The Earl`s Revenge

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The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

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Romance/Historical Fiction

Belgrave House

www.belgravehouse.com

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

THE EARL'S REVENGE

Allison Lane

Prologue

May 1804

“What do you mean, she isn't here!” Lord Grimfield slammed both fists onto the breakfast table, bouncing two knives onto the floor. “We leave in two hours."

“I'm sure ... I mean ... I d-don't know ... my palpitations ... vinaigrette!” His gray-haired aunt squeaked and stammered until Grimfield's red face turned purple. “There is n-no one in her room,” she finally managed through chattering teeth as a footman waved smelling salts under her nose.

“Nonsense!” He glared at the rigidly composed butler. “Summon my daughter immediately."

Miss Thompson slumped further into her chair and grasped the vinaigrette for herself, inhaling deeply.

Fifteen furiously silent minutes later, the butler returned. “Miss Mary is not in the house."

Lord Grimfield loomed over his hapless aunt. “What kind of establishment do you run that you can misplace an innocent girl?"

“P-perhaps Mary just stepped out for a b-breath of air,” she suggested, paling before his black glare. The vinaigrette waved faster.

“Alone?"

“Her maid is also missing,” reported the butler, not mentioning that the front door had been unlocked when he arose that morning. Miss Mary was sweet and thoughtful—a favorite among the servants. Lord Grimfield, on the other hand, was a pompous bore who had complained unceasingly since his arrival the previous afternoon.

“I want a thorough search from attic to cellar,” ordered his lordship.

The house was not large; the search took only half an hour. Another hour turned up no one in the neighborhood who admitted seeing either Miss Mary or her maid.

“What are we to do?” moaned Miss Thompson, wringing her hands between sips of weak tea.

“Imbecile!” snapped Lord Grimfield. “I should have known better than to trust my daughter to the care of a stupid woman. You are too incompetent to look after yourself, let alone a seventeen-year-old girl. What was my father about to let you live in London alone? The man should have been locked in Bedlam."

“How can you t-talk about dear Arnold that way?” she wailed. “My b-brother had nothing to say about my care. I lived with my aunt, God rest her soul."

“God won't. She was a cursed sinner, wasting her life on immoral frivolity and ignoring her responsibilities. And you are no better! Why did I not insist on my sister's escort? She is the only reasonable female I have ever met!"

“Fanny would have been a most unsuitable chaperon!” Miss Thompson stormed, his implacable antagonism triggLane-ERevengeThe Earl's RevengeAllison LaneBelgrave HouseCopyright © 1997 by Susan Ann PaceRomance/Historical Fiction. 74769 words long. enNoveltext/xml

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The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

-----------------------------------

Romance/Historical Fiction

Belgrave House

www.belgravehouse.com

THE EARL'S REVENGE

Allison Lane

Prologue

May 1804

“What do you mean, she isn't here!” Lord Grimfield slammed both fists onto the breakfast table, bouncing two knives onto the floor. “We leave in two hours."

“Nonsense!” He glared at the rigidly composed butler. “Summon my daughter immediately."

Miss Thompson slumped further into her chair and grasped the vinaigrette for herself, inhaling deeply.

Fifteen furiously silent minutes later, the butler returned. “Miss Mary is not in the house."

Lord Grimfield loomed over his hapless aunt. “What kind of establishment do you run that you can misplace an innocent girl?"

“P-perhaps Mary just stepped out for a b-breath of air,” she suggested, paling before his black glare. The vinaigrette waved faster.

“Alone?"

“I want a thorough search from attic to cellar,” ordered his lordship.

The house was not large; the search took only half an hour. Another hour turned up no one in the neighborhood who admitted seeing either Miss Mary or her maid.

“What are we to do?” moaned Miss Thompson, wringing her hands between sips of weak tea.

“How can you t-talk about dear Arnold that way?” she wailed. “My b-brother had nothing to say about my care. I lived with my aunt, God rest her soul."

“Fanny would have been a most unsuitable chaperon!” Miss Thompson stormed, his implacable antagonism triggin many ways, probably because your real character is so close to mine."

“You mentioned once that you detected pain, anger, and loneliness in my writing. I had never acknowledged them myself, but you were right. My mother inflicted pain every time we met, eliciting rage in return. Countering it required building walls around myself. But living apart as I have always done has left me lonely. Now that I know you, I cannot face remaining in such a state. Don't make me beg, though I will if I have to."

She reached up to lay a finger against his lips, and smiled. "He hath importuned me with love, in honourable fashion."

“Shakespeare, Hamlet, one of Ophelia's speeches,” he said, nipping her finger. “And I importune you as well. What must I do to prove myself?"

“I would never ask you to beg, Mark. And I know that you will never be the tyrant my father was. I would be proud to call you husband."

Happiness blazed in his eyes before they moved too close to see them clearly. His lips took hers fiercely, possessively, passionately. She clung to his shoulders, her wobbly knees no longer able to support her. Euphoria drove away all thought, leaving only compelling heat and excitement. She could feel similar emotions flooding him. It wasn't until several minutes later that she realized she was no longer standing, but was sitting on his lap in a large wing chair.

“I love you,” she whispered as he nuzzled her neck, one hand entwined firmly in her hair.

“I should have married you years ago,” he managed huskily.

“It would never have worked then,” she reminded him. “I was insecure, uneducated, and terrified. You would have taken me to Westron and left me there."

He laughed. “Probably. More fool me. What should a fool do with so good a woman?"

“Shakespeare, Othello. You mean you don't know? What shocking ignorance for a man of your reputation!"

“Oh, I know, all right.” His eyes burned into hers. “And I am taking no chances this time, my love. Cramer can get a special license from Doctor's Commons. He should be able to get it here within the week. I doubt I'll let you out of my sight until our wedding—and certainly not afterward. We will have no repeat of our last betrothal."

“Never.” She pulled his head down for another kiss. “All that remains is to get rid of these pesky guests."

“Easy. I do believe that Helen has something contagious. They will be gone by morning."

“Except Lord Carrington and Anne,” she suggested. “We must observe the proprieties."

“In the eyes of the world,” he agreed, the laughter lighting his face telling her all she wanted to know as he drew her into another heady embrace.

Visit www.belgravehouse.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors. ering her temper. “She is as ignorant of town as you. Poor Mary was as gauche and untutored a girl as I have ever seen, lacking even the rudiments of female accomplishments. I am amazed she lasted the month without creating a scandal. She hasn't the slightest idea how to go on in society, as must be obvious from this current start. Oh, how are we to find her?"

“We aren't,” he announced. “She has abandoned her duty, repudiating both family and God. I want nothing more to do with her."

“B-but how do you know she left of her own free will? There was no note, and all her p-possessions remain upstairs."

“You are hysterical to suggest anything so ridiculous. Who could want so disobedient a chit?” He scribbled a message and summoned a footman. “Deliver this to Bridgeport House. It is now their problem. I refuse to be tarnished by the girl's sins."

“Sins?” squeaked Miss Thompson. “How dare you! I have never seen a more pious young lady."

"Honor thy father," he quoted grimly. “One of the ten commandments. Children, obey your parents— That exhortation appears more than once. She will fry for all eternity. As for you, Aunt Mabel, you should consider blessed are the meek. Your unholy tendency to criticize your betters and argue with your superiors will guarantee that you spend the hereafter with my former daughter.” With that, he called for his luggage. In half an hour, he was gone.

* * * *

Viscount Staynes kept an expression of expectant pleasure on his face with considerable effort. He had no interest in the current proceedings, wanting nothing more than to attend the morning's auction at Tattersall's.

This is your duty, he reminded himself. Thinking of other activities was pointless, for it only increased his annoyance. Amusement flickered in his eyes when he remembered the surprise that awaited his mother, but it quickly passed. Ennui returned.

Where was the stupid chit? He had heard that it was fashionable to be late for one's wedding, but Miss Thompson was not a fashionable female. And ten minutes was beyond enough. He tried to deflect his growing irritation by reviewing his plans for the future.

It didn't help.

The voices behind him buzzed louder as speculation intensified. Bishop Ramsey clicked open his watch. A quarter past eleven. Staynes grimaced.

Sudden silence assaulted his ears. The rustle of five hundred people shifting in their seats echoed from the vaulted roof. He produced a smile for his bride and turned, but saw only growing fury in his mother's eyes and trepidation in his father's that changed to stark terror as a Bridgeport footman hurried up the aisle, a folded piece of paper clutched in one hand. The bishop glanced at the note, then passed it to Staynes.

A giant fist landed in his stomach, driving all the air from his lungs. His eyes hardened into green ice, an angry flush galloping up his face to merge with his russet hair. By God, she would pay for this!

Ignoring even his best friend, he strode out a side entrance.

“There will be no wedding today,” announced the bishop. Abandoning his dignity, he beat a hasty retreat lest the Countess of Bridgeport vent her considerable spleen on his ears.

Chapter One

Spring 1812

Dear Mr. Thornton,

Regrettably, Mr. Beringer will be unable to accept your commission as he died Thursday last. Enclosed herewith are all materials belonging to you that were in the possession of my client at the time of his demise.

Sincerely yours,

Andrew Holyoke, solicitor

“Hell and damnation!” muttered Thornton, glaring at the letter clenched in his left hand. It was dated two months earlier. Why had it not been forwarded until now?

Murray!

He strode furiously about the room, kicking aside a footstool with such force that it smashed into the wall. His publisher had been unenthusiastic about this project from the beginning, citing excessive costs and a limited market. A conservative who abhorred risk-taking, the man would undoubtedly pounce on this disaster as an excuse to proceed in his own way.

But the attached note removed that fear, not that it improved his temper any. Murray declared that Mr. Beringer's assistant, Mr. M. E. Merriweather, was equally talented, as the enclosed sketches would prove.

A louder and more graphic string of curses bounced off the library walls. Damned officious toad! Murray must have known of this problem for weeks. What gave him the right to consult another artist without even discussing it? And an unknown at that!

Unfortunately, Thornton knew the answer. That was the publisher's business. But Murray's timing for finally revealing Beringer's death was execrable. He could not possibly visit the man for at least two days. Thornton frowned at the packet that had accompanied the letters. Dared he trust an illustrator he had never heard of? This was the culmination of a dream he had nourished for years. Failure was unthinkable.

He threaded long, slender fingers through his hair, disturbing the artfully arranged curls. Writing was an essential part of his life. Starting while still in school, he had published articles of many types under a variety of names, but his greatest love was poetry. And he was good at it, though stating that fact sounded odiously conceited. His first book of verse had been acclaimed three years before. The second had enjoyed even more success, especially among the members of London society, which was why Murray had agreed to his ideas for the third.

Several years earlier Thornton had come across a folio of lavishly illustrated verses by Blake, titled Songs of Innocence and Experience. Blake was an artist as well as a poet and had done everything himself, including inventing an illuminated printing process that quickly etched both the illustrations and the text on a single plate, thus reducing the cost of printing. Very few people knew of his efforts, however, for the meticulously hand-tinted folio had been privately published twenty years earlier. Ruinously expensive, it had found a limited market. And not just because of the cost. While Blake had long made his living as an illustrator, his literary work had been little known, his verse only now being recognized. But current volumes lacked illustrations.

Though Blake's poetry was very different from Thornton's, the existence of his folio had provided the later poet food for thought. His own verse, which extolled the power and majesty of natural forces, was ideally suited to visual imagery. Suppose he published an illustrated version for sale to the upper reaches of society. It would not replace the regular volume, which would be priced to sell to a broader audience, but the special edition would provide an extra cachet lacking in the works of other writers.

Without resorting to arrogance, he believed that his name was sufficiently respected to make such a venture profitable despite its high production costs. He would avoid the mistake of using color, of course. That could be added if a demand arose for prints of individual pages.

He had carefully honed the idea, working out details and devising rebuttals for the anticipated objections. When his second volume achieved such success, he had broached the subject to Murray.

Thornton was even more adamant about the project now, for Byron had just burst into fame. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, with its worldly and self-destructive hero, was very different from his own work—indeed more than a little autobiographical if rumor was correct—but Thornton needed to return the public's attention to himself.

Laying the letters on his desk, he sighed in frustration. Beringer had been a lauded illustrator for many years and would have made a perfect collaborator. But the man was now dead. Could anyone really expect an unknown assistant to produce the quality he demanded? Would the special volume sell without the attraction of an established artist?

Reluctantly, he opened the package and pulled out two pieces of parchment, resigned to abandoning his grandiose ideas.

Five minutes later he was staring in wonder. Murray was right. It would do. It would more than do. Merriweather was a genius. This was even better than he had envisioned. It was better than what Blake had achieved, the artwork enhancing the verse by providing an imaginative extension of his words, finding nuances in his ideas that he had not thought of himself—almost as if the artist had crawled inside his head. It was amazing.

Rapidly scribbling a note of acceptance, he summoned his secretary. “Take this to Murray, Cramer. You may be cautiously enthusiastic.” He slid the illustrations across his desktop.

“Exquisite,” agreed Cramer.

“While you are out, you can deliver these.” He pulled two packages from a drawer. The one addressed to the Times contained Mr. Germain's analysis of the effect on the French army in Spain of Wellington's recent victory at Ciudad Rodrigo. The other, to Life in London, was Mr. Anstey's satirical tale detailing the latest adventures of that fictional dandy, Sir Godfrey Fishface. “By the way, my appreciation of Merriweather is tempered by irritation at Murray's high-handedness as shown by the long delay in bringing this problem to my attention."

Cramer nodded.

“And perhaps you could spend the rest of the day finishing that research we discussed last week."

The secretary grimaced at his employer's familiar impatience and departed.

Examining the sketches one last time, the poet locked them securely in his desk, not wanting curious maids to see them. Or even the butler. Only Cramer was privy to his literary life.

Whistling a jaunty tune, he smoothed his hair, resumed his public identity, and headed for Jackson's. He had a full day planned.

* * * *

“Beautiful hit!” Harold Parrish pounded the Earl of Bridgeport enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Only you could land a facer on Jackson himself."

“Don't be absurd,” scoffed the earl. “And what has prompted this sudden burst of conviviality?” His cousin Harold had never been so affable in all his three-and-thirty years.

“Can't a fellow congratulate you without prompting a miff?"

“Of course. I accept your good humor and your accolades, and will stifle this nagging voice that claims you are trying to turn me up sweet.” He moved away to converse with the other spectators who had crowded into the largest of the pugilist's sparring rooms. Jackson's practice of personally going a few rounds with the best of his pupils kept the rest eagerly returning for instruction.

An hour passed before Harold again approached the earl. Bridgeport had dressed and was striding down St. James's Street.

“Some friends would like to meet you,” Harold commented.

“Why?” Bridgeport stared at his cousin. The dandy's extravagant cravat forced his chin high into the air. It must have taken all of thirty minutes to squeeze his frame into the bright green coat, and as many more to stuff him into the yellow pantaloons. The fancy wardrobe was one of the reasons Harold was usually under the hatches, though not the only one. He also had a penchant for gaming hells and unwise investments.

“They are founding a company to provide deluxe passenger service on the canal system and are looking for influential backers. After spending several weeks investigating their plans and interviewing both operators and potential users, I am convinced it must reap large profits.” He chattered for several minutes about the details, ignoring Bridgeport's silence and the fury growing in his eyes. “So you see, it is a foolproof investment. I trust we can count on your support."

“How much are you staking?"

“Very little,” he admitted. “Things are at low water just now. But perhaps you can loan me enough that I can buy shares."

“Finance is not something I know much about,” began the earl.

“I know, but I have already checked all the facts,” interrupted Harold.

“If you want my backing, you will have to convince my man of business. His decision is final. But I should warn you that he believes canal enterprises have already peaked. The future will belong to rail-type machines like Trevithick's steam engine."

“But that is absurd!” protested Harold.

“Nevertheless, I trust Nelson's judgment, which is why I employ him. Without his endorsement, I will back nothing.” He turned into White's, leaving a furious Harold standing on the sidewalk.

* * * *

The Marquess of Carrington was also annoyed with a cousin. “That is the fourth idiotic wager you have lost this week, Reggie. At this rate, you will drown in the River Tick by the end of the month, and your father will cut up my peace with complaints for the next ten years."

“You ain't responsible for me,” snorted Mr. Taylor.

“That's not what my uncle will claim. Do try to bring a little sense to your capers, for my sake if nothing else.” They sauntered along St. James's Street, the afternoon brightening as the sun peeped through a crack in the clouds.

“Who would have thought that anyone possessing the sobriquet of The Curst Lord could land a flush hit on the great Jackson!” mourned Reggie.

“Obviously you know nothing of either Jackson or Bridgeport.” Carrington shook his head. “At least learn the facts before you accept a wager. Greenlings like you are ripe for plucking by every sharp in town. Did they teach you nothing at that backwater school of yours?"

“More than you learned at yours!” Reggie glared at his cousin, forgetting for a moment the studied boredom all gentleman should radiate. Once he regained control of his face, he meticulously removed an errant dust mote from his lavender sleeve and continued. “I have heard tales for years about the Curst Lord. He is a dedicated libertine, an unlucky gamester, and has been jilted more than once by ladies fearing the family curse."

“You make an ass of yourself when you rattle on about things you do not understand.” Carrington raised his quizzing glass to examine the fledgling dandy at his side. The lad had been in London only a week, but already it was obvious that a greener cub had not been loose on the town in years. “I never expected to see a member of my own family behave like such a nodcock. What's in a name? as the Bard once asked. That silly sobriquet was coined by a wag eight years ago—Bridgeport was still Viscount Staynes at the time—after he suffered an embarrassment on the marriage mart. Yes, he was jilted, but he was lucky to have escaped, for the girl belonged in Bedlam. A groundless rumor surfaced afterward that she fled from a curse, but it died within the week. The name stuck because he is roundly cursed by everyone he bests, and he has bested nearly everyone. He is a nonpareil, the foremost Corinthian in the ton, excelling at fencing, sparring, marksmanship, and driving."

Reggie groaned.

“Do you see why I said you were idiotic? Jackson spars only with his best pupils. Bridgeport is as handy with his fives as the cream of the Fancy and meets Jackson regularly. The reason you got such good odds on that bet is because the earl rarely fails to land at least one punch. As to your other claims, it is true he lost at cards when we were at Oxford together—though never as much as rumor reported. But he has now learned to play wisely, honing his talents until he seldom loses at games involving skill. He never plays at games of chance. He is also smart enough to walk away from the table if the luck turns against him, and he refuses to play when in his altitudes. You might take that lesson to heart. There is no bigger fool than a man who multiplies his vowels in a desperate bid to recoup his losses."

