hard now to keep his eyes off her.

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She was talking to Mrs. Carstairs, but she did not look quite the vibrant, very assertive Katherine that he knew her to be. He could not easily suppress the flashing memories of the way she had looked the night before: beautiful, her face full of passion, her hair in disarray about her naked shoulders. He hoped the scheme would work well enough. He really had left on the stagecoach that morning with a protesting Parkin. His poor valet was indeed being sent toShropshirein order to handle any letters or other inquiries that might arrive there and in order to take two letters to be sent back to Barton Abbey. Nicholas himself had alighted two miles out of Trecoombe and met Dalrymple at the place where he had left his horse. He supposed that the actual boarding of the coach had been unnecessary. Most of the residents of the village knew quite well that he was staying at the Abbey under an assumed identity. But he wanted to make sure that his name was on the roster of passengers in case anyone should be so thorough as to check that. It had been risky, of course, to ride away from the Abbey, where he could have been seen by a soldier of the coast guard. But Nicholas was used to living with danger. When they arrived at the lake, the older members of the party immediately settled themselves in the stone rotunda, from which they had an unobstructed view along the length of the lake. Lord Barton was recounting to those who did not already know the fact that an orchestra had been set in this very rotunda on the occasion of his uncle's wedding, the trees around this end of the lake hung with lanterns, while the wedding guests drank champagne and even danced. "How charmingly romantic, Clive," Lady Barbara Lacey said. "You must keep that idea in mind when Adam or Thelma weds." Christine Barr-Smythe loudly declared that she wished to climb the hillside to the shelter at the top. Her bosom friend, Julie Carstairs, echoed her enthusiasm. Lord Stoughton and Lord Poole stepped forward to accompany them, and Charles Dalrymple smiled at Angela Lacey and asked if she too was game for the exercise. Nicholas looked at his friend in some gratitude. The Marquess of Uppington, he had not failed to notice, was talking to Katherine, and he felt a pressing need to keep her within his sight. There were some situations in which even a fearless young lady like Katherine Mannering might find herself helpless. Sir Harry Tate raised his quizzing glass and gazed at his friend in some incredulity. "Frolicking like a child, Dalrymple?" he said on a sigh. "You are like to be quite disheveled and positively gasping for air by the time you reach the top." "It would not hurt you to break out of a sedate stroll once in a while too," his friend replied, grinning. Nicholas shuddered. "I was born a gentleman, not a laborer," he said. "You must show me this hermit's cave, Lady Thelma," the marquess was saying. "You do not know exactly where it is? No-matter. We will find it together. And of course we must take a chaperon. Mrs. Mannering? And Moreton? You are not joining the other party, I perceive." Nicholas had perceived the same thing. That poor young man was obviously nursing a hopelesstendrefor his hostess, and if he were not much mistaken, Lady Thelma returned the feeling. It was equally clear that she was destined for marriage with Uppington. Well, that was not his problem. He had problems enough of his own. He shrugged and pushed himself away from the pillar against which he had been leaning. "Lady Emma," he said on a sigh, "I see that we shall be teased mercilessly this evening if we do not join one of these insanely energetic excursions. I favor the cave for the simple reason that it is reputed to be only partway up the hill on this side, whereas the scenic shelter is at the very top on the other. Would you

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care to take my arm and make the effort, ma'am?" Lady Emma, who had seated herself beside Lord Barton in the rotunda, rose and came toward him. "Indeed, I find everything about Barton Abbey quite fascinating, sir," she said. "One cannot but be sensible of the air of history surrounding it. I should be quite delighted to see the hermit's cave." This group of six quickly became lost among the trees. None of them knew exactly where to find the cave except Nicholas, and he could not reveal his knowledge. By the time they reached one of the imposing little stone shelters partway up the hill, Lady Emma was decidedly cross, her light muslin dress having twice caught on the twig of a tree, and her parasol having had to be lowered, with the result that her complexion must suffer from exposure to the sun. Her breath was coming in short gasps. Sir Harry quite agreed with her that Lord Barton should have his laborers cut a clear path from the valley to the hermitage. Lady Emma and Thelma sat down on the bench of the shelter while the gentlemen gazed down at the lake in the valley, which seemed to be a surprising distance below them. Nicholas felt greatly annoyed that Katherine had been left to stand. If they moved closer to the outside edges of the seat, the other two ladies could have made room for her between them. "Mrs. Mannering," Sir Harry Tate said with a languid sigh, "your fortitude positively amazes me. You are not even panting for breath. You must be more accustomed to hard work then we more indolent mortals. But do lean on my arm for a few minutes, ma'am." He moved across the short distance between them, made her a little half-bow, and extended his arm. She stared back at him without the flicker of a smile. "Thank you, sir," she said, "but as you have observed, I do not feel at all in need of support." And she turned away from him to gaze out toward the far end of the lake, leaving Sir Harry with one arm still outstretched and one cynical eyebrow raised. "Now," the marquess said, "if we are to find the cave this afternoon, we clearly must depend on a little more than luck. I suggest that we go three separate ways and that those who find the cave call out to the other four." "A decidedly sensible suggestion," Sir Harry agreed. "Lady Emma and I will keep straight ahead at this level. This is the course requiring least exertion." "And the way requiring most exertion is upward," the marquess said. "I shall go that way, of course. And… Mrs. Mannering may accompany me since she appears to have more stamina than the other ladies. Moreton, you and Lady Thelma may move downward and across. Shall we agree to half an hour? If none of us has found the cave by then, we shall have to abandon the attempt for another day. Mrs. Mannering?" Sir Harry offered his arm to Lady Emma again and congratulated her on having a relatively easy path to follow for the next half-hour. Nicholas Seyton seethed with frustration at the very clever maneuvering Uppington had just succeeded in. He would have Katherine to himself for at least half an hour among trees where there was almost no chance of interruption. And those were the two who were the most likely to find the cave. At least they would be headed in the right direction. Somehow he was going to have to steer Lady Emma uphill too without her realizing the fact.

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Kate had felt thoroughly alarmed when the marquess first suggested that they search for the hermit's cave in three pairs. She had pledged herself at the start of the afternoon to make sure that Lady Thelma was not left alone with him. She was even more alarmed when his real scheme became obvious. His plan had been made in order to lure her into his company, not Lady Thelma. And she knew from her experience in the library two evenings before that he would not play the gentleman once they were out of sight and sound of the others. She gazed in some desperation at the retreating figures of the other four, particularly at the departing back of Sir Harry Tate, whom she had snubbed quite rudely a mere few minutes before. He had quite unwittingly been her rescuer on that earlier occasion. And now he was already disappearing among the trees. "Well, Kate," the Marquess of Uppington said, a mocking smile of triumph on his lips, "shall we proceed?" "Is it likely that a hermit would have lived so far up the hill where others might have difficulty reaching him?" she asked, trying to look thoughtful. "I believe we would do better to go downhill too, my lord." "Do you forget that hermits do not want the company of others?" he asked. "Come, Kate, take my hand and I shall help you up if you find the going difficult." "Not at all, my lord," she said hastily. "I have always enjoyed walking and climbing. This slope is not even particularly steep." They moved sharply upward for a few minutes, Kate gazing despairingly downward in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of one of the other couples among the trees. "Well, bless my soul!" the marquess said, stopping abruptly ahead of her. "I do believe this must be it." Kate leaned to one side and peered around him. The trees thinned out suddenly into a circular patch of rough grass. At the top of the clearing was a sheer face of bare rock and in the middle of it a hole large enough to admit one person if he stooped down somewhat. "I do believe you are right," Kate said with wild enthusiasm. "How splendid that we are the ones to find it. I shall call for the others immediately." But before she could match action to words, his hand clamped on her wrist and he was smiling down at her. "Not so fast, Kate," he said. "Imagine how foolish we should feel if we dragged them up here only to find that this was not the cave at all. Let us go inside." "Oh, no," she said, pulling at her wrist, which nevertheless stayed very firm within his grasp. "I am afraid of small dark places, my lord. I would feel much better if we called the others and you three gentlemen could explore." "Ah, but you need not be afraid," he said with that smile she was growing to feel very uneasy about. "I shall be here to hold you close if you become afraid, Kate. Come along; I shall go first and you may follow." Kate gave a hasty glance back the way they had come. Yes, she thought, it would be relatively easy to bolt back downward as soon as he disappeared inside the cave and then lose herself among the trees. However, he did not give her a chance to put her plan to the test. He transferred his grasp to her hand

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and kept his hold of it as he lowered his head and stepped gingerly through the opening in the rock. He had to step downward, with the result that his head was below the level of hers when he turned to look out at her. "This is amazing," he said. "The cave appears to be quite large despite the smallness of the entry. Come, Kate. There is nothing to be afraid of. It is not even particularly dark in here." And because her one hand was firmly imprisoned, Kate saw no point in not offering the other and allowing him to help her take the step down to the hard floor of the cave. She almost forgot her fear of her companion as she became aware of cool air and a sense of spaciousness. The cave stretched above their heads, losing itself in shadows. The floor was hard earth, level like the floor of a home. "Oh, yes," she said, "this must be the hermitage. I can just imagine a holy man living here, sitting outside perhaps during the evenings, gazing down on the valley as he told his beads. Look, the walls are rough. But are not those shelves, deliberately hewn out of the rock?" "Do you know, Kate," the marquess said conversationally, "I do not care a fig about the holy man Or his hermitage or his shelves. I would far prefer a live woman and a secluded setting where we are unlikely to be disturbed for some time." Kate tried to be casual. She tried to draw her hand away almost absently, without jerking it. But his fingers held it like a vise. "I take that as a compliment, my lord," she said. "But really it is most unfair of us to keep our find to ourselves. I shall call the others." He laughed. "It will not do, Kate," he said, jerking at her hand so that she found herself colliding with his chest. "You know why you are here and what we are going to do together before we leave. You are no maiden to feign ignorance." "My lord," Kate said, tipping her head back and forcing herself to look him squarely in the eye, "I am sensible of the compliment you pay me, but I am afraid you do not understand. I was faithful to my husband and I remain faithful to his memory. I have no wish for a flirtation or for any form of dalliance. Let me go now. I am sure it is time to go back to the picnic anyway." He laughed again. "You have me almost persuaded that you really are reluctant, Kate," he said. "Believe me, you would be unusual if you are. Most females find my title and my money irresistible, and I believe they are not averse to my person either. It is no small honor to be mistress to the marquess of Uppington, you know." "It is an honor I could live without, thank you," Kate said. One of his hands was untying the strings of her bonnet. He flung it down now and threaded his ringers through her tightly drawn-back hair. "Come on, Kate," he said, "this is far too good an opportunity to miss." "My hairstyle may look simple," Kate said, grabbing at his wrists and trying to pry his hands from her hair, "but it takes long enough to create. Remove your hands, my lord." He was smiling at her. "You really do play hard-to-get, do you not?" he said. "But you will find me persistent, Kate. I mean to have you. Kiss me now." "Thank you, but I would prefer to kiss a toad," Kate said. "Ouch!" This last was in reaction to the

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success of her attempt to dislodge one of his hands from her hair. But he dragged the whole left side of it free of her bun too. "Are we to turn this encounter into a fight?" the marquess asked in a tone that sounded inappropriately haughty. "I merely asked for a kiss, woman." "It sounded like a command to me," Kate said. "And in future you may keep your hands to yourself, my lord. I am going outside to call the others." "Ah, I do believe we have arrived at the historic site," a languid voice said from outside the cave. "Is anyone here before us, I wonder. Hello, there! Uppington? Moreton?" "It is certainly not very imposing after all that climbing," Lady Emma's voice complained. "Yes," Kate called breathlessly. "We are here, Sir Harry. We win the prize." "The devil!" Uppington muttered, turning his back on Kate and folding his arms. Sir Harry's face appeared in the entrance, his fingers playing with the ribbon of his quizzing glass. He stepped inside. "I say," he said, "this is most impressive, is it not? Just one moment, Lady Emma. I do believe one of us will have to leave before you can come in." He kept his back firmly against the doorway, his eyes lazily raking over Kate, whose relief quickly gave way to acute embarrassment. One side of her hair was down around her shoulders, her dress was twisted to one side. She felt flushed and breathless. Hasty hands flew up to straighten her dress and to smooth her hair back from her face and confine it to its knot at the back of her neck again. Sir Harry watched her the whole time, one eyebrow raised, one hand slowly twirling his quizzing glass. When she was almost respectable again, he bent lazily, picked up her bonnet, and handed it to her with a mocking half-smile. "Yes, indeed," he said, "quite impressive. I am not surprised that you are speechless, Uppington. I must say, though, that I should find living here extremely uncomfortable and inconvenient. One becomes used to one's creature comforts. Mrs. Mannering, allow me to hand you up this rather high step. One moment, Lady Emma.Mrs. Mannering and I will come out so that you may join your brother in here." Kate clung to his offered hand, her own not quite steady, and stepped up into the blessed brightness and fresh air of the hillside. "I am not at all sure that I want to go inside," Lady Emma said. "It looks horridly dark and dirty." "It is surprisingly large and airy, in fact," Sir Harry said. "Of course, holy men of the past did not care overmuch for cleanliness. Whoever lived here probably made a pilgrimage once a year to the lake for a bath—if it was a warm summer. It is hard to imagine such uncivilized ways, is it not?" "Well, I have come this far," Lady Emma said. "I might as well see the cave, though I find it vastly disappointing from the outside." Sir Harry walked to the lowest point of the clearing, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called for Mr. Moreton and Lady Thelma. Kate followed close behind him. She had not imagined that he could ever summon enough energy to call so loudly. But there were no answering cries.

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"I shall take you down, ma'am," Sir Harry said, turning to her with an expression that was both cynical and unsympathetic. "It would be quite a dreadful disaster if we missed our tea after all this exertion, would it not?" "Yes," Kate said, taking his offered arm almost eagerly. They walked downhill in silence for the first minute. Then, instead of continuing the descent, Sir Harry guided her across the slope, parallel to the valley. "I believe we should risk missing our tea and delay our return by a few minutes," he said. "Your flushed cheeks and bright eyes are more suited to a boudoir than to an afternoon picnic, Mrs. Mannering. Did I interrupt a very interestingtête-à-tête?" "You interrupted nothing, sir," Kate said, bristling. "I am merely flushed and somewhat disheveled from the climb." "Nonsense!" he said. "I suggest that you are setting up a cozy future for yourself, ma'am. Is it to be a ménage à troiswhen Uppington and Lady Thelma wed?" Kate pulled her arm from his and rounded on him. "What a filthy insinuation!" she hissed. "You are despicable, sir. Do you think that when a woman is molested she is secretly delighted? Do you think that she deliberately invites such treatment? I hate you and your male arrogance and your sneering contempt for women." His eyes had narrowed. "Did he touch you?" he asked. There was menace in his voice. The drawl had disappeared for the moment. "Oh, no!" Kate said, sawing at the air with one hand and raising her eyes to the sky. "I pulled my hair loose from its knot and dragged my dress askew merely because I thought such behavior would arouse ardor in such a slowtop. Had you arrived a short while later, sir, I should probably have progressed to baring my shoulders and kicking off my shoes. You gentlemen seem to find it so difficult to take a hint." "By 'touch' I meant 'ravish,' " Sir Harry said quietly. Kate calmed down immediately. She shook her head. "No," she said. "But for a few minutes I was not sure that I would escape. Shall we go down now? I am rather tired of the doings of this afternoon." And to her utter mortification she gave a loud hiccup of a sob and burst into tears. Good heavens, and the encounter had not even been that dreadful! She clapped her hands over her face. There was silence beyond her own world of choked-off sobs and gurgles and wet sniffs. She wondered if he had gone away, and hoped he had. How terribly humiliating! How would she ever raise her head and look him in the eye? The terribly cynical and bored Sir Harry Tate of all people! A hand pulled one of hers away from her face eventually and a large linen handkerchief was placed in it. "Dear me!" the familiar languid drawl said. "And I thought Mrs. Kate Mannering scorned to be one of the weaker sex. Do dry your eyes, ma'am, and stop your sniffling. One thing I cannot abide is a bawling female." "G-go away then!" Kate said crossly on a shuddering inward breath. "I am not looking for your sympathy. And I would not be crying now, sir, but that I had a sleepless night and have not been feeling

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quite the thing today. I never cry." She blew her nose loudly in the handkerchief and glared at him out of reddened eyes. "Hm," he said. "Quite disgusting. Your nose and your eyes vie over which are the redder. I do believe the nose wins because it also shines." "Oh!" Kate stamped her foot crossly. "I might have known you would not have an ounce of gallantry for a poor female in trouble." "Now, think a moment, Mrs. Mannering," he said on a sigh. "If I had taken you in my arms and held your head against my shoulder and crooned soothing inanities into your ear, do you not think you would still be bawling? As it is, your emotion has been converted to anger, and your chin and cheeks have perhaps been saved from the same fate as your eyes and nose." They started walking again side by side, still not descending. He was right. Kate did not want to be treated like a weak woman. She wanted to be in charge of her own life. It was clearly her sleepless night and her discovery of the perfidy of Nicholas Seyton that had set her to crying and that had led her to wishing that she would indeed be drawn into the comforting arms of her savior. Sir Harry Tate! She had actually wanted to hide her face against the shoulder of Sir Harry Tate? She must be mad. She could scarcely imagine a man who repelled her more, unless it was the Marquess of Uppington. Though she had to admit to herself that it was only Sir Harry's character that repelled. That character was admittedly housed in a remarkably handsome package. "I believe it would be best if you went straight back to the Abbey," Sir Harry was saying. "The cook is a remarkably genial soul, as I discovered this morning. I am sure she will give you your tea if you ask. I would accompany you, ma'am, but our lengthy absence together might be remarked upon. And I shudder at the thought of gaining a reputation as a womanizer." "Thank you," she said. "It would be too much to expect that my reputation would concern a man of your character." He took her by the elbow and turned her to the left so that they were going downward again. He kept a very firm hold on her. Strange, Kate thought, that such a very indolent man should give the impression by his touch of steadiness and strength. She drew away as soon as they reached the valley a short distance from the rotunda. She had no wish to feel any attraction to Sir Harry Tate. Not when she despised the man so much. "You would do well to avoid situations in which Uppington can maneuver you into atête-à-tête," Sir Harry said now. "Stay close to Lady Thelma, ma'am, whenever you can. I shall set myself to watch out for your safety whenever I may. But I am quite sure that after a day or two I shall find my self-imposed task a dreadful bore." Kate bristled again. "You have come to my aid twice in the last few days, sir," she said, "and for that I must be grateful, though your intervention was quite accidental on both occasions. I certainly do not ask or expect that you set yourself to guard my virtue. Good heavens, you are not my brother or my guardian or my husband, sir. I can look after myself quite well enough, thank you very much. And when I need your advice, sir, I shall be sure to ask you for it. On bended knee!" She moved away from him so that she could keep straight on toward the house instead of turning to join the other members of the party at the rotunda. Nicholas watched her go, her head held high, her long strides almost manly. A smile of admiration played about his lips for a moment before he raised his

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quizzing glass to his eye to survey the picnickers and strolled lazily toward them. He was Sir Harry Tate again.

"Thank you, Kate," Lady Thelma was saying more than an hour later. She was sitting on the edge of the chair before the Chippendale desk in Kate's dressing room. Her face was unusually animated. "You did it deliberately, did you not? Oh, I know it was Lord Uppington's suggestion that you go with him and I with Mr. Moreton. But I think it was really your doing. And I am most grateful." Kate smiled as she sewed up the hem of a gown her employer had brought her for mending. "Did you have a pleasant afternoon?" she asked. "And did you see the cave?" The girl flushed. "No, we did not," she said, "though we did hear Sir Harry call. I can see the cave anytime, Kate. But marriage proposals do not come every day." "Marriage proposals? " Kate paused, her hand holding the needle suspended in midair. Thelma smiled and looked quite pretty for the moment, Kate thought. "Sidneyis going to speak to Papa tonight," she said. "I am the happiest of mortals, dear Kate. I loved him when I first met him, you know. I remember he came to the house inLondonto see Adam the very day after we arrived. They were at university together, you see. And I loved him then." "He is a very quiet young man," Kate said. "I walked with him for awhile this afternoon and had scarcely a sentence from him, though I tried several times to engage him in conversation." "Yes," Thelma agreed, "he is quiet and shy, Kate. And I know that he is not handsome or charming in company—though he appears to be both to me. But I feel comfortable with him, you see. I am shy myself and I know I am no beauty and have no vibrancy of manner. But the strange thing is that Sidney and I can talk and talk to each other with never a thought that the other one will be bored or contemptuous. Wish me happy, Kate." Kate cut the thread from the completed repair and looked up, a rather troubled look on her face. "Are you sure that your papa will approve the match?" she asked. "Why should he not?" Thelma asked. "Sidneyis not heir to a title or to a vast estate or any great wealth, but he is the elder son of a perfectly respectable gentleman who has land and income sufficient for an independence." "And you are an earl's daughter," Kate pointed out gently. "But only very recently," Thelma said. "We did not have a grand home or a large fortune until Great-Uncle died. We have not changed just because of that event, Kate." "I do wish you well," Kate said, rising to her feet and shaking out the folds of the light dress. "Indeed I do. And I hope for your sake that your father will accede to your wishes." "Oh, he will," the girl said, taking the dress from Kate and twirling exuberantly around with it. " 'Mrs. Sidney Moreton. Does it not sound lovely, Kate? We are going to have an autumn wedding. Oh, it seems an eternity away. Two months or more."

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Kate watched the girl leave, and frowned at the closed door. She was not nearly as confident as Thelma that Lord Barton would approve her betrothal to Mr. More-ton. Indeed, she would be very surprised if he did. The death of the old Earl of Barton might not have changed Thelma, but it had clearly changed the new earl considerably. He would be very unlikely to accept a mere mister of small fortune for his daughter when it was very much within his power to secure a marquess and future duke for her. Poor girl, Kate thought, destined to be denied the man she loved and to be mated with a selfish rake who cared not a fig for her. It was almost a relief, Kate found, to be able to focus her mind on the problems of someone else and to forget her own for a short while. Chapter Thirteen

The Earl of Barton, sitting at his ease in the music room with half an ear on the song with which Lady Emma Worth was entertaining the company, was feeling well content. He was almost at his ease again. It had, after all, been a good idea of his to set Charles Dalrymple to finding Nicholas Seyton. He had known very well—had felt it in his bones—that that young man was lurking somewhere in the area. Seyton must have learned that two guests at the Abbey knew him, and had decided that matters were just too hot for him to stay. It would have been more satisfactory in one way, Barton supposed, to have the man under lock and key, charged with highway robbery and kidnapping. But perhaps not. Some uncomfortable facts might come to light at a public trial. It was gratifying to know that the one man who could threaten his position had taken himself off and admitted defeat. It was doubly gratifying to know that Charles and Tate had actually seen the young man leave. Barton did not believe he would have trusted a purely hearsay report. He still could not relax thoroughly in the certainty that Seyton had gone toShropshire, of course. But it seemed likely that he had. And the letter Lord Barton had sent there that very day would soon bring back an answer. Once he knew that Nicholas was on his property, his mind could be at ease, he felt. It would then be very unlikely that Nicholas would make any further investigations about his mother. Lord Barton was pleased too that he seemed to have his own compulsive need to search for Jonathan's marriage papers under control. He seemed finally to be convincing himself of how ridiculous such a search was more than twenty years after the fact. He still intended to look in the library, but only because the books need a thorough cleaning and reorganization anyway. Mrs. Mannering had already done a small but satisfactory portion of that job. He had commended her work and listened to her suggestion for organizing the volumes according to topic. He would leave the whole task to her. It really did not matter if it took her all winter to accomplish it. A woman who was merely a lady's companion really did not do a great deal to earn her salary. The earl rose to his feet, applauding politely as Lady Emma's song came to an end. He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. "Splendid, splendid, my dear Lady Emma," he said. "You are a credit to the superiority of your singing

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master." "Papa is never willing to employ anyone but the best," she said, inclining her head in gracious acceptance of his compliments. "I overheard Miss Lacey the other evening saying that she plays the harp," Charles Dalrymple said, smiling at that quiet young lady. "Do you think you can persuade her to share her talent with us, Clive?" Angela Lacey blushed and protested, but her mother assured her that yes, indeed, she was good enough to perform in such an informal setting. The girl seated herself at the instrument, positioned it against her shoulder, rested her hands against the strings, and glanced anxiously at her mother for reassurance. But none of her nervousness showed when she began to play. Her audience was soon listening in delight to a medley of folk songs, both English and Welsh. Lady Emma seated herself beside Lord Barton and proceeded to fan herself languidly. The earl's mind wandered again. It really had not been totally wrong to take the title by somewhat shady means. Nicholas Seyton, after all, was a young man quite capable of making his own fortune. He had no ties, no responsibilities. Lord Barton, on the other hand, had a son and a daughter to establish in life. And what a difference his new position had made already to Thelma's prospects. Even a father's fondness could not blind him to his daughter's lack of good looks and charm. Yet he had received two offers for her that very evening. It was most gratifying. The second, of course, could be dismissed as quite unimportant. Indeed, he did not know quite how Moreton could have had the effrontery to come to him with his request to pay his addresses to Thelma. Did he seriously believe that the Earl of Barton, one of the wealthiest men in the land, owner of one of the most splendid properties inEngland, would give his only daughter to a nobody? The earl had dismissed the young man on short order, though of course he had had to treat him with civility, since Moreton was a guest in his house. Even so, it was gratifying to be able to deny the suit of a young man on the grounds that he was beneath the notice of the Earl of Barton. The first offer had come before dinner. The earl had not been surprised by it. There had already been something of an understanding between the Duke of Oakleigh and himself that an alliance between their children would be a desirable event. And Uppington himself had appeared from the start of his visit to have accepted his father's wish. He was a thoroughly good catch for Thelma. He was ten years older than she, a good age difference, distinguished in appearance and bearing, well-bred, moderately wealthy, though not as much so as Barton himself. Thelma's wealth in exchange for Uppington's title and future prospects was quite an acceptable state of affairs. An autumn wedding—inLondon, of course—had been agreed upon in the very satisfactory interview before dinner. Yes, Lord Barton thought, the pangs of guilt that he could still not quite quell were worth the discomfort. Life as a wealthy earl was far superior to life as a viscount of only moderate means. And he would not even have been a viscount if he had not made the great sacrifice of his conscience a quarter of a century before. A mere untitled gentleman he would have been, with his father's competence his only source of income and respect. The marquess had not spoken to Thelma. The girl did not yet know what great honor was in store for her. A duchess in the not-too-distant future, in all probability. Oakleigh must be close to sixty at least. Lord Barton joined the applause for Angela's harp recital and nodded his head graciously in her direction. He did not rise to his feet. Charles had done that and was leading the dear girl back to her seat.

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Sir Harry Tate kept a languid eye on the proceedings around him. He had decided that he probably did not enjoy music, though Nicholas Seyton assuredly did. The folk music produced by Miss Lacey on the harp was particularly haunting, but Sir Harry allowed himself one discreet yawn behind his hand in the middle of the recital: It happened when he felt Kate's eyes on him and it would appear ill-mannered to yawn outright. She look suitably contemptuous, he noted with satisfaction. Nicholas Seyton's mind was busy sifting through the events of the day. He was not nearly as certain as he had been earlier that it was the best thing for his peace of mind to have sent himself intoShropshireon the stage. Katherine Mannering was looking damnably pretty in the soft dove-gray silk dress she had worn on the first evening. Her hair was severely drawn back as usual, of course, but she had a face that would appear perfectly lovely even if she were quite bald. And even the unflattering hairstyle could not disguise the glorious silver blond of her hair. The trouble was, he thought, shifting his position in some discomfort and heaving a languid but silent sigh, he now knew what she looked like beneath that dress and what her hair was like loosened from that knot. And even more bothersome was the fact that he knew what she felt like: her skin warm and petal-smooth, her mouth soft and inviting. Think no further, he told himself sternly as Miss Lacey resumed her seat next to her mother—he must remember, by the way, to tease Dalrymple on his preference for the girl today—and Lord Stoughton proceeded to tune his violin. Sir Harry toyed with the ribbon of his quizzing glass and finally raised the glass to his eye the better to view the face of Miss Barr-Smythe, who accompanied the viscount on the pianoforte. His affair with Katherine was far better at an end. And he deserved the discomfort of his own frustrations. If he had not lost his sense and his control the night before, he would not now have to suffer the memories of her eager and warm beneath him on the sand of their smugglers' cave. Damnation! And he had doomed Sir Harry to the task of arousing her hatred. He was succeeding admirably. And he could not blame her at all. He would be sorely tempted to draw the cork of any other man who rode so roughshod over her feelings. Teasing her at the start had been somewhat amusing. It had not been amusing that afternoon to make such contemptuous insinuations about her intentions toward Uppington when he knew that she must be suffering distress. From her appearance it had seemed obvious that Uppington was trying to force himself on her. Had he and Lady Emma not arrived when they had, perhaps Katherine would not have been able to fight him off. And then Nicholas would have been forced to kill Uppington, Sir Harry or no Sir Harry. He risked a glance at Katherine now. She sat quietly, her hands in her lap, her eyes on Lord Stoughton. She looked quite self-possessed. He had to admire the lady. Most females would have taken to their beds with migraines and handkerchiefs, hartshorn and laudanum if they had had to endure one-half of what she had suffered this day. But not Katherine Mannering. There was no outer sign whatsoever that she was not simply a placid, rather dull lady's companion. He wanted to kiss away that placid look. Nicholas shook himself mentally. Sir Harry yawned as she turned her eyes toward him again. She had cried. Not in the delicate, wilting way that one expected of a lady, it was true. She had sobbed and sniffed and used her hands to cover her face instead of a lace handkerchief. And she had been thoroughly cross with her own weakness. But his heart had ached for her. He guessed that it took a great deal of provocation to squeeze a tear out of Katherine Mannering. And he had been quite unable to take her in his arms or to lass away the tears. Sir Harry Tate would never allow such danger to threaten the starch of his shirt collar. Sir Harry would not encourage such female sniveling. And he had stranded

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himself in the person of Sir Harry when he sent Nicholas Seyton on his way toShropshireearlier in the day. All he had been able to do for her was lend her his handkerchief. Sir Harry would approve of that action. He would prefer to sacrifice a freshly laundered linen handkerchief than to suffer the sight of streaming eyes and running nose and the sound of wet sniffing. He had managed talks with two of the servants during the day. His talk with the cook, which Katherine's arrival in the kitchen had interrupted, had not produced a great deal. In addition to what the butler had mentioned, she recalled that the wet nurse had been "uppity" because she had been toParison more than one occasion. Fortunately the woman had not been able to lord it over them a great deal because only one of the footmen understood French. But she remembered the boasting aboutParis. A wet nurse was not likely to be a woman of vast means, Nicholas decided. The fact that she had been toParismore than once perhaps denoted that she lived fairly close to that city. It was a very small detail, and only a guess at that, but it was something for a man who had almost nothing else to go on. At least if he did have to fall back on that mad notion of going toFranceto search for an Annette, he could focus his search on a thirty-mile radius aroundParis. Small comfort! Another detail the cook recalled was that the wet nurse had offered it as her opinion that the child she nursed would be better off in a home with men than in the one with "those two women." His mother and his grandmother, the cook had understood the two women to be. Again, the information apparently told Nicholas almost nothing. But there was something there. If his mother had lived with her mother and there were apparently no men with them, was it likely that she was the dancer or whore that his cousin the earl had suggested she was? The head gardener, Dobson, had not been able to add anything to the very scanty knowledge that Nicholas already had. He had been a very junior assistant five-and-twenty years before, a lad very much in awe of his superiors. He remembered how very close the present earl and Nicholas' father had been, always together and as often as not trailed by Josh Pickering, who fairly worshiped Viscount Stoughton. The head gardener at that time had not liked the two cousins a great deal because they had been forever in trouble when they were younger and had more than once involved his daughter in their wild schemes. Dobson knew nothing about the Frenchwoman who had nursed him or about any letter or other papers. He never had spent much of his time in the kitchen, where he was likely to pick up such gossip. He did recall his present lordship wandering and riding all over the gardens and park for weeks after his cousin's death. Poor gentleman. He had taken the death hard. Altogether, Nicholas thought, he knew very little more now than he had known from his grandfather's words during his final illness. And what he had learned since then did not lead him any closer to finding his mother or disclosing the mystery of his birth. And until a few months before, he had not even realized that there was any such mystery. As for the papers, he might as well forget about them, though he was quite convinced that they existed or had existed. How could anything be hidden at Barton Abbey when he had spent a boyhood of remarkable freedom there, free to search and explore every corner of the house and estate except the private apartments of his grandfather and the servants? When he was living in Evans' cottage, he had felt somehow that if only he were back at the Abbey he would be able to find some answers. Unfortunately, that was not the case. There was still his new idea, of course. He had already started to put that into effect with the letters

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Parkin was to send back fromShropshire. But there were several days to wait yet. And there was no knowing how successful the plan would be. The music appeared to be at an end for the time being. Conversation was replacing it. Uppington was on his feet before Lady Thelma, holding out a hand for hers as if he were soliciting her for a dance. Nicholas was close enough to hear the words "the garden." He rose languidly to his feet, brushing at an invisible speck of lint on the sleeve of his brocaded evening coat. If LadyThelma was to be taken walking in the garden, Katherine would be expected to accompany her. And Uppington had proved only that afternoon his expertise in manipulating such situations. "Mrs. Mannering," he said on a sigh. "I perceive that Uppington has the good sense to favor a walk in the garden when the air indoors is decidedly stuffy. Your presence will doubtless be required. Do allow me to escort you." Kate looked up in some surprise—and gratitude. She too had realized that Lord Uppington was taking Lady Thelma outside and that therefore she must go too. There seemed no way that the marquess could then rid himself of his charge of her employer, but Kate had learned well not to trust the man. She would not have thought there was a way to become stranded with him that afternoon either. Her confidence in herself must be at a low ebb, she thought as she rose to her feet, if she was feeling gratitude to such an unfeeling cynic as Sir Harry Tate. She realized when it was too late to refuse his escort that on this particular occasion she probably had nothing to fear. The earl drew her to one side as she was leaving the room to fetch shawls for herself and Thelma. "Mrs. Mannering," he said, "your accompanying Lady Thelma into the garden is very proper. However, you would do well to leave her alone with Lord Uppington for perhaps five or ten minutes. Not entirely alone, of course. But out of earshot, shall we say?" Kate's heart plummeted, even though his words assured her of her own safety. It was perfectly obvious to her why she was to remove her company from Thelma for a short while. The poor girl! Had Sidney Moreton already been rejected by the father? she wondered. But no matter. He would be rejected even if he had not yet found the opportunity to make his intentions clear to Lord Barton. And would Thelma be able to refuse the marquess? Kate doubted that the girl had the strength of will to stand up against the wishes of her father. She was doomed to marrying a toad. Her marriage would be even worse than Kate's own had been. At least Giles had not humiliated her by taking mistresses. He had used her to satisfy his bodily urges, and while she had been nauseated by his attentions, she would at least admit now that they were preferable to the knowledge that she was not in any way appealing to the man with whom she had seemed doomed to spend a life time. Angela Lacey joined her in the corridor to the private apartments. She too was on her way to fetch a cloak. She smiled shyly at Kate, her cheeks bright with color. "It is a lovely evening for a walk," she said. Kate smiled. So the girl liked Charles Dalrymple, did she? Kate did not blame her. Nicholas' friend seemed a kindly man. How could he possibly have two such men for friends as Nicholas Seyton and Sir Harry Tate? Neither in any way worthy of him. The very thought of Nicholas was enough to give her the uncomfortable feeling that the bottom had fallen out of her stomach. She would not think of him. He did not deserve to be pined after. He had taken her for his own delight and gone on his way. Well, she had

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made love with him for her own delight too, and now she would go on her way. She would spend the next half-hour matching wits with that thoroughly obnoxious Sir Harry Tate and see if she could score a point or two against him. She had a great deal to make up for. It quite made her blush with mortification to remember that she had actually cried in his presence that afternoon. She would have to make him suffer for having brought her to that.

Nicholas hesitated slightly when the Marquess of Uppington drew his partner to a halt at the stone fountain in order to examine its architecture. Angela Lacey and Charles Dalrymple were already strolling into the formal gardens, though the night was somewhat darker than they had expected. The sky was clear and the stars were bright, but the new moon gave only a minimum of light. "Do you suppose we should also circumnavigate the fountain in order to admire the naked cherubs?" Sir Harry asked Kate in his most studied drawl. "Or would such a sight put you to the blush, ma'am?". "Neither," Kate said. "I wish to walk as far as the roses in the center of the gardens. Their smell from here is mixed with the perfume of other flowers, and I think nothing lovelier than the fragrance of a rose." Nicholas gave her a sidelong look. "I perceive this is the moment of the grand proposal," he said. "Was it the fond papa or the misguided maiden herself who has warned you to keep your distance?" Kate was thankful for the darkness, which hid her blush. "Lord Barton," she said. And then, forgetting how pointless it was to talk so with such a man, "Poor Lady Thelma. I fear she will have no choice. And she will lead a dreadful life with that man." Sir Harry looked at her, cynical-eyebrows raised above half-closed eyes. "She will be a marchioness," he said. "A duchess at some time in the future. He has position, she wealth. Would you ladies not describe such a match as a marriage made in heaven? What more could she possibly want?" "Respect, perhaps," Kate snapped back. "Love. The assurance that she will be important to her husband." "My dear Mrs. Mannering," he sighed, "you must be one of those women addicted to sentimental novels. This is the real world, ma'am. Lady Thelma will be of infinite importance to her husband. She will produce his heir." Kate would have removed her hand from his arm if the path had not been so dark. "Yes," she said, realizing as she heard the word come from her mouth that she sounded nettled. She would certainly not win an argument if she lost her temper. "Yes, Sir Harry, you are a thoroughly predictable male. A woman to you is a machine, just like those in the new factories, but used for breeding. And is a wife to consider her life's goal fulfilled if she can but have the good fortune to produce a male child?" "I have angered you, my dear Mrs. Mannering," Sir Harry said, sounding surprised. "But I see how it is. I should have been more sensitive to your feelings. You, of course, failed in your quest to become a fulfilled Woman. You had no child, male or female, did you? And how long did yon say you were married to Mr. Mannering?" "Oh!" Kate withdrew her hand from his arm as if it were a red-hot bar of iron and stood still on the path, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You are impudent, sir. Quite insufferably ill-mannered. My

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marriage and my childless state are none of your concern. None whatsoever. I will not tolerate your sarcasms on a topic of which you know nothing. And I amnotyour dear Mrs. Mannering, sir." "Dear me." Sir Harry was quite annoyingly unperturbed by her tirade. He also had stopped walking and stood facing her, his face a mask of boredom, one hand playing with the ribbon on his quizzing glass. "I did hit a tender spot, did I not? My apologies, ma'am. I had no intention of wounding. Shall we walk on? I see that Miss Lacey and Dalrymple are coming up behind us, having taken a different route. And I would hate them to think that we have stopped to embrace. I have more regard for both your reputation and my own." "Embrace you?" Kate said scornfully. "I would sooner kiss a frog, sir." She pushed her arm almost vengefully through his. "Well, my dear Kate," he said, patting her hand lightly, "you need have no fear. I have no burning desire to kiss you, either." Liar! Nicholas Seyton thought. "My tastes run to quieter, more feminine, dark-haired beauties. You must remember, of course, that frogs when kissed are reputed to turn into handsome princes." "But a handsome exterior does not guarantee a handsome character or a gentlemanly one," Kate retorted. "Now, somewhere in those nasty insinuations," Sir Harry said. "I believe I detected a compliment. Thank you, my dear Kate." "I have told you," she hissed through her teeth, aware that the other couple was approaching nearer, "that I amnotyour dear Kate." Sir Harry raised his quizzing glass to his eye as he looked down at her. "No," he said, "I was told that you were not my dear Mrs. Mannering. I took your objection to mean that I was being invited to greater familiarity. Now I understand that it is the 'dear' to which you object. And you are quite right. Why is it that we always address people in letters as 'dear,' when often times we dislike or even despise the recipient? I shall never again insult you by claiming that you are in any way dear to me, ma'am. Will that please you?" "Immensely, sir," Kate said. "It is a very good thing we have been blessed with noses, is it not?" Sir Harry said, turning his head so that the other couple was included in his comment. "There is precious little to see tonight, but Mrs. Mannering insists that the fragrance of the roses will be unadulterated once we reach the center of the gardens. Are we there, ma'am?" "Yes. You see?" Kate said. "Six paths meet at this point, and there is the statue of the first Earl of Barton." "Staring commandingly to the south as if he had just conquered an army of twenty thousand infidels," Sir Harry commented, raising his glass to his eye again. "This whole house and park is every bit as magnificent as it is said to be," Angela said, turning and gazing back at the huge dark outline of the south front of the Abbey. "Thelma and Adam are fortunate indeed to have it as their home. I feel sorry for that Mr. Seyton who felt obliged to leave here."