They handed their hats to the porter at White's and crossed the reading room. Brummell and his friends usually occupied the new bow window, but they were absent today. Carrington soon saw why.

“You are about to verify the adage about a fool and his money,” he warned Reggie softly.

“What do you mean?"

“Watch. And learn,” advised his cousin.

Thirty gentlemen clustered around a table, the size of the crowd signaling that a high-stakes game was in progress. Even before he drew close enough to see, Carrington had identified the players by their voices—Bridgeport and the newly wealthy Mr. Hardwicke.

Mark Allan Parrish, seventh Earl of Bridgeport, had been considered the top catch on the marriage mart for years, despite his determined disinterest in eligible females and despite the curse some still suspected hung over his head. He possessed everything a matchmaking mother could want—a respected title, seemingly bottomless coffers, several estates, a large townhouse in Berkeley Square, and the face and form to make any girl swoon in delight.

Intense green eyes surrounded by long dark lashes glowed under artfully arranged russet curls, providing the focal point of a heart-stoppingly handsome face. Nor was his physique a disappointment. Broad shoulders contrasted with a slender waist and hips above shapely, well-muscled thighs. All this male magnificence was immediately obvious, for he chose to wear the most modest of jackets and the simplest of cravats, leaving only his own splendor on view to the world.

A sigh rose from the crowd as the earl swiftly played out the hand of piquet to a resounding victory.

“Piqued, repiqued, and capotted,” murmured a spectator in admiration, accepting several banknotes from his friend.

Hardwicke was paler than even fashion demanded. “How could you have had that spade guard?” he muttered, draining a glass of wine.

Bridgeport made as if to rise.

“No, you don't,” objected Hardwicke. “The luck is bound to turn. It never stays away for long. Another rubber, double stakes."

The crowd emitted a collective gasp.

“I have had enough of cards for one afternoon,” replied Bridgeport, pocketing his winnings.

“Are you afraid to take me on again?” taunted Hardwicke. “How can anyone who claims to be a gentleman refuse me a chance to recoup my losses?"

Bridgeport frowned.

“Give the lad a chance,” called a spectator.

“Can't honorably refuse a game,” commented another.

“You don't want to play just now,” observed the earl quietly. “Tomorrow will be soon enough. Changing one's luck requires time."

“Now!” demanded Hardwicke harshly. “I can feel the change. By tomorrow it may have flopped back.” He signaled a waiter for another bottle of wine.

“Very well.” Bridgeport dropped back into his seat with a shrug.

“Fool,” whispered Carrington so only Reggie could hear.

“The earl?"

“Of course not."

Two tense hours ensued. Bridgeport won one rubber, then two. The crowd swelled to over a hundred as word of Hardwicke's folly spread. Wagering among the onlookers was not on who would win, but on the point spread and the extent of Hardwicke's ultimate losses. The third rubber ended in Bridgeport's favor.

“That is all,” the earl announced with finality. “I have an appointment that I cannot break."

Hardwicke stared at the score-sheet in shock, not believing the numbers that swirled before his bleary eyes. The amount represented half of the inheritance he had just received from his uncle.

Bridgeport stretched, noting Carrington's presence behind his chair for the first time. “Back from Newmarket already?"

“This morning. Darlington scratched his black, so there was no point staying for the race."

“I heard about that at Tattersall's. Any word why?” drawled Lord Templeton, sounding only mildly curious.

Carrington shrugged. “Officially, Titan strained a hock in workouts yesterday, but rumor suggests sabotage. One of the grooms mysteriously disappeared."

“Smart of you to leave, Richard,” murmured Bridgeport under the buzz of speculation at this news. “Odds won't mean much that case."

“So I thought. Have you met my cousin Reggie? He is just down from Cambridge.” Carrington effected introductions. “I hope he has learned the benefits of caution,” he added with a rueful glance at Hardwicke.

Hardwicke chose that moment to come out of his shocked stupor, pulling everyone's attention back to the game. “I demand a rematch!"

“Another day,” suggested Bridgeport gently. “I have to leave."

Panic appeared in Hardwicke's eyes, his wine-thickened tongue tripping over the words. “No! Now! One cut. High card wins. Double or nothing."

“You haven't got it,” murmured Bridgeport into his opponent's ear. “Wait until you are sober, Peter."

“My estates,” Hardwicke begged desperately. “The ones from my uncle. Without the money, they are worthless to me anyway."

Bridgeport glanced at the circle of expectant faces. If he refused, Hardwicke would consider him an enemy. Many of those watching would believe him to be dishonorable. Already the spectators were placing side bets. He sighed a little sadly. “All right. Will you do the honors, Brummell?"

The Beau opened a new pack of cards and shuffled thoroughly, each riffle raising the tension in the crowd. He squared the deck and set it in the exact center of the table. Bridgeport carelessly cut, turning over the three of diamonds.

A gasp rolled around the room. Hardwicke straightened, a smile breaking out on his face. He lifted half of the remaining deck and upended it. One hundred gentlemen inhaled in shock. The two of clubs stared mockingly into Peter Hardwicke's ashen face.

He collapsed.

“I will see him in the morning,” Bridgeport murmured to Lord Templeton, who was Hardwicke's closest friend. “We will settle up then."

“Winning again?” sneered Harold Parrish, pushing his way through the crowd.

Ignoring his cousin, Bridgeport snapped his watch open and deliberately grimaced. “I am late. Good day, gentlemen."

“Poor Hardwicke,” murmured a spectator. “Bridgeport has all the luck."

“There ought to be a law against someone that wealthy winning so consistently,” groused another, handing over a wad of banknotes to cover his own lapse in judgment.

“Ah, well, lucky at cards, unlucky at love,” intoned Harold, pitching his voice loud enough that Bridgeport would hear, though he had nearly reached the door.

The earl stared at his cousin a moment, an odd curl twisting his lips. Without a word, he left.

“What was that all about?” asked Reggie as he followed Carrington out to the street.

“A Parthian shot between cousins over the earl's one failure. Mr. Parrish detests Bridgeport, envying him his looks, his acclaim, his wealth, and especially his title. Parrish missed it by twenty minutes."

“But they are cousins! How could that be?"

“Their fathers were twins."

Reggie stared. “I see. Mr. Parrish appears older than the earl."

“By two days.” It was Parrish's dissipation that made him look nearly forty.

“Why did you call his words a Parthian shot?"

“You are too inquisitive by half, Cousin,” Carrington protested. “Leave off prying into the lives of your betters."

“But how will I learn to go on if I don't ask questions?"

Carrington sighed. Never had his position as head of the family weighed so heavily. “Enough, Reggie. Bridgeport is a powerful member of society. While he does not follow the dandy set as you so obviously do, his animosity could make your life very difficult."

“But why would he want to?"

“He wouldn't if you mind your own business. But he is a very private person who hates to have his affairs bruited about. That comment alluded to the origins of his nickname. I trust you will not refer to either again."

“Only if you tell me the truth of the rumors. I heard he has been jilted several times."

“You are a pest, Reggie!” the marquess muttered, half to himself. “But I suppose you will ask someone else if I do not satisfy your curiosity, and that would be worse.” He straightened. “It is Bridgeport's misfortune that four betrothals produced only one marriage and no heir, though only two of the chits actually jilted him. His third fiancée and his wife both died. It is just as well, for his mother chose all the girls, and she had abominable taste."

“Why did he not protest?"

“Because he truly does not care who he marries. But that is all I will say, for his reasons are his own affair. This topic is now closed."

“What about the tales of his raking?” Envy of that legendary prowess permeated his words.

“Enough!” Carrington glowered. “Even I do not know those details, despite being his closest friend, but I suspect half of society's matrons and all the top courtesans have encountered him. Bridgeport is the finest man I know and deserves every bit of his luck. His father was a weak-willed scholar, completely under the thumb of his harridan mother. She tried to do the same to Mark, eventually driving him away from home. He has worked hard to get where he is today, but after battling domination for so long, he despises all signs of weakness. Hence his reticence. Exposing his private self would make him vulnerable."

“But that tells me nothing,” objected Taylor.

“Precisely. One more word, and then we will permanently drop the subject. If you wish to keep your money, never bet against Bridgeport; never play cards with him; and never wager on whether or whom he will wed."

* * * *

Wearing a concealing cloak, Bridgeport slipped out of the back of his townhouse. One of the lessons he had mastered after a lifetime of countering his mother's manipulation was how to cover his tracks. He went first to the rooms he rented under an assumed name, downed a bite of dinner, and put in an intense four hours of work. Then he picked up Lady Wainright behind Lady Beatrice's house, where she was attending a card party, and headed for a cottage he owned in Kensington. The lady was a nitwit, but it was not her conversation that interested him. She was the most insatiable of his current liaisons. Two hours of frenzied passion expended the restless energy that had accumulated since his morning bout with Jackson, allowing him to pass the night in peace.

Chapter Two

"Mr. Thornton accepted my sketches!” announced Elaine Thompson, bursting into the parlor where her friend, Anne, huddled close to the fire, a woolen shawl tucked securely around her legs. Anne had not completely recovered from a winter chill.

“I knew he would,” she replied calmly. “You possess an enviable talent. I am glad that you have the opportunity to develop it."

A shadow flickered across Elaine's face. “Poor Mr. Beringer. How I miss him. What a tragedy that he died so young."

“Sixty is hardly young,” protested Anne, herself but four-and-thirty.

“You know what I mean. He was as energetic as Mr. Reeves.” Reeves was their forty-year-old vicar who regularly tramped the hills and moors in pursuit of his duties. “And he was never sick a day in his life that I know of. I thought my own heart would stop when I heard that his had given out in his sleep. Poor man. How I miss him,” she repeated.

“I know, dearest,” soothed Anne. “But you had the benefit of his instruction, advice, and support for nearly eight years. He has established you as an illustrator in your own right and even arranged for his solicitor to continue looking after your interests. How many projects have you finished?"

“Seventeen, but they are all fairy tales and other children's stories. I am not yet sufficiently well known that I can cease fretting. What if Mr. Murray discovers that M. E. Merriweather is a lowly female, and not a very aged one at that?"

“And how would he go about learning such a thing?” she countered sensibly. “Mr. Beringer took steps to see that your career would flourish regardless of what happened to him. He loved you very much."

“Certainly, but not in the way you imply. He looked on me as a daughter. I sometimes think he believed I really was Jessie.” Mrs. Beringer and their daughter, Jessie, had drowned more than thirty years before. According to local gossip, Beringer had shut himself away from all human contact for nearly a decade, remaining reclusive even after that. Elaine had been amazed when he'd agreed to instruct her in drawing. She had been barely seventeen at the time, newly arrived in Cornwall, and female to boot.

She had Anne to thank, of course. And for so much more. She had arrived on Miss Becklin's doorstep with no warning, all her worldly possessions carried in one small valise, her money nearly exhausted by the expenses of the long journey, and her sole companion a fourteen-year-old maid who was untrained in even basic duties. Her former governess had taken her in, resumed the education that had been so rudely interrupted five years earlier, and lavished her with affection. Anne had enthusiastically examined the sketches Elaine had made during the trip to Cornwall, and had immediately shown them to their neighbor, Mr. E. F. Beringer, artist and illustrator.

Elaine added a bit of coal to the fire, hoping the extra heat would make Anne more comfortable. Spring was late in arriving this year, allowing cold damp to linger.

Drawing had always been her obsession. Lacking formal instruction, she had taught herself the rudiments, experimenting until she could produce the images her eyes perceived. Beringer had complimented her talent, admired her skill, pointed out every one of her failings, and then taught her everything he knew. She had developed a style that packed immense amounts of suggestion into a few lines, conveying emotion as well as form and texture. Two years later, he'd set up her first contract—illustrating a new edition of Perault's Mother Goose tale Cinderella using Samber's translation from the French of twenty years earlier. There had been other commissions in the years since, but none as potentially rewarding as this latest one.

Mr. Beringer had been contacted about doing an illustrated volume of poetry similar to Blake's. Beringer had known Blake most of his life and possessed both Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Having often studied them, Elaine had envied her mentor his chance—which made her feel guilty now that tragedy had dropped the opportunity into her own lap. But excitement pushed that feeling aside.

“Look at this,” she said, handing Murray's letter to her friend. “Not only will he pay more than I received for anything I've previously done, but he has even agreed to give me a percentage of the sales. Not that they will be enormous, for this version will have a limited distribution, but it will allow me to support myself at last. I have lived on your charity far too long."

“Fustian!” snorted Anne. “You continually ignore Lucy in your very mercenary calculations. She is a godsend and has proven so adept that she takes the place of two ordinary servants. How many illustrations does Murray want this time?"

“About a quarter of the poems. I can pick which ones I wish to do. The illustrations will occupy the same page as the text, so it would be best to choose the shorter ones, but I can't wait to read Thornton's verses. Those two samples he sent are his best work to date."

“I know he is your favorite, though personally I prefer Pope."

Elaine laughed at this old disagreement. “Pope wrote quite nice verse—as even our great-grandparents must have observed—but I find it sterile. Thornton's words touch my soul in some strange way that other poets do not. I cannot really explain it except to note that there is no accounting for taste. Will you be needing me for anything?"

“Meaning you wish to read and know you cannot stop once you begin,” teased Anne with a grin. “Of course you may. Lucy can take care of me quite nicely, and Mrs. Hedges promised to call."

Elaine made a face.

“Yes, she is a trial,” agreed Anne. “But she derives so much pleasure from her tales that I hate to curtail her. Besides, I dare not risk her ire. One is never quite sure how she portrays us to others."

“There ought to be a way to divert her interest to some topic other than spiteful gossip,” grumbled Elaine.

“Air-dreams, my dear,” said Anne with a chuckle and a shake of her ebony head.

“At least spare me her company. I am out.” She headed upstairs to her studio.

* * * *

Two weeks later, Elaine was perched on a rock with a sketchbook balanced on her lap. The site was her favorite place to idle away an hour or two in dreaming. Thus it seemed the ideal setting for Thornton's poem, `The Secret Place,' where one could come alone to contemplate the wonders of the world. Behind her was a shallow cave positioned halfway up a steep hill. The tiny lawn offered exquisite views of Bodmin Moor and the rugged Cornish coast with its ever-changing patterns of sunlight on water.

She had pondered long over this verse, trying to decide if his words referred to the quiet beauty of a wind-ruffled pool hidden deep in a dark forest or to the wilder grandeur of the sparkling sea as viewed from the depths of the earth. In her own mind, nothing could equal the sea. There was another poem that she would interpret as the passionate fury of storm-tossed waves trying to overwhelm an ancient oak that stood on the edge of their domain, though perhaps she would not include that among the finished illustrations.

Thornton's verse always extolled the natural world—which had sometimes made her wonder if the man avoided human relationships—but she suspected that `The Siege' was an allegory for a determined libertine's campaign against a stubborn lady, though how that picture would arise in her five-and-twenty-year-old spinster's mind she could not explain. But she was masquerading as a male in the publishing world. Perhaps she should illustrate it that way.

She giggled. While she had never been the recipient of seductive looks, she had seen them bestowed on others during the month she had spent in London. Particularly by Devereaux and Staynes. But for now she would work on the `The Secret Place.'

A gentle breeze brushed her cheeks as she picked up a pencil to block out her design. All else receded from awareness. Half an hour passed in oblivious concentration. Birds soared unnoticed overhead. An inquisitive squirrel paused to stare before returning to its own affairs. Shadows lengthened, reaching greedy fingers toward the rock on which she sat.

“Who are you?” asked a voice, startling Elaine into leaving a jagged line on her sketch. She raised her head to see a young lady—a very young lady—with rich auburn curls and startling green eyes. The girl had obviously slipped a governess, for both her voice and her clothes were genteel, but she was a stranger.

“I am Miss Elaine Thompson. Are you newly arrived? I don't believe we have met before.” She shivered in sudden apprehension. No one had visited Treselyan Manor since her arrival—or for twenty years before that, if gossip could be trusted—and she had ceased to feel guilty over haunting a spot that lay on private property. Even worse, she could not recall who owned the estate. The last Treselyan interred in the churchyard had died more than a century earlier. What if the owner was someone she had met in town?

“We finally got here late last night. I am Lady Helen Parrish. Do you live here, too?"

“No. I live in the village, which means I am trespassing. Was this a planned visit? We had heard nothing of the family's arrival."

“Actually, it is only me and Nana. And Toby, of course. He drove our carriage. They had to put a new roof on Westron Manor, so Nana brought me here for a few months."

“Will your parents be joining you?” asked Elaine. The child was amazing. She could not possibly be more than eight, yet she spoke and acted like an adult.

Helen moved closer, her eyes taking in Elaine's old blue gown and dark brown hair as if evaluating her exact place in society. Elaine had not encountered such calculating scrutiny since leaving London. “My mother died when I was born. Papa stays in town. I never see him."

“And who is your papa?"

“The Earl of Bridgeport."

Elaine swayed, all the blood draining instantly from her head. Dear God! Had she really escaped him only to turn up on one of his doorsteps? But she fought down the panic. He had never visited Cornwall. Nor would he be likely to do so now that his daughter was in residence. She knew the man well enough to understand Lady Helen's remark. The girl had never laid eyes on her father. Nor could Elaine blame her own ignorance on Anne. Her friend had only moved to Treselyan a few months before Elaine arrived. Keeping her smile firmly in place, she turned the discussion to impersonal topics. What was a child doing halfway up a dangerous hill ... alone?

“Who is Nana?” she asked ten minutes later when they had achieved an easy camaraderie.

“My nurse. She does not travel well, so she is resting today,” stated Helen as though that was the most natural thing in the world.

“But is not someone else looking after you?"

“I wanted to explore. I've never been anywhere new before. This is very exciting, and the sea is even more fascinating than I expected."

“But dangerous to the unwary,” warned Elaine. There was much of Bridgeport in the girl, especially this determination to do as she pleased. It was a trait that could lead to odious self-indulgence—witness the girl's father.

Lady Helen turned wide eyes to the cave. “Are lions or bears hiding in there?"

“Why don't you go see?” suggested Elaine. “I didn't take the time to check today."

The child's eyes grew rounder, but she straightened her shoulders and marched toward the cave. Elaine turned back to her sketchbook, rapidly penciling in the rest of the scene. Since the cave was a barren pocket barely ten feet in diameter, Helen must return very soon.

“It is empty,” announced the girl, sounding disappointed. “And I cannot see the sea from inside."

“That is true,” agreed Elaine. “The cave faces the moor, unlike this lawn, which also overlooks the Bristol Channel."

“I shall ask Toby to set up a playroom inside."

“It is fairly protected from the weather since it faces east. And it offers has a lovely view,” agreed Elaine. “But it would be a good idea to wait until the next storm before deciding. The path can be treacherous, especially in wind and wet. You would not wish to injure yourself."

Helen thoughtfully looked around before nodding.

“May I escort you back to the house?” asked Elaine lightly. “I have never seen it up close. No one has been inside for years except a few servants."

“All right. What were you doing up here?"

“Drawing."

Helen stepped closer and looked at the page. “Why do you draw the sea as if looking out of the cave? That is not right."

“But I am not really drawing this scene,” explained Elaine. “I am drawing an idea that exists in my head and am only using this view as a guide.” She pointed to her sketch. “These rocks are a little like that point over there, but you can see that I've made them rougher and larger. Then there are the plants. This flowering shrub near the cave mouth is more typical of Kent than of Cornwall."

“I see!” exclaimed Helen. “It is a fantasy picture just like my storybooks.” She frowned. “This reminds me of one of my books."

“Which one?” asked Elaine idly.

"Beauty and the Beast," she replied instantly, and Elaine hid a smile. The content of the sketch was nothing like her illustrations for that work. Helen obviously had a sharp eye for style.

The girl continued brightly. “That is my favorite story. Nana prefers others, but I make her read that one."

“Can you not read it for yourself?"

“No. Nana says I ought to have a governess, but Papa has not yet sent one, and she is too afraid of his temper to ask."

“Has he a temper?” She had often suspected so, though she had never encountered it herself.

“So Lily claims. She knew him when he lived at Westron with Mama. I heard her tell Jenny that he was right put out most of the time, snapping the heads off all and sundry. He finally stormed off to London and hasn't been back since."

“You should not repeat servants' gossip, Lady Helen,” admonished Elaine. “They often misunderstand their betters. But surely Nana has taught you your letters, even without a proper governess."

“It is not part of her duties,” said Helen sadly. “She is getting on in years, you know, and cannot do as much as she would like."

“How old are you?” asked Elaine, appalled at the words.

“Six."

Odious man, fumed Elaine. The girl should have long since acquired a governess. It was unconscionable that so bright a lass could not yet read. “Perhaps if Nana cannot write him, she could ask the steward to do so,” she suggested. “Your father must have forgotten how old you are getting.” More likely, he had forgotten her very existence.

“Oh, good. I must find him when we return. It is no use talking to Nana. She will simply dither forever, or else do something silly like leave Lily and Jenny at Westron. Mrs. Burgess was horrified to find we had brought no maids."

“Do you make so much work then?” asked Elaine in surprise.

“Nana needs a lot of help,” explained Helen. “We let her think she is in charge, but usually Lily looks after me and Jenny looks after Nana. Old age is getting her down. She was my mother's nurse, and my grandmother's as well."

Helen continued to chatter about her life as they returned to the house. The girl alternated between childish silliness and a startling maturity, undoubtedly arising from her upbringing. It was obvious that she had taken on the role of protector, looking after her elderly nurse and seeing to many of her own needs.

From Helen's description, the nurse sounded a loving incompetent at best and a senile invalid at worst. Allowing the woman to leave the nursery maids behind also cast doubt on the competence of the Westron housekeeper and steward. At the very least, they would have needed the servants during the grueling week of travel that brought them to Cornwall.

“Where did you find her, Miss Thompson?” asked Burgess when they at last presented themselves at the door. Anxiety troubled his eyes despite his wooden countenance.

“On Lookout Peak.” Burgess's expression changed to horror.

“I want to show Miss Elaine around the house,” announced Helen. “She has never been here before."

“Of course, my lady,” answered Burgess smoothly. “But perhaps you could first find Mrs. Burgess and ask that a tea tray be readied."

Elaine started to protest the need but was stopped by the command in Burgess's eyes. As soon as Helen left, he relaxed. “Pardon me, Miss Thompson, but this was a complete surprise. The message announcing their arrival must have gone astray."

“Is Rose not yet returned from her mother's sickbed?” Rose was the only housemaid at Treselyan.

He shook his head.

“You have a problem, then. From Lady Helen's comments, I deduce that her nurse needs at least as much care as the child and that both nursery maids were left behind."

“Exactly. Is there anyone in the village who would be willing to work here during their stay?"

“Not to my knowledge. Betsy Higgins just accepted a post near Wadebridge and Lisa Smith is still abed with an inflammation of the lungs. You will have to send to Bodmin. And someone must instill a little caution in that girl. I was near the cave when she came upon me. She seemed fascinated by the place."

Burgess paled.

Elaine shook her head. “We both know how impassable that path is after a storm. One slip and she would be over the side."

“We must forbid her to leave the grounds."

“Miss Becklin has more experience with children than I, but I suspect Lady Helen is the sort to balk at obedience. On the other hand, she seems very intelligent. Perhaps explaining the dangers would have more effect."

Helen returned and guided Elaine through the house. It was old-fashioned, worn, and neglected—hardly surprising given the estate's history. But Elaine was able to make enthusiastic remarks about the well-proportioned rooms and the beautifully textured paneling in the hall and the library. Helen finally returned to the drawing room where Burgess produced a tea tray. Though her hands shook, Helen managed the teapot and passed a plate of cakes and scones, successfully carrying off the role of lady of the manor while she chattered about her recent journey. Only then did Elaine excuse herself.

But once she was alone, her footsteps lagged. The afternoon's confrontation had triggered too many memories and had opened a Pandora's box of emotions. Uppermost was an unexpected wave of sorrow that she would never have a child of her own. She had vowed eight years earlier never to marry, and her determination had not wavered. But she had not considered the ramifications of that decision. Not having been around children, she had given them no thought—until today.

She blinked back a tear and deliberately turned her mind to poetry and the progress of her sketches. One afternoon with a precocious child could neither destroy her contentment nor change her plans for the future. This was merely shock. It would soon recede, and in the meantime she would concentrate on the present.

But Anne was too perceptive. “What happened?” she demanded as soon as her friend appeared in the parlor.

Nothing,” denied Elaine. “I spent a most enjoyable afternoon sketching on the cliffs. I believe this may be my best illustration yet.” Her tone was perfect, but she had never mastered the art of controlling her face—at least not around Anne.

“You met someone."

“A young girl only.” She could already see the next question forming. “Lady Helen is a delightful child who just arrived at Treselyan Manor, being the owner's only daughter. She and her nurse will be staying here for some months."

Anne looked interested. She had thrown herself into the life of the community from the moment of moving to Cornwall. “I had not heard of her arrival. I suppose her parents are in London for the Season."

“Her father lives there year around. Her mother died in childbirth. Has Lucy started dinner yet?"

But her attempt to turn the subject failed. If anything, it piqued Anne's curiosity. “Who is Lady Helen's father?” she asked quietly.

“The Earl of Bridgeport,” said Elaine with a sigh.

“Oh, dear Lord! I had no idea he owned Treselyan!” gasped Anne.

“Nor did I, but it is unlikely he will appear. You know as well as I that he is firmly fixed in London. If anything, Lady Helen's presence will make a visit even less likely."

“True."

But Elaine could not shake the trepidation that had filled her from the moment Helen revealed her parentage. Or the curiosity.

Chapter Three

The knob turned and a furious thrust slammed the bedroom door into the wall.

“I knew it!” shouted Lord Wainright. “Strumpet! You will leave immediately for the Grange. As for you, sir, name your seconds!"

Bridgeport, in the final stages of the night's exertions, was a little slow taking in what was happening. He had never pegged Wainright as the jealous sort. After all, Lady Wainright was well-known for her dalliances. He pulled the coverlet over his back as two footmen appeared in the doorway, poor Hawkins imprisoned between them. Bridgeport abhorred messy scenes, and this was the messiest he had ever seen.

Well, it was too late for circumspection now. And he could hardly deny culpability considering his present position. With unabashed sangfroid, he finished what he had started, rolled off Lady Wainright—who was on the verge of either swooning or hysterics—and sat up.

“Let Hawkins go. He can hardly spoil your surprise by warning me at this point,” he ordered calmly, his low voice carrying enough menace that the footmen complied without a single glance at their master.

Wainright frowned at his minions. “Leave us.” It was a measure of Bridgeport's powerful presence that all three servants glanced at him for permission before turning toward the stairs.

“Get dressed,” the baron ordered his wife.

Bridgeport said nothing. Despite his appearance of calm disdain, his mind was racing in useless circles. In fifteen years of enjoying life, he had never faced so embarrassing or potentially explosive a situation. Normally he stayed away from recent brides, but Wainright already had an heir, and Lady Wainright had caught his attention at a moment when pressing need overwhelmed caution.

“Name your seconds, sirrah,” repeated Wainright.

The earl complied. Dueling was illegal, but refusing a challenge would make him a laughingstock. Yet it was a nasty business. Why had the fellow suddenly decided to cut up stiff? It was common knowledge that the lady had been generous with her favors even before embarking on a second marriage, and Bridgeport knew of at least three others who had enjoyed her in the months since, one as recently as last night. Wainright was no paragon himself.

Questions continued to bedevil his mind long after the baron dragged his wife away. Nothing made sense.

* * * *

“What on earth made you choose swords rather than pistols?” demanded Carrington as they waited in a foggy dawn at Chalk Farm for Wainright and Albright to appear. “The man is an execrable marksman."

“Precisely,” agreed Bridgeport. “But his skills at fencing are roughly equal to my own. I have no desire to kill him, nor do I wish to be killed. With pistols, I would feel compelled to delope since I was clearly in the wrong. He might get lucky and hit me. But as we agreed that first blood will determine the winner, neither of us is likely to seriously damage the other."

“You are a strange man, Mark."

“Not at all. I feel blessed that he only challenged me. He might have chosen to shoot me where I lay. If I had had any inkling that he cared, I never would have touched his wife. And this may not be the end of it. She clearly craves variety. Both Devereaux and Millhouse have had her recently. Wroxleigh is still involved with her, and there may be others."

“That is something I had not heard."

Bridgeport snorted. “In addition to being free with her favors, she freely compares her lovers. I wonder if she is equally open with him. That could explain how he learned when and where to find us. But it makes it even odder that he would bother. If he cannot ignore her affairs, he will face either incarcerating her or bringing a divorce suit, in which case this may become even more public."

“Maybe he thinks to force you into taking her off his hands."

“Never. I would retire from society before doing anything that stupid."

“But you have a reputation for accepting anyone to wife."

Bridgeport sighed. “Reputations are damnable things. I suppose I must disabuse him of that notion. All else aside, I want an heir who carries my own blood."

Carrington dropped the subject of marriage, knowing it was not a topic his friend wished to recall. “Is it true that you had the audacity to finish with her before accepting Wainright's challenge?"

Bridgeport shrugged, but his eyes twinkled. “I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb—or skewered in this case."

Richard stomped his feet in a vain attempt to warm them. “Why did you take up with someone so recently married? That is not like you."

Mark pulled his greatcoat tighter. “She initiated the contact, two weeks ago."

“I don't like the sound of that."

“Nor do I, now that I think on it. Hopefully, Wainright will be satisfied with pinking me."

“You will let him win then?” asked a surprised Carrington.

“I must, as you would agree if you thought about it a moment. But I will make him work for the victory."

The arrival of a second carriage cut off Carrington's response. Like Bridgeport, Wainright had eschewed servants this day. Albright was driving. Wainright was a slender gentleman only a few years older than Bridgeport. Normally of a placid temperament, today his eyes glared with anger and hatred.

“Watch out,” warned Carrington as he removed Bridgeport's jacket and cravat. “He seems determined to make an end of you. This affair smells worse every minute. Albright said something just now that makes me think that his wife was merely an excuse. I heard a rumor that he blames you for several recent gaming losses. Knowing you as I do, I had not believed the tales, but his eyes look crazed."

“Ah.” Bridgeport sent a rapier glance toward his rival. “So that is what this is about. I too had heard those stories. They are false, of course, so if that is his complaint, I will have to fight to win."

The two men took their places and executed the ritual salute. Carrington was suddenly glad that Mark had chosen swords. Given Wainright's emotional state, Mark might have been forced to kill him.

The combatants were evenly matched, and tension built in the onlookers as the morning air rang with the clash of steel. The sun rose, burning away the fog. Back and forth the action moved, the thrust and parry continuing unabated for more than half an hour. But Carrington gradually relaxed. Their skills might match, but Mark had the greater stamina. Wainright's guard was slipping. As Mark made a lightning move to his right, Wainright's foot caught, throwing his sword wide. Mark's point bit deeply into Wainright's left shoulder, and Albright called a halt.

Bridgeport murmured a few words to Wainright, stayed on the field long enough to hear the doctor proclaim that the wound was not serious, then joined Carrington in his carriage.

“Let's get out of here before someone happens by."

* * * *

A week later, the Marquess of Carrington appeared in Bridgeport's breakfast room while the earl was still at the table.

“What brings you out so early?” Mark motioned to the sideboard.

Richard filled a plate. “Wainright died last night."

“What!” Bridgeport signaled the footman to close the door behind him as he left.

“His valet discovered him just before dinner. As soon as I heard the rumors, I roused the doctor. He swears that Wainright's heart gave out, for all he was not yet forty. The shoulder injury was healing and showed no signs of infection."

“What rumors?” asked Mark, a piece of toast poised halfway to his mouth.

“There are already whispers that you killed him,” admitted Richard. “All nonsense, of course. But Wainright's valet went into hysterics and blurted out a twisted version of the duel, insisting that the wound was responsible for the death. Even if the doctor convinces the authorities otherwise, you will be questioned."

“Dear Lord.” Bridgeport bowed his head in grief and horror. “And I probably am responsible. He was noticeably flagging toward the end. The exertion may have been too much for him."

“Fustian!” exploded Richard. “There has never been a hint that he was not fit. If the fight had contributed anything, he would have died that night. You are in shock—and who can blame you?—but I hope you do not mention such a possibility to the authorities out of a misplaced sense of martyrdom."

“Do you really believe I would be that stupid?"

Carrington sighed. “Of course not. I am in shock myself, or I would never have suggested such a thing. But I fear you are in for a rough week, my friend. I have an absurd feeling that there is more to this than meets the eye."

Mark could only agree. He spent the day adhering to his usual routine, knowing that any difference in his demeanor would increase the rumors. Either his sparring partner at Jackson's knew nothing or he was hiding his curiosity well. White's was not so congenial. He could see the awareness in everyone's eyes, despite the friendly greetings. It was the worst experience of his life. He had suffered similar scrutiny in the past, of course—the scorn and laughter engendered by his various betrothals, the embarrassment he continued to endure from that cursed nickname, and the deliberate derision he had courted in his youth by establishing a reputation as a gamester—but never before had he fought a duel or been suspected of murder.

He ignored the stares, calmly conversed with friends, and played several hands of whist. The buzz when he won increased his fury, for apparently rumor now suggested he was also a cheat, but his demeanor remained carefree. When he and Richard dropped by Manton's, he was gratified to find that his aim remained as steady as ever, allowing him to break ten out of ten wafers.

A runner awaited him at home. It was not a pleasant experience, but at least the man had accepted the doctor's explanation. What he wanted to know was how Wainright had been injured.

“An embarrassing accident,” murmured Bridgeport, allowing chagrin onto his face. “We were practicing together last week when the button loosened on my foil. Unfortunately, neither of us noticed until I scored a hit on Lord Wainright's shoulder that bit into the flesh."

The runner did not believe the story, decided Mark, but since both Albright and Carrington had told the same tale, he had to be content. A hysterical valet's words would never outweigh three lords. Yet the lie bothered him.

Worse, the furor did not die down.

“I don't know where the rumors originate,” complained Richard a week later. “It may just be irresponsible speculation among the younger lads, but Reggie told me an appalling story last night."

He and Mark were ensconced in a corner of the reading room at White's where they could talk without being overheard. Both maintained the faces of gentlemen without a care in the world who were exchanging the most trivial of on-dits.

“What was that?"

“You deliberately killed Wainright by tipping your sword in poison—though how anyone can believe that, I do not understand, for rumor admits they were your swords, making the choice of weapons his. No one can possibly accept that you would risk tipping both. Anyway, your motive is presumably Lady Wainright. You fleeced Wainright of his fortune and now mean to make off with his wife."

Fury was blazing in Bridgeport's eyes, though his face remained bored. “There must be more behind this than a hysterical valet,” he growled. “I know the man has repeated his charges all over town, but how can anyone believe him over the doctor?"

“There is something deeper going on,” agreed Carrington with a frown. “The fleecing story was making the rounds even before the duel."

“The man never lost a shilling to me,” insisted Mark. “I cannot even recall having played against him. You know how rarely I visit the tables."

“I have no doubt he was fleeced though,” said Richard. “It is the only way to account for his hatred. Perhaps a Captain Sharp convinced him that he was hand-in-glove with you. You know that you've a reputation for luck, for never losing a personal confrontation, and for uncanny judgment. The least hint that you are backing a particular side in any contest involving skill can change the odds. An unscrupulous person might claim you had asked him to anonymously place a wager on a long shot, offering to place a similar bet for the pigeon. If he had previously set the fellow up with a couple of sure winners, he would be in a position to abscond with a fortune when the long-odds big bet lost. Even worse, he might have deliberately implicated you. There was considerable wagering on your bout with Jackson last month. Our hypothetical sharp might have claimed that you would refrain from landing a blow. If Wainright bet heavily against you, he would have lost when you planted that facer."

Mark shivered. “Who could be that desperate? Such a scheme is bound to become public."

“I don't know, but there is worse,” warned Richard. “Lady Wainright is ignoring all convention and returning to town. If you ignore her, people will say you are merely biding your time to mislead the gossips. If you speak with her, you will confirm all the rumors."

“Damnation!"