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Kate noticed Mr. Dalrymple pat the girl's hand as it rested on his arm. "Nick loved it," he said. "He knew every inch of the place and every detail of its history." Kate swallowed, the raw ache of Nicholas' defection replacing the irrational chagrin she had been feeling over the fact that she was in no way appealing to Sir Harry Tate. "Has he really gone away to stay, do you think?" she asked with studied indifference. Mr. Dalrymple looked from her to Sir Harry and back again. "Yes, I believe so, Mrs. Mannering," he said. "He has his own property inShropshire, you know, and there is really nothing for him here. I do not believe he would wish us all to be feeling sorry for him." "Quite the contrary," Sir Harry said. "Not many children born on the wrong side of the sheets have fared as well. In my opinion, Mr. Nicholas Seyton can count himself fortunate indeed to have the means with which to masquerade as a gentleman." "Masquerade?" said Kate sharply. "I would say gentlemanliness is more a quality of character than a simple birthright, sir. There are many men who have all the qualities of birth and fortune without being able to claim honestly that they are gentlemen." "Now, are you defending a man you have never met, Mrs. Mannering?" Sir Harry asked, his drawl very marked. "Or are you attacking some men that you have? You have not met Mr. Seyton, I take it? It would be quite improper for you to do so, you know." "Where are Lady Thelma and Lord Uppington?" Angela asked. She had been smelling the roses and had not listened with close attention to the last few exchanges. "Oh," Kate said. "For how long have we been walking? We must start back. They have become engrossed in their conversation. What a shame they have missed the roses." She tugged on Sir Harry's arm. "You need not be unduly alarmed, Mrs. Mannering," her escort said, resisting the urgency of her hand and strolling with her at an annoyingly sedate pace. "Lady Thelma is perfectly safe, you know, and would be if she were left for a whole hour behind locked doors with Uppington. He wants her for her money and for her breeding capacity—after the nuptials, of course. It is not for quick and clandestine satisfaction of his lust that he wants that young lady. You case is quite different, of course. It is clear that Uppington, at least, does not prefer quiet, feminine, dark-haired beauties. Does the door of your bedchamber have a stout lock, by the way?" "Yes," she retorted, "and you will find it in use anytime during the night you may care to try it, sir." "Dear me, Mrs. Mannering," he said, "what a sharp tongue and a short memory you have. Why would I wish to force my way into the bedchamber of a lady for whom I feel no stirring of, ah, lust? I meant, in my kindly way, my dear… Pardon me. I meant in my kindly way;ma 'am, to advise you to lock your door against the marquess." Kate bit her lip and felt very foolish. That was certainly one point in his favor. In fact, she felt that if anyone had been keeping score since they left the house, he would be the winner by far. Tomorrow she would think of a way to give him such a thorough setdown that he would never recover. She almost looked forward to the challenge. She did not have to lock her door against him, indeed! Who did he think he was? The answer to a woman's prayer? It was true that he was endowed with unusual good looks. But still and all! She had been admired in her time too.

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Lord Uppington and Lady Thelma were both in the drawing room taking tea with the rest of the company when the other four went inside. Kate was vastly relieved. For all Sir Harry's assurances, she had been worried not to come across the pair either in the gardens or at the fountain.

"Kate!" Lady Thelma came hurtling through Kate's bedchamber and into her dressing room without knocking. "Why did you leave me alone with him? Oh. Audrey, please leave. Mrs. Mannering will ring for you again later." Kate rose to her feet, noting with a sinking of the heart the paleness of the girl's face and the agitation of her manner. She did not ask what was the matter when the answer was perfectly obvious to her. "Why did you leave me?" Thelma repeated after Audrey had left the room and shut the door of the bedchamber behind her. "Lord Uppington made me an offer and said that he had Papa's permission to pay his addresses. I could not say no, but I did say I needed time to think of my answer. But when I went to talk to Papa just now, he gave me a thundering scold and told me that I must say yes. I thought perhapsSidneyhad not talked to him yet. I have not had a chance to talk to him all evening. But Papa said that he had made an offer and Papa called him an impudent puppy and said I could certainly not marry him. I have to accept the marquess because he is of such superior rank and will be a duke one day." She paused for breath. Tears well into her eyes. "Perhaps when he knows that your heart is set against the match… ?" Kate said hesitantly. "He knows it now," Thelma said, one tear spilling over and rolling down her cheek. "But he says that I am to say yes, anyway. I can't marry the marquess, Kate. He is so cold and formal and… He frightens me. What am I to do?" Kate was at a loss. Her role seemed to call for reassurance. She should be persuading the girl that her father had her happiness in mind that the marquess's formality and coldness would evaporate into kindness when they were better acquainted. But she could not do so. She could not counsel the girl to accept a man whom she knew to be evil. "I think you are to go to bed and sleep, Lady Thelma," she said with a smile. "It is late and this has been a busy day. No one can force you to marry against your wishes, you know. And your father is not a monster." Or is he? Kate's thoughts asked her. "Tomorrow you will be able to think more clearly and plan more effectively. Just forget about your problems for tonight." "But I will never be allowed to marrySidney," the girl said, her shoulders drooping with misery. "You don't know that," Kate said. "Never is a long time. Who knows what the future will bring?" Lady Thelma turned to go eventually. Kate, locking the door firmly behind her, felt very helpless. She had been unable to offer any real help to the girl, only empty platitudes. The same platitudes that she was using on herself. Nicholas! This time last night she had not even made love with him yet. She closed her eyes while remembered sensations washed over her. The fiend. The low-down, cowardly, criminal, selfish, unfeeling… Kate could not think of a satisfactory

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noun with which to complete the list. But it would not have helped anyway. She could feel him against her, on her, in her. The fiend. And never again. Oh, yes, never was a very long time indeed. Kate tugged ruthlessly at the pins that held her hair in its neat bun at the back of her neck. Chapter Fourteen

"Harry will not wish to come," Charles Dalrymple said at the luncheon table the next day. "He had one of his sleepless nights and confided to me but an hour ago that he will lie down this afternoon. Is that not right, Harry?" Sir Harry raised his quizzing glass but did not quite put it to his eye. "But that was before anyone suggested a ride along the beach, Charles," he protested. "How could I miss that pleasure merely to catch up on such an unimportant matter as sleep?" He raised one eyebrow as his friend seemed about to protest, and Charles Dalrymple shrugged and closed his mouth. "It seems an age since I have ridden," Christine Barr-Smythe said with something like a squeal, "though I suppose it was little more than a week ago inHyde Park. I wonder what it is like to ride on sand." "I hope, ma'am," Sir Harry said with a shudder, "that only the horses will discover the answer to that. I would not relish the thought of getting sand on my boots." The conversation moved into different topics and it was almost an hour later before those who planned to join the ride retired to their rooms in order to get ready. "Are you quite mad, Nick?" Charles Dalrymple asked, following his friend into his bedchamber. "Yesterday you took a great risk riding into the village and boarding the stage. Are you going to tempt fate again by leaving the relative safety ofBartonParkin order to ride on the beach?" Nicholas grinned. "The cliff paths are quite steep," he said, "but if the others can negotiate them safely down to the beach, then I daresay I can too." "That is not what I meant, and you know it," Dalrymple said with a cluck of annoyance. "The coast guard, man. I have heard that there are a dozen soldiers stationed in these parts. Your luck cannot hold forever, you know. One of these days you are going to come face-to-face with them if you persist in wandering abroad." "I'll take my chance," Nicholas said with a shrug. "The beach and the cliffs are wide open. I shall see them coming from a distance." "Yes, and they will see you from a distance as well," his friend said dryly. But he had learned over the years that there was no point in arguing with Nicholas once his mind was made up on an issue. He left the room in order to pursue the more profitable task of donning his riding clothes.

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Nicholas did likewise. In truth he was not quite as foolhardy as Dalrymple thought. Although he had been accustomed for more than a year to the running of risks, he never faced danger unnecessarily. His smuggling excursions, his lone experience as a highwayman, his visit to the village the day before, his masquerade here at the Abbey as Sir Harry Tate—all were done for a purpose. And this afternoon's ride on the beach was being undertaken for no less a reason. Uppington had suggested the ride to Lady Thelma. That young lady had immediately turned to her companion, of course, to act as a chaperone. Nicholas would wager that she had played perfectly into Uppington's hands. It was true that the beach was wide open, but it was not a verylong beachfor an extended ride. There were all sorts of crags, caves, and negotiable rocks to explore on foot. It would not be at all difficult to lose oneself for several minutes at a time in such a setting—long enough, for example, to enjoy a prolonged kiss or even more, if one or both of the partners were eager and daring. It was small comfort to Nicholas that all the young people had decided to join in the ride. The numbers would make it all the easier for Uppington to maneuver Katherine into a confrontation. The coast guard notwithstanding, then, Nicholas had to ride with the group. He might be unable to show open kindness to Katherine. He might be forced into driving her into active dislike of him. But at least he knew she was safe with Sir Harry Tate. He pulled on his gleaming black Hessians and grinned at the thought of how surprised Parkin would be if he could see just how clean he was forced to keep them so that they would fit with his image as Sir Harry. Parkin's expression always became pained whenever he was faced with a pair of Nicholas' boots. Kate was going to enjoy the afternoon, she decided. Riding had always been one of her chief pleasures, but she had not had a great deal of opportunity to indulge her preference since beginning to work for Lady Thelma. The prospect of riding on a beach, breathing in the salt smell of the ocean, and perhaps having the fresh sea breeze whip against her cheeks was inviting enough to send her into the stableyard almost first among the afternoon's riders. She did not feel particularly dashing in the black velvet riding habit she had had made while she was in mourning, but she liked the little hat, which tipped jauntily over one eye while its gray and white feathers curled saucily around her ear. She was going to enjoy herself. She must, of course, keep an eye on her employer, though she did not feel that the task of chaperoning her would be arduous when so many others would be riding with them. She had considered all the dangers that Nicholas himself had thought of, but she had decided to ignore them. She had never been frightened of any man, not for any long stretch of time anyway, and she was not gong to begin with the Marquess of Uppington. Let him try to separate her from the group this afternoon. And then let him try to take advantage of his superior strength. She would show him a thing or two. She looked back appalled on her fright of the previous afternoon and on the tears she had shed afterward. Of course, her emotions had been in a weakened state as a result of the total surrender of herself she had made the night before and then the discovery that the man to whom she had surrendered was without heart or conscience. She would not have needed the support of Sir Harry otherwise, and she would certainly not have begun to bawl as soon as he spoke with his characteristic lack of sensitivity. She was going to enjoy herself, despite her subservient state, despite the danger posed by that toad of a marquess, and despite the sneering scorn of that fop Sir Harry. She was not too pleased when she saw the quiet mare that had been saddled for her, but she supposed an uninhibited gallop would be out of the question anyway when the party was to be quite large. She accepted Lord Poole's assistance into the saddle and made no objection to riding alongside him when he made it obvious that he had singled her out for his gallantries that afternoon.

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She wondered in some amusement how he could move his head within the extremely high and pointed collars of his shirt. His hair was combed forward and piled in high curls above his forehead in a style that the Prince Regent himself favored. The effect on Lord Poole was to make him look very much as if he were about to float straight up, like one of those hot-air balloons she had been to see with her Aunt Priscilla. Kate talked with him and allowed him to flirt with her in a manner that had annoyed her a few weeks before in London. Now she was merely amused. She felt years older than the young dandy, though she supposed that they must be almost of an age. All conversation ceased as the members of the party made their way in single file down the narrow, winding path from the clifftop to the beach. Kate was interested to notice that it was not the path down which she had been carried two nights before. But then, that path led to just a small cove, which would not have been at all suitable for riding. This one led to a wide, curving beach that must have stretched for two miles or more before rocks, jutting out from the cliffs, cut it off from a series of small coves beyond. But even though it was not the same spot, the ride down the path to the beach, the growing smell of the ocean, and the sound of waves breaking far out at this time of low water brought back aching memories of that night. Less than two days ago. In fact, tonight, she seemed to remember, the smuggled goods were to be distributed among the customers in the neighborhood. And Nicholas had left before that job was even complete. She had tried to convince herself all the previous day and even that morning that she was not expecting any word from him. But she had hoped, despite herself. He could have left a note. It would not have taken away the emptiness she was feeling, but it would have softened the blow somehow. He could have left a short note with one of the servants. Of course, he might still write to her. He might send her a letter from Shropshire. He would not; if he did, everyone would know that Nicholas Seyton was sending letters to Mrs. Mannering at Barton Abbey. It was absurd to even think of such a thing. But enclosed in a letter to the Evanses or the Pickerings, perhaps? Absurd. Kate shook off the thought and spurred her horse forward onto the sand. It was not a satisfactory mount at all. She supposed that a slow canter was all she could expect from it, especially on sand. It was Lord Stoughton who suggested that they dismount when they had cantered along the length of the beach to the rocks. Lady Emma was the only one who disdained to stain her boots and threaten the hem of her habit with sand. She persuaded Lord Poole to begin the ride back with her. Mr. Dalrymple helped Angela Lacey to dismount and found a rock to which to tether both their horses. He offered her his arm so that they might stroll to the water's edge some distance away across hard, damp sand. Lord Stoughton and Julie Carstairs were soon following in their wake. "If we climb these rocks just a little way," Mr. Moreton said, "we will be able to see those pools we spotted farther back along the beach. Shall we try, Lady Thelma? I shall help you, though I do not believe the climb is difficult." "I would prefer to walk outward on the rocks," Christine Barr-Smythe said decisively. "Look, they jut out into the sea. If we go far enough, we will have the water on three sides of us. How thrilling that would be. Do join me, everyone." She set out on her way without looking back to see who followed. Since "everyone" consisted of Lord Uppington, Sir Harry Tate, and Kate, the two men turned to look at each other. Uppington raised his eyebrows. Sir Harry yawned delicately behind a hand. "The very thought of such exertion makes me long for that sleep I had planned for this afternoon," he

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said. "I shall make no interference with your playing the gallant on this occasion, Uppington." The marquess inclined his head. "My pleasure, Tate," he said. "Mrs. Mannering? Allow me to help you." Caught in my own trap, Nicholas thought philosophically, seating himself languidly on a convenient rock. However, they would be in full sight. And Uppington would be stuck with two females. Not much harm could be done. Kate had other ideas, however. "Thank you, my lord," she said coolly, "but I am going to cross the rocks for a short distance to see what lies beyond." She suited action to words and began scrambling away from the two men with whom she had no wish to consort for that afternoon. And she really did want to see what was beyond the jutting rock a few yards ahead. She thought it very likely that it was the little cove where the smugglers carried on their trade. It was, though it was not as close as she had expected. There were more rocks to traverse. But the cove was quite recognizable, its steep cliff path snaking down from the west, the mouth of the cave obvious to someone who knew it was there. She had to see it again in the light of day. And it would not take her very long to cross the remaining distance. She did not even look back, but continued on her way. What would she think when she got there? Nicholas wondered. She would recognize it, of course, though it had been night when she was there before. Would she look in curiosity only? Or would she feel some pain, remembering what had happened there in the cave and knowing that he had abandoned her the following day without a word of farewell? Perversely, he hoped she would feel some emotion. It seemed a long time ago, that lovemaking of two nights before. He ached for her as she disappeared from sight. If only he could follow her there and let her know who he really was. Nicholas shook off the temptation and glanced back to the figures of Uppington and Miss Barr-Smythe, already fair out on the rocks. As least Katherine was safe from that lecherous character for the time being. Nicholas looked idly back along the beach to note that Lady Emma and Lord Poole were making their way back again. He could not imagine why. He had thought that young lady had had enough of sand and salty air for one day. But it was not they, he thought, shading his eyes and looking more closely at the two mounted figures approaching from a long way off. Suspicion grew to certainty after one more minute. They were about to entertain two soldiers from the coast guard. Or at least he was, since he seemed to be directly in their path. Sir Harry Tate got nonchalantly to his feet and climbed onto the rock on which he had been sitting. He supposed he might play the gallant and follow the only unaccompanied lady in the group. By the time the soldiers were close enough to recognize any of the members of the riding party dispersed across the beach and on the rocks, that indolent baronet had disappeared unhurriedly around the outgrowth of rock that led him to the smugglers' cove. Nicholas felt that his safest course of action was to continue on his way. Since the soldiers were on horseback, it was very unlikely that they would follow him over the rocks, but he would feel more at ease if the distance between him and them was somewhat greater. To proceed was the safest course for him in one way. In another way he was walking into another danger. He had no wish to be alone with Katherine, and especially not in these particular surroundings. He felt rather proud of his acting skills in her presence so far. But still, a man was only human, he thought ruefully. She came out of the cave as he was jumping down from the rocks onto the sand. She glared at him, not even pretending politeness.

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"You quite put me to shame, Mrs. Mannering," he called, managing to inject some sort of a sigh into his voice even though he had to raise its volume. "You and all the others. Such energy! Scrambling over sand and rocks just like children. I thought it incumbent upon me to come and offer my assistance on your return journey." "There was really no need whatsoever for you to come, sir," she said as he wandered toward her across the beach. "Sometimes one appreciates a few minutes of solitude. I find my own company quite congenial enough, thank you very much." "More congenial than mine," he said with a drawl, raising one cynical eyebrow. "I quite understand, ma'am, that you intend that remark as a setdown. Unfortunately I have been brought up to believe, in my code of ethics, that courtesy to a lady should be next only to loyalty to the king and devotion to God. I cannot retaliate." "Hm," she said, injecting a world of scorn into the syllable. "What a very quaint little beach," he said, looking around him and feeling for the ribbon of his quizzing glass, forgetting for the moment that he was not wearing it with his riding clothes. "A wonderful retreat for a lover of solitude, I grant you, Mrs. Mannering. Is that a cave behind you? Is it large?" She stepped across to block the entry. "It is nothing," she said. "A mere declivity in the rock. Disappointing, I assure you." Nicholas was heartened. If she did not wish him to see inside the cave, she must feel that her memories of it were too great a treasure to share with someone of Sir Harry's caliber. He glanced up the cliff path and felt his stomach lurch rather uncomfortably at sight of a pair of soldiers in conversation at the top and clearly in danger of descending the path. Would it be safe to return across the rocks immediately? Would he be able to pretend not to have heard them if they hailed him? Would the other two soldiers have left the main beach? Sir Harry Tate decided he must be his usual insensitive self. "I shall see for myself," he said, strolling still closer to Kate, whose lips thinned when she realized his intention. "Perhaps we can discover a secret passage leading to a smugglers' hideout or to some spectacular display of stalagmites and stalactites. Would that not be romantic?" "I do assure you," she said, "that there is nothing." The soldiers were definitely coming down the path. It was very possible that they had seen him already too, though they were not yet close enough to recognize him. He walked inside the cave, taking Kate by the hand as he passed her. "Come, Mrs. Mannering," he said, "I do believe you are a coward and have merely pretended to explore. Are you afraid of dark places? You need not be, you know. I shall keep my hold of your hand." "You will release me immediately," she said, pulling indignantly at her hand. "I do not choose to be led where I have no wish to go, sir, like a child." "Now, you are not afraid of me, Mrs. Mannering, are you?" he said with a sigh. "Has it just occurred to you that you are all alone with me here? But you are wrong in that too. There are two soldiers of the coast guard at this moment on their way down from the top of the cliff. They are making a routine check

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of the area, doubtless, thinking that by patrolling by day they will prevent smuggling or other atrocities by night." "The coast guard?" Kate said nervously, though she could not think why she should fear them at this precise moment. Nicholas was long gone, and the smuggled goods were safely stowed in Mr. Evans' cottage. "Your reputation could suffer irreparable damage at being found in here alone with me," he said with that sneer that she hated. "Of course, mine will suffer no lesser fate. And I hate to be considered a womanizer, as I have mentioned before." Sir Harry sighed. Nicholas Seyton was listening with almost every pore of his body. His timing was going to have to be just right. He gave her an arctic smile. "Shall we disguise our identity from them, Mrs. Mannering?" "There are footprints in the sand," one male voice said from outside the cave. "Leading into that cave," another voice said. Sir Harry pulled Kate toward him, his arms going around her, imprisoning her hands against his chest. She was looking up at him, eyes widening with surprise and indignation when he lowered his mouth to hers. One of his hands came up to hold her firmly behind her head below the little velvet hat so that she could not pull away. His mouth was closed but effectively covered her lips. "Two of them," the first voice said. "And none coming out again, though there is a mess of prints just here." They would be at the opening to the cave by now. Nicholas had his back to them. He slid his hands lasciviously over Kate's body, moved his lips, still closed, over hers, and made sounds of appreciation in his throat. Somehow he had allowed her arms to escape his hold. They came around him, and her body arched toward his and molded herself against him. Her mouth trembled beneath his. . "Oh, I say!" a voice said from behind Nicholas. And then an embarrassed cough. "Er, pardon me. Let's go, Conlin." "What?" Conlin asked, sounding rather bewildered.. "Just a gentleman and his wench," the other voice said, hushed. There was no further sound from outside the cave. When it seemed that there was no longer any danger of having to face the soldiers, Nicholas was finally at leisure to feel surprise that Kate had not pulled away from him. She was still arched into him, her arms around his waist, her lips soft beneath his own. He could feel the heat of her pliant body against his own. She knew! Did she know? And for the first time he was fully aware of her body against his, her mouth beneath his own. He allowed himself the full luxury of feeling for a few final seconds. Did she know? Sir Harry Tate lifted his head slowly and looked cynically down at Kate, his eyes half-closed, one eyebrow raised, his lips curled in a sneer. "Well, Mrs. Mannering," he said, watching the dazed, vulnerable look on her flushed face begin to give place to awareness, "I believe we have saved each other's reputations. I don't think we need prolong the agony. Do you?" "What?" she said vaguely. And then full awareness had returned. "What exactly was the meaning of that,

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sir? You were saving my reputation? By behaving in that insulting manner? Did I say I was afraid to be seen by a couple of soldiers, sir? Let them think what they will. It matters not to me if they know my identity. I do not believe you had a care for my good name, sir. I believe you used the occasion for the gratification of your own desires." She was bristling with indignation, he could see, her face still flushed, her eyes flashing, her hands in fists at her sides. "Mrs. Mannering," he said with a sigh, "you flatter yourself. Did I not tell you yesterday that you are not the sort of female to appeal to my tastes? But perhaps I wound you by being so blunt about my feelings. I noticed that your own playacting was quite convincing. You prolonged our kiss for a quite unnecessary length of time after the soldiers withdrew in confusion, and you demonstrated to me in a quite shocking manner the shapeliness of your body. In fact, my dear, I am almost beginning to consider that perhaps I do not always prefer dark hair after all." Kate's nostrils flared as she drew in a loud breath. "How dare you!" she said. "Do you think I would kiss you in earnest?" "I would have said you were doing so a moment ago," he said with a bored shrug. "Are you missing the late Mr. Mannering's attentions, ma'am?" He was ready for that flashing palm this time. He caught her firmly by the wrist when her hand was a mere few inches from his face. "Oh, not again," he drawled with extreme boredom. "You really must try to control your passions, Mrs. Mannering. I confess that I am not accustomed to living at such an intense emotional level." "Never touch me again!" she hissed, glaring hotly into his lazy eyes. She lifted her free hand and wiped the back of it very deliberately across her lips. There was a gleam for a moment in Sir Harry's eyes, but he did not relax his sneer into a smile. He released her wrist. "Well, Mrs. Mannering," he said, "at least you will always be able to remember that you have been kissed in a cave that is almost large enough to be a smugglers' hideout. Something to tell your grandchildren, my dear." Kate gathered the skirt of her riding habit in her hands and walked past him, ostentatiously careful not to brush against him. "Thank you, sir," she said, "but I hope to have put such a slight and unpleasant incident from my mind long ages before then. And I amnotyour dear." "No, you are not," he said with a sigh, following her from the cave. "May I assist you across the rocks, Mrs. Mannering?" "You may certainly not, sir," Kate said, clambering up onto the rocks and losing her footing in a quite inelegant skid. She gritted her teeth against the pain of a scraped wrist and continued on her way. She did not look back, or she might have been surprised to see the unguarded grin of Nicholas Seyton on the face of the man who came behind her.

By the following morning Kate was eager to rise and begin life afresh. She was thoroughly in charge of her own life now, she had decided before falling asleep sometime before dawn. She had nothing else to fear. She had experienced all the bad things that life could throw her way and had survived them. Now

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she knew all there was to know and could organize her life accordingly. She was into her brown cotton dress and already struggling with the buttons at the back of it before Audrey arrived with her morning cup of chocolate. She had been very inclined to feel ashamed of herself when she finally crept to bed the night before. It seemed that she had done everything wrong since coming to Barton Abbey. First of all she had fallen for the surface charm of a conscienceless adventurer. That had been stupid. Any normally experienced woman would have realized that a man who would not even remove his mask in her presence was not the person in whom to put her trust. And certainly not the person with whom to fall in love. She had done both. She had believed Nicholas' claims to be legitimate—in fact, she still did. But she had also believed that he was of a strong-enough character to pursue his claims until he proved them true or false to his own satisfaction. And she had fallen in love with him. There was no denying the fact. He had seemed to offer her the sense of adventure she had always craved. And he had been charming and friendly. And quite impossibly handsome. She could not say that for sure, of course, because she had never seen his face or his hair. But if his height and physique and his smile were any indication, he was handsome, all right. It was a terrible thing to admit that she had fallen for such shallow externals. Of course Giles was partly to blame. If only his physical presence had not repulsed her so much, she would not have been so surprised and vulnerable when she discovered that not all men would arouse the same cringing nausea in her. It had been dreadfully naive of her to allow Nicholas to perform the sexual act with her merely because she rather enjoyed his touch. But that was what she had done. Well, she would put the experience behind her, she had convinced herself at last, lying in bed and staring at the patterns the light from outside was casting on the ceiling and the canopy of her bed. After all, no experience was instrinsically bad if one survived it and if one learned from it. Her father always said that. She had certainly learned to guard her heart more carefully in future. Of course, she was still suffering the painful aftermath of this encounter. It was really far more difficult to fall out of love than to fall in. However, she was no cringing, vaporous female. She would survive. The encounter with Sir Harry Tate, on the other hand, was far more shameful and Kate winced over the memories for a large portion of the night. She would not allow herself to push them from her conscious mind, however. She must analyze what had happened and why. Only by doing so could she understand herself and adjust her way of life more to her liking. She found him attractive. Physically. Not in any other way. She hated to admit as much, but the truth must be faced. She was attracted. Why? For exactly the reasons, she had been drawn to Nicholas Seyton. Sir Harry too was tall and well-built, and he too was quite unusually handsome if one discounted the very unpleasant expression that seemed to be habitual on his face. No, not quite for the same reasons as she had fallen for Nicholas. Sir Harry had none of the charm and friendliness of the other, none of the dash and recklessness. Was it only his looks that attracted her then? At first she was inclined to think the answer must be yes, but if that were so, she asked herself, why was it that she felt no attraction to the Marquess of Uppington? He too was a good-looking man if one ignored the signs of dissipation in his face. No, she had to admit that in some per-verse way she found Sir Harry's company stimulating. Although she disliked him intensely and found him ill-mannered and annoying, she had to admit that he had a sharp mind, and there was a certain enjoyment in sparring with him verbally. But was the attraction she felt any excuse for what had happened that afternoon? Not the kiss itself. She

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supposed that there had been some excuse for that, though she could not really believe that Sir Harry was as worried about his reputation or hers as he sometimes pretended to be. But the kiss had certainly saved them from having to talk to the soldiers, a conversation that would probably have been tedious at best, embarrassing at worst. If they had mentioned smugglers, she might have felt uncomfortable pretending total ignorance and surprise. What really bothered her about that kiss, and what made her squirm now as she remembered, was that she had forgotten within moments of its beginning that the soldiers even existed. While Sir Harry was merely going through the motions of passion to persuade the intruders to withdraw, she had almost immediately become involved in the kiss as if it were real. She had moved her arms so that she might hold him, and she had fitted her body to his in an unconscious need to make of the embrace more than a mere meeting of lips. She had wanted him. What a dreadfully shameful admission to make even to herself! She had wanted to make love with Sir Harry Tate. Ugh! Well, it was the truth and it had to be faced. Unfortunately she had a sinking feeling that he knew very well what had happened to her. Now he would have very good reason for looking at her with that sneer every time their eyes met. She had lost ground with him. It might take her days to feel that she was back on an even footing with him, ready to give insult for insult. One thing was certain, at least. It was very possible for her to be attracted to men. Giles had not by any means represented the authoritative standard. Only two days before, she had given herself completely to Nicholas Seyton. And yet earlier this afternoon she had been almost ready to give herself again to another man in exactly the same location. The frightening thing was that for the few minutes of her embrace with Sir Harry the two men had fused in her mind. When he had raised his head and looked down at her, she had not been sure for a moment where she was or with whom. It had taken her some moments to realize that there were no black mask and blond wig, no wide blue eyes gazing passionately at her, no flashing white smile. Only those heavy-lidded, bored blue eyes and that sneering mouth. She could have died of mortification. She could not understand why she had become confused. They did not kiss at all alike. Nicholas had not held her tightly to him as Sir Harry had, and he had not kissed her as hard. He had always kissed her with open mouth, using his lips and his tongue to caress and excite her. Sir Harry kept his mouth closed. She would not have expected that the sensations it created could be just as erotic as the way Nicholas kissed. But the truth was that she had become confused and she had responded to what had merely been meant as a diversion for the soldiers. What was the meaning of it? Was she promiscuous? Was she about to start falling all over herself to invite the attentions of every handsome man she set eyes on? Absurd. She was certainly not interested in the attentions of Lord Uppington or in the flirtation of Lord Poole. Even Lord Stoughton had made the occasional flirtatious comment and directed several appreciative glances her way. She had never felt even slightly tempted to encourage him. What was she going to do about her weakness? was the more pertinent question. The answer was really quite obvious. She must forget about Nicholas Seyton. And she must avoid Sir Harry late. The first was easy, or at least it was simplified by the fact that he had gone away. The second was more difficult, as she saw a great deal of the gentleman every day. But now that she had admitted the attraction and now that she realized that she was drawn to his company because she enjoyed their verbal battles, she could do what was best. And it was best to stay away from the man. It would be the final humiliation if she fell in love with him. And he would know. She did not think a great deal escaped Sir Harry's lazy,

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heavy-lidded eyes. It was very late by the time Kate sorted through all these thoughts. In fact, she was half-expecting to see dawn lighten the windows at any moment. But before she would allow herself to sleep, there was one more thing she had to decide. If she were to put these two men from her mind, she must have someone or something else to put in their place. Life with Lady Thelma, even in the middle of a house party, was somewhat dull. If she had nothing with which to occupy her hands and her mind, Kate knew she would find it harder not to dream of Nicholas and not to gravitate to the mental stimulation she could gain in Sir Harry's company. She would find out the truth about Nicholas Seyton, that's what she would do. Not because she loved him or missed him or for any stupid reason like that. But merely for the challenge. He had given up and gone away. There seemed to be almost no way to prove his claim to be the legitimate son of Jonathan Seyton. But she would find that proof anyway. She would resume the daunting task she had set herself in the library. But she would not leave the matter there. She would put her brains to work and find some other way to unlock the mystery. When Kate finally closed her eyes as an invitation to sleep, she already felt excited at the dangers, frustration, and adventure that she might be facing. She would prove Nicholas Seyton's claim, and then she could write to him in Shropshire and throw the information in his teeth. When she rose the following morning, Kate was still buoyed up by her new sense of purpose. Chapter Fifteen

The gentlemen had all joined Lord Barton in an extended ride out onto the estate to examine the fields and crops. Mrs. Carstairs had accompanied her two charges, in addition to Angela Lacey and Lady Thelma, into the village to see if the milliner there was worthy of their patronage. Lady Barbara Lacey and Lady Toucher were exchanging gossip as they sewed in the latter's sitting room. Lady Emma was writing letters in the morning room. Kate had the afternoon to herself again. She had resumed her work in the library. She was still perched on the top of the moving stairs, but she was almost at the center of one of the long walls now. In another day or so she would be finished with the top shelf, she thought with mingled satisfaction and despair. She found that she was not even expecting to make any startling discovery. Half an hour before, she had come across another single sheet of paper on which someone had doodled an apparently meaningless pattern. She had placed it dutifully on the desk. But the job was satisfactory in itself. She could look back along the top shelf and know that all the books were clean and that she knew the topic of each in the event that Lord Barton should approve her idea for reorganization. Another thought was what kept her energy flowing, however. An exciting thought, though she tried not to set too much store by it. And she believed she had been patient long enough. Everyone must be safely away from the house by now or settled to some other activity. Kate climbed down the staircase, walked deliberately to the fireplace, and tugged on the bell to summon the butler.

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She had puzzled over whom to ask, but he seemed to be the one most likely to have the answer she needed. "Oh, Russell," she said with a warm smile when the butler entered the library, "are you very busy at the moment?" "I am at your service, ma'am," he replied, bowing stiffly. Kate had been somewhat surprised and relieved on her arrival at Barton Abbey to discover that the servants did not treat her as one of themselves. "The longer I am here, the more I am fascinated by the Abbey and its history," Kate said brightly. "I was looking at the family portraits in the salon again this morning and I have been rummaging among these books this afternoon. There are so many details I would love to know. I imagine you must be very knowledgeable, Russell. You have been here for many years, have you not?" "Nine-and-twenty years, ma am," he said, clearly gratified by her not-too-subtle flattery. "Some of the most recent history, for example," Kate said. "I was looking at the portrait of the viscount who was the son of the last earl. His must have been such a tragic death. He would still have been a relatively young man now, would he not?" "He was the senior of his present lordship by only two or three years, ma'am," the butler confirmed. "He had just returned from the Grand Tour, had he not?" Kate said. "How sad it must have been. It must have seemed to him and to everyone that life was just beginning to open up for him." "Aye, ma'am, it was a sad blow to his lordship," the butler said, his stiffness of manner relaxing somewhat. "To his father, that is. And to his present lordship too, ma'am. Like brothers they were." "Yes, so I have heard," Kate said with a sigh. "Did the present Lord Barton accompany his cousin on the Grand Tour?" "No, ma'am," Russell said. "He made his own tour a few years later." "I see," said Kate. "Then Lord Stoughton traveled alone?" "He returned alone, ma'am," the butler said. "He traveled with a friend at first, but I understand that young man went somewhere else when our young lord decided to come home. It would have been better for Master Jonathan if he had extended his tour as well." "Yes," Kate agreed. "If we could only see into the future. It must have been a dreadful shock for his friend when he returned, to find Lord Stoughton dead." "I daresay, ma'am," the butler agreed with a sad shake of the head. "And is he still alive?" Kate asked. "His friend?" the butler asked. "I couldn't tell you, ma'am. I have never heard tell of him since." "Oh," said Kate. "Who was he?"

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"Some university friend," the butler said. "Let me see now." He pulled at his lower lip and stared at the Turkish carpet, a crease between his brows. "Short, fair-haired young man. A baron. He had inherited from his father only the year before. He was still wearing mourning when he was here with Master Jonathan. Left it off when they set off on their travels. Lindburg. No. Lind… Lund… Lindstrom. That's it Lord Lindstrom. I haven't given him a thought for years. Queer fellow, if you'll excuse me for saying so, ma'am. Always stuttering and apologizing. Always afraid of offending." "I really must not take any more of your time, Russell," Kate said, "or you will never get your work done. I just find all those portraits so fascinating that I want to know everything there is to know about each of the people involved. Will you mind very much if I ply you with questions sometimes when you are not too busy?" She smiled disarmingly. "I am only too pleased to find someone who is interested, ma'am," Russell said, his stiffness completely vanished. "Now, the chapel is the place for you. Some fascinating stories connected with that. You wouldn't believe the half of what went on in the days when this was supposed to be a holy place. I could tell you…" "Oh, yes, I would love to hear," Kate said with quite genuine enthusiasm, though she was far too excited to prolong the conversation at that moment. "Perhaps you will accompany me there one day, Russell, and tell me all you know." The butler bowed. "At your service, ma'am," he said, and left Kate to herself again. She sat down carefully in the large wood-and-leather chair behind the desk and waited for her heart to stop thumping. Lord Lindstrom. She had never heard of him, but that was hardly surprising. She had never been into society. Was he still alive? Assuming that he too had been a very young man when he accompanied Nicholas' father on his Grand Tour, he was probably not even fifty years old now. The chances were that he was still alive. But where? Was there any chance that she could find him? She must not allow herself to become too excited, At the moment she had no idea how she, a lady's companion in the remote county of Dorset, was to locate a baron who had last been heard of more than five-and-twenty years before. And even if she could accomplish that formidable task, there was a strong possibility that the man would not be able to help her. He had been with Jonathan Seyton for only part of his tour. Had he ever known of Annette? Would he know where she had lived? She must not get her hopes up too high. It was very probable that Jonathan Seyton had married his Annette only just before returning to England, if at all. By that time he was probably no longer with Lord Lindstrom. But of course Nicholas had been born shortly after the marriage. He must have been conceived early in Lord Stoughton's tour. There was a chance that Lord Lindstrom would have known Annette or that at least his traveling companion would have talked of her. How could she find Lord Lindstrom? Ask one of the members of the house party, perhaps? Lord and Lady Toucher spent most of their time in London. All the younger gentlemen were men of fashion who probably knew almost everyone of any social significance. If Lord Lindstrom moved around at all, it was possible that one of the gentlemen would know him. But how could she broach the subject with any of them? What explanation could she give for her interest? She did not think the explanation she had used with Russell would convince anyone else. Besides, news of her questions might reach Lord Barton, and he might realize the danger the answers would pose for him. Aunt Priscilla, of course! Her aunt and uncle did not move in the very highest social circles, but they had connections and they did reside in London. And there would seem nothing strange in her writing a letter

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to her aunt. Of course, the business would be dreadfully slow. Kate felt impatient enough to rush to the stables that moment, demand that the fastest horse be saddled, and gallop without stopping in the direction of London. She could not expect a reply to her letter within a week and a half at the soonest. And then, if the answer were positive, she would have to write to Lord Lindstrom himself and await his reply. And how was she to keep from Lord Barton the fact that she was both sending and receiving letters from that particular man? Kate sighed. It was all very provoking. But quite marvelously challenging, she thought, brightening again and looking up to the top shelf of books. She had work to do.

The Marquess of Uppington and Sir Harry Tate were riding a little apart from the rest of the gentlemen. They had observed the crops, questioned some tenants, directed their eyes toward a wood which the earl remembered to be an excellent place for shooting when that sport was in season. They were making their way back to the Abbey at a leisurely pace. "This is all quite impressive for an out-of-the-way part of England, would you not agree, Tate?" Uppington said. "Oh, quite, quite," Sir Harry agreed. "It has had a reputation for years." "I consider it quite consistent with my consequence to ally myself to the family," Uppington continued. "Lady Thelma?" Sir Harry said, sounding bored. "Yes, sometimes such alliances become a necessity, Uppington." , The marquess shrugged. "We all know the rules from an early age, do we not?" he said. "Oh, quite," Sir Harry agreed. "I have always considered myself singularly blessed not to have been born to the high aristocracy. What an utter bore to have to do what is expected of one even when choosing a bedfellow." "I suppose you would, not know some of the more tedious duties of rank," Uppington said, contriving somehow to look at Sir Harry along the length of his very aristocratic nose. "In feet, Tate, you must have been keeping yourself very much to yourself for the last several years. I confess I have never come across either you or your family until this week." Sir Harry yawned. "London, Bath, Tunbridge, Brighton," he said with a sigh. "Such a bore, Uppington. Who could stand it? I find even the exertions of such a house party quite too taxing on my energies." "And talking of exertion," Lord Uppington said, "your interest in Mrs. Mannering has not escaped my attention, late." "Mrs. Mannering?" Sir Harry exerted himself sufficiently to raise both eyebrows and turn lazy eyes on his riding companion. "She is a delectable armful, I grant you," Lord Uppington continued, "and of course her position as a type of servant makes her… shall we say, accessible? I would remind you, though, that since I am about to ally myself to the mistress, I must also show concern for the servant."

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"Meaning that Mrs. Mannering is already earmarked for your bed and you would prefer not to have to deal with overused goods?" asked Sir Harry. "Precisely, my dear fellow," Lord Uppington said. "I see you understand me. Now, there is a very accommodating upstairs maid whom I would gladly pass your way if you feel the need for a cure for that insomnia of yours. She would come highly recommended." "Thank you, but no," Sir Harry said. "I make it a rule never to consort with upstairs maids or scullery maids or any maids in between, Uppington. Too much regard for my health, old chap. As for Mrs. Mannering, I believe you have discovered for yourself that she is one of those tedious beings known as a virtuous lady. I believe you would do well to lay siege to someone more amenable, Uppington. Or keep to your upstairs maid, since a siege there seems totally unnecessary." "Let me make myself clear." The marquess's voice was as pleasant as it had been from the start of the conversation. "I do not believe your appearance in the library a few evenings ago and in that hermit's cave the following afternoon were accidental, Tate. And I was not hoodwinked by the fact that you allowed Mrs. Mannering to cross the rocks yesterday before you followed after. I do not know if she favors your pursuit or not. That is quite immaterial. The point is, dear fellow, that it must stop. She is to be mine, and I do not take kindly to being kept waiting for what I desire. There are to be no more 'interruptions' to ourtête-à-têtes. Now do I make myself understood?" Sir Harry stared ahead, a slight crease between his brow. Then he looked across at the marquess, his eyebrows rising again. "I believe you do, Uppington," he said with a heavy drawl. "In fact—forgive me if I misunderstand—I almost feel that you are threatening me. Is there the possibility of a duel on the horizon? What a bore!" "I do not believe I would condescend to duel with a baronet of whom no one seems ever to have heard," Lord Uppington said, his look both haughty and penetrating. "At least"—he paused for effect—"I would want to do a little more investigation of your credentials before I would honor you with a challenge," "Ah." Sir Harry removed his glance and looked ahead again. "Now I perceive the full sting of the threat. You are going to dig up all the murky past of the Tate family, I see. All the skeletons in the closet will be dragged into the light. I must warn my estimable mama. Perhaps you will even unearth the carefully guarded family secret that her grandfather was a butcher and her grandmother an actress. I am in fear and trembling, Uppington. If Mrs. Mannering were mine to dispose of, I might even be tempted for one whole second to relinquish my claim to you." "You are a quite obnoxious worm, are you not?" Uppington asked pleasantly. "I cannot imagine where Dalrymple dug you up. He gives the impression of being something of a gentleman." "In reality I am his bootblacking boy," Sir Harry said with a sigh. "We thought it might be amusing to try to pass me off as a baronet." "Be warned anyway, my dear fellow," the marquess said before urging his horse forward to join Lord Barton and his brother-in-law. "Mrs. Mannering is not for the likes of you." Nicholas kept his horse to the same pace. He made no attempt to join Dalrymple and Moreton, who were riding close by, or any other member of the group. He had rather enjoyed that exchange, if the truth were known, though he realized that it had raised some very serious issues. Very serious. He seemed to be landing himself in quite a mess, in fact.

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His idea to get himself inside Barton Abbey with the freedom to move around as he chose had seemed an excellent one when it was first conceived. And it had been surprisingly easy to execute his plan. But what, really, had he accomplished by it? He had been at the Abbey for several days already and his every attempt to discover some fact that might be the key to unlock the mystery of his past had been frustrated. He had talked to all the servants at the house who had been in service there five-and-twenty years before, and that morning he had also talked to both Mr. and Mrs. Pickering at the lodge. But nowhere had he been able to discover anything that would provide him with a lead. There was still, of course, the other plan that he had begun to put into operation. He would need Dalrymple's cooperation if that were to work well, and his friend was bound to come up with a hundred and one objections. All of them perfectly reasonable. Now he was confronted by a definite problem, though. Uppington was suspicious. And Nicholas had offended him deeply enough to cause the marquess to investigate this mysterious Sir Harry Tate. Of course, it would take him time. It was a frustrating and time-consuming task to trace the home and ancestry of someone who did not exist. But sooner or later, Nicholas knew, he ran the risk of being exposed as an impostor. He supposed he should have been content to arrive as a mere mister. Uppington would not be so concerned about never having heard of a Mr. Harry Tate. Well, it was too late now. It was not in Nicholas' nature to back down from a challenge, no matter how dangerous. In this particular instance, he could not back down even if he wanted to. And in the interests of his search, perhaps he would normally have thought twice about antagonizing Uppington. But giving in to the marquess involved sacrificing Katherine. She was a strong and aggressive young lady who did not need his protection in the ordinary events of life. But there was nothing ordinary about Uppington. He was a powerful and ruthless man, one who was accustomed to having his own way. And one who was totally insensitive to the feelings of others. Katherine would not have a chance with him. It would not matter to Uppington if the only way he could have her was by ravishment. In fact, he would probably enjoy a rape more than an encounter with a willing bedfellow. It was quite out of the question, then, for Nicholas to avoid provoking the anger of Uppington by abandoning Katherine to her fate. Indeed, after this afternoon's encounter, Nicholas decided that he must redouble his watch over her. Not that that prospect was the chief of his worries. He would quite cheerfully take his chances with Uppington. What was far more disturbing was the marquess's belief that Sir Harry himself was involved in some affair with Katherine. If Uppington could believe so, could not other people do the same? One of his main concerns since he first met Katherine was to ensure that she was not involved with him, to make sure that no one could accuse her of anything if for some reason the investigation of his past became nasty. His concern for her safety had been his main reason for sending himself away to Shropshire and for keeping his real identity a secret from her. It had also dictated the very unpleasant character he had given poor Sir Harry. And was his name becoming linked to hers despite all his efforts? It was very possible. He usually led her into the dining room at mealtimes. He had been seen alone with her on the afternoon of the picnic when they returned from the hermit's cave. He had escorted her into the garden a few evenings ago. And he had been seen returning across the rocks with her the previous afternoon. All the rest of them had been standing in a group watching the two soldiers of the coast guard ride away and buzzing with the news that they suspected that smugglers had landed in the area within the past few nights. Apparently a

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group of smugglers had been caught ten miles down the coast, and it was believed that a boat from France would not have made only one drop. But that was another concern. Nicholas would not addle his brain with that at the moment. The delivery of goods had seemed to go smoothly the night before, though he had not been there himself. It was stupid of him not to realize that conclusions might be drawn from his frequent closeness to Katherine. He had been so concerned that she not discover the truth that he had given no thought at all to the perceptions of other people. The trouble was that there was little he could do about the matter. If he were to protect her from the lecherous designs of Uppington, he had to stay close to her. He would just have to do the best he could, he supposed. After all, it was perfectly normal for a single gentleman to show interest in a single lady, even if she were almost on a level with the servants. It was clear to him, for example, that there was a growing attachment between Dalrymple and Miss Lacey. Nobody seemed unduly concerned. He would just have to hope that nothing violent developed from his search and that if it did, Katherine would not be caught up in it in any way. And since there was still a short distance to go to the Abbey stables, and since he still felt disinclined to join any group of gentlemen, Nicholas allowed himself to indulge his mind in the memory of that kiss. It was just the sort of thing he had set himself to avoid, of course. But even now, after he had had leisure in which to consider, he could not think of any alternative course of action he might have taken. If those soldiers had seen his face, the chances were that they would have known him. There had not been time enough to scramble back across the rocks without incurring strong suspicion. Anyway, a return to the main beach would have brought him face-to-face with the soldiers there. The only thing to do had been to kiss Katherine, a ruse that had both hidden his face and embarrassed the poor men to such a degree that they had retreated without further ado. It really was a good thing for him that his thoughts had been taken up by his own danger. If he had been able to concentrate on that kiss, he could not have answered for what the outcome might have been. Even in the final few seconds, when he had allowed himself the indulgence of prolonging it, he had felt heat rise in him at the very intimate positioning of her body against his and at the vivid memories of what she had felt like two nights before when he had not had to hold back his desire. And in that very setting. The memories had been almost too much for his self-control. She had responded too. And he was not sure whether to be pleased or offended. At first he had thought that she must know the truth. She had been clinging to him and kissing him with total abandon. He could have laid her down and made love to her with her eager cooperation. He was quite sure of that. And how could she have been so intimately close to him, so deep in his embrace without knowing that he was the same man who had loved her on the floor of that very cave just two nights before? But she had not known. Incredible as it seemed, when she returned to herself, it was Sir Harry Tate she saw. And she was horrified at herself. Should he feel offended or hurt to think that she could so easily forget a loving that meant so much to him and abandon herself to a man who made every attempt to show her contempt? Nicholas had to admit that at first he had felt that way. He had been almost angry with her as he followed her back across the rocks to the main beach. But how could he remain so? Was it not more likely that her body could still feel the attraction that had led to such a satisfactory coupling two nights before while her mind saw only a thoroughly unpleasant and unmannerly baronet? Poor Katherine. She must be feeling very confused. That was probably why she had slipped twice on her way across the rocks and had slapped viciously at his hand when he had reached out to help her up the second time. Nicholas could not blame himself for what had happened the previous afternoon. But he could regret it. It was hard enough on his system to see Katherine daily, to remember what they had shared together,

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and to know that he must stay away from her. It was doubly hard now to know that even as the obnoxious Sir Harry he could attract her. How was he supposed to resist the temptation, in heaven's name? His main hope would have to be that she felt such horror and disgust with herself that she would not allow him within ten feet of her. He sighed as the group reached the stables and he dismounted onto the worn and familiar cobblestones of the stableyard. Problems. Problems. But then, where would he be without them? In Shropshire, in all probability, climbing walls in his boredom. At least life was far from boring at Barton Abbey. Sir Harry politely hid a yawn behind his hand as Lord Barton turned to direct some remark his way.

Kate had intended to work on through teatime. With another hour of concentrated work she might reach the end of this particular section of books. Written in Latin, these last few she had cleaned. Her father had taught her some Latin as a girl. But she had never become really proficient. It seemed that there had always been too many children at home to interrupt either her or Papa. It had always been her ambition to read the classics in their original language. Even as she was smiling rather ruefully over the thought, Kate detected another slip of paper inside the front cover of the book she held. It had some writing on it, the ink faded brown with age. "Clive, meet me at the cave in one hour," the note read. "Great secrecy essential. Let old cane-swisher see this on peril of your life. Jonathan." Kate was smiling in earnest after reading it through two or three times. "Old cane-swisher" she supposed to have been a Latin tutor. She could almost imagine the two boys—Nicholas' father and the present earl—passing notes when the master's back was turned and they were supposed to be studying Latin declensions. She climbed down to the library floor and reached out to place the note with the doodles on the desk. Would it bring back fond memories to Lord Barton? Would it arouse his guilt? But she retained the note in her hand, hesitating before putting it down. Nicholas perhaps had nothing of his father's. Nothing with which to convince himself of the reality of the man who had sired him. Something as small and trivial as this note from one immature schoolboy to another could be infinitely precious. But of course she had no way of giving it to him. And did he deserve such a gift from her anyway? The door opened behind Kate even as she hesitated. She folded the paper into its original crease and put it calmly into the pocket of her apron before turning to see who had entered. She was relieved to find that it was Lady Thelma. "Oh, Kate," that young lady said, closing the door behind her, "I am so glad to find you here alone. I have been scarce able to concentrate on the conversation this afternoon. And really the bonnets at Miss Hatch's are not remarkably pretty, though Julie bought one that looks quite becoming on her. And I was terrified of highwaymen. We had only a coachman with us, you know. I do not know what would have happened if we had been stopped." Kate smiled. "I believe I can assure you that there are no more highwaymen here," she said. "Your father had the coast guard make an extensive search for the one who stopped us. He is not still here, you may be assured. He would have more regard for his neck than to stay." "But he was never caught," Lady Thelma said doubtfully. Kate smiled again. She looked at the pale, rather petulant expression of her mistress and understood that

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her cross mood had nothing to do with either highwaymen or the lack of a fashionable milliner in the village. "Would you like to walk out where you will not have to be sociable for a while?" she asked. "If we go into the formal gardens, we will attract a train of followers who will consider such a walk a marvelous idea," Thelma said. "Sometimes I do wish I was back at Wragley, Kate. I never wanted to go to London. And I did not wish Great-Uncle to die just yet. I don't want to be Lady Thelma Seyton with a grand dowry." "How about the old cloisters?" Kate suggested. "They seem not to be very popular, but I think they make a very peaceful and picturesque walk." "Oh, yes," Thelma said. "Let us go there, Kate, and miss tea. You really are a dear. I am so glad you agreed to be my companion. But I do wish you would leave off your half-mourning. That brown is very dull. When we return to London, I shall come with you to order a complete new wardrobe, and I shall get Papa to pay for it all too." She smiled, completely oblivious of any hurt her words might have caused. When they were strolling in the stone cloisters a few minutes later, the vaulted roof over their heads, the stone pillars supporting it and separating the cloisters from the garden beyond, Kate waited quietly for what she knew must be coming. She had not expected quite what Thelma began with, however. "Kate," she said on a rush, "if I were to leave here, would you come with me?" "You mean to return to London?" Kate asked. "N-no." The girl hesitated. "If I were to leave, Kate, without Papa knowing." "Eloping?" Kate asked tentatively. Thelma looked at her, agony in her eyes. "Sidney has spoken with Papa and he has been refused absolutely. He is not poor, Kate, and his birth and lineage are impeccable. He is heir to a small estate and a modest income. He was educated at Oxford. But of course he is not nearly important enough for Lady Thelma Seyton. He is far beneath the notice of the daughter of an earl." The girl's face had flushed. Her voice was bitter. "I am sure your father must be considering your happiness," Kate said, realizing even as she spoke how foolish her words were. "No, my consequence," Thelma said. "He has his heart set on my marrying the Marquess of Uppington. I would rather be dead, Kate. And I mean that. I would be miserable with him. He is so very much the aristocrat and so very good-looking. I feel dull and ugly when I am with him. I know I am no beauty, Kate, and I know I am not very bright or very charming. On the other hand, I am not quite ugly or quite dull either. But if I marry Lord Uppington I shall soon be convinced that I am both. I cannot go through life like that. I would rather be dead." "Yes," Kate said, abandoning the role that she knew she should have been playing under the circumstances. "Yes, you are right. You must not marry Lord Uppington. He is not in any way worthy of you. And your father cannot force you to do so, you know. You can say no." "That is easy for you to say," Thelma said. "You have such a firm character, Kate. I am sure that all your life you have insisted on doing just what you wish. I am not like that. I know that when Papa storms at me or—worse—wheedles me, I shall give in and consent to marry the marquess. And I know I. shall not

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be able to say no to Lord Uppington's face. How embarrassing and utterly impossible that would be." "You must just keep in the forefront of your mind what the consequences of your giving in would be," Kate said. "A lifetime with the marquess." Thelma shuddered. "Sidney wants me to go away with him," she said. "I think it is the only way, Kate." "To Gretna?" Kate said. "Oh, no, there must be another way. Your reputation would be ruined forever. You would never be received again." "I don't care," the girl said recklessly. "I have no wish to be received." "And Mr. Moreton?" Kate asked. "Will he be content to spend his life cut off from the class into which he was born?" "Yes," Thelma said defiantly. "He loves me." But she looked doubtful and thoroughly miserable. "Will you come with me, Kate?" "If you go, yes," Kate said after a short pause for consideration. "But don't rush, Lady Thelma, please. Give it time. Give it thought. Life can be a long business if one does something irrevocable and then discovers that one has made a mistake." Thelma stared down at her hands and said nothing. Kate was wildly wondering if she could speed up her attempt to find Lord Lindstrom. If she could only prove that the present Earl of Barton had no claim to his title or his fortune, the future would look very different for Thelma. Far from being hurt by such a discovery, the girl would probably be relieved. And there would be far fewer objections then to her marrying her Mr. Moreton—if that young man would still want her after such a disgrace. Chapter Sixteen

A week had passed in which life had settled to a humdrum but not unpleasant routine for Kate. Lady Thelma had become more friendly with the younger ladies, perhaps as a defense against the company of Lord Uppington. A few times a day she felt it necessary to have Kate by her so that she could talk from the heart, but for most of each day she was content to let her companion go her own way. The girl had somehow succeeded in getting both her father and her suitor to agree to give her a little more time in which to make up her mind about marrying the marquess. Neither seemed at all anxious about her answer. Lord Barton doubtless trusted to the influence he had always had over his daughter's life. Lord Uppington probably could not imagine that any woman in her right senses or out of them would refuse his hand. Kate had written to her aunt to make inquiries about Lord Lindstrom and was impatiently awaiting her reply. She was trying hard not to expect too much. It was more than likely, she tried to persuade herself,

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that Aunt Priscilla would never have heard of the baron or would have no idea how one might contact him. It was in every way possible that even if her aunt did know Lord Lindstrom, he would turn out to be a different man from the one she needed. In the meantime she plodded on with her work in the library and studiously avoided close contact with either the Marquess of Uppington or Sir Harry Tate. It had not been particularly easy to avoid the former. Lord Uppington had clearly set himself to seduce her. One afternoon when she had thought he was playing billiards with Lord Toucher he had come into the library, closing the door behind him, but she had been prepared. She had merely descended the library stairs quite coolly, walked over to the fireplace, and used the bell to summon the butler before the marquess had realized her intent. She had thought of some excuse to leave the room with Russell. The marquess, she imagined, had been furious. Avoiding Sir Harry had been an altogether simpler matter. Apart from the fact that she had almost run headlong into him as she left the library with the butler on that same afternoon, they had not been near each other. He had not even led her into the dining room since their encounter on the beach. Kate could only conclude that the incident had embarrassed and disgusted him as much as it had her. She was very pleased to find that it was so. She ruthlessly ignored her feeling of restless boredom that might have been alleviated by a spirited exchange of insults with Sir Harry. Far be it from her ever to admit that she missed him. Obnoxious man. On this particular afternoon Kate was again with everyone else. Lord Stoughton had arranged a boating party on the long lake to the north of the house. This time they were not to stop for a picnic at the rotunda but to row to the end of the lake and have tea there. The picnic fare would be fetched by land. There were only three boats, each of which would carry four persons. Kate remained behind at the rotunda with the older couples and Lord Barton until the boats should return to fetch them. Why all three boats returned, no one knew, when only six of them remained to be transported, but there was a great deal of laughing and teasing at the unnecessary rowing that one of the young men had done. Lord Barton stepped into the boat rowed by his son and was joined by his sister and brother-in-law. Sir Peregrine Lacey and his wife traveled with Mr. Moreton. Kate smiled at Lord Poole's plea to have at least one passenger so that his return journey would not have been in vain. She sat on the seat opposite him as he rowed, smiling indulgently at his outrageous compliments. It was true that she was wearing a muslin dress of the palest gray, by far her most glamorous garment. And she wore an unadorned straw bonnet rather than one of her more severe ones. But she still felt distinctly like someone's poor relation. She was not about to believe that she rivaled the sun in brilliance merely because Lord Poole happened to say so. But it was pleasant nonetheless to be noticed, she thought perversely, reaching over the side of the boat and trailing one hand in the water. "Lord Poole," she said on impulse, "you must have spent a considerable amount of time in London, have you not?" He looked gratified. "How can you tell, ma'am?" he asked. Kate glanced at his starched shirt points, his skintight coat heavily padded at the shoulders, his striped silk waistcoat, his white-topped and tasseled Hessians, and smiled into his eyes. "You are so very fashionable," she said. "Where else would you have acquired such town bronze?" He bowed his head in acknowledgment of her superior judgment. "Do you know a great many members of theton?" she asked. "It must be quite wonderful to attend a London ball and see all the important people of our country gathered in one room."

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"Such amusements can become something of a bore, believe me, Mrs. Mannering," he said with such studied indifference that she almost laughed. He reminded her of Sir Harry Tate except that Sir Harry's air ofennuicame entirely naturally. "I was married before I could make a come-out," Kate said with a sigh. "But my father frequented London as a young man. He met my mother there. He often speaks Of his fashionable friends, though he has not seen many of them for years." "Indeed?" he said, looking at her with open interest. "Yes," she said. "Sir Henry Parnell is my father. I do not suppose you have heard of him?" He shook his head politely. "I wonder if you know any of his former associates," she said. "Now, let me see. What are some of their names? Sir David Lawrence?" She had picked the name out of the air and was not surprised when he shook his head again. "Lord Lindstrom?" "No," he said. "I've never met the fellow. He rusticates in. Devon, you know. Doesn't like society. I have played cards with his son on occasion, though." "Indeed?" Kate said brightly. "Is not that amazing? And his son would be about your age?" "A little younger, I would guess," he said. "Oh," Kate said, the excitement in her voice not hard to feign. "I would wager that Papa would be delighted to hear of his friend once more. Do you know in which part of Devon his lordship lives?" "Heathfield Court is the name of the place," Lord Poole said after a moment's consideration. "I'm afraid I would not know the exact direction, ma'am. I don't know this part of the world. Bath is the farthest west I have been until coming here." "Oh, how splendid," Kate said. "Bath has always been a place I have longed to visit. Do tell me about it. Is it true that the color of the buildings is so white that the traveler is quite blinded when approaching the city?" Lord Poole quite happily fell into a conversation on the merits of Bath and its lamentable decline as a fashionable resort in recent years. Kate listened with half an ear while her mind raced with excitement. Perhaps she would not even have to wait until she heard from Aunt Priscilla. Someone in the house—one of the servants, surely—must know where Heathfield Court was. She began composing in her head a letter to Lord Lindstrom. He must be the same Lord Lindstrom as had traveled with Lord Stoughton. His son was of an appropriate age. Surely he was the same man.

Nicholas was stretched out on the grass at the northern end of the lake, one knee raised, half-closed eyes staring up at the clouds that were scudding across the sky. He had a blade of grass between his teeth. It had been a tedious week. He hated inaction, but really there had been almost nothing he could do in those days but wait. He had not even had the mental stimulation of talking to Katherine and arousing her ire. They had exchanged scarcely a word since that afternoon on the beach.

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Avoiding her had not proved difficult at all. It seemed that she was even more bent on staying away from him than he was on shunning her company. He missed their verbal exchanges. He ached to touch her. He had not realized until this week how much physical contact he had had with her since his arrival at the Abbey. Even the touch of her hand on his arm when he led her into the dining room had been something. Now nothing. In fact, the only serious purpose that had given meaning to his days had been observing his self-imposed task as a watchdog. At all times of each day he knew where Katherine was and where Uppington was. But even that task had provided little excitement. It seemed that Katherine was no fool. Most of the time she was well capable of looking after herself. Only once had he had to even attempt a rescue. And even then it had been unnecessary. A regular check in the billiard room had shown him one afternoon that Uppington was no longer there. Katherine was alone in the library. It did not take much ingenuity to guess where Uppington had disappeared. But Nicholas had not had to use his practiced entrance and speech. He had almost bumped into Kate on her way out of the library with Russell. Uppington, presumably, was still inside, communing with a few thousand books. Nicholas had not looked inside to make sure. And for this afternoon she would be safe. She was wise enough to stay with the large group. If Uppington or anyone else suggested a walk or another row in the boats, then he would make sure that he was one of the group. Afternoons like this should not be allowed, Nicholas thought, taking the blade of grass from his mouth and dropping it onto the ground. Sunshine and heat and the droning of insects made onethinkof love and the soft, warm body of a woman. Making love on the cool grass with the sound of water lapping close by. Nicholas yawned and closed his eyes. It would be tea-time soon, as soon as the boats arrived with Katherine and the others who had been left behind on the first trip. Then the action would start. Then he would see what he would see. Dalrymple had not liked the idea at all. But he would do his part. There was no doubt about that. "Your letter from Nicholas Seyton showed him happily settled in Shropshire, my lord?" Sir Harry Tate asked Lord Barton half an hour later, when everyone was seated on blankets and busily engaged in eating the sumptuous banquet the cook had sent with two footmen. "Yes, indeed," Lord Barton said. "It was most gratifying, you know, to have such a prompt reply to my inquiry. I would have liked to shake my cousin's son by the hand before he left, but one cannot help feeling that his removal to his own property is in the best interests of all concerned." "My feelings exactly," Sir Harry said. "Your letter hinted that perhaps he did not intend to stay in Shropshire for any length of time, though, Dalrymple, did it not? It seems to me that perhaps Mr. Seyton does not know when he is well-off." "Oh?" Lord Barton looked up sharply, a lobster patty halfway to his mouth. Charles Dalrymple glanced briefly at the earl and then looked more meaningfully at his friend. "He did not say that he plans to leave, Harry," he said pointedly. Sir Harry was examining the wine in his glass. He had failed to notice either his friend's look or the emphasis of his words. "Did he not mention France?" he asked. "France?" Lady Toucher asked. "Now, what would the poor boy be thinking of to consider spending all

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his money on a journey abroad? And in such troubled times." "I do not believe he has any firm plans for such a journey, ma'am," Charles Dalrymple said quickly, directing another pointed glance at an impervious Sir Harry. "Merely telling me of what he dreams to do one of these days." He laughed with exaggerated brightness. "Much in the way that I dream of visiting America someday. I doubt if I shall ever do it." "Oh, come now, Dalrymple," Sir Harry drawled, "I thought you told me that Seyton had discovered something-" "Yes, quite right," his friend said heartily, cutting off Sir Harry in the middle of his sentence. "You will be pleased to know, ma'am, that Nick discovered that his property is far more prosperous than he expected. He was being humorous, I believe, in recounting all the extravagant things he can now do. He mentioned France and Italy. I believe even India was named." He laughed. "I am sure he was merely having a laugh at himself. The letter was quite a private one, you know, and Nick knows that I always understand his humor." His look at Sir Harry this time was little short of a glare. And this time Sir Harry intercepted it. "I do beg your pardon, Dalrymple," he said with a sigh. "You did say when you shared parts of the letter with me that you did so in strictest confidence, did you not? Seyton's family, of course, will be only too happy to know that his situation is somewhat more prosperous than he anticipated. For my part, I would say that his grandfather must have doted altogether too much on him. But then, of course, I speak of something that is none of my concern." He returned his attention to his wineglass. "I had a letter today too," Christine Barr-Smythe said, "from my brother in Brighton. Prinny is there, and half the fashionable world." She sounded somewhat wistful. Several minutes passed before Sir Harry, looking lazily around him, realized that Kate was no longer present. Neither was the Marquess of Uppington.

Kate had been bubbling with high spirits. She could hardly wait for the boating party to be over so that she could return to the house and discover the information she wanted. She had decided that she would ask the Pickerings first. They might not know, of course. But someone would. She was eating a cucumber sandwich with great enjoyment, continuing to compose her letter to Lord Lindstrom, when her mood swung with alarming rapidity to the opposite extreme. The. gentlemen had begun to talk about those letters again, those two letters that had arrived earlier in the day from Nicholas in Shropshire. She had not realized until they were mentioned at luncheon just how much she had been hoping, deep down, either that he had not really gone away at all or that he would write to her to explain his hasty departure. There were two letters: one for Lord Barton and one for Mr. Dalrymple. None for her. She had been mortally depressed all through luncheon and afterward until she had conceived her notion of coaxing information out of Lord Poole. In her excitement at his knowing Lord Lindstrom, or at least at his knowing of him, she had forgotten the letters. Now they were talking about them again. And about

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him. She could not stand it. She was sick of hearing of Nicholas Seyton. She wanted only to forget him. She failed to note the strangeness of the fact that all her energies for the past week had been devoted to discovering the secrets of his past. Kate finished her sandwich in one bite, got to her feet unnoticed, and walked away along the only path that led away from the water. She was soon surrounded by trees. And blessedly beyond earshot of the conversation on the bank. She would walk for a few minutes, just long enough to get rid of the dreadful feeling of emptiness that had been grabbing at her all too frequently in the last week or so, and long enough to allow the topic of conversation to be changed. It was peaceful here. Quiet. She lifted her face to look at the sky through the branches over her head and drew in a deep breath full of the smells of grass and woodland. It was so lovely to be alone again, outside the confines of the library. Free. Just for a few minutes. She was reminded of home. There were a meadow and woodland behind Papa's house, where she had loved to wander, a book in hand. She smiled. Her solitude had rarely lasted, though. Usually some child had detected her leaving and come running up from behind to take her hand and demand that she help pick bluebells or wild daffodils or whatever flower was in season. "You have good taste, Kate. The wildness of nature here is vastly superior to the tamer beauty around the lake." Kate closed her eyes and swallowed panic before turning. Foolish. Oh, foolish. She had completely forgotten the necessity of staying close to the group. She was not free to dream of freedom. She turned toward the Marquess of Uppington, who had come up behind her on the path, and regarded him coolly. "I thought so too, my lord," she said. "But alas one is unable to explore too far. The boats will be leaving again soon, I expect." He laughed softly and came to stand directly in front of her. "Nicely said, Kate," he said, "but you know you will not get away from me so easily this time, my dear. You have been avoiding me." "Yes," Kate said flatly, "I have." He laughed again. "I recall telling you that I like my women docile," he said. "I am not at all sure that I do not make an exception in your case. At least at the start, Kate. Your spirit excites me. I shall tame it, of course." One long finger came beneath her chin and tilted up her face. "You will be both docile and obedient eventually, I do assure you. But I shall allow you some rein at first. The taming of you will make the possession the more satisfactory." Kate made no attempt to resist the pressure of his finger. She gazed boldly back into his eyes. "I have been both docile and obedient, my lord," she said. "The man was my husband. It was my duty to bow to his will, and I did not shirk my duty. When he died, I was of age, though I did not have the means with which to support myself in independence. I took employment so that I would never again owe obedience to any man. I belong to myself, my lord, and if I give myself, it will be because I choose to do so." "Then you will choose to give yourself to me, madam," he said, his eyes roving hotly over her face, "or submit to being taken. We can have pleasure together, Kate, if you do not make it necessary for me to hold you down while I take mine alone." "Believe me, my lord," she said, her heart beginning to knock against her ribs so that she could hardly draw breath with which to speak, "I will never take pleasure from any encounter with you, and I shall see

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to it that you take none from me. If you will remove your finger from beneath my chin, I shall make my way back to the company and the boats." "Brave words, my dear," he almost whispered, so that Kate could have sworn that she felt the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. "We will remove ourselves from the path. Your champion is like to come panting along at any moment, and I choose not to be interrupted this time." He took her by the upper arm in a grip that she knew with a sinking of the heart she would not be able to break away from. It seemed as he moved her at speed away from the path and into the cover of the trees that her toes scarcely touched the ground beneath her. Kate had never been a screamer. It did not occur to her now that if she did scream, she would probably be heard at the lake. She was too busy using the only weapon she had left at her disposal: her brain. He did not take her far. He was too impatient to take his pleasure of her at last. Kate soon found herself with her back against a tree and a very heavy masculine body holding her there. She could feel just how aroused he was. She was horribly reminded of Giles. She felt nausea. And then she was fighting desperately and silently, the only sound her breathing and his. Her bonnet was gone and the left side of her hair was around her shoulders. And her shoulders were bare; her breasts too. Her dress was around her waist, around her elbows. But she was scarcely aware of her growing state of undress. She was furiously avoiding his hot, wet mouth, which clamped itself over hers until she managed to shake it free and which then took possession of her throat until she squirmed away from it and found it at her breasts. Her brain. Think. She was no match for his strength. He was merely playing with her at present, enjoying her squirming discomfort, aroused further by it. In another few moments, when he tired of the game, he would have her beneath him on the ground and she would be totally helpless. She would become his woman, the Marquess of Uppington's whore. He would take her quickly and almost impersonally, as Giles always had, and leave her feeling soiled and worthless. A man's sex toy merely. Think! "Enough now," he was saying, his breath hot against her ear. "Enough. Stop fighting me, Kate. I don't want to hurt you." It hardly seemed ladylike. If she were calm and could think about it rationally, she would consider it more unthinkable even than killing the man. If only she were not fighting for her very sanity, she would put the idea from her mind with a blush. Most ladies would not even give the idea a thought if their lives were at stake. Most ladies would not even know of the possibility. As the Marquess of Uppington eased his weight away from her so that he might coax her to the ground, Kate's knee jerked up with all the force her terror and fury could muster. She closed her eyes tightly as he doubled up and gasped. When she opened them again a few moments later, she found herself looking at the indolent figure of Sir Harry Tate propped against a tree a short distance away, his arms folded across his chest, for all the world as if he had been there for an hour or more. "How long have you been standing there?" she asked breathlessly. "Oh, long enough, Mrs. Mannering," he said with his customary drawl. "Quite long enough to discover that you are no lady, ma'am. For shame!"

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Kate's nostrils flared. "Would it have been more ladylike to submit to my fate?" she asked. "I rather think that if we wish to argue over the qualities of a true lady," he said, pushing his shoulders away from the tree and sauntering toward her, "we should remove ourselves, my dear Mrs. Mannering. I do believe your lover needs time alone in which to recollect himself. That was a low blow, ma'am. Quite literally." Kate looked down in some panic at the man at her feet, who was still doubled up and drawing noisy, labored breaths. She did not resist when Sir Harry took her hand in a very firm grasp and drew her away at a brisk trot. They had been dodging trees for all of two minutes, in fact, before she finally hauled back on her hand and found her tongue again. "Where are we going?" she asked. "This is not the way back to the lake, sir. And where is the path? We were not so far from it to start with." "I am not taking you back to the lake just yet," he said, his manner somewhat brisker than she had ever known it before. "Would you like the company to observe your present disarray, Mrs. Mannering?" She looked down at herself. She would not have been surprised to find her dress still down around her waist. She certainly could not remember pulling it up to cover herself decently again. But the sash that pulled it in beneath her breasts was hanging loose, one of her shoulders was still bare, the same shoulder was covered by her hair, and her bonnet was gone—in Sir Harry's hand, she saw in something of a daze. "And if you had a mirror and could see yourself above the shoulders, you would doubtless swoon quite away," he said, the sneer she was more accustomed to back in his voice. "You look as if you have been indulging in a thorough roll in the hay, my dear." "And where were you when I needed you most?" she fumed, hiding her embarrassment in bluster. "Leaning against a tree enjoying the show?" "On the contrary," he said with a sigh. "I was about to do something quite out of character, Mrs. Mannering. I was about to exert myself by hailing Uppington and demanding that he unhand you." "Oh, wonderful!" said Kate, lifting her arm and eyes to the sky as if inviting the clouds to applaud. "Were you going to say please, sir?" He considered. "Probably not," he said. "It would have weakened the effect of the command, do you not think? 'Unhand the wench, thou villain, please!' No, Mrs. Mannering, I believe I would have had to forget good manners for the occasion. Of course, all was quite unnecessary. It seems you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself. And now I think of it, it strikes me that I was singularly fortunate not to suffer a similar fate to Uppington's on a certain memorable afternoon in a cave that we agreed was not quite impressive enough to be a smugglers' hideout. I would not have been at all amused." "Everything is a joke to you, is it not?" Kate said in fury. "What happened this afternoon was not a joke, sir. I might have been ravished. I certainly believe Lord Uppington had something more than a mere kiss on his mind. And being a man, and a heartless, unfeeling one at that, I do not suppose you have any idea of what such a fate can mean to a woman. It would be worse than death. I know people joke about the fate worse than death, but it must be men who make a joke of it. It would be worse. I could not have lived with myself if… if…" He was directly in front of her suddenly, his hands on her shoulders, squeezing so tightly that she would

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have felt pain if her mind had not been so totally taken up with its own horror. "It would not have happened," he said. "I would have reached you in time. Do you think I followed you, you foolhardy woman, to enjoy the show, as you put it? I came to save you, difficult as the idea may be for you to grasp. Uppington will not molest you as long as I am here to intervene." She might have noticed that he spoke with Nicholas' voice without the French accent if she had not been so distraught. "You do not care!" she said passionately. "To you I am merely a figure of fun. I may not be a very feminine person, sir. I am not given to the vapors or hysterics and I very rarely cry. But I have feelings. Damn you. I have feelings." She lifted her fists and pounded them once against his chest. "Well, of course you do," he said, making a valiant effort to be Sir Harry late. "Of course you do. I have never doubted it, my dear." "I amnotyour dear!" she cried petulantly, pounding his chest once more. "Oh, I am not so sure of that, Mrs. Mannering," he said. "Sometimes you can be annoyingly dear." "Don't tease me!" she demanded. "Hold me. I need to be held. I don't think my legs will support me much longer. They feel remarkably like jelly." The hands that were still at her shoulders slid around to her back and she was brought against a comfortingly firm body. His shoulder was a broad and remarkably safe-feeling pillow. Kate put her arms up around his shoulders. She really did feel close to collapse now that her body had had a chance to react to the near-disaster she had just experienced. She closed her eyes, her face turned inward to his neckcloth. Nicholas held her close, recognizing her need, knowing that soon she would be strong again and lashing out at him to cover what she would consider weakness in herself. How he loved her. Dear, brave, independent Katherine. He laid his cheek against the top of her head. And then, unable to resist, he lowered his head and kissed gently the soft cheek that was exposed to his view. Her eyes were still closed when she tilted her face up, blindly searching for the comfort of his mouth. And he gave it to her, his lips closed and undemanding. He let her take, gave what she needed. Her arms closed around his neck and she rested herself fully against the length of him. He circled her waist loosely with his arms. It was not a passionate kiss. Nicholas kept firm control over himself. She did not need another passionate encounter that afternoon. She needed a man on whom to lean, literally and emotionally. She needed to feel protected. He held her, allowed her to kiss him until she was ready to stand alone again, contented himself with letting his love flow outward to her through the undemanding touch of his body and the supporting circle of his arms. The feeling of safety, of the security of home, was purely a physical sensation for several minutes. Kate would not allow herself to think. She let the fright and the nausea lose themselves against the warm comfort of the body on which she leaned, within the arms that held her. She let her grief and emptiness over Nicholas' desertion and silence follow after the fear and flow out of her. She was safe, and she felt incredibly happy. She did not want to think. Once she started thinking, there was something very unpleasant just waiting to pop into her mind. She knew it. But she would not allow it in. She lifted her

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mouth to the warm lips that brushed her cheek, in an effort to keep thought at bay. She put her arms around the neck of the man who held her, in an effort to hold close the comfort. And the love. He was Sir Harry Tate. There! She had relaxed her mind for one moment and there it was—that unpleasant thought that had been waiting to pop inside at the first chance. He was Sir Harry Tate. My God, she was kissing Sir Harry Tate! Again. Wantonly. "What?" she said, pushing wildly against his chest. "What are you doing? Unhand me this instant, sir. How dare you take advantage of a momentary weakness? Oh, I see how it is. You have gathered ammunition this afternoon with which to bombard me with scorn for another week. You are despicable. I hate you. There. Now you have forced me to be openly unladylike. One never tells even the most thoroughly villainous gentleman that one hates him. But I hate you, sir. Is my hair tidy? And did you have to throw my bonnet down into the dust, when there is clean grass all around us?" Nicholas was very glad that in her confusion she did not once look into his face. He was having a very hard time making that face belong to Sir Harry Tate. He must do better with the voice. He sighed. "Considering that your hairstyle is not exactly a Paris original at the best of times, my dear Mrs. Mannering," he said with a heavy drawl, "I think you will do. Now, will you condescend to take my arm and we shall make our sedate way back to the lakeside? You may wish to tie the sash beneath your bosom first, perhaps. I would hate the company to think that I had loosened it." "Oh," she said, grabbing the ends of her sash, "I might have expected that your own reputation would be your main concern, sir. And I amnotyour dear Mrs. Mannering." Chapter Seventeen

Kate fled down the driveway as fast as her feet would carry, her without breaking into a run. She was quite safe, she kept telling herself. She had returned with the first boatloads, several members of the party having been still engaged in strolling beside the water. The Marquess of Uppington had been nowhere in sight. She had not even gone inside the house, but had immediately set out for the lodge. The marquess was a few miles away, either in a boat or still at the other end of the lake. But she hurried along, her back prickling, feeling pursued. What was it she was fleeing from! she asked herself. Clearly not the marquess. Sir Harry Tate? He had shown no inclination to follow her. In fact, he had not even ridden in the same boat as she, but had chosen to attach himself to Mr. Dalrymple and Miss Lacey as soon as they returned to the bank of the lake. And when she and four others had landed close to the rotunda, he had been walking away with the same two companions in the direction of the wooded hillside. He was going to show them the hermit's cave, Lady Emma had said, an expedition she had declined to join. Besides, Kate thought, she was not afraid of Sir Harry Tate. She did not like him, but she did not believe he would do her any harm. No, more than that. She knew he would do her no harm. From what was she running, then? The answer was obvious when she stopped to consider the matter. She reduced her pace

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to a steady walk, for in fact there was no outdistancing her fear. She was trying to run away from herself. What in heaven's name had she done? She dismissed with a shake of the head the method she had used to protect herself from the marquess. The more she thought about that, the more she applauded herself. She would do the same if she had the decision to make all over again. No, it was what had happened afterward that had her running from herself. Why had she been kissing Sir Harry Tate? The very thought now was enough to make her flush hotly with embarrassment. The thing was that she had been the one doing the kissing. Although she had scolded him afterward, really he had not done anything wrong. She had asked him to hold her. She could distinctly remember doing so. She hoped for one moment that her memory was playing her false, but she knew it wasn't. She had asked him to hold her. Mortifying thought! And how had she come to be kissing him? He had not initiated it or taken advantage of it. Had he kissed her on the cheek? She could not recall. When she had come to her senses, her arms were around his neck and her body pressed to his. He was doing nothing beyond what she had asked him to do. He was not taking advantage of her mindlessness at all. His arms were wrapped around her waist, but he was holding her merely. Although she tried to recall everything that had happened since she had asked him to hold her, she was sure that his hands had not done any wandering. And his mouth had been still against hers. There had been no heat and no passion in his touch. It was quite dreadful. She had been wantonly kissing a man she despised and a man who would take full advantage of the memory in any future verbal exchanges they might have. Horrid man. She would never again be able to hold up her head with dignity when he was present. Oh, dear! Kate stopped walking altogether, although the lodge was already in sight. Could she in all conscience continue to call Sir Harry a horrid man? If she were to admit the full truth to herself, she would have to say that he had behaved with remarkable kindness that afternoon. He had come to rescue her, had he not? He must have done so. There seemed to be no other reason why he was so far from the rest of the party and alone. So he had been watching after her safety. And what would have happened if she had not dealt Lord Uppington that blow when she did? Sir Harry might well have been involved in violence. And the marquess would be no mean opponent, she guessed. He was a large man. Sir Harry would have risked that for her? And then what? He had taken her into the woods, into further seclusion so that she would have a chance to collect herself before having to face more people. And when she had come close to hysterics—embarrassing memory!—he had held her. Very comfortingly. She could remember now just how very safe she had felt when his arms came around her. It was true that his words before and after had been languid and unfeeling. But she had to admit that he had been there when she needed him. It seemed that there was humanity in the man behind the rather bored exterior. And that was not at all a comforting thought, Kate told herself as she resumed her walk toward the lodge. She found Sir Harry attractive. She undoubtedly did. And now what defense did she have against that attraction? She could no longer tell herself that he was thoroughly despicable. He was still unpleasant, of course. She did not like him at all. But she had to feel grateful to him. And gratitude could well be dangerous in her present lonely state. Nicholas Seyton had aroused in her all sorts of needs and longings that she had been quite unaware of before. And he had gone, deserting her just when she was at her most vulnerable. She had fallen in love with him. There was still a raw pain somewhere inside her that could hurt dreadfully if she did not so ruthlessly ignore it. He did not deserve to be pined for. There was a danger—she knew there was—that

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her heart could turn to another man who might ease the pain. And that man could very well be Sir Harry if she failed to convince herself that he was despicable and repulsive. She had been forced to admit to herself early in their acquaintance that he was not repulsive. Her only hope was to cling to her early opinion of his character. She must cling to it. She could not fall in love with him. The man was so dreadfully toplofty. He made no attempt whatsoever to hide his scorn at the behavior of most members of society. He would sneer indeed if he suspected that a mere lady's companion, a woman who had given herself to a smuggler on the floor of a sandy cave not two weeks before, was beginning to wonder what it would be like to make love with him. She could expect nothing but heartache and humiliation if she allowed such feelings to develop. Kate could see that Mrs. Pickering was in the garden at the back of the lodge gathering vegetables. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Pickering," she called gaily. "Are you very busy?" "Just finished, missus," the lodgekeeper's wife said, straightening up. "Would you care to step inside for a mug of cider?"