“If there is a malevolent force working, it might be best to leave for a while,” suggested Richard, finally arriving at the point he had been striving for since the conversation began.

“You want me to run away?” demanded Mark, so shocked that his face slipped into incredulity.

“Not exactly, but I have a very bad feeling about this. There is more here than meets the eye. Frankly, I think someone is out for your blood, not just your reputation."

Mark frowned. Over the years he had developed a healthy respect for Richard's odd sense of trouble. It had warned him of impending disaster more than once, allowing him to sidestep perilous situations. If Richard believed that leaving town was necessary, then he would seriously consider it.

“Is there no clue to who might be behind this campaign?"

Richard shook his head. “If someone is fleecing people in your name, there could be any number of men who have a grievance. I will do what I can to find the culprit. Perhaps I can trace some of these rumors back to a source. But you had best retire for your own safety."

That was blunt enough. “Very well. I will have to receive an urgent summons to straighten out an estate problem. Unfortunately, too many people know that my estates rarely have problems."

“Is there none that could use supervision?” asked Richard in surprise—and envy.

Mark's frown suddenly eased. “Treselyan. I have meant to visit there for years, but it is a minor property somewhere in Cornwall and the journey never seemed worth the effort. It only runs a few sheep."

“Perfect."

“I am dining with the Marchmonts tonight. It is as good a place as any to announce my departure. Will you be attending?"

“Ralph is my cousin, you might recall. Of course."

That evening, Bridgeport presented himself at Marchmont's house on Curzon Street. He generally avoided dinner parties, for they offered too many opportunities for tęte-ŕ-tętes. That was the negative side of his chosen way of life. It was inevitable that the guest list would include ladies with whom he had had affairs. Since it was invariably he who terminated a liaison, there were always old connections who hoped—in vain—to rekindle his interest. Thus he found himself eschewing more and more society entertainments.

He was getting too old for this life.

The thought flashed through his mind without warning, shocking him as much as the unwarranted rumor attack. But it was true. He had enjoyed little of his public life for some time. Even Jeanette, his official mistress and the most accomplished seductress he had ever met, no longer satisfied him. His upcoming exile began to look attractive. He could use it to cut all current affairs, decide what he wanted to do in the future, relax from the pressure of town living, and further his private activities. Why had he not considered rustication earlier? It might even revive the spark that had been missing lately.

The guest list contained as many annoyances as he had anticipated. He managed to avoid entanglements by striking up a discussion of the Peninsular War with Major Daniels, Captain Hardaway, and others. Lady Marchmont was unhappy about so many gentlemen ignoring the ladies, but Carrington deflected her from breaking it up.

Mark was not so lucky at dinner. He was seated beside the widowed Mrs. Woodleigh, with whom he had been enjoying a casual liaison for the past month. Outside of bed, she was a totty-headed widgeon who rarely stopped talking. Within minutes his head was pounding.

“You should have visited Hyde Park this morning,” she twittered between nibbles of fish. “The most delicious sight. I was riding with Lord Marcus Uppington—the poor dear seems to have the most shocking tendre for me, though I cannot abide such a callow youth. Mature strength is so much more appealing.” She batted her lashes and simpered like a schoolgirl. “But you wouldn't believe who we saw! Lord Oaksford was walking with Miss Severton—I had no idea he was dangling after her! He must have been up before dawn to have achieved such sartorial splendor by nine. Or perhaps he had not yet been to bed. Gentlemen keep the most shocking hours!” Her glance this time was openly seductive. “Miss Severton was fine as five-pence as well, turned out smartly enough for Almack's—though you would not know that, I wager, having very naughtily skipped every assembly so far this Season.” She sipped wine with hardly a pause in her words. “But I was telling you about Lord Oaksford and Miss Severton. I cannot imagine what they found to discuss, for both are so high in the instep they rarely deign to notice others, but they were so engrossed in their topic that neither paid the slightest attention to the lads playing nearby. All at once, a stray dog joined the boys, luring them into a chase that bowled the strollers over. They landed in the Serpentine where both promptly succumbed to hysterics. The rumors of Oaksford's clutchfistedness must be true, for he is certainly skimping on a quality wardrobe. His coat bled all over his cravat, and his pantaloons bagged. Not that Miss Severton noticed. Pond weed was plastered across her face, her gown had turned nearly transparent—for someone so proper, she wears shockingly little underneath!—and her teeth were chattering with cold."

Bridgeport had paid only the scantest attention to her recital, a situation that was duly noted by Lady Means across the table. She waited until he seemed thoroughly bored before ignoring all rules of conduct to address him.

“Will you be attending Lady Wharburton's masquerade next week?” she asked. Mark inwardly winced. He had been avoiding her eye since sitting down. He had broken with her more than a year before and had no wish to resume the connection. But ignoring the unmannerly interruption did no good, for Mrs. Woodleigh immediately picked up the question.

“Oh, I do hope you will be there,” she trilled, again batting her lashes. “I have devised the most deliciously scandalous costume. I'm sure you will love it."

Lady Means glared.

“I had planned to, of course,” Mark lied, smiling at the opening she had provided rather than at her. “Unfortunately, I just received an urgent summons from one of my estates. There is a problem that can only be resolved in person, so I will regretfully be from town."

“But you will return soon.” Mrs. Woodleigh's heated eyes and throaty voice announced their relationship to the entire table.

Thrusting aside a strong desire to strangle the woman, Mark assumed a resigned expression. “Not for some time, Mrs. Woodleigh. The estate is in Cornwall and the problems will take several weeks to resolve. I doubt I will be back before the end of the Season."

“Poor man,” commiserated Lady Means, again speaking across the table. “It will be dreadfully lonely to be stranded so far from civilization. Cornwall might as well be China, it is so different from London."

“I have heard horrid tales about murder and mayhem there,” mentioned Mr. Groves, joining the sudden informality of the table. His glare implied that Mark should fit right in.

“Almost everyone is a smuggler,” announced Lord Stoverly in an authoritative voice, though he had not, to Mark's knowledge, ever traveled farther west than Oxford.

“Or a wrecker,” sneered Mr. Groves. “No wonder you are having trouble if you must find estate workers among such folk."

Mark tried to ignore both the statements and the odd undercurrents, but he was unsuccessful in turning the topic. Mrs. Woodleigh began expostulating on imagined dangers and begging him to remain in London where he would be safe. Mr. Groves interrupted her to regale the table with a convoluted tale of a wrecking that had occurred at least a hundred years earlier, if at all. Lord Stoverly was simultaneously horrifying his neighbors with stories of smugglers' disputes that Mark was sure had happened long ago in Kent. Lord Marchmont weighed in with the damage smuggling was doing to the war effort, ably seconded by the military gentlemen. Lady Marchmont appeared furious at the fractious disintegration of her dinner party.

Carrington met Mark's eyes, his own dancing with laughter.

Lady Means finally lent her voice in support of Bridgeport remaining in town and suggested he send his secretary to Cornwall instead. “You owe it to yourself to stay where your friends can keep you safe and happy,” she murmured huskily, her eyes promising all manner of delights if he would only see reason. Mrs. Woodleigh seconded the sentiments, going so far as to stroke his sleeve.

Mark shivered, determined to escape the complications of town for a while. Mrs. Woodleigh's exhortations and sudden possessiveness hinted that she had plans for a more permanent future.

“Here is a better idea,” Lady Means exclaimed when he failed to respond to her suggestion. “Perhaps we should get up a party and come with you."

This time Bridgeport met her eyes. “I cannot imagine you giving up part of the Season, my lady, especially to visit an area with neither amusements nor company to recommend it. The house has not been tenanted for decades and may be uninhabitable, and I will certainly be too busy to entertain anyone."

She flushed at the double entendre.

Thankfully, the next course appeared, order was restored, and Mark could turn his attention to his other dinner partner. She was Marchmont's elderly aunt and proved to have no interest either in current on-dits or in forming a relationship with him. He relaxed and began to enjoy the evening, slipping away immediately after the port with the excuse that he must make an early start.

Chapter Four

"Good morning, Miss Elaine,” called a cheerful Helen.

Elaine glanced up to see the girl clambering across a field of rocks. The child had an uncanny knack for escaping supervision and an even more uncanny ability to know where Elaine could be found. She shivered. Often she did not herself know in which direction she would wander. But she had given up on the efficacy of scolding, instead teaching the girl the dangers inherent in moor and shore.

“Have you run away from poor Miss Beddoes again?” she chided softly. “That is not the conduct of a proper lady."

“I know, but I so much wanted to draw,” wheedled Helen, seating herself cross-legged on the ground at Elaine's feet.

“Very well.” Elaine shook her head in mock exasperation, even as she pulled out the second sketchbook she now routinely carried in her bag and commenced with what had become almost daily lessons. How could she deny the girl? Art was her own consuming passion, despite having had not the slightest encouragement from her family.

Perhaps that was why Helen appealed to her so strongly. Not that their situations were alike, but both had been denied proper instruction even in subjects like sketching that were deemed suitable for females. Each could blame only her father.

Lord Grimfield was a religious fanatic who had demanded that his daughter spend much of her day in prayer and atonement for her sins. Lady Grimfield had been Elaine's sole teacher until her death when the girl was eleven. The lady had tried to properly train her daughter, knowing that Elaine would eventually wed a gentleman. But Lord Grimfield refused to countenance such frivolous pastimes, punishing both wife and daughter if he caught them. He was a pinchpenny of the worst sort who condoned no waste of time on nonproductive activity.

Elaine learned needlework by mending endless linens and constructing her own clothes. She learned to read only so she could study the Bible. A pianoforte was an unnecessary expense because hymns could be easily rendered with the voice, which needed no training. Deportment consisted of lessons in humility, obedience, the superiority of men, and the desirability of instantly executing every demand of her father or brother.

Not until after she left home did she realize that her father hated females even more than he revered God. And it was later yet before she admitted that the deity he worshiped was even more tyrannical than the harshest taskmaster depicted in the Old Testament, a deity far different from the loving, forgiving Father of the New Testament.

After his wife's death, Grimfield had looked for someone to raise his daughter, hiring a governess recommended by his vicar. Miss Becklin was a cousin of the vicar's wife and the daughter of a rector, so she would naturally be well versed in those subjects his lordship approved.

But the experiment had failed. Mary—as Elaine was called at home—was thrilled with the improvement in her fortunes. Miss Becklin quickly became a close friend, for there were but nine years difference in age. Mary learned more in the eleven months of their association than in the previous eleven years. And Miss Becklin encouraged Mary's talent with brush and pencil.

But such deviation from the prescribed program made a confrontation inevitable. Miss Becklin departed and Mary was packed off to Grimfield's sister for the next five years, not returning home until her seventeenth birthday.

Elaine shook her head and turned the page. The drawing she had been working on was now covered with unflattering caricatures of her family. At least Helen did not suffer the restrictions, punishments, and penalties that had been so large a part of her own childhood. Not that Elaine approved of how the girl was being raised.

Bridgeport was a hedonistic libertine who shamefully neglected his daughter, providing inadequate supervision and no affection. It was true that few children of lords spent any appreciable time with their parents. Custom relegated them to the hands of a cadre of servants.

The neglect in Helen's case came from those servants—an aged nurse who was physically unable to control the child, and two maids who were still children themselves. Where Mary Thompson had suffered from too much discipline, Helen Parrish received none. Nor did Miss Beddoes make any effort to teach her. Formal education did not normally fall under the duties of a nurse, but Helen's mind was very keen. Curiosity drove her to explore and experiment. With no one to keep her company, or even keep her safe, she would soon find herself in serious trouble.

“I can't get the cottage to look right,” Helen complained in frustration.

“Let me see.” Elaine glanced at the page. The girl was really quite good for her age. “Here is the problem. You know that the sides of the building form rectangles, and that is the way you drew them—with beautifully straight lines, too. But if you look carefully, you will see that the eye does not really perceive the building as straight and square.” She pulled out a page she had readied for this first lesson in perspective. “The hole in the paper forms a frame. Its edges are straight, but compare it to the cottage walls."

“I see,” exclaimed Helen in delight. “The sides go up and down, but the top and bottom are slanted."

“Excellent. And if you measure the height of the walls, you will find that those farther away appear shorter.” She turned to the next page in the girl's sketchbook. “Use the frame as a guide and try again."

Half an hour later, she could honestly praise the new effort. “That lesson applies to anything, not just buildings. When you draw, you must be careful to evaluate what the eye sees and not produce what your mind knows is really there. Now let us work on your reading for a few minutes, and then I must return home."

Pulling out a worn book, she placed it in Helen's hands. They had spent the first two weeks of their acquaintance working on the alphabet, and Helen was now applying those lessons.

“The dog is b-black,” Helen began hesitantly.

Elaine listened with one ear while she finished drawing a gnarled oak tree. Eventually she packed away her pencils. “That is enough for today. Nana will be worried.” She led the girl back to the Manor, then took her leave and returned home. Thornton's illustrations should be finished within a fortnight.

* * * *

Another rivulet of sweat trickled down Bridgeport's back. Thank God Treselyan was now only three miles away, for spring arrived earlier in Cornwall than farther east. He should have worn a thinner driving coat.

Patches of color on the moor marked wildflowers and resurgent growth. Piles of rock protruded from the ground. Unlike the eerie circle of standing stones he had passed earlier, these were the exposed ribs of the land itself, radiating strength and solidity. Overhead a hawk circled lazily, a black silhouette against a blazing sky. There was more beauty here than he had expected.

But the contentment that the scenery offered did not last long.

Turning his curricle through the ancient stone gates of Treselyan Manor, he grimaced at the park. It had been lunacy to rely on an unknown steward's reports that all was well. Nelson had often urged him to make annual inspections, or at least to delegate Cramer to do so. But Bridgeport needed Cramer for other things and had always postponed thinking about it. Stupid fool! He knew that his man of business was seldom wrong. He should have listened. Not that the place was derelict, but signs of neglect were everywhere.

Mark had come into the title three years earlier when a freak accident killed both his parents, but he had owned this estate for eight years. Its acquisition had been one result of the desperate gamble that had founded his financial empire.

His father, the sixth Earl of Bridgeport, had been a gentle scholar, uninterested in the duties of a powerful earldom. Inheriting came as a surprise, for he had originally possessed two older brothers, but one had died in a hunting accident at the tender age of twenty, and the other succumbed to smallpox while Mark's father was still at Oxford. The disease had also carried off the fifth earl, his wife, and two daughters, suddenly propelling the unprepared student into a title he knew nothing about. Understanding the perils of the world all too well, the grief-stricken earl immediately married and sired an heir. But he'd neither comprehended nor cared about estate management. Having done his duty to the future, he'd turned the operations over to his man of business and several stewards, and retired into his books.

The countess applauded this action, for it left her in charge of nearly everything. Before her marriage a discerning eye might have noted all the signs of an incipient harpy. With a weak-willed husband who exerted no control over her, she grew into an autocratic tyrant who was not content merely to run the house and raise the heir.

She soon had the estate steward and Bridgeport's solicitor under her thumb. The only one she could not control was the earl's man of business, who remained in London out of her reach. But she was the most manipulative woman Mark had ever met. Woe be unto anyone who tried to ignore her! He'd learned at an early age to accede to her desires, at least on the surface. His most enduring childhood lessons were in prevarication and pretense. By age fifteen, he despised her and loathed her determination to control him for the rest of her life. Nor was he much more charitable to his father, who so feared scenes that he invariably followed her directions.

Resolved to never allow his mother or any other woman the slightest control of his actions, Mark initiated a grandiose plan to make himself independent.

At first, it was difficult. Schoolboys had little money and less access to the financial world, but his luck had always been uncanny. One of his schoolmates was the son of a banker. Mark cultivated the lad, liking what he found, for Nelson was intelligent, astute, and scrupulously honest. Theirs was an odd friendship, but Mark's prowess at sports meant that few of his peers questioned him on it. Swearing Nelson to secrecy, he turned over a portion of every quarterly allowance for the lad's father to invest. To cover the expenditures, he fostered the image of a luckless gamester, deciding that the losses necessary to maintain that fiction were worth it if he could pull the wool over his mother's eyes. Any hint of his plans, and she would reduce his allowance.

When Mark left Oxford, an increased allowance allowed him to expand his investments, this time with his classmate handling the money directly. Nelson's acuity multiplied his wealth many times over, but the proceeds still fell short of what he needed. And time was running out, for he must assure the succession. Despite his determination to avoid female control, duty demanded an heir of his own. He knew that his mother would insist on choosing his bride. A biddable, easily dominated daughter-in-law would guarantee her continued reign as queen of the neighborhood. She also expected that Mark and his wife would live at Bridgeport Abbey.

He could accept his mother's candidate, for a weak-willed chit was just what he wanted, but his wife deserved a place of her own. He would return to town as soon as she was with child, never seeing her again if the child was a boy, yet he could not leave anyone under his mother's thumb.

Unfortunately, such plans required money. The first thing his mother would do if he defied her would be to cancel his allowance. Never mind that he was Bridgeport's heir.

An even worse problem was his mother's incompetence. She was poorly educated and often stupid, forcing adherence to her whims even when she did not understand the consequences. And her wasteful expenditures outstripped Bridgeport's income, forcing him to sell shares. She had vulgarly redecorated the Abbey, torn up vast portions of the grounds that had been laid out by Capability Brown, and embarked on the installation of a dozen grotesque follies. His wedding would provide another showcase for her extravagances.

When he turned five-and-twenty, she rejected further delays and voiced her ultimatum. In desperation, he took a gamble, praying that some overlooked thread of courage lurked in his sire's breast.

He smiled now at the deal he had arranged eight years before. Mark had agreed to accept his mother's chosen bride if his father first turned over one hundred thousand pounds and the deeds to the two unentailed estates. It would strip the earldom of most of its accumulated wealth, but after watching his mother play ducks and drakes with the family fortune, Mark was determined to remove as much as possible from her reach. Nelson would invest it wisely. No matter how many debts the countess ran up, Mark would be able to handle repayment when he achieved the title.

Terrified of being caught in a squabble between his wife and his suddenly determined son, the earl had agreed. He'd even agreed to say nothing before the wedding, explaining the land transaction afterward as a family tradition that allowed the heir to acquire expertise in running an estate before he assumed the larger duties of the earldom.