Nicholas was sitting inside the rotunda, idly swinging his quizzing glass pendulum-fashion from its ribbon. The last of the boats was just visible approaching from the distance. Moreton had had to leave it at the other side and come back in one of the other boats. Uppington apparently had still not put in an appearance, and the boat had been left for his convenience. Everyone else had already gone back to the house. How was she now? Nicholas wondered. Was she fully recovered? Such an experience must be difficult for a woman to forget. Uppington had seemed to have ravishment on his mind. She probably still did not realize how much of a daze she had been in. Before he had taken her hand and led her away, she had held her arms away from her body like a child while he pulled up her dress to cover her. She had stared into his eyes as he did so, not even knowing what was happening. And he would have had to take her into his arms even if she had not asked him to do so. She had begun to shake like a leaf in the wind and would have fallen in a matter of seconds. He thought she was herself again by the time they joined the rest of the party close to the boats. At least she had been striding along beside him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she really had not needed his assistance at all. She could have managed quite well on her own, thank you very much, and she did not need him following her around in future with his insulting observations. He hoped that a second reaction had not set in with her return to the Abbey and he not there to hold her. But no. Katherine Mannering was strong. It was far more likely that she was in a temper right now to remember that he had witnessed the very vulgar—but effective—way in which she had incapacitated her would-be lover. And she would be furious indeed to recall the feminine weakness she had shown in asking to be held. Would she remember that she had asked? And would she remember that she had lifted her mouth to be kissed? Possibly not. She would be too busy hating him and cursing him and planning all the scathing things she could say to him during their next encounter. It was going to be very difficult to stay away from her. He had done quite well in the past week. But now? She was attracted to him. She did want him. When her very strong will was not in operation, her body betrayed her quite undeniably. He could have her if he wanted. Or at least he could woo her with

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some hope of success. He believed he could win her love even in the person of Harry late. And it was almost irresistible to try, when he wanted her so badly himself. He had thought at first that perhaps he had fallen so hard for her because he had been starved for suitable female company for so long. But it was not so. He had seen the way Miss Barr-Smythe and Miss Carstairs had looked at him in the first days of the house party before his languid manner had convinced them that he was not at all interested in either a flirtation or a courtship. And they were both pretty girls, even if it seemed that they had not one brain cell between the pair of them. He could have had limited amusement with either of those young ladies. He had not been interested. He had eyes only for Katherine. And not only eyes. Everything about her attracted him. He admired her firm character even while it amused him. What man would want a soft, biddable girl when he might have independent, courageous, insult-slinging Katherine Mannering? He loved her. And how was he to resist wooing her? He had realized from the start of his masquerade that his only hope was to make her hate him so much that there would be no chance to get close to her. But he was weak. He had allowed that hatred to slip. She probably hated him for witnessing her weakness that afternoon—she had told him so. But he could have scolded her for leaving the company so rashly to wander on her own. He could have accused her of deliberately teasing Lord Uppington. He could have sneered at her shaking body. No, he could not. Of course he could have done no such thing. His acting skills could not have stretched that far. She had needed him every bit as much then as when Uppington had had her pinned half-naked against that tree. More. She had coped with the really dangerous situation on her own. She had been near collapse when he had had to decide whether to be Nicholas Seyton or Harry Tate. There really had been no decision to make at all. The stupid thing was, Nicholas thought, that in the ten minutes or so since Dalrymple and Miss Lacey had left him alone here, he was finding it hard to convince himself that it was necessary to keep the masquerade alive with Katherine. He had wanted to keep her uninvolved when he started. Yet they had been frequently seen together since. Even today when he had tried to protect her by leaving her as soon as they came in sight of the boats, it must have been obvious to many that they had been walking together among the trees. Why not just tell her who he was? The idea was very tempting. He could show his love and offer his protection quite openly if he did so. But he could not. For one thing, telling her would be an impossibly difficult thing to do. How would he go about it? And how explain the deception he had played on her? More important, he must protect himself as much as possible from involvement with her. It was true that Barton had reached for the carrot he and Dalrymple had dangled in front of his nose earlier, but that whole plan was tricky and not at all .guaranteed to succeed. And if it did not, he was out of ideas. He could think of no other way to prove his legitimacy. And he would not offer marriage to Katherine Mannering unless he could prove that point. He was not quite sure why. Even as he was, he could offer her the secure life of a lady if not a full social life. She did not seem to have any prospects for a more dazzling future. He loved her. He could teach her to love him, he believed. But he would not marry her as he was. Was it pride that prevented him? He wanted to have the world to set at Katherine's feet. He could not offer her a name that any gently born person could turn up a nose at. He would not have her watch her children face the sorts of attitudes that he had faced all his life. Nicholas rose to his feet and became Sir Harry Tate as he sauntered out of the rotunda and to the water's edge. The Marquess of Uppington was rowing directly toward him. Having his back to the shore,

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he clearly had not seen that there was someone standing there. "Enjoying the scenery, Uppington?" Sir Harry asked when the boat was close enough that he could speak in his customary drawl. The marquess turned sharply in his seat. He beached the boat and stepped onto the grass before he said anything. "You would do well to stay out of my sight, Tate," he said. "That is all the thanks I get for remaining here to inquire after your health when everyone else went back to the house without a thought to your safety?" Sir Harry asked, eyebrows raised. The Marquess of Uppington was not his usual cool self, Nicholas was delighted to observe. "Take yourself away from here," he said, "if you know what is good for you." "You are quite right to express your disgust at my misguided attempt to engage you in small talk," Sir Harry said. "It was foolish of me to try. Shall we be serious? Shall I hint, for example, that you will go near Mrs. Mannering in future on peril of your life?" "What?" Lord Uppington, who had begun to stride in the direction of the house, stopped in his tracks to stare at his companion. He laughed. "Are you threatening me, Tate? Or do my ears deceive me?" "Yes, I am, and no, they do not," Sir Harry said with a sigh. "I despise confrontations, Uppington. They are such a bore. But sometimes one has to exert oneself, however unpleasant the expenditure of energy. You will leave the lady alone, my dear chap." "Lady! Are you referring to Kate Mannering?" Uppington said with a sneer that would have done justice to Sir Harry himself. "You are wasting your limited energies if you have decided to champion her, my friend. I have never met a female who was less a lady. And she most certainly does not need to be treated like one. I have plans for that little slut that have nothing to do with gentle beddings, believe me. She will be sorry she was ever born by the time I have finished with her. And I would advise you not to lower yourself to try to protect her, Tate. Not that there would be much lowering to do." He let his eyes wander contemptuously down to the toes of Sir Harry's Hessians. "Hm," Sir Harry said, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye and examining the marquess through it. "She hurt you that badly, did she, Uppington? Amazing, is it not, that one delicate female can have so much power in one knee?" Viewed through the quizzing glass, Lord Uppington's face turned an interesting shade of purple. Sir Harry did not wait for him to find words with which to express his fury. "I have had an hour in which to ponder the matter, Uppington," he continued. "I had the advantage of you, of course, in not having your, ah, preoccupation to cloud my thinking. It really seemed to me at first that I would have to slap a glove in your face. So tedious and theatrical. Pistols. Swords." He waved an expressive hand in the air, "Messy. I can't stand the sight of blood myself. I almost decided that instead I would content myself with pounding your face to a pulp. But imagine the scandal, dear chap, when we returned to the house. Everyone would know we had had a slight difference of opinion. Not at all a dignified way to go on for gentlemen of our breeding, would you say? No, regrettably, I have been forced to conclude that settling this matter must be confined to words. You will stay away from Mrs. Mannering." "Tate, you are a contemptible worm!" Lord Uppington said coldly. His hands were opening and closing

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at his sides, Sir Harry noticed. "You are too much the coward to challenge me; you hide behind noble-sounding words instead. But I am onto you, my friend. There is something not quite right about you. And I intend to discover just what it is. We will see how well your poise holds when I expose you for what you are." "It is like this, my dear chap," Sir Harry said with a heavy sigh. "I hate to be backed into a corner. When such a thing occurs, I have a blind urge to drag someone else in there with me. I imagine your somewhat uncomfortable experience and your, ah, blighted hopes of this afternoon would make amusing drawing-room conversation, Uppington. Good enough to be repeated at every assembly in London for a Season, I would guess." The marquess's eyes narrowed and his hands at his sides closed into tight fists. But he said nothing. He turned on his heel eventually and began to stride on toward the house. Sir Harry made no move to accompany him. "Oh, Uppington," he called before that gentleman had moved out of earshot, "I shall not rearrange the features on your face if you touch Mrs. Mannering again. You need have no fears for your good looks. I shall merely kill you." There was no drawl this time. His voice was curt and clear.

Lord Barton was seated at the desk in his cabinet, apparently concentrating all his attention on the dry pen he was turning end over end against the blotter. He had thought himself in the clear. He had begun to relax again. The letter he had received from Shropshire that morning had made him particularly exuberant. Jonathan's boy was definitely in residence there. It had seemed safe to assume that he had forgotten his curiosity about his mother or had convinced himself that she was not worth finding…Now what was he to think? Nicholas was talking of a trip to France despite the political situation? There could surely be only one reason why he would be doing so. Did he know where to search? Was there any possibility that he might have discovered something? Apparently he had mentioned something of the sort in his letter to Charles. But what? Charles had been quick to cut off the information that Sir Harry had been about to reveal. What had the boy found out? There was nothing. It was not possible that he had discovered anything of any importance. He was probably going to France, or considering going, on a wild-goose chase. The earl put down the pen, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. It would be stupid to worry. He was becoming obsessed by his fears. If Nicholas had found anything of real value, he would have come to the Abbey to confront the usurper. And Lord Barton did not like using that word to describe himself, either. He was no usurper. Who was this boy, more than the son of a Frenchwoman who had been clever enough to trap Jonathan into marriage a mere month before the child was born? It was he, Clive, who had the birth and upbringing to be master at Barton. What was it the boy had discovered? And why had Charles been so anxious to conceal the contents of his letter? Did he know? Had Nicholas revealed his suspicions to him? And did this Tate know too? Apparently Charles had shown him the letter. It was probably nothing. If he could only see that letter, he would be able to set his mind at rest again. Was it possible? Lord Barton's heart began to thump quite uncomfortably against his waistcoat. Charles had joined Adam and Angela and that Carstairs chit in a walk into the formal gardens after returning from the lake. Was he still there? Tate had remained at the lake awaiting Uppington's return, Charles had said.

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The Earl of Barton left his rooms and walked without noticeable haste toward the drawing room, which was at the south front of the house. He was pleased to find that there were no occupants. He looked down on the fountain and garden. Yes, they were still there, the four of them, the two girls sitting on a wrought-iron seat, Adam standing beside them, and Charles squatting on the gravel walk in front of them. And they were at the far end of the garden, apparently engrossed in conversation. Lord Barton found that his hand was shaking and his breath coming in short gasps by the time he shut the door of Charles Dalrymple's bedchamber behind him and looked around. He had no idea how he would explain his presence here if by chance Charles returned unexpectedly from his walk in the garden. Or Tate. There was no telling when he might return. It was unlikely he would find it in a hurry. He was mad to have come. It would take him half an hour at least to look through all the drawers. He walked through to the small dressing room attached to the bedchamber and wondered wildly where to start. But he did not have to make a decision. A half-folded piece of paper had been flung carelessly onto the washstand. Lord Barton crossed the room with hasty strides and snatched it up. Then he grabbed it with both hands, scarcely able to credit his good fortune. He read hastily. He dared not take the letter back to the safety of his own room. In all likelihood Charles would miss it before it could be returned. His eyes skimmed two paragraphs of light, friendly gossip. They slowed on the third paragraph.

I shall be going to France as soon as I am able. Are you surprised? Who would want to enter the lion's den when the lion is roaring with hunger? you might ask. I cannot spare a thought for old Boney. I am near finding my mother! My own mother, Dalrymple. Can you imagine my excitement? All my life I have assumed that she was dead. Only just before Grandpapa died did I discover that there was no evidence that she was no longer living. And she is French. My own mother one of the enemy. And do I care? Ask any orphan how he would feel, my friend. There have been problems. The new earl was the one to bring me from France as an infant. Alas, he no longer remembers any of the details, and I am afraid that I angered him by persisting with my questions. I was almost ready to admit defeat, Dalrymple, when I discovered—oh, glorious day—an old letter that gives me her direction. The information is five-and-twenty years old, but good enough, surely. I am afraid I was trespassing when I found the letter, taking one final farewell of the Abbey before removing here. I shall trace her, my friend, if I have to travel the length and breadth of Europe. I have just finished writing a letter to his lordship and was fit to bursting with the news. But I said nothing. He explained in an earlier letter, you see, that my mother is or was a dancer. That means that she could have been worse too, Dalrymple. Now I am past caring what she is if she is only alive. But I can well understand that his lordship might consider the finding of her a further blight on the family name. I shall find her and then decide if I must keep my discovery a secret or if I may invite him to share my joy. So keep this to yourself, friend. I am chafing at the bit, eager to be on my way, but I cannot leave for France for at least another month. There is business here that I must attend to first. But as soon as I may, I am off to seek my mother, Dalrymple. Wish me good fortune. I shall let you know.

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The Earl of Barton almost crumpled the letter into a ball until he recollected himself. He laid it down with shaking hands in just the place from which he had picked it up, and withdrew hastily to his own rooms again. For the first time since the house party had begun almost two weeks before, conversation did not flow freely at the dinner table. The older couples were perhaps fatigued after a long afternoon in the sun and on the water. Lord Uppington, who had led Lady Thelma in and seated her beside him as usual, neglected his customary attentions to her. He seemed preoccupied and without appetite. His hooded eyes glanced occasionally at Sir Harry Tate, and narrowed more than once with an unfathomable expression on Kate. Lady Thelma did not seem to notice the inattention of her suitor. She toyed with her food and scarcely raised her eyes from her plate. When she did, it was to gaze fixedly at Mr. Moreton, who sat on the opposite side of the table. Once their eyes met and held until she returned her attention to her plate. Mr. Moreton, his head imprisoned between the usual high shirt points, made little at-tempt to entertain either Angela Lacey to his right or Kate to his left. He watched his beloved far more than she appeared to observe him. But neither of his neighbors really felt his incivility. Angela was too aware of Charles Dalrymple at her other side, their shoulders almost touching on occasion. She stole glances at his profile at intervals during the meal, trying to contain her blushes as she remembered that that good-humored mouth had given her her first kiss as they walked back to the Abbey from the lake earlier that afternoon. She had scarcely looked him in the eye since. Charles Dalrymple was aware of the quiet, sweet girl at his side too. And he knew, that he must arrange an interview with her father now that he had taken the irrevocable step of kissing her. He was glad he had done so. But he could not relax and converse with her. He was too worried about that madcap Nick. It was a dangerous scheme, to try to make Clive desperate enough to come out into the open. He had never thought of Clive as villainous. But if he had had the audacity to deprive Nick of his birthright, there was no telling what he might do if he thought his secret would be discovered. And their plan was working. The letter had been touched. The hair Dalrymple had placed carefully across the fold of the paper had disappeared, and the top-right-hand corner of the paper did not quite touch the marble flower on the washstand that it had covered when he had placed it very carefully before going out. And no servant had been into the room. Dalrymple had left careful instructions with his valet and had checked with the man on his return. Nicholas for his part was feeling the stirrings of excitement, like a soundless hum at the back of his mind. It was a feeling he was familiar with. He had had it on that night when he had gone out to discover the smugglers for himself and again the first time he had joined them on a run. He had had it the night he had waited for two hours for the Barton carriage to make its appearance on the highway so that he might kidnap Lady Thelma. He had it now. Clive Seyton was falling into the trap. He had a month. The house party was due to continue for a little more than a week. Just before then or, more probably, soon after would be the time Barton would choose. He would not be able to trust to a letter or to sending someone else in his place. He would have to go himself. All he, Nicholas, would have to do would be to watch the man night and day and follow him when he slipped off to France. He would be led straight to his mother, or at least to the place where she had been at the time of his birth. But he had the advantage over the earl. He had friends whom he could trust. The impossible twenty-four-hour watch would not have to be on his shoulders alone. Others would help him watch. He would be ready to leave at a moments notice.

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Nicholas hardly even noticed Kate beyond one penetrating glance when they first entered the dining room, to see if there were any signs of distress or imminent collapse. There were no such signs, as he had expected. Kate was filled with glee and suppressed excitement. She had chosen right the first time. The Pickerings knew where Heathfield Court was. It was surprising, really, they said, since the manor was over in Devon and not one of the famous houses of the land that everyone knew about. They would never have heard of it themselves if it were not for the fact that Mr. Pickering's second cousin Alf had married the daughter of the second gardener at Heathfield Court and gone to live there twenty years or more before. The house could be reached in a hard day's ride, Mr. Pickering had assured Kate. It was hardly worth sending a letter there when any of the stable lads could undergo the journey there and back in two days. Josh, for example. Josh knew the way. He had made the journey three times when Alf first married, helping the bridegroom remove his possessions to his new home. And Josh never forgot something like that. He was good at holding things in his memory, was Josh. Always had been, Before she had had any time to consider the matter and decide what was best to do, Kate had found herself confronted by a grinning and furiously nodding Josh and had accepted the offer to use him as a messenger boy. She was to return to the lodge either that night or early the following morning with a letter for Lord Lindstrom. In two days' time she might have her answer. She might have the information that could lead Nicholas to his mother and the truth about himself. It would be a wild triumph for her, even though she cared not the snap of a finger, of course, for his good opinion. Lord Barton, sitting in dignified silence at the head of the table, was planning his trip to France as soon as his guests left the Abbey, and grimly hoping that Nicholas could be relied upon to complete his business in Shropshire before taking his own departure. Chapter Eighteen

Lord Stoughton was bored. It had been all very well to be elevated to his father's former title on the death of his great-uncle, he confided to his friends Lord Poole and Mr. Moreton. He had been able to cut quite a dash in London for a few weeks, despite the fact that he had been in mourning. But there were certain restrictions imposed by rank that he was finding somewhat tedious. Did not his titled friend agree with him? Before his father achieved the dizzying heights of an earldom, Adam Seyton had not had a great deal of money. But who needed it? He was not addicted to gambling as a form of amusement and he did not crave expensive women. A comfortable tavern wench was quite as much to his liking. Clothes were perhaps his only indulgence, but who needed ready blunt in order to have a fashionable wardrobe? Any tailor worth his salt would think a fellow queer in his attic for settling an account before the fourth or fifth reminder at the soonest. Before he had become Lord Stoughton he had been able to dream pleasantly of an interesting future. Adventuring to America or Canada to seek his fortune had been his favorite fantasy. Now that he was a

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viscount and heir to an earldom and a vast fortune to boot, there was no chance that that dream would ever be more than fantasy. And the obligations of rank! Here he had been obliged to put in an appearance at Barton Abbey, an impressive-enough seat if one did not mind its being situated in the back of beyond. The house party had been a good idea, and he was quite content to have the company of such splendid fellows for a few weeks. Some of the girls were pretty too, but how could one flirt with any of them without arousing expectations that one had no intention of honoring for many more years yet? On the whole, he was not at all sure that he had not been more contented as plain Adam Seyton. Even then he had had the distinction of being able to put "the Honorable" before his name. Well, he announced to his friends after they had slowed from a mad gallop through wide meadows far to the west of the house, he had persuaded his papa to invite half the county to a dinner and ball the following week. At least they would see some new faces, perhaps a few more pretty female ones. It was safe to flirt with a girl one knew one did not have to see again. Had either of them noticed the little upstairs maid with the reddish hair and the bosom? That damned Uppington had her nights monopolized. She even emerged flushed from his room during the day on occasion. Lucky dog! After the house party, of course, he could have her to himself, but still it did not seem quite fair to have to wait second in line in one's father's own house.

Interest perked in many of the other guests when it became known that there was to be a ball at the house during the following week, a few days before they had appointed to return to London or their own estates. Lady Toucher immediately volunteered to help Thelma organize the dinner and the decorations for the state dining room and the ballroom on the floor above. Lady Barbara Lacey and Mrs. Carstairs offered their services to help. Thelma sought Kate out as soon as she was able. She found her in the library, working now on a middle shelf. "I could kill Adam!" she said feelingly. "Why did he have to think of having a ball?" Kate looked up in surprise from the book she was dusting. "Do you not welcome the idea of the entertainment?" she asked. "The ballroom is such a grand apartment, and scarcely ever entered. Will it not be lovely to see it filled with flowers and with bright gowns and coats?" "No, it will not!" Thelma threw herself into the chair behind the desk. "Papa has come up with a most brilliant idea to make the evening even more memorable. He thinks it will be the perfect occasion for the announcement of my betrothal." "Oh," Kate said. She replaced the book on its shelf and climbed down the few steps of the staircase that had elevated her to the middle shelf. "Have you agreed to marry Lord Uppington, then?" "No, I have not," Thelma said. "But you see how it is, Kate. I am really not being given a choice. Papa assumes that my answer will be yes, and so does Lord Uppington. He took me for a turn on the terrace a short while ago and told me that he looked forward to my answer some day before the ball, and to the public announcement during it. What am I to do?" Kate had grown fond of Thelma. There was a great deal of sweetness in the girl and very little malice.

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But there were times when Kate would have dearly liked to shake her. She looked gravely at her employer and spoke gently. "You must tell them both quite firmly that you decline the honor," she said. "And you must refuse to change your mind or even agree to think about the matter for a while longer. You must say it now so that the news does not spread that this is to be a betrothal celebration." "Oh, but how can I?" the girl wailed. "Papa will be so very cross. And I could not possibly face the marquess with a refusal." "Then you must marry him," Kate said mercilessly. "I would rather die," Thelma said. "I shall see what Sidney has to say. Perhaps he will have an idea. But I know what it will be. He will want me to run away with him. I believe I will have to do that, Kate. There is no other way." "There is another way," Kate persisted. "Your father can hardly disown you for refusing to marry the man of his choice. Perhaps he will be angry, but he will get over that. He cannot force you to marry the marquess." "No," Thelma said, "but he can refuse to let me marry Sidney." "Until you are of age, yes," Kate agreed. "After that you may please yourself. You would have fewer than three years to wait." "Three years!" Thelma cried, leaping to her feet. "I shall be old by then. I cannot possibly wait that long, and it would not be fair to ask Sidney to wait." The argument continued, while Kate tried to point out all the terrible impropriety of an elopement when there was a much simpler way of handling the problem. But there was no instilling courage into Lady Thelma. Running away to Gretna Green with the man she loved and facing social ostracism afterward seemed to her far easier than facing two men and saying the word "no" to each. By the time Kate was left alone again, she had been reminded that she had agreed to go with her employer if she decided to run away. And she would honor that promise. She might have no more than one week left in this house, then. But it should be long enough. If only Josh had brought back a favorable answer. He had been gone for two days. There had been a possibility that he would be back the night before, but he still had not arrived when Kate stole away to the lodge after dinner. She was containing her impatience with difficulty now. She could not decently leave the house until after luncheon. Then she should be free if Lady Thelma held to her plan to interview the gardener with Lady Toucher in order to plan the flowers for the ball. What would the answer be? she wondered. It was agonizing to wait. What if there was nothing, no new information? Then she would have to admit defeat. She did not know why she would care about having to do so. What was Nicholas Seyton to her now? Merely an attractive adventurer who had taken advantage of her. A man who did not even have enough faith in his own cause to stay and continue searching for answers. But it was not for him that she wanted to succeed, Kate told herself. There was the sheer challenge of discovering the almost impossible. She would hate to have to leave the Abbey the following week with the puzzle unsolved.

Several ladies and gentlemen set out that afternoon to walk from the house up into the wooded hills to

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the east. They had been told that the top of the hill afforded a magnificent view Out across the ocean and over miles of land in the other three directions. Some of the ladies had remained behind to busy themselves on plans for the dinner and ball the following week, and Lord Toucher had excused himself on the grounds that such exercise would trouble his rheumaticks, but the group of walkers was large enough. Sir Harry Tate had a giggling and talkative Miss Barr-Smythe on his arm. He had chosen her deliberately as a partner. He had made the fascinating discovery over the past days that one did not have to pay anything but the merest fraction of one's attention to the girl. The occasional profound comment on what she said, such as "Really?" or "You amaze me, ma'am," or a dozen other such phrases was quite sufficient to launch her on the next phase of her monologue. An infrequent sidelong look down at her through half-closed eyelids would have her blushing and giggling every time, especially if one let one's gaze stray to her lips for the merest moment. Such distraction would prompt her to lose her train of thought and begin a new line of conversation that kept her busy talking for another indefinite period of time. While she babbled on at his side, Nicholas found that he could give almost the whole of his attention to the two men he had set himself to watch. This afternoon, of course, the task was somewhat relaxed. There was little chance that Lord Barton would suddenly break into a run and head for France while in the middle of conducting his house guests on a walk. And it was unlikely that Uppington would find a chance to molest Katherine while he walked with Lady Barbara away from the Abbey and Katherine was at the house with the ladies who were planning next week's entertainment. However, watch he must. It was safer thus than it would be to relax when one thought all was safe. It was just at such times that there was often most danger. The whole party stopped just before they reached the hill and the well-spaced trees on its slopes. Lord Barton's bailiff was returning home from a difficult meeting with a disaffected tenant and paused to give his lordship a brief account of his visit. But as often happens on such occasions, a brief account lengthened into a sustained conversation, until Lady Barbara laughingly declared that she would have taken to her bed for a beauty sleep after luncheon if she had known that they were to stand for half an hour in open sunshine listening to talk about sheep and com. "The rest of us will walk on, Clive," she said. "We will meet you at the top, where at least we may entertain ourselves with a view. Ah, Sir Harry. You have two sturdy arms, my dear sir. Allow me to share you with Miss Barr-Smythe. Indeed, you are altogether too handsome a man to be monopolized by one lady." She smiled at the pair. Nicholas had no choice but to bow his head graciously and mouth platitudes about how honored he was to have a lovely lady for each arm. But his mind registered with dismay the reason why Lady Barbara had relinquished the arm she had leaned on since leaving the house. The Marquess of Uppington was deep in interested conversation with Lord Barton and his bailiff. Nicholas was even more alarmed to note that the rest of the group was following him and his two ladies up the gradual slope that led soon to the steeper climb up the hill. He cast one appealing look in Charles Dalrymple's direction, but that faithful friend had his head down to hear something that Angela Lacey was saying. Well, Nicholas thought resignedly as he bent his sidelong look at Miss Barr-Smythe to start the giggling and the chattering in motion again, they would be out of his sight for a few minutes only. He could not watch them for twenty-four hours a day, after all. And Barton was not likely to disappear before the ball he himself had announced that morning. They strolled in very leisurely fashion up the hill, the gradient being quite steep and the afternoon warm. Nicholas was relieved to hear the rumbling tones of Lord Barton's voice somewhere behind him even

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before they reached the top. He relaxed again and continued to listen to Lady Barbara. Being a vastly more sensible lady than his other companion, she required most of one's attention when she spoke. The three of them were the first to the top. They stood there for several minutes marveling at the magnificent view while the others gradually emerged from the trees and straggled up to them. Perhaps ten minutes passed before it became quite obvious to Nicholas that now they were all gathered on the bare top of the hill and that Uppington was still absent. He looked frantically around him again. But he was right. Everyone else was present. Uppington was not. "I see that the marquess has been put to shame," he drawled. "He must be panting with exhaustion somewhere on the side of the hill." "No," Lord Barton said. "He returned to the Abbey." "Ah, what a coward," Lord Stoughton said. "And all the rest of us have made it to the top without one casualty." "He remembered an important letter that must be written before today's mail coach leaves," Lord Barton said. "He seemed quite worried about it. He sent his apologies, Barbara." "Oh, think nothing of it," that lady called gaily. "I am enjoying the company of my present handsome escort even if I do have to share him." "Well, you should be accustomed to having a handsome escort, my love," Sir Peregrine said with a smile in her direction. Nicholas was feeling sick with panic and indecision. She was safe at the house, was she not? She would be with Lady Thelma and her aunt. Was it flowers they were going to plan? Invitations? It did not matter. She would be with them. She would be safe. It was foolish of him to worry quite this much. But he had to go and make sure. He would not rest until he saw that she was indeed safe. But how to get away? Feign a sudden illness? Remember that he too had urgent business back at the house? It just could not be done. But he would be away an hour or more if he waited for everyone to have had his fill of the view and a chance to recover breath after the climb. And the group strolled at a snail's pace. There were two miles to cover between here and the Abbey. He was just going to have to be thoroughly ill-mannered, he decided after a couple of agonized minutes. He could not afford to care what other people would think of him. Anyway, he had cultivated a character for Sir Harry that would make such behavior quite credible. He wandered with impatient slowness a little way down the hill, apparently admiring the view across the valley to where theAbbeystood and beyond to the hills on the other side. He strolled among the trees below the summit until he was hidden from view above. And then he broke into a run. She was not at the house. The butler informed him of that when he entered the hallway. Neither was Lord Uppington. No, Lord Uppington had not returned to the house. Had he not gone with the walking party? Yes, Mrs. Mannering had stepped out quite a while ago. No, he had not seen which direction she took. Neither had the two footmen on duty in the hall. Nicholas left the house again, feeling all the panic and frustration he had felt up on the hill when he had

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first known of Uppington's disappearance. After a few moments of indecision he raced around the Abbey and set off at a run down the mile of grassland between the house and the lake. The Marquess of Uppington had been somewhat more fortunate. He had met a gardener's boy who had seen Mrs. Mannering set off down the driveway half an hour before. The marquess had followed in her footsteps five minutes later, on foot, though he had made a brief visit to the stables first.

Kate was on her way back up the driveway. Beneath the shade of the elm trees it was cool and quiet. But she would not have noticed the discomfort of the hot rays of the sun. She was smiling to herself and humming a tune. Her reticule was swinging from one hand. What a glorious, glorious day. She had hoped and hoped, of course. But deep down she had not really expected it all to be so easy. She felt like laughing out loud to know that she was the one who had thought of it. And it was so simple and so obvious really. Nicholas had not thought of it, though he had set his mind to solving the mystery long before she had. It made perfect sense that his father would have had a traveling companion on his Grand Tour. And she had thought of it. Josh had returned that morning and had hardly been able to contain his own excitement when she arrived. He had a letter for her from her distant cousin Lord Lindstrorm. Perhaps it was an invitation to go and visit? Josh had been made welcome. He had been allowed to sit right in the kitchen and eat. He had giggled with delight at the memory. Kate had sat down right there in the lodge and opened the seal with shaking hands. She glanced to the signature. It really was from Lord Lindstrom and addressed to Nicholas Seyton. She had pretended that her own letter was from him. It was a good thing that none of the Pickerings seemed able to read. And there it was inside, the information she needed. Oh, not quite as clear-cut as it might have been. But good enough. It should be good enough. Yes, Lord Lindstrom had traveled with Lord Stoughton for six months. And there had been a female at the start of their tour. A lady, too, though one whose family had fallen on hard times, he seemed to recall. Stoughton had talked about her a good deal for a few weeks after leaving her. Lord Lindstrom did not remember that the viscount had contacted her again, but of course they had not returned from Italy together. Yes, her name might have been Annette. Or Marie. Or something typically French. It had happened while Lord Lindstrom was visiting relatives. They had recently been bereaved or he would have taken his friend with him. It had not seemed quite appropriate to take a stranger to visit them at such a time. Though as far as that went, they were quite genteel in manner and doubtless would have made him welcome. But Stoughton had stayed with an impoverished widow in a village close by. The girl—Annette or Marie or whatever her name was—might have been her daughter or niece. She lived there, anyway. No, he could not recall the name of the village, though he had racked his brains for all of fifteen minutes trying to remember. Something typically French. But his relatives' estate was the Hotel Beaumaris. It was between twenty and thirty miles north of Paris, a little off the main road. That was really the sum of the information in the letter. There were missing details, most notably the name of the village where Annette had lived. And Lord Lindstrom had been unable to confirm beyond all doubt that this lady Lord Stoughton had met really was Nicholas' mother. Apparently the viscount had been quite a ladies' man and had possibly had more than one mistress during the months of his absence

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from England. But Kate was convinced that she was on the right track. She had to be. And the missing village name was really quite a minor setback. It was close to the Hotel Beaumaris, wherever that was. It should be easy to find. Twenty to thirty miles north of Paris. Now all she had to do was decide what to do with her information. Should she write to Nicholas immediately? It would give her great satisfaction to do so, to write a cold businesslike letter to him passing on information that might be of crucial importance to his future. She would enjoy imagining his discomfiture at remembering his shabby treatment of her. She would refuse to accept any sort of thanks or reward from him. She would return any token of his gratitude with contempt. Or should she wait? Would it not be even more satisfactory to be able to give him more definite information? If she could find out the name of that village, perhaps? Or even beyond that, if .she could write to that village to find out if Nicholas' mother still lived there? How could that be done, though? Would she write to the mayor or the priest to ask it there was a female resident in her forties or thereabouts answering to the name of Annette? Kate's smile broadened at the absurd thought and she gave her reticule an extra twirl before resuming the song she had been humming without conscious thought. And then she saw Lord Uppington. Kate considered turning back to the lodge and running toward it with all the haste extreme fear could muster. She had not come very far. But she knew she would not have time to reach it before she was caught. He was not far in front of her. The winding of the driveway had denied her a long warning of his approach. And if she were to be caught anyway she would not humiliate herself by fleeing and showing fear. She unconsciously lifted her chin and walked on. The marquess continued to come toward her, a half-smile on his face, a riding whip tapping lightly against his Hessians. "Good afternoon, my lord," Kate said with a cool nod of her head as they drew close to each other. "It is indeed, madam," he replied, moving across the driveway before stopping, legs apart, directly in her path. "It is indeed." Kate abandoned her instinct to play ignorant. She stopped walking too, making no move to try to dodge around him. "I have nothing more to say to you, my lord," she said. "I believe it would be consistent with your title and your profession of the name of gentleman to stand aside and let me pass. I have several times made it clear to you that your attentions are not welcome to me." "Yes, Kate," he said, his eyes narrowing, the half-smile gone, "and I have finally taken you at your word. I shall make very sure this afternoon that my attentions are in no way welcome to you. After today, my fine lady, you will come to my bed or anywhere else I choose to summon you at the mere crooking of my finger." The riding crop was tapping rhythmically against his boot. Kate swallowed. "Do you not merely demean yourself to pursue a woman who has expressed only contempt for you?" she asked. "No one…" he said, and paused for effect. "No one expresses contempt for the Marquess of Uppington, my dear, without living to regret it. Do please step off the path and through to the other side of the trees. I believe everyone from the house is accounted for, and visitors are not expected. But I have

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no wish to be interrupted on this occasion. You may not expect help from your beau, by the way. I left him escorting two ladies up the hill more than a mile from here." He gestured to the trees at the side of the driveway with what appeared to be a perfectly courtly gesture. Kate swallowed again. "I stay here, my lord," she said, "until you remove yourself from my path." He almost snarled in reply, Kate was fascinated—and terrified—to notice. He had her arm in his grip and her person through the elm trees to the deserted lawn beyond before she could draw breath. Unfortunately, she saw in one hasty glance, there were plenty of other trees in the vicinity. There was little chance of being spotted by any wandering gardener. Lord Uppington shook her arm and released her. "Now, my girl," he said, triumph in his voice, "we shall see if you are ready to talk sense." "I assume that if I am not, sense will be talked into me with that whip?" Kate said, injecting as much scorn into her voice as she was able. "I really think it will be unnecessary for me to use it," he said with a smile. He was tapping the whip against his boot. "On the contrary," Kate said. "If you believe that fear of your whip will drive me into your arms, my lord, I can assure you that you do not know me. I would infinitely prefer a sound whipping than a single touch of your body." "Oh, come, come," he said impatiently. "I am not a barbaric man, Kate. I am not often forced to use violence on my women. Why will you not give up this senseless fight against me? Come. I shall put down the whip. I shall even forgive you for your vicious and unladylike treatment of me three days ago. Come to me, Kate." "You may wish to take up your whip again, my lord," Kate told him coolly. "I am going to scream." And she did so, thoroughly relishing the unaccustomed vocal activity. She was quite convinced that her eardrums were about to shatter. The marquess had not retrieved his whip, but he did grab Kate painfully by the upper arms and shake her until her head was flopping dizzily on her neck. "It seems that I shall have to take what I want without any further attempt to soften you," he said through his teeth. "You have no one but yourself to blame, madam… What the deuce?" This last was said as a snarling mass hurled itself at him and separated him from Kate. Josh Pickering was using his head as a battering ram. His arms were flailing in wide arcs. Kate watched in horror as Lord Uppington reached down for his whip. He did not intend to use it. He disdained to fight with someone like Josh Pickering. He merely intended to crack it a few times in order to establish his superiority before making as dignified a retreat as he could. Kate realized that even as she rushed forward with crusading zeal to protect Josh. She held out her hands to divert the whip. She succeeded instead in deflecting it from the grass at which it had been directed. She did not even see Lord Uppington go. She was too preoccupied with the pain of her stinging palms.

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"Missus?" Josh was hovering in front of her, sounding as if he were about to cry. "Yes, Josh," she said shakily. "I am all right. You saved me. I am all right." "Very bad man, missus," he said, reaching out as if to pat her en the shoulder, but removing his hand without doing so. "Bad man. Josh not let him hurt missus." "No." Kate resolutely forced herself to stand still. "You were very good, Josh. I am very,verygrateful to you, my friend. Thank you." He watched helplessly as she held her hands before her and bit her upper lip. "Oh, Josh," she said, "was I not foolish? Look at what I did to myself." "Bad man," he said again. "Josh take you back to the house, missus. Bad man not hurt you no more." "Thank you," she said, looking around her and retrieving her reticule with careful fingertips from where it had landed on the ground. She kept a smile on her face as she set one foot ahead of the other and began to walk to the Abbey. She had to restrain herself from dancing in agony. She concentrated on one thought: reaching her room and her bed without anyone seeing her. She did not at all consider why she wanted not to be seen. She wanted her room. She must reach it without fainting. She was glad of Josh's escort, though he offered no physical support. But she was not to be so fortunate as to reach her room undetected. Even as she crossed the terrace before the curved stairway leading to the main door and turned to thank Josh once more, Sir Harry Tate came around the corner from the side of the house. He was not moving at his accustomed indolent speed. There was no chance that she could enter the house without having to speak with him. He strode toward her as if she were his long-lost love, Kate noted with weary dismay. He did not at all look his usual self. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "I really do not consider that any of your concern, sir," she said, concentrating on not swaying on her feet. "Josh?" Josh was grinning and nodding his head as if he were trying to shake it off his shoulders, Kate saw in disgust. "Bad man hurt missus," he said. "Josh brought missus home, Mast—" "Yes, so I see," Sir Harry said, cutting off the poor man in the middle of his explanation. He turned his attention on Kate. His eyes went immediately to her hands, which she held palm-up in front of her, the fingers curled loosely over them. He took a gentle hold of her wrists and uncurled the fingers with his thumbs. He stared for what seemed like a long while at the raw welt that cut across each palm. "Uppington?" he asked quietly. "Yes." She was looking at his downcast eyes, her own somewhat dazed. He straightened and met her eyes for a moment. "Josh, thank you," he said. "Go back home now, there's

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a dear fellow. I shall come and talk to you later." Josh bowed and grinned and backed himself away from them before turning and running in rather ungainly fashion in the direction of the driveway and the lodge. "Come into the garden for a minute," Sir Harry said quietly to Kate. "I must ask you a few questions. The others are not home yet, I believe." "I wish to go to my room," she protested, staring numbly at her palms. His hands still held her wrists. "Yes, I know," he said. "I shall support you there in a moment. Just for a minute, Kath… Kate." He guided her past the fountain and around to the other side of it, where, seated on a bench, they were hidden from view to anyone on the terrace or steps. "Where did he meet you?" he asked. He was finding it well nigh impossible to be Harry Tate. Indeed, he hardly cared whether the deception were discovered or not. "On the driveway," she said. "I was walking back to the house." "How were these wounds inflicted?" he asked. "He had a whip," she said. Her head was down, but she could see Sir Harry's hands form into fists. "Did he strike just once?" he asked. She nodded. "I…It was something of an accident," she said. "An accident?" He sounded incredulous. "Are you keeping something from me, Kate? Did he thrash you?" She shook her head, her eyes directed at her palms, but he clearly did not believe her. She felt his hands turn her very gently by the shoulders, so that she faced away from him, and begin to unbutton her dress from behind. It did not occur to her to feel outrage or to try to stop him. After a few moments he buttoned the dress dosed again. "Josh did arrive in time, then," he said. "Or almost." He set his hands palm-up beneath hers to support them. "Lord Barton has to be told, Kate." She shook her head. "Do you not know the way of the world?" she asked. "You of all people? He is a marquess, sir, one of the highest-ranking peers in the land. I am a servant and a woman." "Yes," he said. "Rape might be scarcely worth reporting, though I know that to a woman it is perhaps a worse crime than murder. But a whipping, Kate? Even just of the hands? You are not even his daughter or his wife, that he could plead the right to beat you. Lord Barton must be told. Uppington must be sent from here with all speed." "I wish to go to my room," Kate said. "Some women have to endure more than this almost daily. I am fortunate. This is only the second time I have been beaten in my life. And my husband did not use a whip."

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Nicholas Seyton suddenly found himself viciously glad that Mr. Mannering had met an untimely end. And he felt just as fiercely delighted that the Marquess of Uppington was very much alive so that he could have the satisfaction of getting his hands on him. "And to be honest," Kate said, "I don't think Lord Uppington meant to use his whip on me." "I can see you are trying to be brave," Sir Harry said. "I might have expected as much. There is not a great deal of feminine softness in you, is there, Mrs. Mannering? I do not speak of physical parts, of course." "Please excuse me," Kate said. "I am afraid I must forgo the pleasure of sparring with you for today, Sir Harry. Some other day when I am feeling more the thing, perhaps?" "I shall have your maid sent to you immediately," he said, "and warm water. It the girl gentle? Audrey, is it? She will need to bathe those welts on your palms and apply some soothing ointment to them. And you must seriously consider speaking with Lord Barton. I shall speak in your defense if you wish." "Thank you," she said, "but I think not." Before she could turn to leave, Sir Harry slid his hands up to her elbows and lowered his lips to hers. Very briefly. Very tenderly. "Slip your arm through mine," he said, "carefully so that your hand does not touch. And do not be ashamed to lean your weight on me. We are all weak at times in our lives, Mrs. Mannering. I shall escort you to your room." Kate did as she was bidden, but she kept her weary weight poised over her own feet. She was not dead yet, or decrepit with age, for goodness' sake. Chapter Nineteen

When Audrey brought Kate a pitcher of warm water for washing the following morning, she also brought the request that Mrs. Mannering attend Lord Barton in his cabinet at her earliest convenience. Kate washed and dressed quickly in her gray cotton dress, trying to ignore the tenderness of her palms. She had not gone down to dinner the evening before, but had sent word that she was indisposed. Lady Thelma had come to her even before dinner began to ask what was the matter. Kate, unable to hide her hands, which Audrey had bandaged after applying ointment, said that she had had a nasty fall while running up the driveway, afraid that she would be late for tea, and was feeling somewhat shaken as well as foolish. But this morning she was determined to make the effort to carry on as usual. She was in her shift and brushing out her long hair even before Audrey appeared. She did not know quite how she was going to look at either Lord Uppington or Sir Harry. But she did know that she had no intention of following the latter's advice. Complaining to the Earl of Barton would solve nothing, and only cause herself

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embarrassment. The marquess was of higher rank than the earl, and he was being courted for Thelma. It was expected that a man of Lord Uppington's rank would have mistresses. It would be nothing surprising to most people that he sometimes abused those mistresses physically. Who was to prevent him? It was absurd to expect that an enraged Lord Barton would order the man from his house for merely threatening an impoverished, employed widow with a whip when she had had the audacity to defy his wishes. No, Kate had decided, she would keep her mouth shut. But she would get her revenge. She had promised herself that. She did not know yet how she would do it, but her brain was at work on the matter already. Unfortunately, she did not have the physical strength either to challenge the marquess or to attack him without the courtesy of a warning. And it was not in her nature to take a gun and shoot him when his back was turned, though there was a definite temptation to do just that. She would think of something. In the meanwhile Lord Barton wished to speak to her. She would go to him immediately. Perhaps if she were later than usual for breakfast, she would avoid having too much company. She would find questions about her "fell" rather embarrassing. When the earl's valet opened the door to admit Kate to the cabinet, she was somewhat taken aback to find that Lord Barton was not alone. The Marquess of Uppington stood with his back to the room, staring out of the window. Lady Thelma sat on the opposite side of the desk from her father, looking pale enough to faint. Poor girl, Kate thought immediately, they have been coercing her again. And what is my part to be in such persuasion, I wonder. Then the marquess turned around. Kate gaped. His face was almost unrecognizable. One eye was swollen completely shut, and the other seemed in little better case. His long aristocratic nose looked to be broken, and his upper lip was swollen to such an extent that the lower was invisible. His chin and both cheeks looked more like raw meat than anything else. He stared coldly at her from his half eye, his hands clasped behind his back. "Well, Mrs. Mannering." Lord Barton's voice matched the marquess's half an eye. "Do you approve of the handiwork of your lover?" Kate looked at him, startled. Sir Harry? "I beg your pardon, my lord?" she asked. Lord Barton's elbows rested on the arms of his chair. His fingers were steepled beneath his chin. "Your lover—whoever he might be—did this to Lord Uppington last night while two other thugs held his arms," he said. "I wish to know his identity, Mrs. Mannering." Kate frowned. "What is this all about, my lord?" she asked. "Oh, come now." The earl leaned forward in his chair suddenly and banged his fist on the desk, causing Kate to jump. "Do you deny that Lord Uppington caught you in the arms of a lover yesterday afternoon while that idiot son of the Pickerings kept watch?" Kate looked incredulously at Lord Uppington. "I most certainly do deny it," she said. "I told you she would," Lord Uppington said with some difficulty. "In her place, so would I." "It seems you have very low tastes, Mrs. Mannering," Lord Barton continued, "choosing a lover from among the fishermen, I suppose, and inviting him onto my land so that you could satisfy your"—he

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glanced at his white-faced daughter—"desires." "Is it true, Kate?" Lady Thelma asked, sounding utterly miserable. "I can scarce believe it." "No, it is not true," Kate assured her calmly. "The Pickering half-wit has already admitted it," Lord Barton said with another bang of his fist on the desk. "Has admitted what, my lord?" Kate asked. "That he was with you yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Mannering, when his lordship came upon you and attempted to drive your lover away with a whip. It seems Lord Uppington did not realize you were a willing partner in what was transpiring, until you threw yourself in the path of the whip to protect your lover and were struck by it across your hands." "That was regrettable," Lord Uppington said with a slight bow of the head toward Kate. "I would not knowingly have struck a woman." "I see," Kate said. "And in his testimony, my lord, did Josh mention the presence of a… er… lover?" "Unfortunately, the man does not have a clear mind at the best of times," Lord Barton said. "But his evidence was clear enough. I do not believe you can deny you were there, Mrs. Mannering. Would you care to show us your hands?" "Oh, yes," Kate said, nodding, a half-smile on her lips. "Certainly, my lord. And as you will see, I can no longer pretend that they were injured in a fall on the driveway. The marks are clearly the result of a cut with a whip. Lord Uppington's whip, as he says." "Then you confess all?" Lord Barton said, getting to his feet and inspecting the hands that Kate held palm-up in front of her. "Oh, by no means," she said. "But I do not believe this is a trial, is it? It is a sentencing. I have nothing more to say. Except perhaps to ask how my phantom lover inflicted such very real punishment on Lord Uppington's face." "A tone of defiance and sarcasm hardly becomes you, Mrs. Mannering," the earl said severely. "Lord Uppington, still believing that you were perhaps an innocent victim, went to find your lover last night in order to punish him as he deserved. The coward was waiting for him but had two accomplices in hiding who held him while he was beaten senseless. Is this the type of man with whom you choose to consort on my property and on the time for which my daughter is paying you, Mrs. Mannering?" "If there only were such a man," Kate said, looking the earl calmly in the eye, "I should be delighted to meet him and thank him in person, my lord." "You see?" Lord Uppington said, wincing as he moved his lips. "She is not at all the sort of companion you would wish for your daughter, Barton, or me for my intended bride. I hope, however, that you will give her letters of recommendation before you cast her off. I understand that she is impoverished and I would not wish the woman permanent harm. Only keep her away from Lady Thelma." "But Kate says it is not true, Papa," Lady Thelma said timidly.

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"Do you call Lord Uppington a liar then?" Lord Barton almost barked at her, his brows drawn together in a heavy frown. "You heard that Pickering fellow. You have seen her hands. You see his lordship's face." Kate stood straight and apparently relaxed and said nothing. "I am disappointed in your moral weakness, Mrs.Mannering," the earl said, turning and looking gravely at her, "and in your denials and defiant attitude. It is true that you are my daughter's employee, but Lady Thelma is a minor and must abide by my decisions. I cannot have you remain here to contaminate her by your influence. I do not wish to be overharsh. You have conducted yourself with proper decorum here at the house. I will give you a week in which to gather your belongings and make arrangements to go wherever you will. But the day after the ball, you will leave, Mrs. Mannering. Neither Lady Thelma nor I will provide you with letters of reference, of course. You may leave." "Thank you, my lord," Kate said. "May I ask what Josh's sentence is to be?" "I have never been happy with his presence at the lodge, where visitors may see him," Lord Barton said. "I have sent notice to the Pickerings that they are to leave Barton and find employment elsewhere by the end of the month. Again I have been merciful, taking into account the state of the son's mind. I could have had him charged with assault. Good day, Mrs. Mannering." "Good day, my lord," Kate said, and let herself quietly out of the cabinet. She ran along to her own room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Sir Harry was playing a game of billiards with Lord Stoughton. He had lingered longer than usual in the breakfast room in the hope of seeing Kate and assuring himself that she was recovering from her ordeal of the day before. He had also hoped for a private word with her in order to convince her that she must report to the earl what had happened. No lady, employed or otherwise, should have to live in terror of such assaults as Uppington had been guilty of in the last two weeks. But she had not put in an appearance. He had agreed with some reluctance to play billiards. Both the earl and the marquess were upstairs with Thelma, apparently. Probably making marriage arrangements. Poor girl. She was another reason Katherine should tell of her experiences. Nicholas did not have a great deal of love for Clive Seyton, but he bore the son and daughter no ill will. The girl lacked character, but she seemed good-natured enough. He would not wish to see her consigned to Uppington's tender care for life. Of course, if the earl only made the expected trip to France, with the anticipated results, he supposed that Thelma would be saved from the marriage. Uppington, he gathered, was somewhat short of money and must marry a wealthy woman. Nicholas was not too worried as he played, however. Dalrymple and several of the servants had been alerted to watching Lord Barton's movements, though it was very unlikely that he would leave for France before the house party came to an end. A certain footman who, being the same age as Nicholas, had always been something of a friend, had also been assigned the task only that morning of knowing the whereabouts of the Marquess of Uppington at all times. Not that that gentleman was likely to pose a problem today, Nicholas thought with grim satisfaction. "Tate, whatever happened to your hands?" Lord Stoughton asked curiously as Nicholas stretched one

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hand along the billiard cue. "Ah." Sir Harry straightened up and held up both hands, the backs facing him. He sighed. "Most unbecoming, are they not, dear chap? I had hoped the lace of my cuffs would cover the damage, but I see my knuckles are red and raw for all to see. My manicurist would have an apoplexy. I had one of my sleepless nights and took myself off early this morning to examine that hermit's cave again. I slipped on the way down and made the mistake of trying to save myself with my hands. It would have been better to sacrifice a pair of breeches, would it not? Careless of me, and quite mortifying to have to admit to, I must say. I had thought of making up some story, but usually the truth slips out." He resumed the game, Lord Stoughton, Mr. Moreton, and Sir Peregrine Lacey having all commiserated on the bruised state of his hands. He wondered if any of them would eventually make the connection between Uppington's face and his knuckles. And Katherine's hands, for that matter. He had heard Uppington's story already. Nicholas had told the marquess, of course, the previous night, when he left him semiconscious north of the house, that he might tell what story he wished to account for his appearance, since Sir Harry would not tell the truth. It was enough for him that punishment had been administered. No, not enough. He would have preferred to carry out his earlier threat to kill Uppington for what he had done, but that had been a rash threat. Of course he could not kill the man. He could never knowingly kill anyone. But a broken nose and probably a few broken ribs too was a marginally satisfying revenge. Uppington's story had been quite absurd, though the other occupants of the breakfast room to whom he had been telling it when Sir Harry walked in had seemed to accept it. Nicholas had been hard put to it to contain his glee when he saw Uppington's face in the light of day. His appearance certainly lent credence to his story. He had gone for a ride the previous night, he had said, after everyone retired. He had felt like some air before going to bed. He had ridden along the clifftop, then tethered his horse so that he could walk a little. Three thugs had suddenly set upon him. He had fought valiantly for perhaps a few minutes, but they had overpowered him and two of them had held him while the other beat him senseless. They had stolen a watch and a diamond pin. Fortunately he had no money on his person. Uppington had become something of a hero. The thugs must be part of the smuggler gang for whom the coast guard had been searching, everyone had agreed. They did not all approve of the marquess's decision not to report the assault and theft. But what was the point? he had asked. It had been dark. He had not had a good look at any of his assailants. He would merely make a fool of himself if he tried to find them and bring them to justice. Sir Harry had drunk his coffee and contributed little to the conversation beyond remarking that a raw beefsteak might reduce the swelling in the worse eye, though it might be indistinguishable from the rest of the marquess's face when applied. He had gone to Uppington's room the night before after everyone had retired. He had not knocked on the door. He had told the upstairs maid that she might leave and find herself another bedfellow for the night, and waited for her to dress herself hastily and slip from the room. She had always been reasonably faithful to the second footman in the days when there were few visitors at the Abbey, he had mused. Then he had given Uppington the choice of having his cork drawn right there within the hearing of everyone in the house or of having it done outside where they could depend upon a little more privacy. Uppington had chosen the garden. Nicholas had not expected it to be so easy. It had been almost disappointing, in fact. The large frame of the marquess hid a soft, pampered, and unfit body. He himself had sustained no injury beyond one cut on

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the inside of his lip and painfully raw knuckles from prolonged contact with Uppington's body, notably his face. Fortunately the man had been too stupid or too proud or too dazed to go down easily. Even when the woman one loved had been cut with a whip and sexually threatened, it was difficult to overcome one's sense of honor and continue to pound a man once he had measured his length on the ground, Nicholas felt. On the other hand, he had no compunctions about making meat of that arrogant face as long as it was above the level of his own shoulders, even after he realized that the sense had gone from the puffed-up eyes. He had felt quite regretful when Uppington's legs had finally done him the favor of buckling under him. The punishment was not sufficient, of course. He would have liked to order Uppington from the house before morning. Unfortunately it could not be done. Although he finally had hopes that one day he would be master of Barton, at present he had no power there whatsoever. And unless Katherine chose to make a complaint, he had no right to make public what had happened earlier in the day. He did not think Uppington would tell the true story. It seemed almost unimaginable that the marquess would stay after sustaining a beating whose effects could not very well be concealed. But Nicholas had not been surprised that he had chosen to stay. Lady Thelma was at the present a very lucrative prize. So nothing essential was changed that morning, Nicholas thought, straightening up and relinquishing to Stoughton his place at the billiard table. Beyond knowing that his opponent of the night before had been serious when he had told him to stay away from Katherine, Uppington was still largely free to pursue his desires. Nicholas even doubted if the man really still desired Kate. It was far more likely that his pride demanded that he possess her at least once. There was certainly no guarantee that he would now stay away from her. And so, Nicholas thought, he must continue to keep an eye on the marquess during the idle, frustrating days while he waited for Barton to make his move. And that probably would not be until all the guests had left. He would be forced to move back to Evans' cottage and rely on the efficiency of his spies. But the earl would not delay much longer than that. He believed that Nicholas was going to France himself within a month of writing the letter to Dalrymple. Sir Harry sauntered back to the table and considered his next shot with half-closed eyes and languid manner. Then a vivid mental image of the soft white skin of Kate's palms scored across with red lines sent him to bending over the table, his teeth firmly clamped together.

Lady Thelma sought out Kate in her dressing room after luncheon. Kate had gone downstairs for that meal, but she had been careful to sit between Sir Peregrine and Lord Toucher and to retreat to her room as soon as luncheon was over. "Kate," Lady Thelma said earnestly, rushing across the dressing room to hug her companion, "I do believe you, you know. I do not for a moment believe the story told by Lord Uppington. Please tell me what really happened." Kate smiled wearily. "Thank you," she said. "No, of course his story is not true. The marquess has been trying to seduce me ever since he arrived here. By yesterday he had become somewhat impatient and tried to frighten me with his riding whip. Josh Pickering came along when I screamed, but I somehow succeeded in catching the whip across my hands." Lady Thelma's eyes were wide with horror. "Oh," she said. "Why did you not tell Papa, Kate? He would have Lord Uppington thrown out of here and perhaps even have had him sent to jail."

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"I am afraid you do not understand the ways of the world," Kate said. "The truth would not be accepted, you know, even if I bothered to state it. It just is not done to believe evil of a peer of the realm. One might believe him guilty of excesses of gambling or womanizing or such, but not of anything openly vicious or criminal. Lesser persons become liars when they suggest such a thing." She did not add that a father trying to negotiate an advantageous match for his daughter would be even less likely to believe an unsavory truth about his future son-in-law. "About your dismissal, Kate," Lady Thelma said, seating herself sideways on the chair before the desk. "I cannot do anything to prevent it, you know. But it does not matter. Sidney and I are going to elope during the night of the ball. It seems the best time. We will not be missed until at least noon on the following day. There will be so much confusion and we will not be expected to rise much before then. You will come with us. I am afraid that we may not be able to continue paying your salary, Kate dear, as we will not have much money to live on without my dowry. But you may have a home with us for as long as you wish. Sidney agrees with me on that. And we will both give you a reference when you try to find other employment." "I truly wish you would not," Kate said. "Elope, I mean. But the decision must be yours. And of course I will come with you to add some measure of respectability until you are married. But only until then, Lady Thelma. I am not destitute. I have a family who are fond of me and will gladly take me in." Lady Thelma wanted Kate to join a group of the young people on a drive to the harbor, but Kate declined. She no longer felt bound by her employment, and she was sure that Thelma stood in no danger from Lord Uppington, especially when they would be part of a larger group. She used as an excuse her unwillingness to be in company with the marquess, who was, surprisingly, to be one of the party. Kate had not thought he would wish to show his face beyond the confines of the house. Kate watched the party leave from the drawing-room window. She wanted to be very sure that Lord Uppington was with them. She wondered about his face. Was it Sir Harry who had done it? It must be. No one else had known of her misfortune except Josh. Assuming, of course, that the punishment the marquess had taken was on her account. It must be, though. Why else would he have invented such vengeful lies that morning? She had been interestedtonote at luncheon that the official explanation of his pummeled appearance was somewhat different from the one he had given Lord Barton and Lady Thelma. Would Sir Harry have done such a thing for her? Thinking of him as he usually appeared—bored, indolent, cynical—made such an idea seem ludicrous. But it must be so. She had seen startling evidence during the boating party that he was concerned for her safety and even prepared to defend her if necessary. And to comfort her! And yesterday afternoon, now that she could look back on it without the cloud of pain and exhaustion through which she had viewed events at the time, he had been quite different from his normal self. "Where have you been?" he had asked as he hurried toward her across the terrace. As if he had been hurrying in search of her. And perhaps it really was so. He had said later, had he not, that the others had not returned from the walk to the hill? But he had been part of that group. And so had Lord Uppington. Sir Harry had shown definite concern for her. He had looked at her hands. He had unbuttoned her dress-embarrassing memory—and looked at her back. And there had been almost none of his customary drawling and sneering except at the end. He had said something that had almost got her bristling—she could not remember what. He had been incredibly gentle. Audrey, later, had hurt her considerably when straightening out her fingers to tend her palms. Sir Harry had not. And good heavens, he had kissed her.

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Very briefly and dispassionately, it was true. But tenderly, almost as if he cared! And he did care, she told herself with a frown of puzzlement. Perhaps he was a man who disliked to see his inferiors mistreated. She would not have expected it of such a seemingly toplofty man, but perhaps it was true. He had spoken to Josh as if he knew him. And Josh had grinned and nodded at him as if they were friends. She would have expected Sir Harry Tate to look upon Josh as he would an insect beneath his boot. It was all very puzzling. Either she had misjudged the man dreadfully at the start or she was being misled now. But if he really had given Lord Uppington that beating, he must care. Good heavens, any man would have to be almost beside himself with fury to do that to another man's face. She would not have thought Sir Harry capable of the energy to do half that damage. The strength, yes. Her early impression that he was a pampered aristocrat: had been reversed some time ago. She had been against that body more than once, and there was nothing soft about its muscles, from broad shoulders to muscled thighs. What a mystery the man was. Kate knew one thing about him, though. She had discovered it when his lips had met hers for the briefest of moments the day before, despite the confusion of her mind. She loved him. She was notinlove with him. Not in the way she had fallen in love with Nicholas Seyton such a short time before. That had been all starry-eyed excitement and physical aching. She loved Sir Harry. And she was not quite sure what she meant by that. There was a great deal about him that infuriated her. And there was more that mystified her. But there was a strain of gentleness and honor and trustworthiness beneath all those obnoxious qualities. She could sense it. She was sure she was not wrong. She wasinlove with him as well, of course. It seemed thoroughly fickle to fall in love with a man a mere two weeks after doing the same thing with someone else. But it had happened, for all that, and for all that she still felt a hurt kind of love for Nicholas. She wanted to go to bed with Sir Harry. Making love had been wonderful with Nicholas, with whom she had only beeninlove. She wanted to discover how much more glorious it would be with Sir Harry, whom she loved. And it would be good. She found his body and his touch every bit as exciting as she had found Nicholas. In fact, physically, she found it somewhat difficult to distinguish the two men in her mind. Kate sighed. How foolish she was! She liked to think of herself as a strong person and yet she seemed to have a gift for bringing pain upon herself. She had agreed to marry Giles, thinking that life with a dashing gentleman farmer would bring her independence and respect. She had found herself shackled to a self-indulgent spendthrift to whom she had not been a person at all. She had fallen in love with Nicholas Seyton, expecting adventure and a close physical relationship. He had abandoned her the day after she had allowed him to take possession of her body. And now she loved Sir Harry Tate, expecting… nothing really. There was nothing to expect. He had tried to protect her from seduction. He had fought for her honor. And he had a taste for docile, feminine, dark-haired beauties. How disgusted he would be if he knew that his kindness to her had made her dream of a life in his arms and with his stimulating, if not always comforting, company. She must not love him. Life was painful enough at present without adding the hopelessness of an unrequited love. She was still recovering from Nicholas' defection. She was still facing dismissal from her employment and the necessity of following a misguided girl to Scotland for a marriage over the anvil. There was all the uncertainty of the future, in which she would have to seek employment with only a recommendation from an. eighteen-year-old girl to help her. And was she to carry with her too the memory of a man of so many dimensions that one felt one would never quite know him? Yes, unfortunately she was. Kate realized suddenly that she had been staring down an empty driveway for several minutes. If she were going to accomplish the errand she had set herself for that afternoon, it would be as well to get

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busy. She had realized that morning, when she had recovered somewhat from her shock and pulled out again the letter from Lord Lindstrom, that trying to find out more definite information before communicating what she knew to Nicholas was almost impossible from where she was. The fact that she must leave within the next week made it quite impossible. The best she could do was to send him that letter and let him pursue the matter himself if he so chose. That decision had raised another problem, though, one she felt foolish not to have foreseen. How was she to send the letter to Nicholas? Was she to address it to Mr. Nicholas Seyton, Shropshire, England? And expect it to reach him? Of course, she did not know his address. And how was she to find it? She could hardly ask Lord Barton for it, and she could think of no story that would explain to Mr. Dalrymple why she desired the information. The servants? Despite what Nicholas had said about them, Kate had never quite trusted any of them except the Pickerings. And they could not read. Was it likely that they would have the address she needed? She would ask, but she did not expect any success. She had decided that she must go back to the Evanses' cottage. Surely Nicholas would have left his direction with them. She was going to play it safe this afternoon even though she had seen Lord Uppington leave with her own eyes. She was going to take Audrey with her and have the gig prepared for them. When they reached the lodge, Kate had the coachman wait while she ran inside. She stopped in her tracks when she knocked lightly on the open door and peered into the darkness within. Sir Harry was sitting there looking quite at home, his legs stretched out before him, a tankard of something on the table beside his elbow. His eyelids came down to half-cover his eyes, and his hand sought and found the ribbon of his quizzing glass when he saw Kate. "Ah, Mrs. Mannering," he said in such a heavy drawl that his behavior of the afternoon before suddenly seemed like a dream that had played her false, "have you come to sample Pickering's excellent ale too?" "I… I came to see Josh," she said, "and to thank him for his assistance yesterday afternoon." "He is out back, missus," Mrs. Pickering said, standing behind Sir Harry and bobbing a curtsy. She looked as if she had been crying, Kate noted in the half-light. "Thank you," she said, and turned to go. "Are you planning to go any farther, Mrs. Mannering?" Sir Harry asked. "If so, perhaps I shall impose my company on you. I despise unnecessary exercise, but sometimes staying still is quite as tedious." He yawned. "Thank you, sir," she said, "but I have Audrey with me in the gig and Jim to drive us. You need not feel obliged to exert yourself." "Ah," he said with a dismissive gesture, "no trouble at all, ma'am. If we are to ride in the gig, the outing suddenly seems the more attractive. You run along and have your word with Josh. I shall entertain Audrey while she waits." Chapter Twenty

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"My dear Mrs. Mannering," Sir Harry said, climbing out of the gig in order to hand her in, "Audrey and I have already been from A to Z through all the possible topics of conversation and were about to start again. Jim has declined to be drawn in at all. I thought perhaps you had left us to our own devices and gone walking alone." "No," she said, "I was merely talking to Josh. And I would apologize for keeping you waiting, but I did not invite you to come along, sir. On this occasion your boredom has been of your own choosing." She placed a hand in his and stepped nimbly into the gig. "Now, did I say I had been bored?" he asked. "Did I say that? Audrey? Jim? You malign me, ma'am, and before witnesses too." "Then you may continue with your conversation," Kate said lightly, "while I commune with my own thoughts." In truth, she wanted nothing better. Her thoughts were buzzing with such excitement that she thought she would probably give herself a headache. She did think fleetingly of telling Jim to turn the gig back to the house so that she could rush to her room and be alone with her new discovery. But now, of course, it was even more imperative that she make that visit to the Evanses' cottage. "Now, that is definitely not fair," Sir Harry said, wondering where on earth they were going when the gig turned away from the direction of the village. "I voluntarily left a whole inch of excellent ale on the table at the lodge so that I might offer you the pleasure of my superior conversation, ma'am, and you quite blatantly declare that you find your own thoughts more stimulating. Was ever man more openly insulted, Audrey?" The maid giggled and blushed. It was really most awkward that he had insisted on coming along, Kate thought. How was she to explain the visit she was about to make? But she mentally shrugged off the problem. She did not have to offer any explanation at all. It was none of his business whom she visited. She also forced the new excitement to the back of her mind. She would wait until she returned home. She resigned herself to an exchange of light banter with Sir Harry. She must consciously enjoy it too. There would be only a few days more and then she would never see him again. What the devil? Nicholas thought as the gig drew to a halt outside Evans' cottage. Jim half-turned in his seat and gave him a conscious glance, as did Audrey from the seat opposite. But he showed no reaction beyond raising his quizzing glass to his eye and surveying the cottage languidly through it. "Quite a pleasant retreat," he commented. "Are you thinking of buying it, Mrs. Mannering?" "Not by any means," she said. "I must pay a call inside, that is all. I shall be no longer than a few minutes. I hope you do not mind waiting, sir." Sir Harry sighed. "I suppose waiting is preferable to walking back home," he said. "I imagine the distance must be all of three miles, if not more. Well, Jim, we must have your contribution to the conversation this time or Audrey and I will suffer the severe embarrassment of having to stare dumbly at each other, our jaws hanging. Ma'am?" This last was said to Kate as he offered his hand to help her

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descend from the gig. "Now, does either of you know," Nicholas Seyton asked a couple of minutes later, after Kate had disappeared inside the cottage, "why Mrs. Mannering has seen fit to pay a call on Russ Evans this afternoon?" "Not I, Master Nick," Jim said fervently. "I just drives where I am told to go." "No, sir," Audrey said. "Hm," Nicholas commented, giving his quizzing glass one energetic twirl on its ribbon before letting it drop from his hand, "perhaps she is considering applying for the position of apprentice smuggler." Jim guffawed and Audrey giggled. Nicholas lapsed into silence. But tease his mind as he would, he could not fathom the mystery. He would have to satisfy his curiosity by coming back and interrogating Evans later, he supposed. Meanwhile Kate was experiencing one more frustration, Mrs. Evans had answered the door and peered out curiously at the gentleman and maid waiting in the gig at the gate. She had invited Kate inside, where her husband immediately scrambled to his feet from his chair at the kitchen table. When Kate asked them if they knew how to reach Nicholas Seyton, they stared at her with gaping mouths as if she had two heads, she thought. Persistence drew no better answer. No, he had not left any address with them. And no, he had not told them how they might contact him if the need arose. And no again, they did not know who might know Mr. Seyton's direction. Sir Harry was standing beside the gig when Russ Evans showed Kate to the door and accompanied her across the cobbled yard to the gate. Sir Harry nodded. "Good day," he said. "You are situated in a fine spot here." "Yes indeed, sir," Evans said, bobbing his head and looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Did I not encounter you on another occasion?" Sir Harry asked. "One evening when I had been led to believe that Mr. Nicholas Seyton was residing here?" "Ah, yes, sir," Evans said. "I thought I knew you, sir." "And do you know Jim and Audrey?" Sir Harry continued. "I am sure they would not refuse a cup of tea, or perhaps something stronger for Jim, while Mrs. Mannering and I stretch our legs in a turn along the clifftop." It had really been very nicely done, Kate thought a few minutes later when she was being led away on Sir Harry's arm, Jim and Audrey having disappeared inside the cottage. It was a blessing that she did not have anything to fear from this particular man. As it was, she was quite delighted to spend an unexpected few minutes alone with him. "Do you have any fear of heights, Mrs. Mannering?" he asked. "If so, a cliff walk will not be the most comfortable of experiences for you. Just say the word and we shall find a cliff path to take us down to one of the beaches." "I love it up here," Kate said, turning her face into the brisk sea breeze. "I do believe I would have been a sailor if I had been a man. And do look at the sun sparkling on the water."

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"And do look at the height of the breakers down there," he said, taking her close to the edge of the grass, close to the sheer drop to rocks below. "I fear you would have no energy to watch sparkling water if you were a sailor today, ma'am. You would be too busy being seasick over the side of the boat." Kate laughed. "What?" he said, turning to look down at her. "No sharp retort to that, Mrs. Mannering? I must be losing my touch. How are your hands today? I notice that you have them safely hidden inside gloves." "Thank you," she said, embarrassed, "better." "You did not speak to Lord Barton?" he asked. "No," Kate said. "I think it better to let the matter drop." "Did you know that the Pickerings have been ordered to leave?" he asked. "Yes," she said hesitantly. "Yes. That is the worst result of all this. I do not know what they will do." "Neither do they," he said dryly. "Do you realize that you could prevent it?" She glanced at him quickly. "Oh, no," she said, "I think not. My story would not be believed." "With whip marks to prove it?" he asked. That sneer she had not heard in his voice for a few days was back. "You would not even try, Mrs. Mannering, for the sake of servants?" "It would not help," she said, turning her face to look out to sea. She could not tell him what had happened that morning. So many times in the last couple of weeks he had seen her at her weakest. Must she admit now that she had stood meekly in the earl's cabinet that morning listening to the accusations of two men and realizing all the futility of trying to defend herself?. Her own weakness, her inability to control her own life appalled her. She would not confide in this man and have more of hispity. She wanted his admiration, his love. "I see," he said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "The Pickerings are to be sacrificed, then. They do not matter, of course. They are only servants. And Josh matters even less. He is merely an imbecile who does not need to be treated as a human being." Kate jerked her hand from his arm and rounded on him. "Don't say that," she said, "and don't imply that that is my attitude. Josh may not have all his wits about him, but he is twice the man that you are or Lord Uppington or… or… He is dear and sweet and loyal, and he saved me perhaps from rape yesterday. Do you think I would willingly repay him by having him and his parents thrown out? Do you think I have a choice? Do not talk to me of servants, sir. I know all about being a servant. You have no idea, you with your life of aristocratic privilege." "Well, well," he said, infuriatingly cool, one eyebrow raised, his eyelids half-covering his eyes, "It seems that Mrs. Mannering still has feelings. I thought maybe the whip had deadened them, my dear ma'am." "Don't blame me," Kate said, wincing as she tried to clench her fists, still unable to get herself under control. "Don't blame me that the Pickerings have to go. It is not my fault. Not in any way. Ohhh! Do you think I have not blamed and blamed myself since I heard this morning? Of course it is my fault. It is my

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fault that I have been making eyes at Lord Uppington since he came here, leading him on to madness. It is my fault that he has been pursuing me with such persistence. It is my fault that we chose that particular spot yesterday for our lovemaking, within earshot of the lodge. And it is my fault that I screamed so loudly with ecstasy that Josh came running. Of course it is my fault. If I had not taken this employment, all this would not have happened and Lord Barton would not have decided to get rid of the Pickerings. I know it is my fault. I do not need you to arouse my conscience. And I amnotyour dear ma'am." "And those are not tears in your eyes either," he said, his own eyes holding hers. "Yes, they are," she said defiantly, turning from him and beginning to walk again along the clifftop. The wind felt good in her hot face. "But they are tears of anger, not of weakness." "Your greatest fear is of appearing weak, is it not, Kate?" he asked, walking beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. "Would it be so weak to admit to Lord Barton that you have become the target of the vicious attentions of a rake?" "No," she said with a bitter laugh, "not weak, sir. Stupid. The man is a marquess. And he wishes to marry Lady Thelma, daughter of a mere earl. Do you seriously imagine that Lord Barton would pay any attention to my complaints?" He shrugged. "Perhaps not," he said. Kate stopped again suddenly. "Did you do that to Lord Uppington's face?" she asked. "The slight rearrangement of features?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "Yes, actually. I rather admire my own artistry now that I have had a chance to have a good look at it today. Do you?" "Why?" she asked. "Why? Because the new features are so much more in keeping with his character," he said. "I meant why did you do it?" Kate said. "Ah. Well, Kate, I have always felt that I should have been born in the Dark Ages, when I might have been a knight-errant, traveling from one distressed damsel to another, rescuing them from the jaws of dragons and such. I think such a calling would have suited me to perfection. Alas, we have no dragons in our age. Only Uppingtons. We live in a very dull world, would you not agree with me?" "You fought him for me?" Kate asked. "Did I?" he said, looking across at her in some surprise. "Yes, I suppose in one way I did. I happen not to think it sporting of a strapping great fellow to take a whip to a little dab of a female, no matter how strong a knee or sharp a tongue she might possess. But I believe I fought him more for me, my dear. It gave me enormous satisfaction to do so, you know." "And you did not have any other men hold him while you hit him?" Kate asked. "The mythical thugs?" he asked. "I am mortally offended that you would even suggest such a thing, my dear Mrs. Mannering—pardon me: mynotdear Mrs. Mannering. Do I appear too weak to have accomplished the task single-handed? I am far too selfish to have done such a cowardly thing, besides. I would not have had nearly the pleasure out of pummeling a victim who had no chance to defend himself."

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"Thank you," Kate said. "But you need not have done that for me, you know." "No, I know," he agreed. "You would have far preferred to do it yourself. Would it be any comfort to you if I assured you that the single blow to the, ah, vitals that you delivered was probably far and away more painful than all the dozen or two that I delivered to the head? I must confess that I did not have your ruthless courage, my dear Kate." "I shall be leaving here the day after the ball," Kate said abruptly. "Ah," he said. "You are going to quit the field and admit yourself vanquished? I thought you had more backbone, ma'am." "I shall return to my father's home or to my aunt in London," she said, "and try again. Perhaps next time I can find some quiet employment as a governess." "And maybe your employer's good wife will find you a disguise that will more effectively mask your beauty than this hideous gray does too, Mrs. Mannering," said Sir Harry. "It is useless to run, my dear, for wherever you go, your beautiful and desirable self runs too." "It is not fair," Kate protested, turning away from him and gazing out over the rough, sparkling waves below. "Plain and ugly wenches doubtless are in the habit of uttering exactly the same sentiments," he said. "Life, Mrs. Mannering. Life. Shall we stroll back? If Jim is as talkative with the Evanses as he was with me earlier, poor Audrey had probably been milked dry of all conversation long since." Kate took his offered arm and they walked back in silence.

And now, Kate thought, flinging herself facedown across her bed and propping her chin on her hands, not even noticing any pain. Now. It was just too exciting to be thought of all at once. She must let it flow gradually into her mind. Josh. Josh sitting on a fence at the back of the lodge, swinging his legs disconsolately, and not getting down or looking up even when she appeared around the side of the house and called his name. Josh looking up eventually with tearful eyes and pouting mouth. Poor Josh. Knowing that something was very wrong. Knowing that they were going to have to leave, when he had spent all his life at the lodge of Barton Abbey and when his parents were far too old to seek employment elsewhere. And knowing that somehow it was all on account of him. Not that anyone had said so or blamed him. But there had been that bad man and the new man he had known long ago and must now call earl. And there was the knowledge, clear even to a mind not of the swiftest, that there was a link between events. He had tried to tell about the bad man and the young, pretty missus, but the bad man had said yes and gone on talking about another bad man. But Josh had not seen that one. They had said to go and then his father had said they must leave. Josh rocking back and forth on the fence, crying finally, telling Kate that he could not go till Master Jonathan came. Master Jonathan would not know where to find him.

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"Do you mean Master Nicholas?" she had asked gently. No, Master Nick knew where to find him. Master Nick hadn't told him he would come back. "Did Master Jonathan tell you that, Josh?" she had asked. Yes, Master Jonathan had said to wait, he would be back. Kate crossed to the fence and rested a hand on Josh's shoulder. "Did you not know that he cannot come back, Josh?" she asked. "He has gone forever. He would come if he could. I am sure he loved you. But you have other friends. Master Nicholas will come to see you when he returns. And he likes you a great deal. So do I." "Master Jonathan will come," Josh said, looking up at her at last, anxiety in his eyes. "He's not angry. Josh didn't tell no one or show no one. Josh kept it safe for Master Jonathan." Kate went very still. "Did you, Josh?" she asked. "But of course you would. I know that you are to be trusted. And you have an excellent memory. Is it a package you have?" Josh swallowed noticeably. "Josh not tell anyone," he said. "Master Jonathan said not to tell no one." Kate smiled gently. "What a very loyal friend you are," she said. "But you know, Josh, when someone goes forever, like Master Jonathan has done, someone else takes his place. Master Nicholas is his son, whom he would have loved dearly if he had known him. You like him. And you know he likes you. Will you let me send the package to him?" Josh shook his head. "Josh don't know nothing," he said. "If Master Nicholas comes here and asks you for it, Josh," Kate said, "will you give it to him? He will be so happy to have something of his father's, and he will be so pleased with you for guarding it loyalty all these years. Will you?" Josh looked frightened. "Master Nick?" he said. "He will come and ask me?" Kate nodded. "You go tell him now," he said. "Josh wait." She smiled. "It will take a while," she said. "I shall find him and tell him how carefully you have guarded his father's package. In the meantime, Josh, you must guard it awhile longer. You are a good and loyal friend and I love you." She stretched up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. And with that conversation ringing in her ears she had had to walk back around the house and be sociable—or it least brightly insulting—to Sir Harry Tate. Even her new knowledge that she loved him had taken second place to her excitement. The marriage papers. They must be the marriage papers. Did it not make sense that Viscount Stoughton would have left them at the lodge with someone he knew to be so fiercely loyal? Josh had certainly proved over the years that Nicholas' father had made a wise choice. And now she had enough to tell Nicholas Seyton to make him suffer guilt pangs about her for the rest of

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his life. Good! She only wished she could witness some of his embarrassment and remorse. Kate buried her face in her arms and let excitement wash over her. But soon enough her chin was on her hands again, a crease between her brows. How on earth was she to send Lord Lindstrom's letter to Nicholas and tell him to come with all haste for Josh's package when she did not know where in Shropshire he lived? It seemed incredible that no one knew, none of his old friends. The fact that he had left his address with none of them certainly seemed to prove that he really had given up, that he expected no further evidence about his legitimacy to be found. There was only one thing to do. She must ask Mr. Dalrymple. He was a kindly man and he must be a good friend if Nicholas had written to him at the Abbey. It was not going to be easy to ask. How could she explain wanting the address of a man she was supposed never to have met? But she must think of something, and soon. The Pickerings were to leave at the end of the month. That gave them no more than ten days after her own departure. If Nicholas arrived back after they had left, he might find it difficult to locate them. Anyway, Kate thought, there were the Pickerings to think of too. She had in truth been feeling dreadfully guilty about her part in bringing about their dismissal. Sir Harry's scathing accusations had made her feel even worse. She knew that there was no chance whatsoever that they would find employment elsewhere. Yet Lord Barton had said nothing about a pension for them. If Nicholas could only come before the end of the month, and if those papers did indeed prove that his father and mother had been legally married, then they would not have to leave. Lord Barton would have no more power to dismiss them. There were five more days until the ball, she thought. Six before she must leave. Now, of course, she had no more reason to stay. She had discovered what she had hoped to find. She could write her letter and leave. But no, of course she could not, she remembered with a sigh. She had to stay in order to accompany Lady Thelma on her elopement. Foolish girl! Kate pushed herself to her knees and climbed down from the bed. She would not leave before she had to anyway, would she? Not when she had five more days out of the whole of the rest of her life in which to see Sir Harry and to be stimulated and exasperated by his conversation. It was going to be hard to return to Aunt Priscilla and look about her for new employment, knowing that all the men she would see and know for the rest of her life were going to appear depressingly ordinary when set beside the memory of him. Or even when set beside the memory of Nicholas Seyton, for that matter. She had, in fact, been extraordinarily fortunate since her arrival at Barton Abbey. She could look on the gloomy side of things, of course, and think she had been quite dreadfully luckless. She had fallen in love with a faithless adventurer, and then she had come to love a cynical, disapproving aristocrat who made no bones about admitting that she did not attract him at all. But she would never be sorry she had met either of them. Nicholas had taught her that she was capable of physical passion. He had taught her that the intimacy of man and woman could be pleasurable to both. And Sir Harry had stimulated her mind as well as her senses and had shown her that the complexities of human nature could be exciting, challenging. She would not be without either acquaintance. If she had not met these two men, she would still be judging the whole world of mankind by what she had experienced with Giles. And she would still be convinced that only by living a strictly independent life could she achieve any measure of contentment. She felt better able to turn outward with love and openness to the whole world, having known love with Nicholas and Sir Harry.