Mark sighed as the house came into view. Nelson had outdone himself, increasing the holdings until Bridgeport was now one of the wealthiest men in the country. Few people knew the full extent of his fortune, however. And he would not enlighten them, for much of it derived from manufactories, shipping, and other ventures that smacked of trade. Three years after his mother's death, he still clung to the habits of secrecy that had served him so well.

A correct butler answered his groom's knock.

“I am Lord Bridgeport,” Mark declared, noting the flicker of surprise in the butler's face. “I know I was not expected."

“Welcome, my lord,” intoned the butler, leading him into a darkly paneled hall. “I am Burgess. The master's rooms are always kept in readiness."

That sounded encouraging. “My luggage coach should be along soon."

A child's squeal raised Mark's brows.

“Your daughter, my lord. She must have escaped her nurse again. Allow me to show you to your rooms."

“And arrange a bath,” ordered Mark, barely able to get the words out through his shock. He had completely forgotten that one-sentence exchange with Cramer some months earlier.

The girl cannot remain in residence while the roof is being replaced, his secretary had noted.

Send her and the nurse to Cornwall, he had suggested absently, his mind on other matters.

Now, as he followed the butler up the stairs, he cringed, unwanted memories crowding his head. His wife's death had meant nothing in itself, but he had been furious that the child was a girl. It made another marriage inevitable, and the prospect was more than daunting.

He had managed to keep the agreement with his father secret for the entire year between that first disastrous betrothal and his marriage. Thank heaven he had been able to disappear immediately into Westron. Lady Bridgeport's fury at having her will crossed proved even worse than anticipated. He later learned that his father had locked himself in the library and taken meals separately for several weeks for fear of a physical attack. Several servants had willingly departed without references rather than endure the countess's tantrums.

He tried to remember his wife, but could not bring her image to mind. She had been an insipid, quiet mouse, so uninteresting that he had barely been able to consummate the marriage. That was an unexpected flaw in his plans, for he had never before experienced such a problem. It had taken every bit of willpower he possessed to get a child on the chit. And then she had died, leaving him still in need of an heir. Out of consideration for his father, he allowed his mother to again choose his bride. But the wedding never took place.

What wretched fate! Why, of all the spots he could have gone, had he chosen Cornwall? Where was his vaunted luck when he needed it? He had no desire to meet a child who could only remind him of a period he wished to forget.

He was sorely tempted to leave immediately, except that the estate problems he had already noted must be addressed. Sighing, he entered a large chamber crowded with heavy walnut furniture and hung with deep red draperies. It was clean and showed no sign of damp. At the least the household staff seemed competent.

* * * *

An hour later there was still no sign of Federsham or his luggage, but Mark had washed away the dust of travel and was ready to meet his steward. The house dated to Elizabeth's reign with few changes since its construction. The rooms contained no means to summon a servant, and the lack of anyone in residence meant that there were insufficient footmen to carry messages. That would have to change.

He had reached the main staircase when running footsteps forced his eyes up to the second floor. A young girl was racing down the stairs, her face twisted in agony.

“Never run on stairways!” he barked, hardly aware of the words as his eyes widened in shock. He was staring at a living portrait of himself at age seven—slender body, coltishly long legs, russet hair tumbled in disheveled curls, green eyes shining. But in her case, the glow was a sheen of tears.

“Oh!” she gasped. “Who are you?” But she continued without waiting for a response. “Please help, sir. Nana has fallen and is in great pain. She cannot rise, and I am not strong enough to lift her. Please come!"

Waiting only until he took the first step in her direction, she raced back up the stairs. His mind in chaos, Bridgeport followed.

The girl moved so quickly that he was forced to break into a trot to keep up. She finally threw open a door at the end of a long hallway. The room was equipped as a Spartan nursery, but he had no time to take in the details. The old woman crumpled on the floor was feebly trying to rise, but even an untutored eye could tell that she had broken a hip. There was no sign of anyone else.

“I brought help, Nana,” the girl announced, kneeling solicitously beside the old lady and laying a trembling hand on the woman's shoulder. “Everything will be all right now. You'll see."

“Thank you, dear Helen,” the nurse managed in reply. “Who is he?"

“Oh, dear. I don't know.” She stood and turned to Mark. “I am Lady Helen Parrish and this is my nurse, Miss Beddoes.” She managed a creditable curtsy.

“And I am your father, the Earl of Bridgeport,” he replied gravely. “Who is the housekeeper?"

“Mrs. Burgess.” Wariness crept into Helen's eyes, causing a strange tightness in Mark's chest.

“Good. Tell Burgess to summon a doctor. Then find Mrs. Burgess and ask her to come here. Nana needs more help than I can give her.” As Helen scampered out of the room, he carefully lifted the nurse and carried her into the adjacent room. She was unconscious from the pain by the time he laid her gently on the bed.

Mark's head swirled dizzily as he pulled up a chair and sat down. He had not even known his daughter's name. Shame washed over him. How could he have treated her so shabbily? It was true that he had no particular use for children and that he'd been furious that she was a girl, but that was a selfish reaction to the prospect of doing it all again. It certainly wasn't the child's fault.

Yet in six years he had not even bothered to inquire as to her name.

His wife had written a month before the birth to say that her own nurse would care for the babe. That was the last time he had even considered arrangements, leaving details of her upbringing to the estate steward. He had known nothing of the nurse's character or age. She must be nearly eighty and should have been pensioned off years ago. No matter how well behaved Helen might be, it was impossible for this woman to properly care for her. Burgess had hinted that escaping her nurse was a regular occurrence. A maid must immediately be found who could care for the child.

Nana stirred, opening her eyes. Pain still twisted her face, but she seemed lucid.

“Lord Bridgeport?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yes. Have you no one to help care for Helen?"

“There was adequate staff in Yorkshire, my lord,” she murmured. “Mrs. Burgess promised that Rose would help us as soon as she returns from her mother's sickbed. There are no others available in so tiny a place as Treselyan."

Helen's return prevented a response. She was accompanied by a bustling woman dressed in black.

“I fear she has broken a hip,” Mark murmured to the housekeeper.

“I pray not, for she will never again rise from her bed."

He nodded.

Mrs. Burgess turned to Helen. “You must find Ro—Oh, dear, the lass is still at home with her ailing mother. Perhaps—But no, Cook went into the village to find a better joint for dinner. And Willy is fetching the doctor from Bodmin—but that could easily take three or four hours."

“Helen can give me a tour of the house and grounds,” offered Mark with a sigh. “Once the doctor arrives, perhaps you can arrange for the footman to look after her."

“Yes, my lord.” She turned to the nurse, who seemed to be drifting somewhere just short of unconsciousness. “Take some of this laudanum, Miss Beddoes. It will be a long wait until the doctor can see you."

Mark shook his head and headed for the door.

“Are you really my papa?” asked Helen when they had left the nursery behind.

“Yes."

“I have always wanted to meet you,” she continued in a rush. “But Nana says you are too busy to travel so far. Are we closer now?"

“No. This is just as far as Westron, but I have business here.” What was he supposed to say to a child? Guilt was already gnawing at his conscience. How could he explain that he had given her not a single thought in six years? He glanced again at that face so like his own and shivered. “Have you been here long?"

She glared as if it was a foolish question—which it was, of course. “About a month, I think. At least, that was what Miss Elaine said yesterday."

“Who is Miss Elaine?"

Her face lit up. “My bestest friend. She tells me all about the world and birds and animals. And she taught me how to read books for myself so I do not need to wait for someone to tell me the stories. And she is showing me how to make pictures so they look pretty. She does the most fantastic drawings, often out of her head, for she does not need to see a real thing to paint it."

“Does she live here?” he asked in surprise, though if she did, surely Mrs. Burgess would have consigned Helen to the woman.

“Of course not. She lives in the village with her friend, Miss Anne. But she likes to walk out on the moor and draw. I often see her there. And sometimes I go into the village to have tea with them. We all went to the vicarage one day. There was a fat old cat with a secret smile. I think he had just caught a mouse.” She jumped off the last step and laughed.

Mark was becoming more horrified by the minute at this artless recital. “Do you go out alone?"

She nodded. “Nana cannot walk more than a few steps anymore, but I am always very careful. Miss Elaine showed me places that are too dangerous to go and taught me how to read the clouds. I never leave the grounds when a storm is coming. She says the paths are dangerous with wind and wet. She thinks I should stay closer to the house, but that is boring, and she does not mind me visiting."

Mark's head was swirling. Clearly she was not being properly cared for. Deciding that he must investigate the local spinsters that his daughter claimed as friends, he thrust aside annoyance and allowed Helen to introduce him to the house.

It had not been used as a residence for a long time, though he believed that an uncle or cousin had lived there in his father's youth. The furniture was heavy and dark, dating back at least a hundred years. The library was hardly worth the name, containing fewer than fifty volumes, most of them sermons. It was good to get outside.

“Today is pretty,” observed Helen, holding her face up to the sun. “It is often foggy or rainy here. Nana complained about the damp when we first arrived. She suffers dreadfully from rheumatism. Jenny often has a hard time making her comfortable."

“Who is Jenny?"

“One of the nursery maids at home. She looks after Nana and Lily looks after me."

“Why did they not come with you?” he questioned idly.

“Nana wondered that too, but the orders were to send only the two of us, so she assumed there were other maids here. Lily and Jenny were happy enough to get a holiday."

“Let us look at the stables,” suggested Mark as his guilt increased. It was his own unthinking words that had led to that order.

“There is not much to see,” said Helen with a shrug. “Mr. Bowles keeps his horse here because his cottage has no stable, and there is another that Mrs. Burgess uses with the gig, but that is all. Toby wanted to keep a pair to use with our coach, but Mr. Bowles said it was a waste of money for nought but an old lady and a brat. I heard them arguing about it just after we arrived."

“Toby is the groom?"

“No, that is Freddie. Toby is our coachman from Westron. He wanted to teach me to ride, but Mr. Bowles refused to let us use his horse, and the other is unaccustomed to a saddle."

“Mr. Bowles is the steward, I believe."

She nodded. “I don't like him. He has an angry face."

“Most people do during an argument. Or did you say something to upset him?"

She giggled. “No, he never talks to me, though he is annoyed that we came. He will be even more annoyed to see you. I don't think he likes people much. Or maybe he doesn't like to answer questions. Anyway, Miss Elaine showed me how to draw eyes and mouths so that the face can be happy or sad or angry. Mr. Bowles always has an angry face. Mrs. Burgess usually has a happy face. Jenny had a sad face when we left, though she is usually happy. Burgess has what Miss Elaine calls a butler's face. It shows nothing. She also says that many people use a false face so that no one can tell what they are really thinking. Mrs. Hedges in the village is like that. She wants to know everyone's secrets, so she pretends to be friendly. But I saw her hit a little boy when she thought no one was looking. And yesterday she kicked the vicar's cat."

And what could he say to that? For a child of barely six years, Helen was a very astute observer. He frowned as they entered the stable. Though in reasonable condition, he could see deficiencies. As with the grounds, there was neglect. It was long past time that he visited here.

“I wish I could ride,” continued a wistful Helen, interrupting his thoughts. “It would be ever so much more fun than walking. But Nana said I must wait until I am older and we return to Westron."

Mark remained silent, but inwardly he seethed. He must find her a governess. And he must revisit Yorkshire. The steward could not have been properly supervising her upbringing. Was he also neglecting his estate duties? Nelson was right, devil take him. Even the best employees turned lazy if they were not adequately managed.

Chapter Five

Elaine frowned at the parchment pinned to the drawing board on her easel. Her hand hesitated a moment before adding two lines and broadening a third. Finally, she smiled and laid down her pen. Only then did she realize that Anne was standing in the doorway.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Exquisite. Your skill improves every day."

Slipping the drawing into a folio with a dozen others, Elaine stretched. “Have you been back long? I did not hear you come in."

“No more than five minutes, but it is nearly time for dinner.” She hesitated, but there was no point in putting off the news. “Lord Bridgeport arrived at the Manor this afternoon."

Elaine paled. “I have feared a visit ever since I learned that he owned it. It would seem that my luck is on the turn again.” She paused to frown. “Or perhaps not. What would he gain from pestering me?"

“It must at least be embarrassing to meet him again."

“For whom?” she exclaimed. “Certainly not for me. I only met the man six times in my life."

“What?” Anne countered in amazement. “But you were betrothed to him!"

“You know it was an arranged match. I did not even learn of it until after everything was settled. He was cold, arrogant, and contemptuous, interested only in getting an heir, and he thought me a boring child unworthy of his notice. He only accompanied me to my first ball out of duty. After that he stood up with me if we happened to be at the same function—which rarely occurred, for even then he eschewed the marriage mart rounds. That certainly hasn't changed if one can believe the gossip columns."

“You shock me!” replied Anne. “He offered for you yet paid you not the least attention?"

“Why did you think I cried off? Not because I deplore society—though I will never fit in, so that played a role. It was because he would never have lifted a finger to support me against his mother's tyranny. With my aunt so infirm, I was spending much of my time with Lady Bridgeport, and it was obvious that we would never agree on anything, yet he would have left me in her keeping.” She shrugged.

“Why have you said nothing of this before?"

“Why should I? It was over."

“The tale is bound to come out,” insisted Anne.

“Fustian! No one has connected me with him before, and he can hardly wish to publicize my identity. What man would remind the world that he has been jilted? Such a disclosure would be ungentlemanly. Despite everything, he has never been less than honorable."

“I cannot believe that he is honorable,” protested Anne. “By your own words, I know him to be a rake, a gamester, and a man who scorns to even go through the motions of respecting his betrothed. I heard more than the fact of his arrival. Mrs. Hedges claims that he is rusticating because he killed a man."

“Absurd!” scoffed Elaine. “Where would even a Nosy Parker like Mrs. Hedges hear such a thing? I can just see it. An earl kills a man, escapes to rusticate in the country, then announces his dilemma to all and sundry, so they will know to turn the runners away."

Anne laughed. “It might have been servants, of course. But you must recall that Mrs. Hedges corresponds regularly with a cousin who lives in London. The woman writes every bit of scandal she hears. And Mrs. Hedges claims that the tale was all over Bodmin yesterday—including the detail that the earl was on his way to Cornwall."

“Who is he supposed to have killed?"

“It seems his lordship was conducting an affair with the newly married Lady Wainright. Her husband discovered the arrangement and challenged Bridgeport to a duel. Desirous of winning the fair beauty and her substantial fortune for himself, he cunningly tipped his sword in a slow poison acquired from a friend who recently returned from South America. When he pinked Wainright in the arm, the poison entered his body, killing him in less than a week."

Elaine doubled over with laughter. It took some time to regain her breath. “I will credit the liaison, for he has never hidden the fact that he is a rake. I might even credit the duel. But a South American poison? How can people be so credulous?"

“There is more,” said Anne grimly. “His parents died three years ago in a carriage accident. But the circumstances were so odd that many suspect that it was not accidental. He had always been at odds with them and came into a considerable fortune on their deaths."

“I know that he was flirting with poverty when I knew him, for his allowance was not large, and his gaming was legendary. But this is the first I have heard that their deaths might not be natural. And you know I always read the London papers. What happened?"

“Again, I know only what Mrs. Hedges claims. They were returning home from a dinner party when an oak tree fell, crushing the coach. It happened on the estate grounds, just inside the gates. All were killed, including two of the horses."

“Trees do occasionally come down,” pointed out Elaine.

“True, but this was a clear night with no wind. There had been no rain for some time, and the groundskeeper was amazed that the tree would fall for there was no evidence of rot."

“I suppose people believe that it was deliberately tampered with."

“That is the story currently making the rounds."

“But why was it not rumored earlier? Such a delicious tale would certainly have made the gossip columns, especially considering the new Bridgeport's notoriety."

“Without evidence, who would dare hint at so dastardly a deed?” asked Anne. “But with this latest death, many lips appear to have become unsealed."

“Lack of evidence has never killed any rumor, which leaves me curious about why it should surface now—and in Cornwall, of all places. But whatever the truth, it cannot touch us."

“I suppose you are right,” conceded Anne. “But I cannot forget your arrival, my dear—so frightened and forlorn. Your peace is too hard-won to give it up without a fight."

“What fustian! I was exhausted from a four-day journey on the common stage and terrified that my father would pursue me. Bridgeport—or Staynes as he was styled then—had nothing to do with it."

“Perhaps I misunderstood. After all, I do not really know what happened. I was so down-pin at the time that I could rouse little curiosity, and I never asked afterward, fearing a discussion would distress you."

“Not at all. I already told you I barely knew the man. The real problem was my father. You well know how he is."

Anne shuddered. “Had he not mellowed at all then?"

“Quite the reverse. Each year his beliefs grew more rigid, and he became more judgmental. I rarely saw him after you left, for he sent me to live with his sister, but his demeanor upon my return told me that nothing had changed. Aunt Fanny accompanied me home, of course. We were not even into the house before he berated her for allowing me to expose myself like a Paphian—my traveling gown came to my neck but did not cover it. When I objected, he demanded that I spend two hours on my knees in prayer, asking forgiveness for immodesty, disobedience, and speaking out of turn. Following a supper of bread and water, he informed me that I would be married in one month and would spend the interim in London with my great-aunt."

“Good heavens!"

“Exactly. He made it clear what the penalty would be if I objected. Not that I would have, for I was thrilled at the idea of marriage, believing nothing could be worse than staying at home. And that was true, though barely. Lord Staynes turned out to be a notorious rake with no intention of abandoning his pleasures. His mother was just like Father—dictatorial and delighted to administer punishment. The only difference was that Lady Bridgeport made her own rules instead of enforcing strict adherence to Biblical injunctions."

“I am certainly glad you came to me then."

“As am I. You have opened my mind to wondrous ideas. Much of what I know and most of what I believe, I learned from you, Anne. And if you had not championed my talent to Mr. Beringer, I would never have had the opportunity to make a career of my art. But what I am today began even before I arrived. I never really considered it before, but jilting Lord Staynes was the best thing I ever did. It freed me of much more than an unwanted betrothal."

“What do you mean?"

Elaine frowned, trying to express concepts that she barely understood. “That was the first decision I had ever made for myself. It was terrifying, but at the same time, it was empowering. I cannot really describe the feeling. After seventeen years of doing exactly as I was told, thinking and acting on my own was a remarkable experience."

“Empowering,” repeated Anne. “Yes, it would be."