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So she would enjoy the five days, Kate decided, and leave at the end of them… with regrets, yes. There were going to be pain and emptiness to take with her. But on the whole she would have a renewed optimism about life despite her thought of a few minutes before. There would always be the Gileses and—far worse—the Uppingtons. And the world was filled with Thelmas. But there must also be numerous exciting, dynamic men and women to make life worth pursuing. In other words, she concluded, taking the pins from her hair and shaking out the heavy silver-blond locks in preparation for brushing them, life was what one made it. And she was certainly not going to spend her remaining years pining for two gentlemen who were clearly just not for her. She would find others—or one other, if she were fortunate. All she wanted was one. One man to love and to marry and to have children with. Those three experiences that she had shunned with distaste and distrust a mere few weeks before.

"She went to the Evanses to ask for my address in Shropshire," Nicholas repeated, absently patting the neck of the horse Jim was rubbing down in its stall. "That's what they said, Master Nick," Jim said. "I see." Nicholas lifted the other hand to scratch his head. What the devil? "Thank you, Jim." He wandered out of the stables and along the terrace toward the fountain. Now, why would Katherine Mannering be wanting to write to him? For personal reasons, perhaps? A love letter? More likely a letter that would rip up at him, if he knew the woman. And of course he would deserve every blistering word. In fact, it was just such anger and contempt he had meant, to provoke in her by apparently abandoning her without a word of farewell the day after they had shared such tender intimacy. But he could not imagine that she would write to him for any personal reason. She had far too much pride even to acknowledge his existence after the way he had treated her. There could be only one possible reason why she would wish to find him. She must have discovered something, either some other imagined danger to his person or some new information. It was unlikely that she would fear for his safety in Shropshire. And if there had been any plan to have him arrested there, for kidnapping or smuggling, then of course he would know about it too. What then? Had she discovered something new, turned up something in the library maybe? Nicholas sat on the high rim of the basin into which the fountain spilled its water, and held one hand to the spray. How frustrating not to be able to just go to her and ask her what she had to say to him. Was it important? he wondered. He supposed it must be if she was going to some pains to find his direction and if she was prepared to swallow her pride by writing to him. How very provoking! And of course none of the servants knew the address of his property in Shropshire. How was she coping with the frustration of not being able to discover what she sought? he wondered. How did he feel about her leaving? And only six days hence. In one way it would be a relief. He had wondered more than once what he would do if he had to leave suddenly in pursuit of Clive Seyton while both Katherine and Uppington were still at Barton. He might set all the servants of the estate to guarding her, but he would never quite trust that she would be safe. An absurdly conceited thought, of course. The

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day before, she would have been in a sorry case if Josh had not been close by. A great deal of good he had been doing her, tearing uphill to the hermit's cave, running so hard that he had felt he was going to lose the battle with his lungs to force enough oxygen into his system for survival. She would be safer away from Barton Abbey for the time being, he thought. But he must be sure to know where her aunt lived. And he must hope that new employment would not come her way too soon. Of course, if nothing came of his expected trip to France, he might never need to find her again. She would be better off unencumbered by a man whose accident of birth had set him in a type of no-man's-land, not of the gentry class, yet not of the lower classes either. Katherine was beautiful and spirited and intelligent. It was inconceivable to. believe that she would spend all her life in service. It would not take long for some gentleman to make her his bride. Someone who could give her the kind of life she deserved. But if he could only prove his point, find his mother, know himself legitimate, then he would not care about the earldom or even the possession of Barton. He would care only that he had a perfectly respectable name to offer his love. Six days, though! Nicholas got to his feet and wandered onto one of the gravel walks that would take him on a circuitous progress through the flowerbeds and ornamental bushes of the formal gardens. It was no time at all. He would not even be able to dine and dance with her on the night of the ball. He had already decided that he must have a severe case of exhaustion from insomnia on that day. He believed that his presence at Barton Abbey was an open secret throughout the neighborhood, but even so, he must be cautious. It was one thing for the servants to maintain the secret. Servants were bred up to discretion and intrigue. It was another thing to trust the gentry not to blurt out his real name for all to hear. And some of them might not take kindly to having to share a table with him. Besides, he imagined that at least the captain of the coast guard would have received an invitation, if not more of the soldiers. He must steer clear of them. So his time with Katherine was short. And he might never see her again after she left. He was rather surprised that she was leaving. It was true that the employment must not be very attractive to her. Lady Thelma was a rather lackluster character to be bound to as a companion. And of course Uppington's presence as the girl's suitor was a definite drawback. But he had not thought of Katherine as someone who gave up easily. Her experience of the afternoon before must have unnerved her to a sufficient degree that she had given her notice today. And who could blame her? Katherine Mannering was no virgin. She would even give her favors outside the marriage bed if sufficiently aroused, as he had once found to his intense pleasure. But he supposed that rape was no less of an ordeal for that reason. It was difficult, no doubt, for a man to realize just how deep a degradation it must be to have one's very body invaded against one's will. The fact he found most difficult to understand was her refusal to tell anyone of her ordeal. He had even been inclined to blame her before their spirited exchange on the clifftop a while before. How could she keep her mouth shut merely to save herself humiliation when a whole family would suffer the consequences for a lifetime? She could not know that he would send the Pickerings to his own home and find a place for them there, even if doing so would put a strain on his very limited resources. He had thought her selfish and unfeeling to treat thus the man who had come to her rescue the day before. But she was probably right. He had lived a sheltered existence, but even he should know enough of the ways of the world to perceive that she was right. He had known for most of his life that the chief virtue a man could possess was social rank, and the greatest vice poverty or illegitimacy or a name of no significance whatsoever. If the choice ever had to be made between believing a marquess and believing

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the impoverished and employed widow of an obscure gentleman, well… Obviously there would be no choice at all. Yes, Katherine was right. She might stilt have tried, for her own peace of mind, to be able to tell herself that she had done all she could for the Pickerings. But he could not blame her for keeping quiet. She was, when all was said and done, human. He was something in the habit of setting her on a pedestal, expecting extreme courage from her at every turn. Six days. Not even. She was leaving on the sixth. He could not even bear the thought any longer of trying to make her hate him. There was no point in that part of the deception any longer. Yet he must not goto the other extreme either. He must not see her hurt again. He had done that once to her already. And once was too often. Nicholas sighed. If only there were not this infernal ball and house party. If only dive Seyton would get on his way to France so that at least something would be happening for a change. He was not made for a life of inaction. Chapter Twenty-One

Kate was sitting in Lady Thelma's dressing room, working at her embroidery. It was the afternoon of the dinner and ball and all the ladies had retired to their rooms for an extended rest before the exertions of the evening. But Lady Thelma did not wish to sleep, would not be able to if she tried, she had told Kate, though the latter had told her that she must certainly need the rest. Kate's case was different, of course. She did not have a ball to attend. The betrothal of Lady Thelma and Lord Uppington was indeed to be announced formally at the banquet. Thelma had never agreed to its happening, she had insisted to Kate. The marquess and her father merely took for granted that such was her desire. And of course she had not had the courage to tell them that she had no wish for such a marriage. But it would not matter. She was in no danger of having to marry Lord Uppington. By the time the night of the ball was over, she and Sidney Moreton would be well on their way to Scotland. Normally Kate would have pointed out all the unfairness of the girl's behavior. A public announcement was to be made one evening, and by the following morning the prospective bride would be eloping with another man. The scandal would bring dreadful embarrassment to both Lord Barton and the Marquess of Uppington. But under the circumstances Kate said not a word. Those two men, especially the marquess, deserved far more than mere embarrassment in their lives, she decided. The lovers and Kate would leave as soon as everyone was settled for the night after the ball was over. It seemed a dangerously late hour to begin such a journey, since balls had a habit of continuing through most of the night unless the host was unusually firm with his guests. But Thelma said that Mr. Moreton had insisted it was the best of all possible times. No one would rise early the next morning, and it would be assumed until afternoon, probably, that the two who had fled were merely sleeping off the effects of a strenuous night of dancing.

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Kate faced the elopement philosophically. She had to leave anyway, and she was already in disgrace. It mattered little to her that she would be creeping away in the dark instead of leaving in a more dignified manner the next morning. And she really did not feel she could do anything now to prevent the elopement. She had reasoned with her employer, but the girl was determined. And who was Kate to say that she was wrong? Thelma was extremely weak-willed. If she stayed, it was very possible that she would end up marrying the marquess. A life of social ostracism with her Mr. Moreton was probably preferable to such a life, Kate thought with a shudder. Besides, the past five days had been disappointing ones in several ways. Late in the afternoon after Kate had visited the Evanses' cottage, Lady Thelma had told her amidst a great deal of embarrassed stammering that for her remaining stay at the Abbey she would be expected to take her meals in her own room and remain there or working in the library for the rest of each day instead of mingling with the guests. Kate had felt a vexed sort of humiliation at the command. But she had stayed on for Lady Thelma's sake. The elopement itself she would countenance. But she would not see the girl undertake the long journey to Scotland without female companionship and the proper chaperonage. But the days had been irksome. Boredom had been the least of her worries, though there had been plenty of that. Sitting in her room or in Lady Thelma's and taking walks when she knew the guests absent did not help the days fly by. But there had been other results more bothersome than the boredom. In five days she had not set eyes on Mr. Dalrymple beyond one glimpse through her window as he rode away from the house with a group of others. She supposed that somehow or other she might have contrived a meeting. But it was very unlikely that she would see him alone. And the embarrassment of her request made her unusually timid. If Nicholas Seyton had never meant anything to her, perhaps she could ask a stranger for his address without a blush. But somehow it seemed that asking for such information would make it very obvious to Mr. Dalrymple that she and Nicholas had been lovers. Ridiculous, of course, she had told herself at least a dozen times over the previous five days. But she still hesitated, found excuses, assured herself that the time was inconvenient. When the time was right, she always told herself, she would dare Lord Barton's wrath and sally forth in search of Mr. Dalrymple. But time was running out. And what would she do if she had to leave the Abbey tonight without having discovered the address? It was very important that she get that letter on its way soon so that Nicholas could arrive back in time to get the papers from Josh and save the Pickerings from homelessness and starvation. The trouble was, Kate thought now as she stitched delicately at her embroidery, she was completely out of touch with what was going on in the house. All the ladies had retired to their rooms, Lady Thelma had said. But what about the gentlemen? Had they gone out? Were they too in their rooms? Were they engaged in some other activity in the house? There was no way of knowing beyond going on a search. And she would do that now if she had not turned craven in the last few days. She stitched on. Another very depressing result of her confinement to her own room and Lady Thelma's was that she had not seen Sir Harry in the last five days either, except on horseback with the same riding party of which Mr. Dalrymple had made one. It really did seem a hard fate to be cut off from his company when they had so little time left anyway. She would have so liked a few more chances to talk with him, perhaps walk with him. Even if the conversation consisted entirely of quarreling and insults. It was dreadfully frustrating to think of his being in the same house as she, yet totally beyond her reach. Perhaps it was just as well, she thought. Nothing could develop from the relationship, if their association

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could be dignified by that name. The more time she spent with him, the fonder she would grow of him, and the harder it would be to be without him after she left with Lady Thelma. The argument seemed curiously unconvincing, but she must keep telling herself that it was true nonetheless. One good result of having to keep to herself was that she had not had to fear running into that hateful worm the Marquess of Uppington. It had been relaxing for five days to know that she did not have to keep glancing over her shoulder lest he be creeping up on her. She could not remember fearing anyone as she had feared that man. She would have to remain hidden for only relatively few hours longer. And then she would be fleeing with the runaways and could forget the very existence of the Marquess of Uppington. Kate's needle remained suspended over her work for a moment as she frowned down at a quite unoffending silk anemone. He was not the reason why she had not ventured out in search of Mr. Dalrymple, was he? Was she frightened of running into the marquess? She had been telling herself that her reluctance was due to her desire not to be seen by Lord Barton. But why should she fear him? What could the man do to her there than he had done already? He could not dismiss her. He could not refuse to give her written recommendation. He had done both of those things already. Was it Lord Uppington? It was so very possible that while creeping around peering through doorways in search of the one man, she would actually find the marquess. And perhaps in a quiet part of the house where they would be suddenly alone together. Good gracious, Kate thought indignantly, threading her needle through the edge of the cloth and folding it up resolutely, itwasfear that was keeping her skulking upstairs. Cringing, feminine terror of a rake who could not even put up a decent fight against an indolent gentleman like Sir Harry. She was living in fear of a man who would resort to spite and lies in order to destroy his victims once his pride had been wounded. Fear the Marquess of Uppington? Never! "Lady Thelma," Kate said, getting to her feet, "you are tired despite your excitement. You have yawned twice within the last five minutes. You really must have some sleep. Tonight will be sleepless, and the next few days are like to be busy and tiring ones. I am going to leave you now." "I am sure you are right, Kate," Lady Thelma agreed, "though I swear I shall not sleep one wink. But I must not keep you from your bed. You must try to sleep too, you know." Kate strode along to her own room, feeling better than she had felt for days. She would show anyone who cared to watch how fearful she was, indeed. She dumped her work bag unceremoniously on the desk in her dressing room without bothering to put it away, turned to the pier glass to make sure she was fit to be seen belowstairs, and turned resolutely to leave. She did stop briefly beside the desk, though, hesitate, and slip something from inside her work bag into the pocket of her dress before whisking herself from the room and to the drawing room. She entered unannounced but found the room empty. The house was far from quiet, though, she discovered as she went downstairs. Footmen and maids seemed to be dashing in all directions, several of them laden with flowers. Doubtless all was being made ready for the evening festivities. Kate peered into the state dining room, more out of curiosity than an expectation of finding any of the gentleman there. The large epergnes of flowers and the sparking silver and crystal tempted her to linger, but she would not lose the momentum of her errand. She moved on to the salon, the library, the hall, and found no one. Mr. Moreton. and Lord Poole were in the billiard room, but there was no one else there. Kate murmured an

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apology and withdrew. How disappointing it was not to have seen Mr. Dalrymple after making such a determined effort to thumb her nose at her fear. "Have you see Mr. Dalrymple?" she asked the only footman she could see who was not rushing about on some errand. "I believe he went riding, ma'am, with Lord Stoughton and two other gentlemen," the young man answered with a bow. Bother, Kate thought, wandering to the open front doors. Now she would have to do this all over again. But this evening it would be out of the question, when everyone would be dressed for a grand occasion and there would be so many visitors wandering around. Why had she not mastered her fear before this? If only she had realized it was terror of the marquess that was keeping her in her room, perhaps she would have shamed herself into coming forth long before this. And then she turned her eyes skyward. She might have known! The Marquess of Uppington himself was climbing the curving steps that led down to the terrace. And he had seen her. Well, if she could not fulfill her errand with Mr. Dalrymple, Kate thought, at least she could redeem herself in her own eyes by not running from this confrontation. The marquess's face was still looking as if he had been in a severe boxing mill. And that face was not looking at all pleased to see her. It was very likely that he would walk past her just as if she were not there at all. Kate moved slightly so that she stood in the center of the doorway. "Good afternoon, my lord," she said with a bright smile. "Is it not a beautiful afternoon?" He looked up at her, startled, and inclined his head stiffly. "Ma'am," he mumbled. "I am standing here quite undecided," she said. "Should I venture into the garden for a stroll or should I not? Tell me, my lord, will I be cold without a shawl, do you think?" "I think it unlikely, ma'am," he said. "The air is warm." "Ah," she said. "I did not bring a bonnet downstairs with me, either. Will anyone mind, do you think?" "It is unlikely," he said. "Most people are in their rooms or riding,Ibelieve." "Oh." Kate sighed. "I had hoped that perhaps someone would wish to accompany me. But no matter. If no one else is here, and doubtless you are tired after a walk or a ride, I shall have to venture out alone." The marquess's eyes narrowed on her smiling face for a moment. Then he held out an arm to her. "Allow me," he said. "I can think of no more pleasant way to while away the next half-hour than a stroll in the garden." Kate smiled and took his arm. "I thought you were out of charity with me," she said. "On the contrary," he replied. "I believe we now understand each other perfectly, Kate. You have made it clear to me that you are not lightly bought. I have made it clear to you that my women bow to my wishes or find themselves hurt."

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"Alas," Kate said, stepping onto one of the gravel walks that skirted the fountain, "I did not know until it was too late, my lord, just what a firm character you have. I have to confess that I have met my match at last." "Yes," the marquess said, "I thought you would have realized that, Kate." "I understand that congratulations are in order," she said. "It seems that your betrothal to Lady Thelma is to be announced this evening." He inclined his head. "And now you will not have a resident mistress when you marry," she said rather sadly, "unless I have a replacement already." "All is not lost, Kate," he said. "In fact, matters might turn out better than I had anticipated after all. It appears you have learned your lesson well, my dear. I shall be in London next week. I shall set you up in your own establishment there. The arrangement will be a great deal more satisfactory than having to work behind my wife's back at home. You will be well cared for. You will not have to worry about not being given a character by Lord Barton. I treat my mistresses with generosity even when I eventually tire of them, provided that they give me essential services. I demand total obedience, of course." "Of course," Kate murmured. "It is a pity you have left your capitulation until your last day here," the marquess said. "But no matter. There is still tonight. You will leave your door unlocked so that I may come to you when the ball is over, or even during, if I can slip away for a while." Kate glanced back to the house. Then glanced again. Was that someone coming? No, go back, she cried mentally. Not yet. "This is a rather secluded area, my lord," she said shyly, "and you said yourself that there is no one around." He smiled. Kate preferred to think of it as a smirk. "Your eagerness to please shows that I have taught you well already, Kate," he said. "I see that a few cuts of a whip by way of discipline have worked wonders with you. I shall have to keep that in mind." Kate had moved a little way from him, into the shade of a weeping-willow tree. His back was to the house. And that figure was still moving toward them. It was the young footman to whom she had talked a little while before. She smiled enticingly, her eyes dreamy. "Come closer, my lord," she said huskily, one hand disappearing into the pocket of her dress. The tip of her tongue moved suggestively across her upper lip to moisten it. The Marquess of Uppington followed the movement with his eyes, and his smirk broadened. He took one step toward her, his arms already opening up. "That is," Kate continued in the same voice, removing her hand from the pocket, "if you dare." The very sharp points of her embroidery scissors were pointing in the direction of his stomach, or

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perhaps somewhat lower. Kate smiled. "What?" he said, halting in his tracks. "What is this, Kate?" "This is a challenge, my lord," she said pleasantly. "Since I did not wear gloves this afternoon, I do not have one to fling in your face. But it is a challenge nonetheless. The challenge is, my lord, to get past these scissors unscathed. Quite easy, really. I am one small female against a large and strong gentleman—one whose face would be unmarked now if two unsporting thugs had not held his arms. It should be very easy for you to take the scissors away from me without losing more than two or three of your fingers in the process. And if you succeed…" Her voice had become husky again. She smiled instead of completing the sentence. She glanced over Lord Uppington's shoulder, willing the footman to stay where he was. He was standing still now, not more than thirty feet behind the marquess. Lord Uppington's eyes had narrowed in an expression of menace.. He held out one imperious hand. "Give me those," he said, "and count yourself fortunate that I do not thrash you as you deserve. Foolish woman. Do you think that a pair of scissors is a deadly enough weapon to deter me?" "No, I do not," Kate said. "I am quite sure, in fact, that within moments I shall be overpowered and ravished at last. I have been disappointed several times in the past. Do not disappoint me again, my lord. I like my men angry and ruthless. A tame wooing leaves me quite unaroused." His nostrils flared and he took another step toward her. He now had only to reach out a hand to contact either her hand or the scissors. "You have to make only one correct guess," Kate said. "If you make a move toward me, I have a choice. Either I cut at your hand or I stab inward at your body. If you guess the first and try to lunge beneath my hand to my wrist, I will have a clear path forward to your, er, stomach. If, on the other hand, you guess the second and try to come at my wrist from above, I can cut upward and make a far worse mess of your hand than you made of mine with the whip. You must be a gambler, my lord. You have a fifty-fifty chance of being correct." The Marquess of Uppington looked at the wicked points of the scissors glinting in the sun. "I shall give you one more chance, Kate," he said. "Give me the scissors and we will say no more about this disgraceful scene." "Come and take them from me," she replied. He stood undecided for several moments while Kate smiled and the footman stood perfectly still. Then the marquess lifted a hand and waved a finger menacingly at her. "You will be sorry for this," he said. "You will hear more of this matter." "I rather think not," Kate said. "Or perhaps you are right. I am sure the footman behind you will take great pleasure in spreading the story among the servants of how one small lady vanquished the Marquess of Uppington with a pair of embroidery scissors without having to strike a single blow." Lord Uppington spun around as if those scissors had just been jabbed into' his posterior. "What is your purpose in being here?" he barked at the wooden-faced footman. The footman bowed. "Her ladyship has need of Mrs. Mannering's company upstairs, my lord," he

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replied. "And that message has necessitated your interrupting me out here?" the marquess said. "Take yourself off, fellow, before I take your name and report you." The footman bowed again. "I believe the summons was somewhat urgent, ma'am," he said to Kate. "Thank you," she said. "I shall go ahead of you. My lord?" She curtsiedtoLord Uppington, pocketed the scissors, and hurried along the gravel walk in the direction of the house.

Nicholas was thankful to be at the end of another dreary afternoon. He had been riding, with Dalrymple and Stoughton. Not that he had joined in the conversation with any great enthusiasm. He was bored. Would this infernal ball never be over? And would the house party never come to an end? He only hoped that Clive Seyton would make his move immediately after. Surely he would. In fact, the day before, the earl had said at luncheon that he thought he would take himself off for a couple of weeks to visit friends after his guests left. He was clearly paving the way for the explanations he would have to give various people when he left for France. Waiting was dreary enough. But he had not even been able to brighten up his days with walks or conversations with Katherine, or even with simply looking at her. That would have been better than nothing. She was extremely pleasant to look at. But for some reason she had decided to keep herself away from the company. She had given in her notice and felt no more obligation to be sociable to Lord Barton's friends perhaps? She was still frightened of Uppington and had decided to stay completely clear of him? Nicholas hoped that her absence had nothing to do with him. They had quarreled during their last encounter, but then, they almost always quarreled or managed to exchange some very satisfying insults. She could not have suddenly developed such a disgust of him that she kept to her own room rather than see him, surely. It was the effect he had hoped to have on her at the start, of course. Would it not be ironic if he had succeeded now when he no longer wished to do so? She would be leaving the next day. It seemed unlikely that he would see her again unless he forced the issue somehow. And he had still not discovered why she wished to contact Nicholas Seyton in Shropshire. The Evanses knew nothing. The Pickerings knew nothing. He had visited both to find out what they knew. It was all most frustrating. It was as they were climbing the curved steps to the main doorway that Nicholas saw Katherine again. Not just her. She was with someone, and he had a nasty suspicion that it was Uppington. But he held himself back from immediately tearing off to her rescue. There was a third figure in the garden in the unmistakable livery of a footman. Bruce, doubtless, keeping a protective eye on Katherine as he had been directed to do. But how the deuce had Uppington lured her out there when she had not even been seen downstairs in five days? Nicholas allowed his riding companions to pass inside to the hall without him. He walked back down to the terrace to await the arrival of Katherine, who was hurrying toward him ahead of Bruce. "Why, Mrs. Mannering," he said when she was within earshot, though she seemed still not to have seen him. "Rivaling the flowers with your beauty as usual, I see."

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She looked startled. Then she blushed, an interesting sight, he thought. "Oh, Sir Harry," she said. "What a foolish thing to say." "Thank you, ma'am," he said with a bow. "I knew you might be depended upon to receive a compliment graciously." "I am afraid I must hurry," she said. "Lady Thelma needs me urgently." Nicholas looked up at the footman who had come up behind her and was about to pass by. Admirable man, he thought. "Then I will not detain you," he said. "I trust you have not been suffering any abuse from our mutual friend yonder?" Unexpectedly she grinned. "You might ask him the same question," she said. "Or rather, you might ask that footman. You are more likely to get an honest answer from him." "Kate," he said suddenly as she made to hurry past him, "I assume you will not be attending the ball tonight?" "No," she said. "Neither will I," he said. "I have already been loudly complaining of the insomnia that plagued me last night. And you still intend to leave tomorrow?" She nodded, looking earnestly into his face. For perhaps the last time, she was thinking. "Meet me tonight," he said, noting how beautiful the widening of her eyes and the returned blush made her. "Over there in the shelter of the trees." He pointed in the direction of the small copse where he had hidden with his horse one night not so long ago, watching her run' across to a side door to let herself in without being seen. "When the dancing is well under way." She stared at him. He did not know whether she was going to slap him or merely run past him. "I have to go," she said at last. And she hurried to the bottom of the steps. But she turned again. "Yes," she said breathlessly before running lightly up them and disappearing into the great hall. And now what had he done? Nicholas was left thinking. He had spoken quite on the spur of the moment, out of a sort of panic that he might never see her again. But to say that such a meeting was unwise was severely to understate the case. It seemed quite obvious what might happen if he kept that appointment—and how could he not? And how would he be able to let her go then? He would be begging her to marry him, dooming her perhaps to share his less-than-respectable life. Always assuming that she would accept him, of course. Katherine Mannering was not likely to take kindly to the kind of trick he had been playing on her. Fool! he thought, following Kate more slowly up the steps and looking around him for Bruce. And what on earth had been happening in the garden in the last little while? Katherine had appeared do be quite undistressed. Quite the contrary. She had looked rather pleased with life when he had asked about Uppington. He wished he could recall that rash invitation he had just made. Or did he? He found a new purpose in his stride merely thinking about what the evening held in store for him.

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What on earth had she done now? Kate thought as she ran lightly up the stairs, dodging servants: She must be quite mad. She had just made an assignation to meet Sir Harry in a secluded part of the garden at some ungodly hour of the night. It was obvious what the purpose of such a meeting was. It was unlikely that they would occupy themselves discussing the weather. They would probably end up kissing each other at the very least. And she was leaving tomorrow—no, later this same night. She would never see Sir Harry again. She was going to end up feeling the same way tomorrow as she had felt the morning after making love with Nicholas. She must have windmills in her head to invite such misery deliberately. But what was the alternative? If she failed to keep the appointment, then she had already seen her last of Sir Harry. And she would hate that, wouldn't she? The temptation was just too great. And what red-blooded female would even try to resist it? she thought. It was strange, though. She had thought Sir Harry did not admire her. Oh, he liked her spirit, maybe. But he did not find her attractive. He had said so. Perhaps she was reading too much into his invitation. But that was ridiculous. Gentlemen just did not invite ladies to clandestine meetings in the garden at night unless they found them just a little bit attractive. Kate reached Lady Thelma's room, knocked lightly, and went inside. The bedchamber was in darkness, the heavy velvet curtains having been pulled across the windows. Kate could see as she tiptoed toward the bed that her employer was curled up on it fast asleep. She frowned. Strange! That young footman had made the summons sound quite urgent. Had he been mistaken? She did briefly consider waking Lady Thelma, but after some hesitation she merely shrugged and let herself quietly out of the room again. And then Kate grinned as she let herself into her own room. She felt very proud of that scene with the Marquess of Uppington. In fact, she quite considered that her revenge was almost adequate. And it had all been unplanned too. Her performance had been quite impromptu. She had taken the scissors with her, it was true. But she had picked them up merely as a means of self-defense if she should need them. What she had done was thoroughly reckless, of course. It really would not have been difficult for such a large man to wrestle the scissors from her. And if that had happened, she might have found herself in a nasty predicament. But the result had been well worth the risk. Seeing a bully like Lord Uppington paralyzed by fear of a woman holding a pair of embroidery scissors was great sport. He had looked so very foolish. She had been almost ready to curse that footman for coming into the garden and threatening to destroy her plan to humiliate the marquess. But as it had turned out, his presence could not have been more perfect. He would undoubtedly spread an account of the incident. Soon there would not be a servant on the estate or on any other for a radius of many miles who would not know that the Marquess of Uppington had been held at bay by a mere slip of a woman holding a pair of scissors. And wagging his finger and threatening her. It was priceless. She could leave Barton with a lighter heart knowing that Lord Uppington would perhaps never recover fully from his humiliation. Such stories had a habit of dogging a man's footsteps for the rest of his life. Kate put the scissors back into her work bag and put the bag away in a cupboard. She opened the doors of her wardrobe. Now, which of the splendid array of gray and brown dresses should she wear tonight? Not that the color would matter, of course. Color would not show in the darkness. Perhaps she would wear the pale gray silk. It was conservative in style, as all her garments were, being only slightly scooped at the neck and gathered beneath her bosom with a plain silk sash of the same fabric as the dress. But she liked it. It felt light and cool when worn, and shimmered around her as she moved.

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She turned to look in the glass. How dull she felt. Her hair was scraped back into its usual severe bun at her neck. Tonight she was going to do something different with it. After all, she was no longer bound by the demands of Lord Barton. She would get Audrey to curl it and dress it in soft waves around her face. Tonight she wanted to look her best, even in the darkness of the garden. Kate smiled. Tonight. For an hour perhaps she would block all else from her mind but the presence of Sir Harry Tate. She would not even think about the journey ahead of her and then the return to London and the search for other employment. Those things would not matter. Just the hour with the man she had grown to love. And then her smile faded abruptly. Good heavens, she had not seen Mr. Dalrymple after all. And how could she possibly see him now? Soon everyone would be dressing for dinner and the ball. Before morning she would be gone. There would be no way she could communicate her findings to Nicholas Seyton. Yes, there was one other way, she supposed. It would be embarrassing. He was not likely to give her such information without a great deal of interrogation. And doubtless he would guess immediately that she had indeed known Nicholas. He would guess that they had been lovers too. It would be just like him to guess that. And he would pour scorn and contempt on her. It would ruin their evening. Unless she left it until the end, of course, just before they parted. It would still make a sour ending and spoil the evening to a certain extent. But then, saying good-bye to him was not going to be a pleasant moment anyway. Yes, that was what she would do. She would get Sir Harry to give her Nicholas Seyton's address. Chapter Twenty-Two

The house was filled with the sounds of music and voices and laughter. The dinner had seemed to last forever. Kate had eaten hers, alone in her room, long before the sounds beyond her door indicated that the guests were ready for new entertainment. And again a frustratingly long time seemed to pass before she heard the orchestra begin to play and could assume that the dancing had begun. She supposed that she would be feeling somewhat depressed and envious if she had not ventured downstairs that afternoon. But how could she feel either under the circumstances? Who would want to dance and to converse when the alternative was all she could ever want? Of course, Sir Harry had spoken in haste, she tried to persuade herself as she picked up a woolen shawl from the chair over which she had placed it earlier. She did not think he had planned to ask her to meet him. How could he? He had had no way of knowing that he would see her that afternoon. Perhaps he had thought better of going outside to meet her. Perhaps he would not be there. She must not be too disappointed if he were not. In one way it would be better so. She would be saved from that dreadful moment of parting. She would also be forced to leave Barton Abbey without knowing how to reach Nicholas. Kate glanced nervously in the pier glass. She looked like a girl on the way to her first ball, she thought in some disgust. Except that a girl would be wearing a fashionable white gown. Her gray silk did not look wholly unbecoming, though, she thought. It caught the light well and looked almost silver when it did so.

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And the night was bright with moonlight and starlight, she had seen in an anxious glance through her window a short while ago. Audrey had made a good job of her hair. It did not curl. It was too long for that. But the girl had coaxed it into soft waves about her face. And long tendrils curled along her neck. She felt very feminine. And her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shining. How ridiculous. She was merely to meet a male acquaintance for a walk in the garden. He would laugh at her for dressing and looking so. Of course, in the darkness he would not be able to see the color in her cheeks. Kate opened the door of her room cautiously. There was no one in the corridor outside. She could not go down the grand stairway, of course. She must just hope that she could reach the back stairs without being seen. Not that there was anything criminal in her coming from her room, she told herself. But she did not want anyone to know that she was going into the garden. She began to move swiftly along the corridor.

Nicholas had taken the precaution of leaving the house while dinner was still in progress. He had even been bold enough to walk down the main staircase, through the grand hall, and out through the main doors. He winked at the few servants he passed. But it was important not to be seen by anyone but the servants. He had excused himself from the evening's festivities on the grounds of indisposition. It would not do for him to be seen walking out into the park. Besides, he could not run the risk of coming face-to-face with any member of the coast guard. And the soldiers of higher rank had indeed been invited, he had discovered. The wait was a long one, of course. State dinners always seemed to last longer than any two other meals put together. He could remember the few his grandfather had hosted, and his own frustration and boredom at being excluded. Tonight's would be lengthened even further by the betrothal announcement that was to be made. It was supposed to come as a surprise during the banquet, but somehow all the guests knew of it. Nicholas could not say he was sorry to miss that. He felt desperately sorry for his timid little cousin. Perhaps the discoveries he hoped to make in France would come soon enough to save her from such a fate. Nicholas wandered around the park, enjoying the cool evening air and the gradual darkening of sky and landscape. It was going to be a beautiful night, perfect for a lovers? tryst. And was that what his meeting with Katherine was to be? Was he going to be that selfish? He was not sure that he would be able to do anything else. The best thing for her would be to change her mind and not keep their appointment. And the. best for him too, probably. But despite such noble thoughts, long before the music began in the ballroom, Nicholas found himself hovering in the vicinity of the trees where he had agreed to meet Kate. And when he could hear the orchestra, he set his back against a tree and found that he could not prevent his eyes from roving back and forth between the main doors and the side entrance through which she had entered the house on that other occasion. She was not coming, he convinced himself at last. He would return to his room in just a few more minutes. He would wait for this particular set to come to an end. As soon as the music stopped, he would go in. And then he saw her come out of the side door and look around her carefully before moving swiftly and lightly across the grass toward him. She looked like a girl, her figure slight, her dress catching the moonlight, her light blond hair soft about her face in the type of style he had not seen on her since that first night, when she had been impersonating Thelma. She did not see him. Her footsteps slowed as she

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neared the trees, and she peered anxiously around her. "Well, Mrs. Mannering," he said at last with a drawl, "you look as if you are dressed for a ball. Did you take the wrong turning perhaps?" She turned sharply in his direction. Her face was lit fully by the moonlight. She looked eager and bright-eyed. "Are you there?" she asked. "I did not see you." He pushed his back away from the tree and came to take her by the arm. "Let us walk a little way," he said. "I should quite hate to be seen, since I am supposed to be in my bed trying to compensate for two completely sleepless nights. And I should hate even more to be thought of as a womanizer, you know." "My reputation does not matter to you, I suppose?" Kate said, but she spoke in some amusement. He was not going to provoke her to anger this evening. "Why should it?" he asked. "You seem quite well able to destroy your own reputation, my dear Mrs. Mannering. What the devil did you think you were about, luring Uppington into the garden this afternoon?" She giggled. "I could not resist," she said. "I have come to the conclusion that the man is a bully, and bullies are invariably cowards. It is just too, too delicious to know that I frightened him off with embroidery scissors. If you could have seen him wagging a finger at me, warning that I had not heard the end of the matter." "I had a good enough caricature from Bruce," he said. "You are an impossible madcap, Kate. Do you have the imagination to picture what might have happened if Uppington had just decided to take that deadly weapon from you?" "Yes," she said, "but we were close enough to the house. I do not believe I was in any great danger." "You were close to the willow tree when I spotted you," he said. "A few more steps and you would have been completely out of sight of the house. And cowardly though Uppington may be, I do not believe he is stupid, Kate. I begin to have doubts about your intelligence, but not about his. This time he would have made very sure that you would not scream." "Well, thank you," Kate said indignantly, forgetting completely her resolution of a few minutes before. "If you consider me so stupid, sir, why do you condescend even to speak to me or express concern for my welfare?" "I really have no notion," he said, sounding utterly bored. Kate swallowed. "Is this why you wished to meet me this evening?" she asked. "So that you could give me a setdown? You might have saved your time, sir. I really do not care that much"—she snapped her fingers in the air—"for your opinion. What I choose to do is entirely my own concern. I have not allowed any man to control or criticize my actions since my husband died. And I have no intention of ever again allowing any man such control." "You like theatrics, don't you, Kate?" Sir Harry said on a sigh. "You should have been an actress, my dear. You would have had all the mindless young bucks of London sighing at your feet. I am not so easily convinced. You are probably just longing for some firm-minded gentleman to take you over his knee and teach you how to behave. Unfortunately, my dear, you are talking to the wrong man. I like my women

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naturally quiet and dignified. I have no interest in exerting myself to wallop a female who has never been taught how to go on." "Well!" Kate pulled her hand from his arm and stood still. She drew in a deep and loud breath. "The idea! The conceit! You are all alike after all. You men are all alike. You think you are perfection itself. You know all there is to know about life and manners and morals. And you think that women are mindless, rebellious little pets to be teased and patted and cuffed into good behavior. We are to be like performing dogs, doing our master's will and sitting adoring at his feet when he has no use for us, tongue hanging out, panting in ecstasy. Well, poppycock to that, sir. Here is a woman who is also a person, and I don't care what you think I should be. I am very happy with me, thank you kindly, and that is all that matters." His hand was playing with the ribbon of his quizzing glass. He looked bored, Kate noticed with growing fury. "Control yourself, ma'am," he said with annoying calm. "I have already said I have no interest in changing you. Tell me, what do you plan to do when you leave here tomorrow?" "Why?" Kate asked rudely. "What concern is it of yours, sir, what I plan to do? I plan to stay well away from you for the rest of my life. That should please both of us." He inclined his head. "It sounds like an admirable scheme," he agreed. "It is not like to pay the bills, though." "Since I have no intention of calling upon you to pay any of my bills," she said, "how I pay them is none of your problem, sir." He sighed. "And how thankful I am to hear it," he said. "I imagine that you must be an expensive creature, Kate, with all these dresses you possess—and in two different colors too." The anger went out of Kate like a whoosh of air. She stared at him, hurt beyond bearing. She had so few dresses, and none very becoming or fashionable. She had chosen the prettiest. She had gone to great pains to look her best for him, and she had been pleased when she looked at herself in the mirror. And now he was looking at her scathingly, making fun of her clothes with that hateful tone of sarcasm she had always despised. How could she so have lowered herself as to seek to please this man? It said terrible things for the emptiness and loneliness of her life that she had fancied herself in love with him. "My appearance too is my concern alone, sir," she said with cold dignity. "If you do not like the way I look, I am sure I do not care. But I cannot think why you sought out my company. I will bid you good night." "Nonsense," he said. "Youareprickly tonight, my dear Mrs. Mannering. Tell me what your plans are for the future." "I must seek employment in order to finance my expensive living style," she said bitterly. "Perhaps I will even be extravagant enough to add a third color to my wardrobe if I can earn a high enough salary. And I amnotyour dear Mrs. Mannering." "Will you be journeying to London?" he asked. "Where will you live while you search for new employment?"