“But freedom without knowledge is worthless,” declared Elaine, embarrassed to have talked so much. “And you are entirely responsible for that. Even if many of your ideas originated with Mary Wollstonecraft, it was your teaching that brought them to life."

“You are putting me to the blush,” Anne protested. “Shall we eat?"

Elaine nodded.

She was not quite as complacent about the arrival of Bridgeport as she had claimed. Not that he had entertained the slightest affection for her. But there was one aspect of his character that she had not mentioned. He had a quick temper, especially when his consequence was threatened.

There had been no way she could both formally break off the betrothal and escape unnoticed. She had considered sending him a note, but had not been able to do so without betraying either her plans or her direction. As a result, he would have learned of her flight from her father, an insult he would not soon forget—not that she had worried about his reaction at the time.

She remained quiet throughout their light meal, her mind mired in the events of eight years earlier. Staynes had been such a stranger that she had felt nothing for him, good or bad. Her fears had all centered on her father. Refusing the match he had ordained was blatantly unfilial. And once she did, no one would offer for her in the future. Fury at having a despised daughter permanently on his hands would have prompted Grimfield's harshest restrictions. And so she had fled him.

Escape had not been as hard as she had anticipated. The other aspect of her father's rigidity was that he would never waste time or money chasing after a sinner. All she had needed to do was escape unnoticed and leave no obvious trail for him to follow.

Mindful of the proprieties, she'd taken her maid along. They had slipped out of the house as soon as the butler finished closing up for the night. Her aunt was not social, keeping early hours even though she lived in London. With a wedding scheduled for the next day, the household was asleep by ten.

Elaine had been able to hire a hackney on the corner that took them to the Swan with Two Necks where, using assumed names, they bought seats on the stage. With her unprepossessing wardrobe, no one suspected that she might be quality. Her only other evasion was to call herself Elaine when they arrived at Anne's. If word of a Miss Thompson in the wilds of Cornwall reached Lord Grimfield, the difference in given name would discourage him from investigating. Thompson was common enough.

* * * *

Mark seethed. Miss Beddoes had indeed broken a hip—shattered it, in fact—and would be permanently confined to bed. Whatever remained of her life would be spent at Treselyan. He hoped for her sake—and, to some extent, for his own—that it would be short. This was a deuced inconvenient spot to find servants.

The household was grossly understaffed, the demands caused by Helen, himself, and their small entourages taxing it to the limits. The accident simply made matters worse. Mrs. Burgess had found only two girls and one lad who wished to go into service. None were trained. The girls were fifteen and could do little more than care for Miss Beddoes, who needed round-the-clock nursing. Ted was officially a footman, but of necessity his duties included cleaning.

Federsham's nose was thoroughly out of joint from being ordered to clean his master's room. He had finally condescended, making clear that unless it was a very temporary condition, he would find other employment.

Rose's mother had been suffering from influenza, which the girl had now caught. That left the Burgesses, Cook, and himself to look after Helen.

Mark might have included Mr. Bowles in that group, but his meeting with the man had already convinced him that the steward was ineffectual and stupid. Replacing the man was an urgent need. And Helen was right. Mr. Bowles did indeed sport an angry face that remained so even through ingratiating fawning.

“How delightful that you could find time in your busy schedule to visit so insignificant an estate, my lord,” Bowles gushed when Bridgeport called him into the library. “It is an honor to serve you, my lord, and a rare pleasure to make your acquaintance—"

“Just so.” Mark interrupted what had promised to be a lengthy accolade. Bowles's eyes blazed in fury, belying the smile that stretched his lipless mouth. “There are a number of changes I wish to make which we will discuss later. For now, I want you to augment the staff so that we have reasonable service."

“Of course, my lord. At once, though you must understand that it will take time. There is no one in the village we can call on, though surely we can find willing workers in Bodmin. Or in Exeter, though that would take longer, of course, it being on the other side of the next county; and not too many girls are happy to serve in so isolated a house these days, despite the owner being an earl; then, of course, there are those pesky rumors about your lordship, not that I believe for one minute that such shocking tales are true, but one must contend with the credulous nature of the servant cla—"

“Just do it!” snapped Bridgeport, cutting off the dithering voice and motioning him out of the library. Mark stormed off in another direction. He knew what the immediate future held all too well. The only person at Treselyan who was not already overburdened with work was himself. Thus the logical person to look after Helen was the girl's father, the seventh Earl of Bridgeport. He had never had the slightest use for infants. But he swallowed both pride and trepidation, and agreed to accompany her on a walk he prayed would wear her out.

What a naďve fool! The minx was in fine fettle. She dragged him hither and yon for two hours, showing him dozens of treasures, most of them dubious, and increasing his desire to join Federsham in quitting the premises.

“Look, Papa!” she exclaimed again, pulling her hand out of his and running away from the cliff path.

“What?” He tried to keep the surliness out of his voice. It wasn't Helen's fault that events had fallen out this way. But at the moment, he wished she had never been born—or at least that she were still in Yorkshire.

She darted back with a stalk covered with tiny flowers. “Isn't it pretty? And it matches your waistcoat."

He stared, hardly believing that so young a girl could be uttering the same inanities that he heard from every marriageable chit in town. But she was right. The golden flower was an almost perfect match. And her voice was sincere, something he heard so seldom he almost hadn't recognized it. “It is lovely,” he agreed. “And it matches your dress as well."

She giggled. “I wish I could draw it, but there are so many curvy lines that it would never come out. I wonder—” She looked around, her voice breaking off as a brilliant smile lighted her face. “She's here, she's here! Miss Elaine, look what I found!"

Mark jumped as Helen broke into a run. “Careful, Helen!” he shouted, fearing that she would trip and go over the cliff. Only then did he note the figure sitting on a rock some distance ahead. Her back was toward him, but she appeared younger than he had expected. A drawing pad lay in her lap.

“Miss Elaine!” called Helen again, sliding to a halt beside her friend. A rapid conversation ensued as Mark sauntered closer. The woman pulled a second pad from a bag and seated Helen beside her.

“Start with small things, Helen,” she was saying when he came within earshot. “Try to sketch a single flower. When you can do that to your satisfaction, try two or three together. Only then should you attempt the entire stalk."

Helen bent her head over the pad, teeth worrying her lower lip as she concentrated. Mark held back a moment, then shrugged as it became obvious that Helen had forgotten his presence.

“Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” he asked, coming closer.

Helen's head jerked up. “Sorry, Papa, this is Miss Elaine. She draws pretty pictures and is teaching me how to do it, too. Miss Elaine, this is my father, the Earl of Bridgeport."

Elaine had herself firmly in hand. She had known that this moment must come sooner or later. From the first sound of his voice, she had been schooling her face into neutrality. The discomfort could not last long. Despite their history, they were strangers. Turning her head to face her former betrothed, she nodded. “My lord."

“You!” He froze.

He had not changed much, Elaine noted, unless it was to grow even more impossibly handsome. He showed none of the signs of dissipation that she had expected from so unabashedly debauched a man. His chestnut locks were cut short in the latest fashion. Shock had intensified the green of his eyes. It was only now that she realized just how closely Helen resembled him. Or had she deliberately refused to recognize that similarity? For eight years she had ignored his existence, reminded of it only when his name showed up on the society page.

Helen's chatter finally registered and Elaine tensed. She had been staring far too long. Bridgeport's temper seemed on the verge of explosion.

Mark heard none of Helen's explanation of his arrival and Nana's fall. Nor did he hear her description of the lessons Miss Elaine had taught her. He was caught in a storm of fury, experiencing again the rage and humiliation he had suffered that day in St. George's. He wanted to strangle her. But he could hardly vent his anger in front of a child.

“Helen,” he managed at last. “I want you to return home now. Take the pad and the flower and work on your drawing so I can see it later. Cook will give you some of the macaroons she was baking this morning. Miss Thompson and I are acquainted and have some things we must discuss alone."

Helen opened her mouth in obvious protest, but Elaine intervened. “That is a wonderful idea, Helen. When you finish the flower, perhaps you can draw your favorite toy. Nana would love to see all your pictures, and I will look at the new ones tomorrow."

Mark's fury increased when Helen smiled and took herself happily back to the house. Mary Thompson had changed since he had last seen her—so much so that he was amazed that he had recognized her. She had been small, gangly, and dark, with insipid gray eyes and a nondescript face, clad always in clothes that were unfashionable, ill-fitting, and excessively prim.

But she was no longer a girl. While remaining far from the latest crack, today's gown caressed a woman's curvaceous figure that made his fingers itch to follow suit. The green muslin and bright sunlight proved that her eyes were actually gray-green, staring composedly from under dark brown hair and brows. A few extra pounds filled in the hollowed cheeks and angular chin to give her face a casual prettiness he had never expected. She had abandoned her former shyness and now looked him squarely in the eye. Paradoxically, her improved appearance, quiet composure, and general air of well-being further inflamed his fury.

“So this is where you crawled off to,” he snapped.

“Hardly crawled, my lord. But yes, I have lived here since leaving London."

“Very clever to choose a village attached to one of my own estates. That is that last place anyone would think to look for you."

“How arrogant! I made no attempt to hide from you. In fact, I only learned the ownership of the property when Helen moved here last month."

“Really?” he sneered.

“The house has stood empty for so long that no one discusses the owner. And since the property still bears the name Treselyan Manor, how should I connect it to you?"

“Then why did you come here?"

“To live with a friend."

“I owe you something,” he growled. “Perhaps I should complain to your father and get your allowance stopped."

Elaine burst into laughter. “Be my guest,” she invited. “There is no allowance to stop, for he has no idea where I am."

“Even better.” Her laughter raised his fury another notch. “He can haul you home and chastise you as you deserve."

“I will never go back.” Steel spiked her voice. “For the first time in my life, I am doing exactly what I want without interference. If there is any shred of decency in you, forget you ever saw me, not that telling Grimfield would matter. Chances are he would not even bother to verify your words. He disowned me when I walked out, and would probably rejoice at the image of me living modestly. It might even change his opinion that I will roast for all of eternity, but his desires no longer affect me. Even if he came here, there would be nothing beyond an unpleasant scene or two. I am of age and need no longer submit to his dictates."

Mark stared, unable to believe that she could be serious. But he knew he would not call her bluff. “How do you live with no allowance?"

“Frankly, my lord, that is none of your business.” Her eyes flashed in challenge.

He frowned. “Does your friend know of your shameful conduct?"

“Of course, not that she believes for an instant that it was shameful. If anything meets that definition, it is your own."

“What?” His face darkened.

“In general terms, my lord. You know your reputation as well as I do, not that I believe you to be a murderer. But there is little in your conduct then or now to demand respect."

“I will not get into a vulgar brawl with you, so cease trying to provoke me. You have no concept of what constitutes proper behavior."

“In your world that might be true. But despite my birth, I do not belong to that circle that considers itself superior to the rest of humanity. I am a simple woman leading a simple life. But I too have no wish for a brawl. I trust you will not be staying long, my lord."

“Too long. Miss Beddoes broke her hip, and it will take time to find someone else to care for Helen. I do not wish you to encourage her hoydenish tendencies, by the way. She needs a proper teacher."

“Which I am not?” she said softly, but he was suddenly aware of the fury that burned beneath her calm exterior. “Arrogant man! Just what do you consider makes one a proper companion for your daughter? Until two days ago, you had never set eyes on the girl, ignoring her as you would any other worthless thing that might clutter up your life. She is nought but a despicable female, after all. How dare you criticize me when you have left your only child in the care of a woman who should have been pensioned off fifteen years ago? To help her in Yorkshire, Nana had only a pair of nursery maids who after six years in service have reached the grand age of fourteen. They and your daughter spend much of their time caring for the nurse, who was barely mobile even before you forced them into a brutal journey to Cornwall. Not that I believe for a minute that you care a fig for that, or you would not have ordered them here in the first place. Your neglect is criminal, sir. Helen is six years old, but had received not one minute of instruction in reading or writing. Nor does she know the first thing about needlework, music, art, or any other accomplishment society expects of a lady. She should have had a governess two years ago. She should have started riding three years ago. But you are so immersed in your own dishonorable affairs, you have spent not a single minute considering what is best for your child."

“How dare you criticize me for a situation you understand not at all!” he snapped.

“Nor do you, my lord,” she replied, rising to glare into his face. She stood uphill from him, making her eyes nearly level with his. “Mary Wollstonecraft was right, you know. Despite the self-serving falsehoods men like you cling to, women are rational creatures whose minds can and should be improved by education. That child has one of the finest brains I have ever encountered. In less than a month of acquaintance, seeing her only sporadically and briefly in places like this, where there are a thousand distractions, I have taught her to read and write, and have discovered that she has a wonderful eye for line and form. I will not seek her out, for I have never done so. But if she comes to me, I will not repudiate our friendship. You may be her father, but you are a complete stranger. Your admonitions will carry little weight. If you wish to develop any rapport with her, you might try correcting some of her educational deficiencies yourself. She is starving for knowledge."

Collecting her bag, Elaine strode briskly back to the village.

Mark was left seething and speechless. How dare the chit speak to him like that? He despised managing women. Never would he submit to the demands of one. Ignoring the content of her words, he concentrated on their impropriety. It gave him a new grievance.

Her account was growing longer. It was bad enough that she had jilted him, but the dramatic way in which she'd done it established her as his bane.

The embarrassment had not died. Some wag had devised that accursed nickname, assuring that memory of his shame remained sharp. His later betrothals had heaped further ridicule on his head. Without Miss Thompson's actions, those mishaps would have quickly faded into obscurity, but her jilting kept society's gossips focused on his every move.

He owed her for the thousand pricks that stabbed his pride each year, for the myriad sidelong glances and veiled allusions that eroded his consequence, and for creating the atmosphere in which scurrilous rumors seemed credible.

And now she dared berate him over Helen.

He squared his shoulders. It was time to carry out his vow of vengeance. He had tried before, sending agents to the properties of everyone to whom she was related, but he had not found her. How ironic that she had been camped on his own doorstep all the time. There must be some way to settle his score.

A plan suddenly sprang full-blown to mind. His experienced eye had detected the passion that simmered just beneath her surface. At five-and-twenty, after years away from anything resembling society, she was ripe for seduction. It would require no effort at all to make her fall in love with him. Let her experience the pain of repudiation when he spurned her.

For the first time since recognizing her, he smiled.

Chapter Six

Elaine paused in the doorway of Squire Sutton's drawing room, struck dumb for at least the hundredth time by the garish embellishments that good man's wife had insisted upon six years earlier. It was done in the worst imaginable taste, using the Egyptian theme that had been popular for some years now. Elaine had seen a quite magnificent Egyptian drawing room in London, but Mrs. Sutton had allowed neither common sense nor aesthetics to hold sway. Instead, she had chosen the most flamboyant of furnishings—crocodile settees, lion-headed chairs with clawed feet that threatened to put holes in the incongruous floral Aubusson carpet, two sphinxes, a mantle supported by winged caryatids that appeared more Greek than Egyptian, a distinctly Chinese screen, and an oppressive number of ornately carved tables.

Steeling herself to ignore her surroundings, Elaine pasted a pleasant smile to her face and greeted Mr. Reeves, the vicar.

“Miss Thompson and Miss Becklin!” he exclaimed in his usual jovial voice. “I have looked forward to seeing you this evening, for I discovered the most interesting volume in Bodmin yesterday.” Though the remarks were addressed to both of them, his eyes had rested exclusively on Anne. They had an understanding and would marry within the year if Merriweather's career continued as expected.

Elaine returned his greeting, then tactfully excused herself and left them to discuss an obscure book of Cornish tales. Miss Paddington accosted her immediately.

“Good evening, my dear. My, you look nice tonight. Have you done something to that gown or is it new?” she twittered softly.

“Neither,” protested Elaine, as she always did when talking to Miss Paddington. She had worn this same green silk to formal gatherings for the last three years. “But I thank you for the compliment. Have you heard anything from Gerald recently?"

“No, and I am so anxious about the dear boy.” She continued for some time, leaving Elaine to nod occasional agreement while her mind wandered to other things. Miss Paddington was a fluttery lady well past her sixtieth year, who was convinced that her brother Gerald would seriously harm himself unless he invited his sister to come look after him. This despite that the retired Colonel Paddington still enjoyed the services of his long-time batman and had often demonstrated both competence and good sense.

“I cannot believe that he could be ill without your knowledge,” soothed Elaine at last. “You know his man would inform you instantly of such an event."

“It is not illness that bothers me as much as that scheming Miss Appleby,” admitted the lady. “He has not written in two weeks—most unusual for the dear boy—and all of his recent letters are larded with references to the woman. You may count on it. She is after his money."

“Perhaps I misunderstood,” murmured Elaine. “I did not know that he possessed sufficient fortune to attract an adventuress."

“Well, I would not call it a fortune precisely, but he is comfortable. Or was until she came along."

“Who is she?"

“That is just what I don't know,” said Miss Paddington with a sniff. “She simply appeared in town one day. He has written nothing of her family or her situation. But she cannot be a day over thirty."

Elaine soothed her as best she could, but it was not until Mrs. Hedges joined them that Miss Paddington's mind was finally turned to another subject.

“Did you hear about Tom Bennett?” Mrs. Hedges asked once they had exchanged greetings.

“What about him?” He was a small farmer.

“He broke his arm last night on the cliff path. The ground collapsed, pitching him over the side. He managed to cling to a ledge about six feet below and was eventually rescued by Meg Willis."

“The poor man!” exclaimed Miss Paddington. “How tragic."

“But how could such a thing happen?” asked Elaine. “The path is not even that close to the edge.” Except for one stretch on the Manor grounds, she conceded.

“Laxity,” intoned Mrs. Hedges. “Mr. Bowles will lift a finger for no one. It is disgraceful how he has let Treselyan slide. Yet Tom Bennett is equally at fault. He has no honest business in that direction and can only have been poaching. But God has extracted retribution."

Elaine shivered. Some memory nagged at the back of her mind, but it slipped away when Lord Bridgeport entered the room. His eyes blinked as he caught sight of the decor, but that was his only indication of contempt. Though carelessly dressed, in a dark green jacket that did nothing to dim his eyes, he made all the other guests appear the provincials they were. When Mrs. Sutton began introducing him around the room, Elaine turned away.

“How dare that man show up here!” hissed Mrs. Hedges. “So loathsome a creature must contaminate us all."