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"That is not your concern, sir," she said. "But if you have plans to be in London too, you need not fear that we will move in the same social circles. You will not be seeing me again." "A matter of great satisfaction to you, I perceive," he said. "Yes," she agreed. "I find your manner obnoxious, sir. And I find I am tired. I shall bid you good night." Sir Harry bowed and said nothing. He stood and watched her make her way through the trees back to the lawn at the side of the house. Her shoulders were straight; she walked purposefully. But when she was out in the open, her steps became more hurried. She was running by the time she reached the side door. Well, and was he satisfied now? Nicholas asked himself. He had not intended that quarrel to happen. Although he had told himself for the past several hours that he should hold her at arm's length, not allow any intimacy to develop between them, he had believed in his heart that when he saw her he would not be able to resist letting down his guard. He had wanted this hour or so in the park to be a time to remember, perhaps for the rest of his life. How had it started anyway? His mention of her rash behavior of the afternoon probably. He had not meant to sound coldly disapproving. In truth, he had laughed heartily when he first heard the story, and felt greater admiration for Katherine than he had felt even when she refused to show fear at his kidnapping her. It was only after he had had time to think it over that he had realized how rash her revenge had been. He had merely wanted to express that this evening, to show her that he was concerned for her safety. When she had become angry, he had found suddenly that being Sir Harry came almost naturally to him. He had meant to tease, had not realized until it was too late that he really had angered and even hurt her. And yet perhaps some part of him had quite deliberately destroyed the atmosphere of closeness that might have characterized their evening together. Some sensible part of his brain had been telling him all. along that this was the way it should be. She would leave now hating him, quite happy never to see him again. And that was the way it should be. It was purely selfish to want her to love him and to miss him when she left. But no, he decided, he could not leave matters quite like this. She was upset. He had hurt her with his remarks about her clothes. He really had not meant to. He had thought she would see his comment as a joke. But she had been angry. It is sometimes hard to see the funny side of a remark when one is boiling with fury. He must apologize. He must wish her well. And somehow he must persuade her to tell him where she was going to be staying. He would see her in the morning before she left. Fortunately most of the residents of the Abbey would probably be still in bed. He would perhaps have a private moment with her. Nicholas sighed. A private moment. It was so inadequate. He could be with her now, the whole night ahead of them if they needed it, if only he had not given in to the temptation to goad her into anger. And he was becoming more and more pessimistic of ever being able to claim her for his own. The waiting had gone on for so many days that he almost despaired of his plan to lure Clive Seyton into leading him to his mother. Somehow the plan no longer seemed so likely to succeed. Almost five-and-twenty years had passed. A quarter of a century. With lagging steps Nicholas followed Kate across the lawn and through the side entrance to the house. There seemed nothing better to do than go to sleep.

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Kate closed her door fast behind her and threw her shawl in the general direction of the bed. She went straight through to her dressing room, tugging at the pins that held her hair in the style she had been so pleased with an hour since. She shook her head vigorously, took a brush from her dressing table, and began to drag it mercilessly through the waves and knots. How could he! Oh, how could he? And how could she? What was it in the last few days that had blinded her to just how insufferable he was? Always so cynical and so scornful. Always so ready with an insult. Always treading on her feelings just as if he believed she had none. Always so ready to tell her how little she appealed to him. How could she possibly have convinced herself that she loved such a man? She seemed to have an alarming tendency to fall for the wrong men. First Nicholas. Now Sir Harry. Why in heaven's name had he invited her to meet him this evening? Just so that he could insult her and sneer at her? It was just as well that she would never see him again. He would probably make much of the loose morals of a woman who would agree to meet a man late at night in the garden without any sort of chaperonage. She would never hear the end of it. And to think she had sat for half an hour and more for Audrey to do something pretty with her hair. And picked her. dress with such care. And been so flushed and starry-eyed. She had made a pretty fool of herself. Probably that story would be all over the house by tomorrow, to rival the account of Lord Uppington's humiliation. Wouldn't they all laugh! The poor love-starved widow tripping out to the garden dressed for all the world as if she were going to the ball, just in order to meet a man who had never made any secret of the fact that he despised her. But she did not care, Kate told herself, slamming the brush down on the dressing table again. Let them talk. Let them laugh their heads off. She did not care. She would not be here anyway. She would never have to face any one of them again. And what she did not know would not hurt her. And what was she doing now? Kate asked herself indignantly. And for how long had she been doing it? She was sobbing quite painfully and brushing impatiently at tears with the backs of her hands. Good heavens, she was not crying again, was she? How disgusting! And over what? Over her own humiliation? Over the loss of the great love of her life? Great love, indeed! Sir Harry had been quite right about one thing. She was not a creature of great intelligence, obviously. How else could she have worked herself into such a state over a worthless gentleman as to be crying for him? She stopped herself by a great effort of will and doused her whole face in a basin of cold water. She came out of it sputtering and gasping—and remembering. Nicholas! Of course, she still had not got his address. She had been going to ask Sir Harry but had completely forgotten in the heat of their quarrel. Bother! Kate thought, standing in the middle of her dressing room, a frown on her face. Now what was she going to do! Trust that someone in London would know bow to find him? That was absurd, of course. No one knew Nicholas Seyton. Or anyone who did knew him only as the illegitimate grandson of the late Earl of Barton. Besides, it would be days before she reached London. Could she wait until after the ball and creep along to knock on Mr. Dalrymple's door? Out of the question. Creep downstairs now and hope to attract his attention without being seen by anyone else? Impossible. There really was only one thing to do. She couldn't do it, of course. Anything but that. There really was not anything else. But she could not lower herself to quite that degree. Then Nicholas might never discover the evidence she had uncovered. There was only the one tiling to do. She would die rather. She

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had to. Why should she care anyway? Kate asked herself. She had just finished telling him that she controlled her own life, that she was answerable to no one but herself for what she did. Why should she care what he would think of her? He could hardly despise her more than he already did anyway. She straightened her shoulders, flung back her loose hair, and opened the door of her room again. There was no one in sight. His room was not far away. She found that her heart seemed to be beating right in her throat as she walked the distance and knocked firmly on his door. "What the devil?" Sir Harry said as he opened his door. "What do you think you are doing, Kate?" He leaned out and grabbed her by the wrist suddenly. "Get inside here, foolish woman. Do you have no sense of propriety at all?" He glanced up and down the corridor as he pulled her inside his room and closed the door behind her. Kate found that she was trembling. He was wearing only shirt, breeches, and stockings, and his shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist. "I… I…" she said, despising her shaking and stuttering voice. "I just remembered that I had something very important to ask you." "Did you?" he asked. She was standing with her back against the door. Looking quite breathtakingly lovely with her hair newly brushed and streaming halfway down her back. She looked as if she might have been crying. "I…" She found that her hands were twining together in front of her and resolutely stilled them. "I need some information. Something that Mr. Dalrymple knows and you will be able to find out quite easily even if you do not already know it." "Oh?" His eyebrows were raised. His tone did not sound very inviting. "It will sound very strange, my request," Kate said. "But I cannot explain it. Please just accept that it is very important to me to find out." His eyelids drooped over his eyes. "Is this a riddle, Kate?" he asked. "Am I supposed to start guessing?" She laughed nervously and then despised herself for doing so. "I need to know the address of Nicholas Seyton," she blurted. "Indeed?" Sir Harry said, managing to inject a world of scorn into the one word, Kate thought. "Yes," she said. "Can you get it for me? Now? I must have it before I leave." "Clandestine goings-on, Mrs. Mannering?" he asked. "Don't," she said. "Don't start this again, please. It might seem that I owe you an explanation in exchange for the address, but I cannot give one. Please, do you know it?" "I believe I can recall it, yes," he said, holding her eyes with his own. She sighed with relief. "Will you write it down for me?" she asked. "And… thank you."

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He nodded but did not move away. "I'm sorry, Kate," he said quietly. "Forgive me?" "For what?" she asked, pressing back harder against the door. "I was teasing you," he said. "I did not realize that I was hurting you." Her chin went up. "I was not hurt," she said. "I told you that I do not care what you think of me. You need not apologize to me, sir. It would be quite out of character for you to do so and mean it." He put his head to one side. "Kate…" he said softly. "No, don't!" she said sharply, putting out her hands as if to ward him off. He did not move. He continued to watch, her. "Not if you don't want me to," he said. And then, when the silence lengthened between them, "Do you, Kate?" "Yes," she whispered, and pushed back even harder against the door. He still did not move. He waited for her and finally she left the sanctuary of the door and came to him. His arms opened to take her in. She did not lift her face to be kissed. She pressed it against his shoulder. And she let her body relax against his, let the heat of him flow into herself. "But you don't like me," she said against his shoulder. "Have I ever said that?" he asked. "What a dreadful liar I must be." "You like quiet ladies," she said. "With dark hair." "Do I?" he said, his hands twining into her hair, his cheek resting against the top of her head. "Or rather, did I? I must have had dreadfully poor taste once upon a time." "You disapprove of me," she said. "You think I do not know how to behave." "At the moment, Kate," he said, "I am very thankful that you do not. You would not be here in my room with me else." She raised her head to look up at him. "You will despise me tomorrow," she said. "You know you will." He shook his head slowly. "No, my dear," he said, "never that. I don't want to think of tomorrow, Kate. Let us take what tonight offers, shall we?" She stared into his eyes while his hands stroked gently through her hair. She desperately wanted to understand him. Was this a mood only? His face was without its customary cynicism. His eyes were wide open. And very blue. So familiar. As if she had loved him all her life. And all the time she had with him was one night. Mot even that long. Until the ball ended. When that distant music finally stopped, then she must be prepared to leave. "Yes," she said. "Tonight I am yours, Harry. Tonight only. Make it good for me. And I will make it good for you. Make love with me."

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" 'Withme,' not 'tome,' " he said. "Yes, Kate, even in bed you will not be the docile female, will you? Come, then, make love with me. Let us shed some clothes, shall we?" He was undressing her even as he spoke, unbuttoning the back of her dress, drawing it free of her shoulders and down her arms, bringing her shift with it. "Ah," he said, lowering his head to kiss her bare shoulder and bringing his hands up to cover her warm breasts, "I am glad you do not wear stays and all that other armor that is supposed to make a woman's body so attractive. You are so soft and feminine, Kate. So very desirable." Kate was pulling the shirt from his shoulders and burying her face against him again. "You are so beautiful," she said. He laughed softly. "Kate," he said, pulling loose the sash at her waist so that her dress fell in a heap around her feet, "you are stealing my lines." He was pulling her shift free of her body. Her hands went to the buttons of his breeches. He put his hands on her shoulders and took her mouth with his, teasing her lips, nibbling at them, coaxing them open with the tip of his tongue as her fingers undid the buttons one by one and her hands eased the tight breeches down over his lean hips. "Witch!" he whispered into her mouth. It was going to be just as wonderful as it had the last time, Kate thought. She could feel heat rising in her body, the pleasurable, unfulfilled aches in her throat and in her breasts, the throbbing between her thighs. And he was beautiful, as Nicholas had been beautiful. They were remarkably similar in physique, in fact. Was that what had attracted her to Sir Harry in the first place? But now was not the time for thinking. Now was the time for feeling, the time for giving pleasure and receiving it in return, "Come to bed, love," he said. "I want to touch you all over. In the most secret and intimate places. I want to love you as you have never been loved." He freed himself of his breeches and led her to the bed, which had been turned down for the night. Kate lay down on the sheet and reached up her arms for him. "Do you want the candles out?" he asked. "Would you be more comfortable in darkness?" She shook her head. "I want to see you," she said. He lowered his head and kissed her as he joined her on the bed. He pushed aside the blankets with one hand and one leg. And Kate blanked her mind to everything except that moment and that bed and the man who began to make slow and expert love to her. And it was different from the last time. He did things to her that she had never even dreamed of before, took her to heights of longing she could not have imagined this side of madness, and she found her own hands moving over him, seeking out, caressing, teasing by sheer instinct parts of his body that had him moaning, murmuring her name, and whispering endearments. "Kate, my love," he said against her mouth finally, "you are very ready, are you not? Beautiful. Beautiful. How could I resist such an invitation? Such a very soft and easy entry you give me, Kate. You see? So much better than the dryness that gives pain."

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Kate gasped. He had slid into her moistness, deep and hard, meeting the throbbing of her need. And she reached blindly for fulfillment, lifting her legs clear of the bed so that she could bring him deeper yet. But when he began to move in her, her frenzy gave place to deep pleasure. Deep physical pleasure. She knew she would be satisfied. She knew he was committed to pleasuring her. And she trusted him utterly. She gave herself unconditionally. She would enjoy the journey with him. And she caught his rhythm, tilting her pelvis to receive his inward thrusts, relaxing through his withdrawal. And she found herself no longer mindless but fully aware of her surroundings, of herself lying on her back on the bed, opened fully to the man who was loving her, and of him, covering her body with his, his arms pressing firmly against her sides, his hands holding her buttocks, giving and giving of himself so that she would know release before he would allow his own climax. She consciously enjoyed the pressure of his manhood pushing into her and into her and into her, hard and huge, painless against the wetness of her own desire. And then his hands were on either side of her face and he was looking down into her eyes, his own heavy-lidded, Harry's eyes, but heavy with passion rather than with boredom. It was Harry who was loving her, she told herself quite deliberately. Sir Harry Tate. Whom she loved. And she was glad. "Twine your legs around mine, love," he whispered to her. "And relax for me. I am going to come to you." And she did not give a thought to asserting her independence. She obeyed, watching his face as she did so. And her eyes widened as he pushed slowly and deeply against her opened and relaxed body until she felt all the remaining tension flow out and a great peace fill her from her toes to the crown of her head. "Oh!" she said in wonder, still staring into his eyes. He lowered his head to the hollow between her neck and shoulder and pushed once more into her. Then he sighed and relaxed his full weight onto her body. Kate wrapped her arms around him, laid her cheek against the top of his head, and closed her eyes. Chapter Twenty-Three

Nicholas slept for only a short while. He was awake now, his head turned to one side, gazing at the woman who slept beside him. Her head was cradled in the crook of his arm, her silver-blond hair forming a silky halo around her face and along his arm. Her cheeks were still flushed. Her lips were slightly parted in sleep. He did not want her to wake up. He wondered if she would be willing to stay all night, if he would have a chance to make love to her again. He smiled. Make lovewithher. She had been quite right to phrase it that way. She had been a very active participant in what had happened, quite different from that other time in the cave, when she had been almost in a world of her own, discovering a little fearfully the power of her own sexuality. This time she had been with him every moment, as intent on pleasing him as on receiving pleasure. In fact, he had never had a woman who showed so little timidity in bed. She had touched him and

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caressed him in places where he had never been touched before. And even when he was inside her she had not lain still, but had done marvelously erotic things with her hips. He had always thought that that stage of the sexual act at least belonged exclusively to the man. The best he could do was to make it pleasurable to his woman. But Katherine had made love to him. Or with him. For the first time he felt that that term "making love" was an appropriate one. He had always thought it a misnomer. The act was for physical sensations only, he had believed. He had felt loved. He had felt that they were sharing something infinitely precious, not merely experiencing their separate pleasures. And so at the end he had followed the instinct of love and taken them together through a wonderful sensation of peaceful fulfillment. They had known that they were united, not just sexually but by the stronger bonds of love. And so when he had removed himself from her, they had not left each other's arms but had smiled into each other's eyes and slept. He had not known that fulfillment could come in any other way than through the explosion of tension that had always been the climax for him and—if he was careful—for his woman too. And what now? Did he still have the strength of will to let her go? Could he still convince himself that she was better off without him if he must go through life with the stigma of illegitimacy on his name? Somehow the nobility of his intentions did not seem so important at the moment. It was more to the point that they loved each other. She had not said she loved him. But she did. Their lovemaking could not possibly have ended that way if there was anything less than love between them. And could he now let her go without a word? He had done it to her once already. He did not believe he could do it again. One thing was clear to him anyway, Nicholas thought, lifting a lock of her hair and stroking its silkiness with his thumb. He was going to tell her the truth. It was going to be difficult. It might spoil the mood of peace and harmony they had built in the last hour. But he must tell her. It was not at all fair that she did not even know the identity of the man who had loved her, just as she had not known the face of her lover in the cave. She was looking up at him, smiling sleepily as she had done after that first lovemaking. His own eyes smiled back at her. "Harry," she said, lifting one hand and trailing her fingers lightly along his jaw. "So you are awake at last, my dear Mrs. Mannering," he said. Her eyes had closed again. But she smiled. "Is that what I am?" she asked. "Your dear Mrs. Mannering? And you are my dear Sir Harry: For now. I shall probably be hating you and boiling with anger over some insult before another day is past. But for now you are very dear." Nicholas lay still, looking at her. Did she know how true her words were? She would be angrier than he had ever seen her when he told her the truth. And he knew that he could not spoil this very magical night. Tomorrow he would tell her, before she left. She opened her eyes again, looking rather startled. "But what a forgetful thing to say," she said. "Of course, tomorrow I will be gone. It is just as well. This is the way I want to remember you. The memories will be good ones, Harry. I am not sorry we met, and I am not sorry that this has happened." He picked up her hand, which had dropped to his shoulder, pressed back the fingers with the side of his thumb, and kissed the palm. "Does this have to be goodbye, Kate?" he asked. She smiled. "Yes, it does," she said. "You and I are from different worlds. You live the life of a

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gentleman, while I have chosen to earn my own living. I will have to go wherever my next employer wishes me to be. And I am not sure that I would wish to be your mistress even if I could, Harry. I have always thought that such a life would be unsatisfactory. I would have to depend upon you to support me, you see, and I would be able to offer only one kind of service in order to earn my keep. I would find it distasteful to use my body in such a way." "I was not suggesting that you be my mistress," he said. "The position of wife is open." Her eyebrows rose and her eyes widened. "You are asking me to marry you, Harry?" she asked. "But you cannot be serious. I am a lady in name but I have become less than that since Giles's death. And you are such a high stickler. You could not want me as a wife." He winced. "Have I really been quite so obnoxiously toplofty?" he said. "But of course I have. Forgive me, Kate. I am not quite what I seem to be. And I do not even have the right to ask you to marry me, my dear. Not at the moment, anyway. There is something you will have to know first. Something that might well affect your decision." "What?" she asked. He looked into her questioning eyes and then bent his elbow, bringing her against him. He hugged her to him, his cheek against the top of her head. "This hour has been too precious, love," he said. "Let us not spoil it. I shall tell you at breakfast tomorrow, and you shall tell me where I may find you in London. You will have time to think over your answer. I am afraid I have another commitment that will keep me from you for perhaps a couple of weeks." He had spoken in haste. And now he was going to let her down lightly. Kate closed her eyes tightly against his shoulder. But it did not matter. They had had this night together. It would be enough. She had never expected more: Indeed, she had not expected even as much after their quarrel in the garden earlier. She said nothing. "Make love with me again, Kate," he said, finding her mouth with his and kissing her long and lingeringly. But she shook her head when she was able. "The ball must be almost at an end," she said, "and Lady Thelma said she would look in on me and tell me all about it. Besides, I have a long day of traveling ahead tomorrow. I must go." He released her reluctantly and watched her get up from the bed, apparently without self-consciousness, and begin to dress herself. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his breeches before crossing to her and taking the difficult task of buttoning her dress out of her hands. "Oh," she said, spinning around as he finished the task. "I almost forgot again. Will you write down Mr. Seyton's address for me?" "If you wish, Kate," he said. "But here is a better idea. I shall be passing through Shropshire myself within a few days. Why don't you let me take your letter directly to him?" Kate hesitated. "You despise him," she said. "You have said so." He closed his eyes briefly. "Kate," he said, "I am merely offering to take the man a letter. From you. Do you not trust me to do such a thing for your sake, no matter what my feelings for the man in question?"

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"Yes," she said slowly. "Yes, of course I trust you,Harry. But there is some urgency. Can you promise not to delay?" He took her chin in his hand. "I promise, love," he said, "that Nicholas Seyton will be reading your letter long before you think it possible." She smiled. "There is a letter," she said, "but I have something else to say too. I shall have to write another letter." "If it is not so complicated as to be beyond my intelligence," he said, "perhaps it would be easier just to tell me and let me take the message, Kate. I promise secrecy, if that is what you are afraid of. No one but Seyton will know what you have told me." She looked earnestly into his eyes. "Will you tell him… ?" she said, and paused to take a deep breath. "Tell him that Josh Pickering has what he needs. Just that. He will understand. Will you remember that?" "Josh Pickering has what he needs," Nicholas repeated as though in a dream. She smiled. "That is even more important than the letter," she said. "But you will remember. I do trust you." She put her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on the lips. "I shall run and fetch the letter." "Wait," he said, putting a hand on her arm. "I cannot have you racing up and down the corridor half the night, risking your reputation, Kate. Return to your room and get the letter. I shall tap on your door in five minutes' time. Hand it out to me and close the door." "Yes," she said, and turned to go. But she turned back again. "Harry," she said with a breathless laugh, "hold me once more. I do not have the courage to leave without one more kiss." He wrapped his arms tightly around her and hugged her to him. "Silly," he said. "I shall see you in the morning. Good night, Kate. And thank you for tonight. You have given me a gift more precious than you know." He kissed her deeply on the lips before releasing her and crossing the room to the door to make sure that there was no one in the corridor outside. Kate ran lightly back to her room and found Lord Lindstrom's letter. She put in with it the note she had found in the library, the one Nicholas' father had written as a boy to the present earl. She handed the package to Sir Harry a few minutes later, her eyes drinking in their brief and final sight of him, her fingers tingling as they brushed his for the last time. She closed her door and leaned back against it, her eyes tightly closed.

Nicholas was the first down to breakfast the following morning. It had not been difficult to get up early; he had not been to bed at all—not since Katherine had left him, that is. He did not know what time the carriage had been ordered to take her on her way to London, but he was not going to risk missing her. He was so filled with suppressed excitement that he could not even settle to eating any food. He poured himself some coffee from the sideboard and paced the room, from the window, where his eyes examined the heavily overcast sky, to the table, where he scalded his mouth more than once with the coffee, to the doorway, where he had to stop himself from peering out to see if she were coming.

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God, he thought,, turning back into the breakfast room again and looking around him. God! It all belonged to him. It was his. Or rather, he belonged to it. The idea had still not quite penetrated his mind. He did not know quite how he had lived through the night, his excitement all bottled up inside him. He had wanted to run through the house, yelling at the top of his voice. He had wanted to go to Katherine, drag her from her bed, and waltz her around her room. He had wanted to shout and sing. Instead, he had stayed in his room and paced and paced for what remained of the night. He had read the letter as soon as he returned to his room. He had expected it to be a letter from Katherine with some new information. He had certainly not expected anything quite so spectacular. Lord Lindstrom. He had never even heard of the man. How had she discovered that the man had accompanied his father on his Grand Tour? It had never even occurred to him to wonder if his father had had a companion, though he felt foolish now not to have done so. All his inquiries had been directed to what had happened after his father's return. And how had Katherine been able to find Lord Lindstrom and to get in touch with him? This letter would surely lead him to his mother. He would no longer have to follow Lord Barton in the hope of being led to the right place. He could leave tomorrow. Surely he would be able to trace her. If she had lived in a village, there would be plenty of people who would remember her and would know where she had gone. That was assuming, of course, that she was not still there. That surely was to hope for a little too much. Nicholas had grasped the letter tightly in his hand and closed his eyes. Now that his dreams seemed on the verge of becoming reality, he could hardly believe his own good fortune. And it was Katherine who had discovered this. Katherine, whom he had abandoned, whom he had treated badly while impersonating someone else, all to protect her from the danger of involvement in his affairs. He might have known she would be the one to unearth the truth. And he might have known that the idea of possible danger would not deter her one whit. What if Barton had discovered somehow that she had such a letter in her possession? The other little note touched him deeply. A note written by his father. Katherine must have found it in the library and realized what it would mean to him. What a very thoughtful person she was. And that was not all. Nicholas opened his eyes, aghast that in the excitement of reading the letter and seeing the note he could have forgotten for the moment the other message she had given him. How could he have forgotten even for one second? When she had said the words, his senses had reeled. There could be no mistaking what she had meant. Josh had what he needed. Nicholas would understand, she had said. Did Josh have those papers? He must have. Katherine's words could have no other meaning. Did it make sense? Would his father have entrusted something of quite such importance to a man of below normal intelligence? If he had, then Nicholas had to admit without any further thought that his father had made an inspired choice. Clive Seyton had doubtless hunted for those papers for years. He seemed still to be hunting for them. And both he and Katherine had looked and racked their brains in an attempt to enter the mind of the rather timid, newly married young man who had been afraid to admit to his father that he had shackled himself to a pregnant French lady of reduced circumstances. Yes, it made perfect sense, Nicholas thought. He had been told that Josh had worshiped his father, following him around like a faithful puppy. And he had heard Josh numerous times express his conviction that "Master Jonathan" would return. Of course. Josh had been told to keep the papers until his master came for them. But his master never had come. And Josh had kept the papers and the secret ever since. It might even prove difficult to get him to give them up. It seemed likely that Katherine had tried and failed.

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But she had discovered the truth. How? How had she guessed? How had she got Josh even to admit to having the papers? He must go early in the morning, he decided, to try to coax them from Josh and to find out exactly what they were. He must not assume that they were marriage papers. There was a slim possibility that they were something else. But if he waited until the morning, he might miss Katherine. And besides, he did not believe he could wait one hour longer. And it would be four or five hours before he could decently consider that morning had come. Ten minutes later Nicholas was striding down the driveway. There was nothing for it but to disturb the Pickerings in the middle of the night. Of course, they would not be in bed anyway with a ball in progress at the house. Anyway, if those papers were what he thought, they would work to the advantage of the Pickerings too. They would not have to leave their beloved lodge. It had taken half an hour of quiet, persuasive talk. Thirty minutes was not a long time, but under such circumstances it had seemed endless. He had to resist the urge to shout and bully, to grab Josh by the shirt collar and shake the truth out of him. But even if such had been his accustomed way of dealing with other people, Nicholas had enough wisdom to know that someone of Josh's loyalty would die rather than give in to bullying. Finally the package had been in his hands. He could recall now, several hours later, how his hands had shaken. He had been afraid to open it there in the cottage, where all three Pickerings sat staring, at him silently and anxiously. He had brought it back to the house, lingering on the driveway, strolling merely, putting off the moment when perhaps all the truth about himself would be revealed. He had almost forgotten to be cautious of guests beginning to leave the ball. And when he was back in his room he had carefully removed his coat, washed his hands, and dried them with deliberate thoroughness. His parents had been married in a Roman Catholic ceremony in the parish church of the village of Belleville in France almost exactly one month before his birth. His mother was the Viscountess Stoughton. He was legitimately her son. He was no bastard. His mother was a lady. His father had married her before returning to England. He had doubtless been going back for her after her confinement. Had his father lived, his mother would be living at the Abbey now. He would have been brought up as their legitimate son. The facts rolled around in Nicholas' head. But although he had suspected them for several months and had dedicated himself to finding out the truth for all of that time, his mind could not grasp the reality. He sat on the edge of his bed, still rumpled from his lovemaking with Kate earlier, the papers in his hand, the facts turning themselves over in his numbed mind. He was the Earl of Barton. That thought came last. It was the least important. What really mattered was that his father had had some decency after all. He was no longer to be despised as a man who could impregnate some poor girl and then abandon her; as a man who had so little feeling for the child he had begotten that he could doom it to life as a bastard. After five-and-twenty years Nicholas could finally love the man who had given him life, the man whose picture in the salon had always haunted him. And what really mattered was that perhaps he had a mother still living and now no longer beyond his reach. He had a name and a place name with which to search. Annette Marcelin, she had been. Of Belleville. It was as the numbness had gradually worn off his brain, long after the house fell silent, that Nicholas had wanted to shout and dance, to wake everyone in the house, to take Katherine into his arms again. But he had spent the remaining hours of the night pacing his room instead, excitement growing in him until he

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scarcely knew how to contain it. And now, if only Katherine would come, he could tell her everything. She would be angry, dreadfully so. But surely she would be glad for him too. Once her anger had passed its first heat, she would share his excitement. She might even stay, at least for another day or two. Then perhaps he could accompany her to London and leave her at the home of her aunt while he journeyed to France to find his mother. He did not know what he was going to do about Clive Seyton. He did not know what the procedure was under such circumstances. He would have to find himself a good lawyer, he supposed. And he did not know when he should confront the man with his knowledge. Certainly not before he had spoken to Katherine and worked everything out with her. Truth to tell, he had not given much thought to the more unpleasant aspects of his discovery. He was still caught up in the euphoria. Would she never come? When Lord and Lady Toucher had joined him at the breakfast table and they had exchanged civilities for a while, Nicholas grew impatient. He turned to the butler, who was replacing lids on the hot dishes. "What time has the carriage been ordered for Mrs. Mannering?" he asked. Russell looked back at him in some surprise. "The carriage has not been ordered, sir," he said. "I understand that Mrs. Mannering is to leave on the stagecoach at noon." "On the stagecoach?" Nicholas said. "Are you sure, Russell?" "I think it quite a shame things turned out the way they did," Lady Toucher said. "She seemed a genteel-enough young lady." "Seemed?" said Nicholas. "Is she not genteel?" "We heard only last night," Lady Toucher continued. "My brother had been close-lipped about the whole thing out of deference to dear Thelma's feelings, I suppose. Did you not know, Sir Harry? It seems that Clive was forced to dismiss Mrs. Mannering for misbehavior. Lord Uppington caught her and a lover together, you know, and tried to beat the man off with his whip. But it seems that Mrs. Mannering did not want such kindly meant help. She threw herself in front of her lover and got caught by the whip herself. And that poor half-witted son of the Pickerings also attacked his lordship. He must have been keeping watch for her. A very sordid affair indeed." "Indeed," Nicholas echoed. "When the poor marquess went that night to punish the lover, he was ambushed and beaten for his pains," Lady Toucher said. "Clive had no option but to give Mrs. Mannering her notice, of course. I am amazed that he was kind enough to allow her to stay for a week. She cannot have been a good influence for Thelma." "I see," Nicholas said. "So Mrs. Mannering is to leave on the stagecoach. Has anyone given any thought to how she is to reach the village, Russell?" "Not to my knowledge, sir," the butler replied with a bow.

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"You will see that Dalrymple's curricle is ready before the door by eleven," Nicholas said. "And let me know when Mrs. Mannering comes down to breakfast. I shall be in the chapel." He got up abruptly from his chair and left the room. "Well, bless my soul," Lady Toucher said to her husband, "I always did think that Sir Harry had something of atendrefor Mrs. Mannering." Nicholas could not pace inside the chapel. Although it had not been used as a church for many years, there was still an unmistakable atmosphere of holiness about it that demanded reverence. He sat on a faded wooden chair and tried to force his mind to relax. Poor Katherine. Why had she not told him the truth? He had even accused her of some heartlessness toward the Pickerings in not telling her story to the earl. And all the time she had had the same doom hanging over her head as they. What a very independent woman she was. Was she afraid that he would create a big stir on her behalf to vindicate her character and restore her employment? Rather than owe that to him, she had kept quiet about the whole thing and borne the burden alone. He would make it up to her. He would persuade her to stay, and then he would see how Clive Seyton and the Marquess of Uppington would react when he presented her as the future Countess of Barton, mistress of Barton Abbey. Nicholas became convinced eventually that the butler must have forgotten about him. Even if the stagecoach did not leave until noon, surely Katherine should be up by now. Of course, it was possible that she would not come down to breakfast. Probable, in fact. She had not done so for the previous five days. He had forgotten that. And now that he thought about the matter, he realized that she had probably been ordered to keep to her room. Surely she would not slip away without anyone's noticing. But she must have a trunk too heavy to carry with her. He left the church and hurried into the house. "Where may I find Audrey?" he asked the butler. "I shall send her to you, sir," Russell said. The answers Audrey had to his questions, though, were far from comforting. Mrs. Mannering had gone, she said. All her belongings had been taken from her room too.. Nicholas had already turned to speed to his room before the maid finished speaking. There was still an hour until the stage left. She could not have left any other way. He would catch her yet before she left. "Sir," Audrey said timidly, "Lady Thelma's maid says that she has gone too." Nicholas stopped in his tracks. "Lady Thelma?" he said with a frown. "Gone? Do you mean out for a ride?" "No, sir." The girl was twisting her apron around one finger. "She has taken clothes and other things with her." The foolish girl was running from Uppington, Nicholas thought, and Katherine had gone with her. And if they were running away, they had probably not waited until some respectable hour of the morning. Was that why Katherine had not stayed longer in his room last night? Thelma was going to come and tell her all about the ball, she had said. Damnation!

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"Have you seen Moreton, Tate?" Lord Poole asked as he passed them in the great hall. "We were supposed to ride this morning. But he hasn't been to breakfast and he ain't in his room." "No, I haven't," Nicholas replied, "but I don't think you will find him in the house." Lord Poole disappeared, muttering something about finding Stoughton and whiling away the time until luncheon with a game of billiards. "Thank you, Audrey," Nicholas said, dismissing her with a nod. There was only one thing to be done, it seemed. He had nothing against his cousin Thelma beyond the fact that she was somewhat insipid. She certainly deserved better than a marriage over the anvil. Especially since it was probably unnecessary. He did not think Uppington would be quite as eager to marry the girl once he heard of her suddenly reduced circumstances. And perhaps her father's plans for her would not be quite as ambitious either. And he was certainly not going to allow Katherine to be dragged all the way to Scotland on such a mad journey if he could do anything about it. He found the earl in the library. "Ah, here you are," he said languidly, wandering into the room and closing the door behind him. "I wonder if you are aware, my lord, that your daughter is making a journey?" "What's that?" Lord Barton said, looking up from some papers spread before him. "The girl's probably still in bed. Last night was an exciting one for her, you know. I announced her betrothal to Uppington. Hope you slept well, Tate," "Oh, quite, I thank you," Nicholas said, waving one dismissive hand. "But I have reason to believe that your surmises about your daughter's whereabouts are wrong. It is my guess that she is somewhere on the road between here and Gretna Green with Mr. Sidney Moreton and Mrs. Mannering." "What!" Lord Barton was on his feet in one bound, his fists slamming down onto the desk. "Eloping? With Moreton? The girl would never be so mad. Is this some joke, Tate?" "I would suggest that you send to the stables to find out what carriage is missing," Nicholas said. Lord Barton was in a towering rage when news came back from the stables that Mr. Moreton's traveling carriage had been taken out in the middle of the night and had not returned. Mr. Moreton's own horses and coachman had gone with it. But the earl was ready to take the advice of the cooler Sir Harry Tate. It was as well that no one else in the house be told of what had happened, he advised. The travelers had a start of several hours, but it was not impossible to overtake them if Lord Barton took his lightest carriage, changed horses frequently, and stopped only for very short intervals to eat. In fact, Sir Harry was kind enough to point out, he had a curricle all ready and waiting for him at that very moment. If Lord Barton cared to fetch a coat and his purse, they could be on their way almost immediately. They merely needed to leave the message that his lordship had to leave on urgent business and would be away perhaps for a night. Sir Harry would be glad to speak to Lord Toucher himself, and to Charles Dalrymple, about borrowing his conveyance. Ten minutes later the curricle, with Nicholas holding the ribbons and Lord Barton seated beside him, was bowling down the driveway in the direction of the lodge. Matters were not quite as secretive as they seemed, Nicholas realized. It was soon going to be obvious to those left behind at Barton Abbey that he and the earl were not the only ones missing. But the plan was the best he had been able to come up with on the spur of the moment.