“I do not believe he is that bad,” countered Elaine. “If the rumors are really true, he would have been arrested long since."

“An earl can get away with anything, even murder,” sniffed Mrs. Hedges.

“Where there is smoke, there must be fire,” intoned Miss Paddington disapprovingly.

“I don't doubt it,” agreed Elaine. “His reputation is known throughout the land. But while I believe the duel, I cannot accept murder.” She turned the talk back to Tom Bennett, for Mrs. Sutton and the earl were moving within earshot.

“I met Miss Thompson some years ago,” Bridgeport said smoothly when they arrived at Elaine's side. “It has been some time, my dear.” He smiled warmly into her eyes.

“My lord,” she returned warily, wondering what he could be up to now. After her defense of his character, any sign of warmth must be misinterpreted by Mrs. Hedges.

“I heard you were living with an old friend now,” he continued, signaling Mrs. Sutton that he would remain with Elaine for the moment. Somehow he had effectively cut out the older ladies and was maneuvering her away. “Is it anyone I might know?"

“I doubt it, my lord. She was my governess many years ago.” He must have decided to ignore their earlier meeting, at least publicly. A spurt of mischief prompted her to continue. “What made you decide to visit Cornwall? Has London finally become too dull for you?"

“Of course not, but it was time to inspect my estates. It is not good practice to leave everything in the hands of one's secretary, though Cramer is both honest and competent."

Fustian! His secretary had never been to Cornwall either. The man had obviously been driven from town by the rumors. She nearly mentioned that, but recalled herself. Her manners, never conventional to begin with, had unfortunately deteriorated in recent years. Resisting his attempt to lead her into a vacant corner that offered a bit of privacy, she headed for Anne's side.

“Anne, dear, may I present Lord Bridgeport? I believe I mentioned having met him once or twice some years ago. My lord, Miss Becklin, and our vicar, Mr. Julius Reeves."

The earl raked Anne with an assessing gaze that brought a flush to her face and pushed Elaine's temper to the brink. But his words as he exchanged pleasantries were commonplace enough. Elaine took advantage of Julius's garrulousness to join Sir Jeremiah and Major Paxton.

Dinner was unexceptional until midway through the second course. Elaine had been enjoying a delightful conversation on the jungles of India with Major Paxton when Miss Paddington suddenly gasped in indignation.

“How dare you imply poor Gerald could be happy with that painted harpy!” she sobbed. “But I suppose it is all of a piece for a murdering libertine like yourself. Why must you impose your presence on decent people?"

The clatter of a dropped fork exploded into the sudden silence. Like everyone else, Elaine stared at Bridgeport. If ever a man had murder in his eyes, it was the gray-faced earl, but as she watched, he pulled himself together.

“It never ceases to amaze me how drastically rumors change the farther they fly from their source,” he said lightly. “If you actually believe such rubbish, then I salute your courage in sitting down to table in my company."

“I apologize, my lord,” she countered, face red with mortification. “I am sure I never meant to say such a thing."

“And why not?” demanded Mrs. Hedges. “We have all heard how you killed Lord Wainright."

“I know not what twisted tale has winged its way to Cornwall, but it is obviously not the truth.” He shrugged.

Squire Sutton and Sir Jeremiah both tried to engage Mrs. Hedges in conversation, but she refused to be dislodged.

“And what do you claim to be the truth?” she demanded maliciously.

“According to his personal physician, he died of heart failure,” Bridgeport responded shortly, turning his attention back to his plate. The food suddenly tasted like sawdust.

“And the duel?” she challenged to gasps from the other guests.

“Exists only in his valet's mind. The man ran mad when his master died, unable to deal with the sudden loss of his job. He is unlikely to find another in society, as his skills are quite inferior."

“But you wounded him, sir."

“It is true that I scratched him slightly several days earlier when the button loosened on my foil. Other gentlemen who were also fencing that day witnessed the accident. But it had healed."

Mrs. Hedges clearly did not believe him. “But how then do you explain your parents' deaths?” she demanded.

“What?” He was obviously shocked. “You cannot be serious! Even London's rumor mill never conjured up such calumny."

“Do you deny you killed them?” Gasps and outraged glares from the other diners told her that she had gone too far, but she was too incensed with self-righteousness to heed them.

“Absolutely. At the time of their accident, I had not set foot on the estate in five years. Now I have put up with enough of your vitriolic accusations, Mrs. Hedges. It is time for you to answer some questions. Where did you hear such tripe? Or are the sensational embellishments your own?"

“Well, I never!” she sputtered. “Your misdeeds are the talk of London, as you must know. My cousin lives there and hears everything."

“What is her name?"

“Mrs. Eustace Eldridge."

“I never heard of her. She cannot move in the best circles. Nor can she possibly be your only source, dear lady, for this last malicious tale has never been to town. Someone is deliberately trying to blacken my name, and I want to know who and why."

“It is true that Eustace never mentioned your parents,” she admitted grudgingly. “But the story is all over Bodmin."

“Have you any idea who first heard it?"

“I did not ask,” she conceded. “Why would someone wish to slander you?"

“If I knew that, I would be in a fair way to solving this mystery.” Bridgeport frowned, but dropped the questioning and allowed the Suttons to assert control over the table.

No one referred again to the rumors, though Mark knew this confrontation would be reported and analyzed throughout the district for much longer than the proverbial nine days. He briefly considered excusing himself after dinner, but that would lend credence to the witch's words. Besides, he wished to begin his campaign against Miss Thompson. She had outmaneuvered him earlier, adroitly avoiding a tęte-ŕ-tęte.

“Will you honor me with a hand a piquet?” he asked upon joining the ladies in the drawing room, surprising Elaine both by the request and by his closeness, for she had not been aware of his approach.

She frowned. “I think not, my lord. My game is nowhere near as good as yours must be, and I cannot afford to lose."

“How about if we play for imaginary stakes and I spot you a hundred points?” He flashed the smile that often encouraged women to throw themselves into his arms.

She was unmoved. “You would enjoy a hand with Major Paxton. He is considered a good player."

“But I prefer to play with you tonight, Miss Thompson,” he replied seductively, placing a hand on her arm as she turned away.

She threw him an exasperated look and sighed. “You would be better served to leave after that unmannerly exhibition at dinner."

“Be fair. What else was I to do? Is she always so judgmental?"

“She makes Lady Beatrice look like a saint,” Elaine admitted, referring to London's most avid and least forgiving gossip.

He grimaced. “Save me from more of her spite then and play a hand with me."

“Very well, my lord."

“You have considerably improved, Mary,” he commented after they had begun the first hand.

“I could hardly help it,” she said with a shrug. “And I have used the name Elaine since leaving London, not that you have permission to use either."

“Helen calls you Miss Elaine."

“Helen is a friend."

“Well, that certainly puts me in my place, Miss Thompson. I suppose it is useless to ask whether you might consider me a friend."

“Quite.” She allowed herself a smile as she won the hand.

“I believe you lied about your expertise,” he teased.

“Hardly. Everyone gets lucky now and then, though Lady Luck is a fickle friend. She is generally there when one does not need her, but abandons one quite suddenly when most desired."

“You sound as though you have been burned."

She stared directly into his eyes so he could not mistake her meaning. “I have, my lord, and have learned to assume responsibility for my own fortunes."

“As I have cause to know,” he agreed softly. “I have a favor to ask of you, Miss Thompson—two, actually.” He dealt a new hand.

She raised her brows.

“The first is that we put our past acquaintance—if one can call it that—behind us."

Though suspicious of his motives, she nodded.

“The second involves Helen. I had suspected that all was not well with her even before you raked me over the coals. I am sending to London for a governess, but she needs more attention than I can give her in the meantime. I would like to borrow your companion to look after her until the woman arrives."

She stared at him for quite some time before she could formulate a response. “My lord, I have no idea why you have chosen to approach me. Miss Becklin is certainly not in my employ and orders her life to suit herself. It is true that she used to work as a governess, but you would have to make arrangements with her personally."

“I must have misunderstood then,” he said without the slightest sign of embarrassment. “It was my impression that she had been your governess and was now your companion."

“Nonsense. She took me in when I had no other place to go and has taught me much, but we are equals."

“You have become a most unusual lady,” he commented warmly.

“Save the flirtation for London, my lord,” she warned. “It has no place in Treselyan. My hand, I believe?” She laid down her cards with a satisfied smile.

She refused to discuss either Anne or herself again that evening. He spent the next hour playing cards with her, flirting ever so lightly for she was skittish as a newborn colt. But his frustration steadily increased. Despite his best efforts, she remained immune to his charm.

Elaine wondered what game he was playing. After their earlier confrontation, this overt friendliness was unbelievable. Had he merely been caught by surprise that first time? Perhaps reflection had cooled his temper.

Or perhaps not. She frowned at the cards. Despite their rare meetings in town, she had formed several vivid impressions of her betrothed. Except with his mother, who dominated everyone, he was not a man one could cross with impunity. And that was hardly a characteristic he would have abandoned in the interim. His comment about her hiding on his own estate hinted that he had searched for her. He must have decided to avenge himself by seducing her. Or perhaps he was merely setting her up as his flirt of the moment.

Either way, she must see that he failed.

She defeated Bridgeport easily, leading by two hundred points after an hour's play and winning a handsome imaginary fortune. But there was little pleasure in the feat. His mind had not been on the cards. Silently sighing in relief, she accepted Sir Jeremiah's request to join a table of loo.

The baronet was a gentle man whose clothes always hung loosely on a skeletal frame and whose thinning hair and bulbous blue eyes made him look like a walking caricature. Now in his late thirties, he had been tentatively courting Elaine for the last three years. Or perhaps he was intensifying his friendship—she could never quite decide which.

Bridgeport joined Mrs. Sutton, Mr. Jessup, and Mrs. Hedges for a game of whist. He had not intended to socialize during this visit, but his plans for Miss Thompson demanded it. He could hardly win her affection if he never saw her. And now that Mrs. Hedges had thrown down a gauntlet, he had no choice. Any withdrawal would be interpreted as an admission of guilt. He grimaced as his partner trumped his ace. It had been long since he had encountered such wretched card players.

“That Kember boy is dangling after the apothecary's daughter again,” announced Mrs. Hedges, triumphantly sweeping up two tricks in a row. She had not mentioned his supposed sins since dinner, and he could only pray she would avoid the topic for the remainder of the evening.

“Now, Mildred, you know there is nothing wrong with Jimmy Kember,” snorted Mrs. Sutton. “His father is a respectable innkeeper. Your only complaint is that ancient yarn about Jimmy stealing peaches from your prize tree."

“Nonsense. The lad's father is a smuggler if I ever saw one."

“I doubt it,” murmured Mr. Jessup. “Not that it would matter much if he were."

“I hear Mr. Graves has taken a turn for the worse,” stated Mrs. Sutton firmly, determined to turn the conversation lest the gossip work her way from one crime to another and set upon Bridgeport again.

“He'll be gone within the week,” agreed Mrs. Hedges. “And just as well. We need a new sexton. The work is too difficult for one so old. He nearly killed himself digging poor Mr. Beringer's grave, rest his soul."

“The artist?” asked Bridgeport in surprise.

“I wouldn't exactly call him an artist,” sniffed Mrs. Sutton. “He drew pictures for books and made some prints that he claimed sold well in London, but I never thought much of his portraits. Why the one he painted of Lady Penstoke made her look positively jaundiced."

“She does,” Mrs. Hedges reminded her. “Never saw anyone so yellow—except Luke Pilcher, but he was far too fond of wine."

“But a good artist makes sure his subject looks presentable,” insisted the squire's wife.

“Even when she don't?” scoffed Mr. Jessup. “I agree that a little touching up is good—deleting temporary blemishes, for example. But how can one perpetrate a fraud upon posterity by being portrayed as something one is not?"

“Do you really want your descendants to shudder at your oversized nose?” asked Mrs. Hedges bluntly, apparently switching sides.

Mr. Jessup glared, then deliberately turned to Bridgeport. “Will Tom Bennett recover without incident?"

The earl frowned a moment, trying to recall the name. “Ah, the man who was pitched over the cliff last night. Yes, it was a clean break and should heal well enough."

“I heard the accident took place on the Manor grounds,” dared Mrs. Sutton.

“Indeed. I am having the groundskeeper check that path for other signs of erosion lest my daughter be the next to suffer."

“I suppose you will have the fellow transported for poaching,” suggested Mrs. Hedges hopefully.

“Not at all.” Bridgeport stared at the woman until she shut her mouth. “He wasn't actually on the grounds. That path has been a public thoroughfare for time out of mind, as I am sure you know.” His eyes were cold enough that Mrs. Hedges blinked, prudently deciding not to provoke him further.

What an unpleasant witch! Even if there was evidence of poaching—which there was not—he could hardly accuse the man. There had been no one in residence for fifty years. No one had even visited for at least twenty. How could he blame a poor farmer for supplementing his inadequate income? Prices had risen explosively since Napoleon's aggression had destroyed the import/export business with Europe, and it was generally the poor who suffered the worst.

Before the party broke up, the earl managed to speak with Miss Becklin about Helen. She refused to move into the Manor, but agreed to provide instruction in her own cottage for four hours each morning. He promised to personally deliver his daughter the next day. It wasn't as much help as he had hoped for, but at least it would give him a little time for estate business and solitude.

Chapter Seven

Elaine remained in her room until after Lady Helen arrived for her first day of lessons, not wanting to distract the girl. At least that was what she told Anne. The real reason was to avoid Lord Bridgeport. If he was trying to seduce her, then she wanted nothing to do with him. Was it to further his schemes that he personally escorted Helen for lessons? With the servant situation at the Manor, Elaine could not be sure, but she settled for prudence.

Once Helen and Anne were ensconced in the parlor, Elaine collected her sketchbook and wandered along the cliff path. Today she was looking for birds. There was a considerable colony of sea birds nesting in the cliffs just beyond Lookout Peak, and many others lived on the moor. It should be easy to find the inspiration she sought. Thornton's verses danced through her mind as she walked, stimulating pictures she would try to capture with pen and ink.

Intent on the job at hand, she had not intended to take the side trail up the hill, but her feet had other ideas. It was another beautiful spring day, the fourth in a row. But beyond that, she needed time alone—to think, to absorb the shocks of recent days, and above all, to rest. Memories of the appalling confrontation at the squire's dinner party had kept her awake much of the night. Mrs. Hedges had always been an inquisitive harpy who reveled in judging others, but never before had the lady lost her own control so badly. Elaine could only assume that it was Bridgeport's title that raised the gossip's hackles, but whether Mrs. Hedges despised the aristocracy or envied it, Elaine could not say.

Her feet abruptly stopped as she rounded the last outcropping of rock. The Earl of Bridgeport sat on her favorite boulder, apparently engrossed in a book. Before she could gather her wits to retreat down the hill, he turned, an odd wariness creeping into his eyes when he identified her. One hand dropped protectively over the page as if to guard the contents from contamination.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said politely. “Forgive me for intruding.” She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“Stay a while, Miss Thompson. `Tis a beautiful day. Keeping me company is surely a small price to pay for trespassing."

She blinked, though in no other way did she betray her chagrin. “The hill is Treselyan property, of course, though the cliff path is, as you know, a public right of way. But aside from the grounds themselves, I fear no one considers ownership. The house has stood empty for decades. Forgive me."

“Of course. I can see why you might enjoy the view from here, though it is bleak enough. The moor can be quite daunting, all tenantless, save to the crannying wind."

“Byron's Childe Harold,” she commented, identifying the volume in his hands. Perhaps his earlier gesture was meant to protect his reputation. Reading poetry—however modish the poet—did not mesh with his image.

“You know it?” he asked in astonishment. “It was published barely a month ago."

“Sir Jeremiah brought us a copy when he returned from Exeter last week."

“That carplike bag of bones who was making sheep's eyes at you last night?"

“You insult us all with your London arrogance,” she snapped. “Shallow minds betray themselves by judging what they do not understand. And you are also wrong about the moor. It is crawling with tenants, as is the sea.” She gestured to a flock of gulls whirling just off the cliffs.

“Birds and beasts there may be in abundance, but they can hardly compare to people,” he said, gesturing to a nearby rock. She paused, then shrugged and took a seat, dropping her bag by her side.

“True,” she agreed. “Animals can offer hours of enjoyment in the watching, and they do not interfere in people's affairs. One need never fear ridicule or repudiation, and animals never force their children or their friends into untenable lives.” Her voice had taken on a bitter note that surprised her as much as the words. Never had she uttered such sentiments, and she should certainly not have done so to Bridgeport. He was one of the tyrants who had threatened her own contentment. And still did.

Bridgeport was clearly startled, but he chose to ignore the pain she had revealed. “Why do the gulls circle the same spot? Are they playing in the wind?"

“It is possible, but as so many of them are dropping below the cliffs, I suspect there is a carcass bobbing in the surf that they wish to feed on. They are scavengers, you know."

The earl's eyes widened. “Carcass?"

Elaine laughed. “Probably a seal or school of fish. Or even a sheep. There have been no deaths recently enough to suspect a man."

“You sound as if that were common."

“You are a stranger to this area, Lord Bridgeport. Death at sea is an accepted risk in coastal villages. Survival depends on fishing, and accidents are common. It is not unknown to find victims washed ashore. Life is hard for all but the privileged few."

“Life offers difficulties for everyone. They merely vary in detail. Nature is not the only scourge of mankind. Man himself can be far more virulent—deceitful words of false-made friends."

“Thornton. But one must expect envy, jealousy, and toadying in your circle."

“You know his works?” he asked in surprise.

“Of course. Anne has an impressive library, as do several of our friends. London is not the only place where culture and learning exist. She has broadened my horizons in ways I never envisioned. I owe her much for that alone."

“You are a bluestocking?” His eyes narrowed.

“I suppose society would feel obligated to attach that very prejudicial label to me, but I enjoy learning about the world in which I live. Curiosity is one of the permanent and certain characteristics of a vigorous mind."

“Samuel Johnson—not that he was referring to females. I am surprised that his writings have made it to this wild and windswept wilderness."

“The typical London view—arrogant and insular. There is more to life than society shallowness and rakish pleasures."

“You intrigue me. Most women have no character at all."

“Pope. But he also noted that all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. Perhaps you have limited your acquaintance to the wrong sorts of women."