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Indeed, he thought a little guiltily, he cared less about the reputation of Thelma than he did about catching up with Katherine so that he could tell her everything and somehow persuade her to forgive him and agree to marry him. And that was going to be no easy task. Let the man beside him worry about Thelma. In fact, it might be to her advantage to emerge from this day's business with a somewhat tarnished reputation. There was a greater chance that she would be allowed to marry the man of her choice without having to go to Scotland for the purpose. Damn Katherine Mannering! Why had she not simply told him what she was about to do? She had made love with him the previous night, listened to his marriage proposal, implied that she would hear his explanations and give him an answer over breakfast, and all the time she had known that she would be fleeing immediately after the ball. Sometimes he could cheerfully wring her lovely neck. This happened to be one of those times. Chapter Twenty-Four

Kate and Thelma were sitting rather glumly in what passed for a private parlor in the Red Lion, an inn that was clean and respectable enough, but that was not one of the main posting houses on the read to London. A pot of tea and three empty cups stood on the table. "That wheel will never be mended," Thelma was saying for surely the dozenth time since they had been, stranded a few hours before. "And we all might have been killed if that hedge had not been so thick that it prevented the rolling of the carriage. And Papa will catch up with us here, before we have gone much more than twenty miles from home. He will ring a thundering peal over my head and I shall have to marry Lord Uppington." Kate's patience was wearing thin. But she tried to hold on to her temper. She tried to put herself in Thelma's place and imagine her anxiety. Mr. Moreton's carriage had lost a wheel, and the danger to their lives had not been exaggerated by Thelma. Even the hedge would not have saved them if the coachman had not already slowed the carriage ready to enter a village. As it was, they had been unharmed. There had just been a great deal of screaming from Thelma, who was convinced that highwaymen were responsible, and a great deal of loud, consolatory words from Mr. Moreton. And they had had to walk a few hundred yards to the inn. "I can understand your worrying," Kate said soothingly. "But that last point should not concern you at all. No one can force you to marry Lord Uppington. Besides, it is very unlikely that he will wish to marry you after your attempt to elope with Mr. Moreton." "Do you really think so?" Thelma asked hopefully. They lapsed into silence again. Kate was in no mood to keep the conversation alive. She was feeling mortally depressed. Had he meant it last night when he had asked her to marry him? She had wanted so badly for him to mean it that she had persuaded herself that it could not be true. She wanted to be Harry's wife. And he must love her just a little, surely. He could not have loved her the way he had the

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night before if he had merely been taking advantage of her presence in his room and her willingness. When he had not pressed for her answer but had said that he must tell her something first the next morning and must then leave her for a few weeks, she had immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was regretting hasty words. She had had to protect her own feelings thus. But her assumption no longer seemed reasonable. Harry did not strike her as an impulsive man. And one would have to be very impulsive indeed to propose marriage to a woman and regret it the moment after. She had not even told him she was leaving. He would naturally assume that her answer was no. And she would never see him again. She had stupidly, rashly given up the chance to marry the man she loved. She had, inexplicably enough, loved two men within a few weeks and had made love with both. The first had abandoned her the morning after, and the second she had left the morning after. Well, she could no longer call Nicholas a heartless wretch without labeling herself at the same time. "Whatever can Sidney be doing?" Thelma said, jumping to her feet and beginning to pace the room. "Do you think the wheel will be repaired soon, Kate? Oh, I hear another carriage approaching. It is Papa. I know it is Papa." "It is coming from the opposite direction," Kate pointed out. "This is the main road to London, you know. There is bound to be a fair amount of traffic on it." "Ohhh!" Thelma wailed. "We are not even on our way north yet. Does it really take so long to repair a wheel? Would you not think that Sidney could hire another carriage?" Kate sat for a couple of minutes longer, but the pacing and fidgeting and sighing of her companion drove her to her own feet eventually. "I shall go outside into the stableyard and see what I can find out," she said. "Perhaps if the delay is going to be much longer we can take a walk along the village street. You will feel better in the fresh air." "No, I will not," Thelma wailed. "Papa will be here soon." Kate opened the door of the parlor and stepped outside into the passageway. She was in sight of the taproom, where the occupant of the newly arrived carriage was standing talking to the innkeeper, facing half toward her. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. Harry? He had come? But even as the thought flashed into her mind, she frowned and looked more closely. No, he was not Harry. Her brain must be addled. But he looked very like: the same height and dark wavy hair, the same strong features. But this man was younger, little more than a boy, in fact. And his face was open and pleasing. He did not have the arrogant, slightly bored expression that was usual with Harry. Kate must have been standing and staring for several seconds. If the passageway had not been somewhat dark, she would surely have been observed. She gave herself a shake and walked forward, intending to go around the two men and out into the stableyard beyond. The innkeeper's words stopped her, however. "Here is a lady traveling out of Dorset," he said. "She can tell you if I am right or not. Do you know Barton Abbey, miss? Would you say it is a little more than twenty miles away?" Instead of answering, Kate turned sharply to look again at the stranger. From this close his resemblance to Harry was even more remarkable. Only his eyes were quite different. They were brown instead of

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blue. "Oh," she said, "you must be going to find Sir Harry Tate. Is he your brother?" "Unfortunately I do not know this man," the stranger said with a very pronounced French accent. "But if he is an acquaintance of yours, ma'mselle, I regret that I am not his brother." He bowed elegantly and smiled broadly at her. Kate had a feeling of unreality. She must be in the middle of some bizarre dream. He was Nicholas Seyton. The same smile exactly. The same voice, except that the French accent was not quite identical. But different-colored eyes. No, he was not Nicholas. His figure was too slight and boyish. "Yes," she stammered, "Barton Abbey is little more than twenty miles distant." "Ah," the stranger said with another smile, "then I shall be able to reach there by tonight, yes?" Kate nodded. "May I present myself, mamselle?" he said. "Anatole Duplessis, son of le Comte de Beaumaris at your service." He bowed again. "And of Annette, former Viscountess Stoughton," Kate said in a dream. He looked at her, his expression arrested. "But how did you know this, mamselle?" he asked. "Because I know your brother," she said, a frown between her brows. "You are almost as alike as two peas in a pod." "Pardon, mamselle," he said, "you mean this Sir Harry… ?." His hand circled the air expressively. "No," she said. "I mean Nicholas Seyton." He looked at her, his hand suspended in the air for a moment, and then took her firmly by the elbow and led her across the taproom to the fireplace. The innkeeper went regretfully about his business. "You know Nicholas Seyton?" the Frenchman asked, "Is he not dead?" "No," Kate said. "He is at Barton Abbey." "Can this be so?" Anatole Duplessis was looking intently at her, bent toward her as if to catch her every word as soon as it left her lips. "But when word reached my mother in France that the old earl was dead, and we—my father and I—persuaded her finally to come and see her first son, my half-brother, we discovered that the new earl is a man who himself has grown children. How can this be, when my brother was the heir of the old earl?" Kate swallowed. Reality was beginning to return to her. "I am sorry, sir," she said. "I should not have said so much. I have no right. But I do assure you that your brother is still alive. He will explain the whole story to you when you see him tonight." The Frenchman leaned toward her still. But he too seemed suddenly to be restored to the present. He smiled brightly. "Mon Dieu!" he said. "Maman must know this. I cannot believe it. He is alive! But

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pardon, mamselle. I am showing extreme bad manners to detain you thus when we are strangers. Please excuse me." Kate made a brief curtsy and left the taproom without further delay. But she did not even look around her for Mr. Moreton and the damaged carriage, though both were within clear view. She turned to the opposite side of the inn, where the innkeeper's wife kept an immaculate, though small flower garden. She was going to kill. That was what she was going to do. She was going to find him. But not to marry him. To kill him. Nicholas Seyton, alias Sir Harry Tate, had better enjoy the acquaintance of his French half-brother while he could. He would not live to enjoy it for long. A dagger through the heart would be very effective. Or a bullet through the brain. Better still, between the eyes. Or a slow, agonizing poison. Or drowning with a firm feminine fist holding his head underwater. Or… There had to be a more satisfactory method, one that would have him groveling for mercy and her ruthlessly and adamantly refusing it. She would kill him. Death was too good for Nicholas Seyton. Or Sir Harry Tate. Or the two of them all rolled into one. Make a fool of her, would he? She would tell him a thing or two—before she killed him, that was. If she just had him there right now before her purpose cooled. Not that it would ever cool. Not this one. This insult would be remembered in all its raw indignity until her dying day. Kate swung back to face the stableyard. She would go inside right this minute and beg a ride with that Frenchman, no matter how improper the request. She would reach that impostor by tonight. And she would give him just long enough to shake his brother's hand. Then she would kill him. "Kate! What the devil do you mean running away without a word like this?" Kate could hardly believe her good fortune. A curricle stood before the door of the inn. Lord Barton was being assisted to the ground. But hurrying toward her, hands outstretched, face filled with eager concern, was the doomed monster. Nicholas. Harry. Harry. Nicholas. She stood where she was, her jaw tightening, her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared, her hands in fists at her side. "Don't you come one step closer, you viper!" she hissed when he reached the edge of the tiny lawn. Nicholas' expression became instantly wary. He stopped moving. "Why do I have the impression that you are furiously angry, Kate?" he asked. "Is it something I have said? My language perhaps? Did you not approve of my mention of the devil?" "That was most appropriate," Kate said through her teeth. "He is a close associate of yours, I believe?" He became Sir Harry Tate before her eyes. "Goodness me," he said with a sigh. "You really are angry, Kate. Do you plan to tell me why, or am I to start guessing?" "I am going to kill you," Kate announced. "Pleasant lady," he said, one eyebrow raised. "Most refined, Kate. Have you decided on a method?" "With my bare hands," she declared rashly. "I have heard it said that anger gives one superhuman strength," he said, fingering the ribbon of his quizzing glass and raising it to his eye, to Kate's extreme wrath. "Youmust be very, very angry, Kate. But even a condemned criminal is entitled to know on what charge he has been convicted, you know. Might I

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know why I am to die at your hands?" "You are a liar and a cheat and… and… I hate you," she said. He dropped his glass and looked hard at her for several seconds. "You know, don't you?" he asked quietly. "How you must despise me and hate me," she cried. "How you must have laughed all this time. I believe it is a matter of some triumph to a man to successfully seduce a woman. A conquest about which to boast to all his male companions. Well, you are doubly triumphant, Nicholas Seyton. Get away from me and begin your boasting. Make me a laughingstock. I don't care. I will not hear any of it anyway. I shall be teaching someone's children in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands, if I am fortunate. Go away. I hate you. And I am going to kill you." "Katherine!" he said tenderly. "You malign me. You know you do." "Get out of my sight!" she hissed. "Or I shall kill you before you have had a chance to meet your brother." "My brother?" he said. "You are talking in riddles, love." Kate took one step closer to him. "Call me your love once more," she said very quietly, her voice trembling with fury, "and I shall… I shall start using my fists. And you are right that I am very, very angry. You would not escape without a black eye at the very least. And then who would be the laughingstock?" "Me, doubtless, and deservedly," he said, infuriating her further by grinning. "When did I acquire a brother, Katherine?" "I would estimate about twenty years ago," she said with great deliberateness, and watched the grin fade and a questioning frown take its place. "How do you think I discovered the truth? There is a young man inside who could almost be a twin of both Sir Harry late and Nicholas Seyton. He has a French accent that could almost be cut with a knife." His eyes had widened but had not left hers. His face had turned very pale. "What are you saying?" he whispered. The fight went out of Kate. She looked at him with dull, hostile eyes and drooping shoulders. "He is your half-brother," she said. "You had better go inside to meet him without further delay. I believe your mother is in London." "Katherine!" He whispered her name and held out a hand to her that was not quite steady. "Come with me." She shook her head, her expression unchanged. "Go," she said. He held her eyes and kept his hand extended to her for a few moments longer. But there was no yielding in her attitude, no forgiveness in her eyes. He turned and hurried across the cobblestones toward the door. Kate watched him disappear inside. An hour passed before Nicholas reappeared in the stableyard. And what a momentous hour, he reflected. Sometimes it seemed as if whole days passed with activities of so little importance that one

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week later they were as a blank in the mind. Yet sometimes so much could happen in a single hour that it seemed a whole week must have passed. He had met his brother and talked a great deal with him. Yet at the end of the hour he still could not quite believe that he did not dream. How could he have a twenty-year-old, brother, so like him in looks, so similar in personality, it seemed, and have been unaware of his existence all this time? Anatole had repeated to him the story he had told Kate. It seemed that his mother had never made a secret of the fact that she had had a son by her first husband and had given him up that he might be groomed by his grandfather for the role of an English earl. But she had steadfastly refused to break the promise she had made to stay away from the boy so that he would not become confused about his identity. This despite the fact that both her husband and her son had assured her that the promise exacted from her had been a wholly unreasonable one. But when they had heard quite by chance that the Earl of Barton was dead, then she had given in to their persuasions. She would come to England, she had agreed, and try to see her son, though she would not promise to make herself known to him. The new Earl of Barton might not be pleased to discover that he had a French mother still living. There had been great consternation in London when they had discovered that the new earl was not a young man, but a man of middle years, a nephew of the late earl. The comtessehad been inconsolable, lamenting her stubbornness over the years, wishing now that she had come sooner and perhaps seen her boy before his death. Her living son had offered the only comfort he could think of. He had decided to travel to Barton Abbey, talk to the earl, and discover what had happened to Nicholas, and where his grave could be found. Imagine his surprise, he said, when the English mamselle had told him that his brother was alive and at Barton Abbey. Nicholas in his turn told briefly about the deception that had been played on him all his life and of how he had tracked down every clue in the months since the death of his grandfather in an effort to find his mother. He told of his discovery of the truth only the night before, thanks to that same English madame—not mamselle—whom he wished to present formally to his brother in a short while. In the meantime he had urgent business in the private parlor. The earl had still been outside when Nicholas entered the inn. He had been in close conversation with the luckless Sidney Moreton. But he had come inside and demanded to know where the parlor was while the brothers talked. He had been too intent on his business with his daughter to take any notice of the two men. But Nicholas decided eventually that it was time to have a talk with his relative. He tapped on the parlor door, went inside without waiting for an answer, and discovered, not surprisingly, a tearful Thelma and a thunderous father. "Forgive the interruption," Nicholas said in his most indolent manner, "but I must have a word with you." "Not now, late," the earl said. "This is a private matter." "So is mine," Nicholas said. "Perhaps Lady Thelma could join Mrs. Mannering outside for a few minutes?" "And have her run off again?" the earl said scornfully. "Do you take me for a complete nincompoop, Tate?" "By no means," that gentleman answered mildly. "But I do not believe that either Moreton or Lady

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Thelma would be that foolish. Besides, I wish to discuss with you some, papers that I believe you have been searching for for some time." The earl went very still. He looked at Nicholas with narrowed eyes. "Thelma," he said, "go outside, girl. But remember that if you try to fly again, you will hot get very far." The girl darted frightened looks at both gentlemen and fled from the room. "Now, what is this about, Tate?" the earl asked. "May I introduce myself?" Nicholas said. "You seem to be under some misapprehension about my name. Nicholas Seyton at your service." The earl stared at him, the color draining from his face. "I shall have you arrested for this, Seyton," he said at last. "Trespassing. Impersonating someone else. Imposing your company on respectable people. You will be sorry that you did not take yourself off before I discovered your identity." "I think not," Nicholas said, strolling farther into the room. "Not unless you wish to have the whole sordid story dragged out into the open." "What story?" the earl asked scornfully. "How you persuaded my mother to give me up and promise never to see me again. How you brought me back to England with the story that my mother had lied about being married to my father. Do I need to go on?" "You still have not given up those wild notions?" the earl asked. He was regaining some of his color and composure. "Charges like that have to be proved, Seyton." "It is strange, is it not," Nicholas said conversationally, "that neither you nor I ever thought of Josh Pickering when we were searching for those papers? Yet when one thinks of it, it seems rather obvious, does it not? Josh is surely quite unsurpassable when it comes to loyalty to those he loves. And we both knew that he loved my father." The earl's hands were opening and closing at his sides. "Those papers are safely in my keeping now," Nicholas said with a smile. "They are marriage papers, by the way. It is also strange perhaps that neither of us gave any thought to my father's traveling companion. I did not know of his existence, of course, but you must have. That was a loose end, Clive. Careless of you not to look to it. And fortunate for me that I kidnapped Mrs. Mannering instead of your daughter when they came into Dorset. She had been tireless in unraveling the mystery." The earl sat down suddenly in the closest chair. "The funny thing is," he said, "that it is almost a relief to have it all over with. What next?" "There is a young man outside in the taproom," Nicholas said, "who you will see resembles me closely. He is my half-brother. My mother is in London, assuming I must be dead because I am not Earl of Barton. My first concern must be to become acquainted with my family, from whom you have kept me all these years. My next concern, of equal importance, is a private matter. When I have time to look beyond these concerns, I shall consult a lawyer. I really have no idea how I am to go about recovering what is my birthright."

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The earl drew in a deep breath. "I see," he said. "I shall be brought to trial. Might I beg your mercy for my son and daughter? They are quite innocent. They know nothing of these matters." "I will not countenance any scandal," Nicholas said quietly. "I would rather stay as I am now than see my grandfather's family become the sensation of the country. I suppose that is inevitable in one way, but not in any negative way. The whole thing has been a mistake. Those marriage papers were lost and it has always been thought that my birth was illegitimate. Only now have the papers come to light. We will have to think of something to cover the only weak point in that argument, which is why my mother would have said nothing about being married to my father. We will have time to think of something. "You will win the admiration of theton. You will receive the news with graciousness. You will be delighted on my behalf even though the discovery takes from you your title and much of your fortune and property. You will be thankful that the man whom your uncle always treated with great affection and whom you have been entertaining at Barton Abbey under an assumed name in deference to the sensibilities of your other guests is finally able to take his proper place in the family and in society." He stopped speaking and looked steadily at the bowed head of Clive Seyton. "Why are you doing this?" the earl asked finally. "Why the generosity? I have not shown you any such mercy during your life." "Perhaps for my father's sake," Nicholas said. "He was fond of you, was he not? The servants at the Abbey often regaled me with stories of the scrapes you two used to get into. You must tell me more. I find myself hungry for stories about my father now that I know he behaved honorably by my mother after all." The earl gave a humorless laugh. "Jonathan," he said. "I used to worship him, you know. Since your birth I have tried not to think of him. You are not like him at all." "When you meet my brother in a few minutes' time," Nicholas said, "you will see that I must favor my mother's family to a marked degree." And so finally they were all ready to leave the inn. And scarcely more than an hour had passed since he entered it, Nicholas thought incredulously. Despite his eagerness to go to London, he had decided that it would be wiser for them all to return to Barton Abbey. He would take Moreton up with him, and his cousin could travel with Thelma and Katherine. Anatole could follow in his hired carriage. It seemed a sensible plan. Unfortunately it all had to be rearranged when it was discovered that Dalrymple's curricle had disappeared, and along with it Katherine Mannering. Two frightened ostlers, who realized too late that the gentleman with the curricle had not given the lady permission to take it as she had claimed, assured the same very angry young man that she had driven in the direction of the coast. She had certainly not been headed toward London. He would definitely wring her neck, Nicholas decided as he and Sidney Moreton clambered into the hired carriage with Anatole.

Kate had stood watching the door of the inn for several minutes after Nicholas disappeared inside. Her shoulders were still drooped with dejection. She had not even been able to keep her fury alive. How very

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weak she was. And she knew what would happen next. He would meet his brother, and they would both be over the moon with happiness, and they would come out of that door again in the best of charity with the world. Then, if he remembered her existence—if!—Nicholas would come over to her again and ask her to come and meet his brother properly, and he would expect her to be as happy as he was. And the trouble was, Kate thought, her anger beginning to boil to the surface again, she probably would be happy for him too. Who would not be, at seeing two brothers meeting for the first time in their lives'? And she would forgive him on the spot. And she would probably marry him and despise both him and herself for the rest of their lives. And she would forget all about the necessity of killing him. Oh, she would just not do it, Kate decided. She had been ill-used in the extreme. And she deserved vengeance. She deserved the pleasure of killing Nicholas Seyton. She would not stand here and meekly wait for him to come out and smile that bright, tender smile that he knew she would rage against and finally surrender to. She would not! Kate's hands formed into fists at her sides again as she noticed Lord Barton leave Mr. Moreton at the far side of the stableyard and stride in her direction. He would be very unwise to approach her now, she thought grimly. He would not find the meek employee resigned to her fate this time. He was likely to get a punch in the teeth for his pains. But the earl unknowingly saved himself from a fat lip by totally ignoring Kate and storming through the inn door instead. That left Mr. Moreton, Kate thought, eyeing that gentleman across the yard. Was that wheel mended yet? Could she persuade him to take her to London without waiting for anyone else to emerge from the inn? After all, it seemed reasonable to suppose that Lord Barton was unwilling to allow the elopement to proceed according to plan. But no. That young man appeared to her to have no backbone whatsoever. He was thoroughly devoted to Thelma. He would insist on staying to ensure that her father did not beat her into insensibility: And there were no carriages or horses for hire at the inn, even if she had had the money to take them. She would have to go on foot. How many days would it take her to walk to London? she wondered. Or to her father's house? The trouble with that idea was that she would not know which direction to take. She might still be wandering the countryside when winter came on. Bother! thought Kate, looking down at her very inadequate slippers. And the only other conveyances in sight were the curricle Nicholas and Lord Barton had arrived in and the hired carriage of Anatole Duplessis. She could not possibly take the latter. The coachman looked to be a burly man and quite beyond her strength to force into compliance. That left the curricle. She had drawn a thundering scold from Giles once when she had driven his to the gate of their property and back, a total distance of half a mile. She had taken the tongue-lashing meekly—she had had no choice with Giles—and had never repeated the experiment. One just did not do twice what Giles had scolded one for once. But she thought she had done rather well. All the way to London, though? What would she do during the nights? Or when she drew closer to the city amongst heavier traffic? Where else? Barton Abbey? It would be rather like riding straight into the lion's den to go there. And stupid besides. But it was a sure destination and only twenty miles or a little more away. And at least she would have breathing room for a while. Perhaps by the time she saw Nicholas again she would not be so badly affected by seeing him with his brother. And she would have the anger necessary to kill him. The curricle was ready to leave again. Kate strode over to it with confident purpose. "I am going to take

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Mr. Seyton's curricle along the street and back," she said in the general direction of two ostlers who stood close by. "He knows about it." "I don't know, mum," one of the ostlers said. "Them horses look pretty frisky." "I am quite used to them," Kate lied without deigning to look at the two men. Her heart was thumping rather uncomfortably. "Perhaps I should talk to the gentleman," the other ostler said hesitantly. Kate gave him a look so full of cold hauteur that the poor man took a full step backward. "Am I being called a liar and a weakling to boot?" she asked in a voice so quiet that it spelled immediate danger to the two ostlers. "Did you not see Mr. Seyton talking to me just now? Do you think I am a common thief?" For reply the first ostler rushed forward to help Kate into the high seat and hand her the ribbons. "Thank you," she said coolly and, shaking with terror, turned the horses' heads in the direction of the village street. She expected them every moment to rear up or to suddenly bolt away. But she recalled something her father had always told her about horses, and other animals, for that matter. Show fear and they will be afraid, he had said. Show cool confidence and they will calmly obey. Kate schooled her hands to cool confidence and prayed that the horses were no mind readers. And soon she was beyond the confines of the village, with no sign of mutiny on the part of the horses and no sound of hot pursuit from behind. After a few hundred yards of moving along at a sedate walk, she dared to flick the ribbons as an indication that the horses might break into a safe trot if they so desired. Two miles down the road she informed them that they might increase the pace to a brisk trot or even a mild gallop if the road were straight and no farmer's cart or particularly large pothole happened to be looming ahead. Of course, she reminded herself, to dampen any conceit that might be growing in her concerning her skills as a whip, the horses must be somewhat tired, having just finished traversing this same road in the opposite direction. Chapter Twenty-Five

It was the evening of the following day. Everyone left at the Abbey seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Most of the guests had left that same day to enjoy the remainder of the summer at their own country homes or at Brighton or one of the spas. Lord Uppington and his sister had departed in high dudgeon, the former having been informed that his betrothal to Lady Thelma must regrettably be considered at an end. It was likely that the marquess knew very well about the elopement, yet would have been quite prepared to overlook the waywardness of his prospective bride—until after the wedding, anyway. He was not told the full truth of the change in status and fortune of his betrothed, or perhaps he would have considered himself the most fortunate of men.

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Charles Dalrymple was the only one of the departing guests to whom all was explained. He left after wringing his friend's hand as if it were his intention to break every bone and begging him not to forget his humble friend and distant relative now that he was about to soar to the social heights, especially as that friend was about to acquire a new wife. He received a not-too-gentle punch in the arm for reply. By late afternoon only Lord and Lady Toucher and—somewhat surprisingly—Mr. Moreton remained. The latter had expected to be abandoned at the inn to make his own way wherever he cared to go. He had been somewhat puzzled when the earl had asked him, somewhat gruffly it was true, to return to the Abbey with the rest of them. He had been even more surprised when the earl had taken him aside the morning after their return and explained the change in his circumstances according to the story that Nicholas had decided should be the official one. If Mr. Moreton still wished to marry his daughter, the earl had said with obvious difficulty, then the nuptials could be celebrated in the autumn. The man who was to be the new earl had said her dowry was to remain unchanged. Under the circumstances, seeing that Mr. Moreton had already somewhat sullied her reputation by the attempted elopement, he would allow the marriage to proceed. Mr. Moreton, who was in transports of delight and totally unconcerned about either his own lack of fortune or his love's changed status, wisely refrained from pointing out that a lady's reputation was hardly compromised when she rode in a carriage for a few hours with a gentleman and her lady companion. Perhaps he understood something of his future father-in-law's mortification at facing such a change in status. He was forced to admit to himself, though, that the earl was taking the whole thing with some graciousness. He seemed quite genuinely delighted over the good fortune of his cousin, whom he had been entertaining under an assumed name even before he knew the man's birth was legitimate. Lord and Lady Toucher, Lord Stoughton, and Thelma were told the same version of the story late in the afternoon after all the other guests had taken their departure. The others had been told only that Sir Harry's long-lost brother, who had been living in France since his infancy, had sent notice of his unexpected return, and a small group from the Abbey had gone partway along the road to meet him. Lord Stoughton and his sister, whom one might have expected to be most upset over the news that they no longer had any claim to their titles or the fortunes that might have come their way from their father, reacted quite unpredictably. Thelma leapt to her feet as soon as her father had finished speaking. "Papa!" she cried, looking quite radiant. "Now I shall not be able to marry Lord Uppington because he will consider me quite beneath him. And I shall be able to marry Sidney. Oh, say I shall, Papa. I am so happy." She hugged her father, her aunt, and—after a moment's hesitation—Nicholas, and blushed furiously. "You are my cousin of sorts, are you not?" she said. "I did not suspect at all who you were. But I am so glad. It must be terrible to think you are a bas…" She could think of no alternative word, and merely blushed hotly again. The former Lord Stoughton was on his feet too, his hand outstretched to Nicholas. "I say," he said, "this means I can get back to my comfortable life again without everyone expecting certain things of me merely because I am a viscount. I shall be able to go to America. Or Canada. Famous!" "I think you might have dropped a little hint to me about who this dear man was, Clive," Lady Toucher said, sounding somewhat aggrieved. "I would have kept the secret from everyone else. I am so glad, my dear Nicholas. You are not at all like poor Jonathan, you know. I would never have guessed. But so

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handsome! And so like your half-brother. I am going to claim a cousin's privilege, my dear, and kiss you." She gave vent to a little shriek and a remarkably girlish giggle when Nicholas put his arms around her and hugged her tightly. "You cannot know how wonderful it is, ma'am, suddenly to acquire a family," he said. He smiled across at Anatole. "On both my mother's and my father's side." And indeed, Nicholas thought, Clive Seyton was playing his part with remarkable good grace. Perhaps, with a great deal of tact and hard work on his own part, he could keep these family members close to him. And Anatole. He still felt a thrill of excitement at the knowledge that he had a living mother and a stepfather as well as this half-brother, who was already dear to him after scarcely more than one day's acquaintance. It needed only two things to make his happiness complete. The first would be looked after tomorrow. After the departure of the remaining guests, including the earl and his family, he and Anatole would leave for London too. Within a week he would be with his mother. He could scarcely imagine how it would feel to meet a strange lady and know that she had borne him. Excitement tied such a knot in the area of his stomach that he tried not to think about that meeting too much. Anatole had said that their mother was small and dark-haired and still beautiful. The second requirement for his happiness was that somehow he get past that locked door in the west wing to where he might shake Katherine by the shoulders until her teeth rattled and then wring her neck—probably in that order. The foolhardy woman had driven Dalrymple's curricle all the way back from that inn at what must have been breakneck speed judging by her purported time of arrival. And then she had rushed past numerous guests and servants in the hall and on the stairs and straight into her room, where she had locked the door and remained ever since. He would concede that she had a great deal to be angry about. But really, there were limits to what one might reasonably expect. Had she had to punish him by risking her life in the curricle? He had had a nightmare ride home, expecting to come upon her mangled remains around every bend of the road and over every rise. And was it not taking anger a little too far to lock herself in her room for almost twenty-four hours? On the first occasion when he had gone along to reason with her from the other side of the door, she had refused, to come out, but her, voice had certainly not done so. His ears had soon been ringing with insults and hair-raising threats. She was so ingenious, in fact, he had decided, that perhaps it was as well that a man could die only once. On the second occasion her voice had done the same as the rest of her person: it had refused to come out. He had been left holding a well-reasoned argument with a silent and unsympathetic wooden door. And he refused utterly to avail himself of the key to the door, which Russell had suggested in the wake of a discreet cough. Fair is fair, Nicholas decided. While she was at Barton Abbey she was, he supposed, his guest, and one did not force onself on one's guests. Let her wait until she was off Barton property, though. Then Mrs. Katherine Mannering would find her privacy and her sullen tantrums less well-respected. She had allowed both Thelma and Audrey into her room after a lengthy interrogation had had both girts swearing on their honor that a certain monstrous Nicholas Seyton was not lurking beyond the keyhole ready to invade her room as soon as she turned the key. She had needed to let someone in. She had not

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a stitch of a personal belonging in her room with her, having left her trunk in Moreton's carriage and her reticule is the inn parlor. She had made arrangements to leave for London the following morning, traveling with Thelma and her father and brother.

Kate was feeling foolish. It had been the obvious thing to do, in her embarrassment on her return, to rush to her room and lock the door. And it had seemed a good idea to show Nicholas that she was still angry and still had not forgiven him, by refusing to come out of her room. She had even enjoyed abusing him through the locked door. There had been no danger that the sight of him would weaken her resolve. But she had really put herself into a nasty predicament. How was she to get out of the room without looking and feeling remarkably silly? And so she had been stuck there for two whole nights and an interminable day in between. It did not helptohear from Thelma all the disclosures that had been made during her absence and all the happiness that seemed to fill the house except for the small area of her room. So Nicholas was happy, was he? He had good reason to be. He had suddenly acquired a respectable name, a title, fortune and property, a mother and a half-brother. And he was to leave later that very day to meet his mother in London. Who would not be happy under such circumstances? He had probably forgotten completely about her. He had not been to her room to try to coax her out since early the previous afternoon. Kate was feeling satisfyingly sorry for herself as she sat on the edge of her bed, her packed belongings around her once again, waiting for Audrey to indicate to her that the carriage was ready at the door. She did not particularly welcome the thought of having to share a carriage with Lord Barton, but really she was thankful that she had a way of leaving the Abbey and returning to the sanity of her Aunt Priscilla's house in London without any further delay. The next few minutes would bring the worst ordeal, she decided when Audrey had knocked on the door and Kate had finally opened it wide to allow two footmen to carry her luggage downstairs. He would undoubtedly be waiting in the hall to see the travelers on their way. Well, she would just not let his presence bother her. She would keep her features quite composed and she would neither look at him nor speak to him. She would walk past into the carriage. If she were lucky, Lord Stoughton or a footman perhaps would be there to hand her in. She took a resolute breath and stepped out of the sanctuary of her room. He was there, as she had anticipated. She did not have to look up to see him. She could feel him. Good heavens, why had she not realized long since that Sir Harry Tate was Nicholas Seyton? She had always had a sixth-sense type of awareness of both men. He was shaking hands with Lord Stoughton, and his brother stood beside him. The latter turned toward her as she stepped across the hall. "Ah, madame," he said, "how pleased I am to meet you again and to thank you for leading me to discovering my brother." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Kate smiled at him deliberately as punishment to Nicholas, who had also turned in her direction. "I am glad for your sake, sir," she said, "that your fears proved to be groundless." "Katherine…" Nicholas began. Kate let her eyes sweep over and past him, gathered her pelisse about her as if to avoid brushing against

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him,and swept through the open door to the waiting carriage. Lord Stoughton handed her in. It was perhaps a good thing that she missed Nicholas' grin and the wink he directed his brother's way before he made a dash for the staircase and raced up the stairs in most undignified manner, three at a time. Kate stared stonily out of the carriage window for the remaining five minutes before it began to move and for the journey down the driveway and out onto the main road. What a dreadful thing pride is, her stubborn mind was telling her. Here she was, sitting in a carriage which was every moment taking her farther and farther away from him, plunging her deeper and deeper into misery, and all for pride. All so that he should not have the satisfaction of thinking himself forgiven. Well, she thought determinedly, there was no point now in regretting anything she had done in the last few weeks. Better to put it all behind her and turn her mind to the future. No experience in life, no matter how painful, she recalled her father saying, is ever wasted if one learns from it. She had learned from this experience, right enough. She had learned that she must set herself to being a quiets meek-and-mild governess. A nice quiet life without any emotional upheavals. Heavenly bliss! That would be her life from this moment on. She had learned to know herself at last. "How lovely it is to have both you and Adam in the carriage with us," Thelma was saying to her father. "For once I feel completely safe. Even with Sidney a few days ago I felt somewhat apprehensive, did I not, Kate? I suppose that once one has been held up once by a highwayman, one is bound to be nervous ever after. Though as Aunt Alice pointed out just yesterday, most people never get held up even once. It is safe to assume that if one has been held up, the same thing cannot possibly happen again." "I don't think that particular highwayman is likely to show himself in these parts again," the earl assured her a moment before the carriage lurched and began to pull to an abrupt halt. Thelma shrieked. "What the devil?" Adam Seyton said, pulling down the window and poking his head outside to see what had caused the commotion. "By Jove, Thelma, it's that same highwayman. Of all the nerve! It is broad daylight." Thelma shrieked again and tried to burrow her way inside her father's coat. The door of the carriage opened from the outside to reveal emptiness. "You may all stay inside and take your ease," a deep voice with the trace of a French accent said. "The wench who was saucy to me last time may jump down. The one in the gray garments." "You may go to hell with my blessing, sir," Kate said very distinctly, sitting coolly in her corner of the carriage, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap.. Horse and rider appeared in the doorway suddenly, and the masked blond figure of the highwayman leaned inside, grabbed Kate by the waist before she had a chance to recover from her surprise, and swung her out and up before him on the saddle. "Put me down this instant!" she hissed. "Oh, I say," Adam Seyton protested. "This will not do at all, you know, fellow. Mrs. Mannering is on her way to London and has no fortune on her person. I have twenty guineas, lake those and release her

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immediately." "Mrs. Manneringisa fortune," the highwayman said before spurring his horse forward out of sight of the occupants of the carriage. "Continue on your way, coachman," he called to that individual, who strangely enough had put up no fight or protest at being stopped so rudely on the open highway. Perhaps equally strangely, Clive Seyton had made no attempt to dissuade the highwayman from kidnapping his daughter's companion. "Put me down this instant," Kate demanded, trembling with rage, "or I shall shriek and start clawing at your face so that you will be sorry you ever set eyes on me." "If you do those two things, Katherine," Nicholas said, "I doubt if I will be sorry. I shall be dead and so will you. On horseback is not the place for an out-and-out fight. Wait until we reach the cottage and then you may go at me to your heart's content." "I shall screech out for help to the first person or building I see," Kate warned. "Then I shall have to silence you in the way I did once before. Do you remember?" he asked, taking her indignant lips within his own a fraction of a second before she realized his intent. Kate shook her head vigorously. "You will hang for this, you know," she said. "This is kidnapping." "Hanging will be a sight swifter and less painful than some of those other deaths you threatened me with yesterday," he said. Kate lapsed into a sullen silence while her mind planned strategy for when they would arrive at the cottage. Unfortunately she was distracted by a physical discomfort that soon absorbed every ounce of her consciousness. She would not! She would not give him the satisfaction. But in the end she was compelled to. Her screaming neck muscles would no longer hold her head away from his shoulder. Of course, she thought to cover her mortification, even that was his fault. He had deliberately seated her so that she was not quite upright. He shrugged his shoulder so that her head slipped into a more comfortable position against his neck. Neither of them said another word until the horse was drawn to a halt in the small cobbled yard before Russ Evans' cottage. Nicholas swung himself down from the saddle and lifted an unyielding Kate down after him. "Go inside," he directed. "I shall just see to my horse before I join you. The Evanses have conveniently been persuaded to lake themselves off for the day to visit Mrs. Evans' brother." Kate considered turning and marching through the gateway. But if she did that, she would merely lose further dignity by being hauled back again. She walked with dangerous meekness into the house and through the low, dark passageway to the little parlor at the back. She removed her bonnet and gloves and turned to face the door. "I do not consider this a very clever or tasteful joke, sir," she said as soon as Nicholas entered the room, his disguise already abandoned. "I hate you and despise you and I wish to be on my way to London. I have nothing whatsoever to say to you." "You are a liar, Katherine," he said coolly.

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Her temper flared instantly. "I am a liar," she said. "I am a liar? Well, sir, I see this is a clear case of the pot calling the kettle black. And what might you be, sir?" "You see?" Nicholas said in triumph. "I have proved my point already. You obviously have a great deal to say to me, Katherine. Why not say it and give me a chance to defend myself?" "Can there be any defense to what you have done to me?" she cried. "I believed your story. I pledged myself to help you. I risked a great deal to get away from the Abbey at night so that I could come here to warn you of danger. Twice. And I gave myself to you. A small matter, you may think. But you knew that I did so terrified that I would find the act as repulsive as I always had. But I trusted you. I gave you myself, not only my body. And what did you do to repay me? You came to the Abbey as a guest with a different name; you treated me abominably; and you gradually made me trust yon again. And again I gave myself to you. But you did it all out of contempt. When I had made myself completely vulnerable with you, you did not even trust me enough to tell me who you were. And you say that you wish to defend yourself?" "Icandefend myself, Katherine," he said. "It was not you I did not trust. It was myself." "Oh, famous!" Kate said, turning half away from him and raising her hand to an invisible audience on the ceiling. "You were afraid that, having told me, doing so would become a sort of habit and you would have been telling everyone? " "I was afraid that I would not be able to keep away from you," he said. She stared at him, incredulous. "Pardon me for a fool," she said, "but if three nights ago was keeping away from me, what, pray, would being close to me involve?" "Three nights ago I admitted failure," he said, "and gave in to my love for you." "Love!" Kate spat out the word as if it were a week-old fish she had drawn out of a garbage heap. "Is it love to take a woman to bed and not even tell her with whom she lies? You do not know the meaning of love, Nicholas Seyton. You have confused the word with lust." "Nonsense!" he said. "You know as well as I do, Katherine, that what happened between you and me three nights ago was the result of a very deep love and was a near-perfect expression of it. You are overdramatizing, hoping that I will go down on my knees to you or show some other sign of desperate groveling. I have no intention of even beginning to cater to such silly whims, I am not going to be an abject worshiper to your aloof goddess. It is a marriage with you I intend to have. A lifetime marriage modeled after that experience of oneness that we both had in bed three nights ago." "Well!" Kate's voice was very quiet but it was vibrating. "Silly whims. And you want a marriage with me. Do you know what marriage is, Nicholas? Marriage is a man free to live whatever life he pleases and a woman who is his slave. She must dedicate her whole life to pleasing him, even if he is impossible to please. She must at least learn to dodge his wrath whenever she may. She must learn to obey his every whim, to keep her own 'silly' thought and feelings to herself, to lay her down meekly whenever he feels like relieving himself of a lustful impulse, and to consider herself fortunate beyond the general run of females if he refrains from beating her except when unusually provoked. That is what marriage is. Don't talk to me of feelings of oneness." "Was your marriage a very dreadful ordeal?" he asked quietly.

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"No, not at all," she said. "I believe it was a very normal marriage, sir. I learned early to be obedient, and Giles was not normally a violent man. He was content to revile me with his tongue. Doubtless I deserved every tongue-lashing I had. I was a worthless creature, he told me on numerous occasions. He must have been right. He was my husband. A husband is always right." "Why did he beat you?" He was almost whispering. Kate laughed harshly. "For a dreadful misdemeanor," she said. "I deserved every painful stroke of his hand. I dared to try to wriggle my way out from beneath him as he lay on top of me drunk and snoring. He had taught me long before that a wife does not move even a finger while a husband is about his business, or even afterward until he pleases to remove himself from her bed." "Poor Katherine!" Nicholas said. "But you are not describing marriage, love. You are describing one particular one, a marriage in which there was no love whatsoever, only selfishness and brutality on the one side and a hopeless submissiveness on the other. Your husband was a brutal man, my dear, even if he raised a hand to you on only one occasion. The man was a dolt. You, worthless? You are worth more than the whole world and the sun and the moon and all the stars together to me, Katherine. You are my whole fortune. My life." Kate's jaw tightened and her eyes flashed. "You are a very clever man, Nicholas Seyton," she said. "You can treat me with the utmost contempt for several weeks and then you think you can have me melting in your arms merely because you know how to use words prettily. How can I be your life? You deceived me!" "Sometimes, Katherine," he said, turning away from her to the window in exasperation, "I have serious doubts about your intelligence. Do you not see that I deceived you just because youaremy world? I did not know what manner of man Clive Seyton was. I did not know whether he could be an evil and violent man when threatened. There was every chance that he might discover that other people in addition to himself were in search of those papers and other evidence to prove my legitimacy. I was terrified of your involvement. I was even afraid for your life at first until I realized that the earl was incapable of any criminal violence. I wanted you to believe that I had given up so that you would do likewise." "That is why you left—or pretended to do so—without a word?" Kate asked. "I am expected to believe that?" "Yes," he snapped back at her, turning an angry face to her. "You are expected to believe that. How was I to know that you would be foolish enough and quite impossibly brave enough to continue on your own?" "I am still foolish, then," Kate said bitterly. He clucked his tongue and strode toward her suddenly. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against him. "Katherine," he said, "why do you not listen to all of what I am saying, instead of pouncing on individual words? Can you not hear what I am saying? I care for your safety. I admire you. I adore you. I love you. And I suppose you do not believe me." She caught hold of his lapels and clung to them. "I am afraid to," she said fiercely through her teeth. "Afraid," he said. "Ah, Katherine, must you judge me according to the image of manhood that your husband set before you? What of your father? Is he too incapable of love and of treating a woman as if

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she were a person?" "My father is one of a kind," she said. "And Giles Mannering was one of a kind," he said, "as am I. I am myself, Katherine, just as your father is himself, and your husband himself, and you yourself. I am not perfect. We would not be here arguing like this if I were. But neither are you perfect, love, or you would have had the courage to forgive me long before this. We are people, Katherine, two people who stimulate each other quite sufficiently to enable us to enjoy a lifetime of friendship and fighting and loving. We will never have a tranquil life together, my dear, but I do not think I could contemplate life without you. And fight as we surely will, I can promise you one thing. I may blister you with my tongue as you will me, but I will never leave you feeling worthless, because I will always allow you to give as good as you get. And I will never blister you with my hand or any other weapon, Katherine." "I knew it," she said, staring belligerently at the top button of his waistcoat. "I knew that if I let you talk to me, I would let my anger cool. I didn't want it to cool. I thought I would be safe if I could get away and gain employment as a governess. I had decided to live a quiet, dignified life. If I marry you, I shall be storming at you and screeching at you and behaving in a quite undignified way every day of my life." He laughed suddenly. "You, quiet and dignified, Katherine Mannering?" he said. "Never, love." Kate, clutching at his waistcoat button, lost her battle with her dignity. She snorted with laughter. "It was not a very realistic dream, was it?" she admitted. "Far better to have a good fight with me every day," he said. "And to make love with you, Nicholas," she said wistfully, raising her eyes to his. "You do it so beautifully. I think I would have to give in just for that." "Only for that?" he asked, his forehead against hers. "No, of course not only for that," she said. "If there were only that between us, it would not really be worth having, would it?" "You will marry me, Katherine?" he asked. "Well, good heavens," she said, jerking her head away from his, "do I have to spell the word out? Y-e-s. Are you satisfied?" He grinned. "I think so," he said. "Yes, in fact. It is just that this argument has gone on rather longer than I expected. I have arranged for the carriage to take you and Audrey to London while Anatole and I accompany you on horseback. I want you with me when I meet my mother, and I want to marry you in the presence of my family and yours. We will be expected back at the Abbey almost before I have time to take you upstairs to make love to you. Pardon me, my love:withyou." "Now?" she said, her eyes wide. "Upstairs? Here? In broad daylight?" "In short, yes," Nicholas said, grasping her hand and grinning down at her. "And right now. I positively refuse to be rushed once I am in bed with you. But I intend to rush you up the stairs." He suited action to words, and soon Kate was running to keep up with his long strides along the

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passageway to the staircase. "Oh!" she said suddenly, hauling back on his hand. "Nicholas, no, I can't. Of course I can't. You are going to be an earl. I had forgotten. You will not wish to marry me. I am nobody. I have never even been brought out." He stopped and turned toward her. "Katherine," he said, "let me make one thing very clear. You may always tell me what you think and what you wish. But in one thing I shall demand total obedience. You will not—and I repeat,not—tell me what I wish. Do you understand?" She looked up at him with deceptive meekness. "Yes, my lord," she said. "I am practicing, you see. Then I am not permitted to tell you that you wish to make love with me upstairs right now in broad daylight?" His eyes narrowed. "And if I were not in such a rush to get down to business," he said, "you would have another quarrel on your hands, you saucy minx. Now, for God's sake, Katherine Mannering, hold your tongue and let me love. Is that a quotation, by the way?" But he did not give her a chance to reply and perhaps set another quarrel in motion. If he said John Donne, she would be sure to say Ben Jonson. His lips met hers and his tongue plunged into her mouth in such a sizzling promise of what was about to happen abovestairs that Kate meekly wrapped her arms around his neck, molded her body to his, and put up no argument when he reached down, his mouth still covering .hers, and swung her up into his arms. He began a remarkably swift ascent of the stairs considering that he carried no featherweight and was further hampered by the fact that his eyes were closed and his mouth and nose otherwise occupied than with breathing. "Nicholas?" Kate said drowsily all of half an hour later, one of her fingers tracing a pattern on his naked chest. "Mm?" He kissed the top of her head. "About this smuggling business," she said, her voice gaining energy. Nicholas pulled back his head and grinned down at her. "Is the honeymoon over so soon, my love?" he said with a sigh. "Well, it was a beautiful loving, Katherine. We will be good together, will we not? Yes, my dear Mrs. Mannering, what about this smuggling business?"