Bridgeport laughed. “Perhaps, but I have no intention of discussing my friends with you."

“Most improper,” she agreed, and he laughed even harder.

“Why did I never discover your intelligence earlier?” he asked, almost to himself. “Of course, in town you adhered quite strongly to the image of a shy young lady."

“Not at all, my lord,” she replied, frowning at the disturbing memories his words raised. “I neither adopted attitudes different from my own, nor did I conform to what was expected. It was the most unpleasant experience of my life, and I can only agree with Shelley that Hell is a city much like London, though he objects only to the press of humanity and eternal smoky grime."

Mark sat silent for several minutes, trying to reconcile his memories of Mary Thompson to the needle-witted, confident—and pretty—woman sitting before him. How had she changed so drastically? And why had he never suspected that she could? Even at five-and-twenty he had acquired a well-deserved reputation for judging others to the inch. He finally succumbed to a pressing desire to learn what had happened all those years ago. Was it actually London she had rejected rather than himself? “Is that why you jilted me?” he asked softly.

She shrugged. “Not really. I despised the life you offered, but the alternative would have been worse, so I had no choice but to go along with it. Until that last day. I discovered a third option that was more attractive than either."

“Why did you accept me if you disliked my offer?” he demanded incredulously.

“I didn't.” Seeing his eyes widen, she continued. “I spent five years in the care of an aunt whose teachings mirrored my father's—absolute obedience to anyone in authority, and at least four hours a day spent in prayer and atonement for my sins.” She ignored his gasp of horror. “I arrived home on my seventeenth birthday, to be informed that Father had arranged a marriage to you. There was no discussion. I left for town two days later. London was a nightmare."

“What?” He stared in shock. Her words contradicted his memories. His mother had arranged the match, of course. In the letter that accepted Mark's formal proposal, Grimfield had stated that his daughter was honored by his magnanimity and had dedicated herself to upholding the dignity of her position and to carrying out her responsibilities with enthusiasm. That missive had been dated fully three months before Miss Thompson arrived in town.

She had misinterpreted his surprise. “Think, my lord. How could I possibly enjoy town? I was snubbed or ridiculed wherever I went. Only your mother's consequence prevented direct cuts. But I could hardly blame them. My father never wasted a groat. With a betrothal in hand, he saw no reason to throw money in my direction. I was cursed with a ghastly wardrobe and had nothing in common with anyone I met, not even the training in manners and deportment that is expected of even the lowliest females. When I learned that I would remain permanently in the country, I relaxed, assuming all would be well."

“Then why did you leave?” His anger burned brighter than ever.

“It rapidly became clear that I would be living with your parents. Your mother left no doubt about who would rule both the house and the nurseries. I was nought but a brood mare whose role would be reduced to that of her slave once the succession was assured. Still, it was a better future than I would have faced at home."

“Which was?"

“A lifetime of incarceration on bread and water, my lord,” she stated calmly.

“You exaggerate."

“You must not know my father. Disobedience is a sin. Sins must be punished. Repudiating a betrothal would leave me unmarriageable, demanding a lifelong punishment as I would be on his hands that long."

“You would not have spent a day under my mother's roof,” he told her coldly. “I would have taken you to Westron Manor in Yorkshire."

“Oh?” She shrugged. “You never mentioned such a possibility, of course. And your mother claimed you had no resources."

“She didn't know."

“It doesn't matter, my lord. I've a more fulfilling life now than I would ever have achieved as your wife."

“Retiring to this desolate spot?” he choked out, insulted. “Even if true, you could have at least shown me the courtesy of telling me that you were leaving."

“I had no choice. Anne wrote to say that she had inherited a competence that would allow her to lease a small cottage in the country. She expressed a wish to see me again and mentioned that she was suffering from a debilitating bout of influenza. I left immediately."

“Leaving me standing at the altar. You could have at least sent round a note.” His anger was unmistakable.

Elaine straightened in shock. “I had no idea! I mean, I had heard that expression, but I never thought for a moment that it was literal. Surely my father informed you when he found me gone in the morning!"

“Oh, I was informed, all right—at quarter past eleven.” Her gasp intensified his glare. “And you know very well where I was by then—standing in front of five hundred witnesses. I assume the note was from your father, though there was no signature. It contained exactly three scrawled words—Mary has bolted."

“Dear God! I must certainly apologize—belatedly, I admit—for the embarrassment that caused. I had not dared leave word for fear he would find out."

“I would not have told him.” He again sounded affronted.

Elaine lost her temper. “How was I to know that, my lord? Everything I knew about you came from popular report or your mother's claims. You know very well that you spent as little time with me as possible. Did we exchange a single comment beyond agreement on the state of the weather or the extent of the current crush? Your image was that of a rake, a gamester, and a weakling who was firmly under your mother's thumb. Yet you have the nerve to berate me for not trusting my future to your hands!"

He turned his head to gaze pensively over the moor, leaving his face in profile. Silence descended, broken only by the cry of gulls. She was near enough to see that he had changed since London. Fine lines clustered around the corners of his eyes, noticeable now that he was deep in thought. His clothes displayed a more casual look than during their betrothal—unless he was dressing down for the country.

“I see,” he said at last, turning back to face her and catching her staring.

“It never occurred to me that Father would leave it so late,” she continued in a more subdued voice. “I had expected him to haul me out for morning prayers by six. My only prayer that day was that I would be far enough away to be safe. Once I had successfully escaped, I knew he would never follow."

“I don't see why."

“He is a misogynist, my lord. As is my brother—did you never wonder why he could not be bothered to attend the wedding of his only sister? Hating all women, their sole concern was to be rid of me. Once I successfully escaped the house, Papa would have no reason to follow. And I refuse to believe that you are truly angry over my decision, for you must agree that we would never have suited."

“I knew that even before offering for you. But as I would not have laid eyes on you again once you produced an heir, it did not matter."

She raised her brows. “Like Helen? We certainly would not have suited, my lord. I am not the meek, biddable miss you took me for."

“True. Your father badly misled me on that score. He claimed you were enthusiastic and would perform all duties willingly and with dignity."

“And you believed him? Anyone who buys a pig in a poke forfeits all right to complain about the merchandise,” she scolded him. “But to be honest, he knew nothing of me either. From the day of my birth, he had demanded absolute obedience and silence unless spoken to. I was allowed neither education nor the freedom to make even the simplest decision. While ignorance might have made me seem conformable, if you had left me to my own devices, that would certainly have changed."

“That is the second time you have mentioned an inferior education, Miss Thompson. How did that happen?"

“I have already described my father. My mother made no attempt to counter his will, having learned the consequences early on. She was my sole companion and teacher until her death just after I turned eleven."

“Besides the servants, of course,” he murmured.

“What servants? All females are servants, so we were expected to see after our own needs as well as care for the house. My education consisted of selected Biblical readings and exhortations on duty and obedience. When Mama died, Father was forced to hire a governess. Miss Becklin was the daughter of a very moral clergyman who should have understood a woman's place in a Christian household. But Anne proved to be a shocking disappointment. In fact, her lessons were so vile and her example so sinful, that she was turned off without a reference. I was thankful she inherited when she did, for the only position she could find after that was very bad."

“Turned off? My God, what did she do?"

“She encouraged me to think for myself and to ask questions—a most inappropriate activity for a mere female. She allowed me to pray while comfortably seated in a warm room. She permitted me to fritter away a whole hour each day on art, music, and embroidery. But what got her the sack was forcing me to read that lewd and ungodly work, A Midsummer Night's Dream."

“You jest!"

“Not in the least. Having lost all faith in unknown governesses, however strong their recommendations, he sent me to his sister. After that I saw him briefly once a year when he came to make sure that I was comporting myself properly. Since she shared his ideas to the letter—including his disdain of all females—he was always satisfied."

“Are you saying that she taught you nothing a young lady of society should know?"

“Of course. Why should she encourage moral turpitude? You must know what a Godless place London is. One cannot go anywhere without being subjected to vulgar behavior or tempted into such sinful acts as gaming and dancing, to say nothing of those dens of iniquity, the theaters. And of course, all of society flaunts itself shamelessly before the world. The posing and strutting in Hyde Park is but the tip of the iceberg. Think of the scandalous way women expose their bodies! Jezebel cannot begin to compare."

Bridgeport was choking with laughter, raising an answering glimmer in Elaine's eyes.

She continued. “Father solemnly decried the heavy burdens suffered by good Christians in these decadent times—this was in our one interview on my seventeenth birthday; it was the only time we ever met that he was not censuring my behavior. It seems that having raised me so properly, he was left with the nearly insurmountable problem of finding me a husband. Not all gentlemen have seen the light of true redemption, you must agree. Poor Papa. He grudgingly accepted the existence of women only because he had found no other way to obey God's command to multiply. But that marginal tolerance for his wife did not extend to a useless daughter. He wanted me off his hands as soon as possible, but was unwilling to spend a groat to do so. When your mother made her interest known, he jumped at the chance."

“Why did you never mention this before?"

“You haven't been listening, my lord. Given the reality of eight years ago, you are the last person I would have told. You were a bad-tempered stranger with no more interest in me than my father had, and I had been taught to remain silent when in the presence of men to acknowledge their supposedly superior status, speaking only in response to a direct question. I had not yet learned that Grimfield's view of the world was far from universal—in fact, it was downright idiotic. But enough of ancient history. I am sorry to have disturbed your peace this morning. If you will excuse me, I must be going."

“You mean to stay locked away in this wild corner of the land for the rest of your life then? You will never find a husband here."

“Ah, men. So single-minded and so determined to assume that all women are alike. Not that it is any of your business, but I like it here. Shakespeare's Polonius was wise. To thine own self be true. I have no intention of ever wedding. After living seventeen years enslaved to a man's whims, the freedom of the last eight is too precious to cast aside."

“Freedom?” he asked skeptically.

“Freedom from tyranny. When a person achieves control over another for whom he cares nothing, he is apt to become a tyrant. That is particularly true when the one in charge is selfish and believes himself to be infallible. He makes decisions and issues commands without considering the best interests of his subject. Never will I place myself in that position again."

“But how can you call it freedom when it forces you to retire to so desolate a place?"

“Not everyone considers Cornwall an example of purgatory, my lord. Perhaps I will someday decide to visit other parts of the country. Or perhaps I will never tire of this corner. Let us simply leave it that I am happy.” She shouldered her bag and set off down the trail without another word.

Mark watched her go, greatly troubled by what she had revealed. He had nurtured his hatred long after the debacle of that day had fallen victim to newer scandals on the lips of the gossips. Now he wondered which of them was the greater victim.

Yet her words were too blithe. She could easily have informed him of her decision. Any street urchin would have delivered a note, as would the hackney driver who had carried her to whichever coaching inn she had used. Despite her upbringing, she should have known that no honorable gentleman would have forced her to marry under the circumstances she had just described. Understanding honor was bred into every member of society. Youthful naďveté was an insufficient explanation. She deserved to suffer for what she had put him through.

Sighing, he turned toward home. Burgess could collect Helen. He would not risk running into Miss Thompson again this day. He needed to settle his emotions if he were to successfully carry off his plans.

Nothing had changed. Despite her pronouncements of happiness and willing spinsterhood, she would fall in love with him. And Helen's lessons would provide an excellent excuse to see the annoying wench often.

A loud crack exploded through the air. Leaves showered his head and shoulders, accompanied by twigs and chunks of bark. Jumping hastily aside, he looked up. A branch had broken loose from an ancient oak, its tip catching in a lower limb as it fell. As he watched, it tore free and crashed onto the path where he had been standing moments before.

Lady Luck still favored him. If it had not caught, he would be badly injured—or worse.

He shivered. Treselyan had many problems. Laxity on the part of the groundskeeper was one of them. The fallen branch was well-rotted and others showed long-standing damage. Frowning, he turned his steps toward the steward's office.

Chapter Eight

Anne was frowning when she returned from the village baker's. “Mrs. Hedges just told me the most fantastic story,” she reported, joining Elaine in the parlor. “She was in Bodmin yesterday."

“What now?"

“Bridgeport not only left town to escape arrest for murder, but also to evade his creditors, having gamed away his entire fortune in the course of his dissolute life."

Some memory again teased the back of Elaine's mind. “So in addition to killing several people, including his own parents, and conducting at least one duel, he is now thought to be badly indebted. These stories must be exaggerations if not outright fabrications. He claimed at the squire's that someone was deliberately attacking his reputation.” She tried to bring that elusive memory into focus, but it stubbornly refused to cooperate.

“True. It is difficult to reconcile indebtedness with the enormous expense of replacing the roof at Lady Helen's home. Westron is not even his principal seat. I wonder where the tale started. There has been no mention of it in the London papers."

“Nor has anyone returned from London recently. I suppose Lady Graceford might have heard some hint. She carries out a prodigious correspondence.” The dowager viscountess lived in state just outside of Bodmin and was often the source of scandalous stories. One of her life-long friends was Lady Beatrice, London's premier gossip.

Anne shook her head. “I hope it proves false. I quite like Helen."

Elaine agreed. They chatted for some time on the doings of the villagers before she excused herself to do some sketching. There were only two poems left that she planned to illustrate.

* * * *

Bridgeport glared at the missive in his hand. It was a hurried note from Lord Carrington warning him that several people had decided to keep him company.

“Damnation!” he snorted in disgust. Not that he disliked socializing. It was one of the reasons he lived in London. But he was enjoying the peace of Cornwall, and none of his imminent visitors was particularly congenial.

He read the note again. Richard had been hard pressed to recall how the idea for the party had arisen, but he had decided to join them because he knew that Mark would need help and would appreciate at least one friendly face.

Scanning the names, Mark agreed. He could picture exactly what had happened.

Lord and Lady Means. In addition to the lady's continuing efforts to lure him back to her bed, her husband was nearly run off his legs and probably needed to rusticate for a time. Leaving town during the very costly Season would reduce his expenditures. Living off someone else's generosity would be even better. Descending on Mark was probably Lady Means's idea, tossed out at some dull rout or during the fashionable hour in Hyde Park.

Mrs. Caroline Woodleigh would have welcomed the trip. He should have formally broken with her before leaving town, but he had not, naďvely hoping she would turn elsewhere in his absence. Stupid! He should know better by now. The only people who willingly cut connections with him were fiancées and cuckolded husbands.

Mr. Peter Hardwicke was a surprise. He might also be rusticating, especially if he had continued haunting the tables. But journeying all the way to Treselyan made such innocuous intentions suspect.

Mark had not forgotten that day at White's. Nor could he ignore memory of the next morning. Hardwicke had arrived to settle his bets, ashen faced and still suffering the effects of several bottles of brandy. Mark would have liked to accept only half of the debt, but there was no way to suggest such a thing without insulting Hardwicke's honor. Peter had paid in full, though it stripped him of every shilling he had recently inherited from a nabob uncle, leaving him nothing but the allowance he received as his father's heir. Mark had allowed him to rant about the game and even hint at unscrupulous play, only making a single mild disclaimer in the face of words that normally would provoke a duel. Now he wondered if that was what Hardwicke had wanted. Why was he coming?

The others on the guest list were hangers-on—Caroline's companion, Miss Westmont; Lady Means's niece, Miss Throckmorton, who had lived with her aunt since the death of her parents; and Richard's very green cousin, Reggie Taylor. Leaving the cub behind without supervision was bound to lead to trouble.

“Devil take it,” Mark growled, scanning the list again. The numbers were uneven. And how was he to cope with a house party when he had virtually no servants? It was too late to bring in more from London, or even from Exeter. Could he find anyone in Bodmin who would accept this isolated posting on a temporary basis? Bowles had reported no luck.

After another burst of invective, he went to find Burgess.

* * * *

Elaine wiped the frown from her face, replacing it with a neutral expression as she exited Mr. Holyoke's office.

“A gentleman was inquiring about Mr. Merriweather this morning,” he had informed her once their business was concluded. “He is traveling with Mr. Thornton, who is visiting the area and hopes to meet his illustrator."

“What?"

“Not to worry, Miss Thompson. I informed him that Mr. Merriweather was away. But I thought you should know that Thornton is somewhere in the neighborhood. Unfortunately, his friend did not mention where."

“It would not matter. Even if I met him socially, there would be no threat to my identity."

But she was curious and more than a little nervous as she left the office. It was natural for Thornton to wish to meet her, particularly if he was in the area already. She would very much like to meet the poet herself. Where might he be staying?

But she dared not ask, for no hint of his presence had come to her ears.

And that was decidedly odd, now that she thought of it. He was not an unknown. Why was there no rumor that so famous a poet was visiting Cornwall? Mrs. Hedges had not said a word, and she was always the first to know everything. Was it possible that he was traveling incognito?

She puzzled over that question as she headed for the bookshop to pick up the drawing materials that should have arrived by now.

Turning a corner into the town's main street, she gasped. An exquisitely dressed gentleman was crossing the road a block away, looking as out of place in Bodmin as a porpoise would on the moor. He was dressed in a light blue coat and silver pantaloons, his cravat so tall that it elevated his chin until he was nearly staring at the sky. One gloved hand held an elaborate cane as he minced in exaggerated affectation. She recognized him—Mr. Harold Parrish. His estate ran with her father's.

Had Lord Grimfield discovered her whereabouts and asked his young neighbor to verify the information? Despite her claims to Bridgeport, she was not sure that her father would ignore her if he knew where she was. She was legally of age, but his rigid ideas about duty and a woman's place in the world often countered both custom and law.

Elaine ducked into the bookseller's and tried to control her shaking hands. Surely this was coincidence! After eight years even her father should have written her off. And Anne would have heard if any rumor of her location had surfaced at home, wouldn't she? She still corresponded regularly with the cousin who was married to Grimfield's vicar. Mrs. Alden reported all the local gossip, knowing that Anne had met most of the residents. Her letters meant that Elaine knew more about her old neighborhood now than when she had lived there.

So Mr. Parrish's business must have nothing to do with her. But she took no chances, remaining in the shop for half an hour. By then he was nowhere to be seen.

She was exiting the linen draper's when Bridgeport cannonaded out of the employment registry next door, nearly knocking her down.

“Sorry. Good afternoon, Miss Thompson,” he said.

“Of course! He is your cousin,” she murmured in relief, hardly aware that she was talking.

“Well that certainly puts me in my place,” he snorted dampingly.

She glanced up in surprise. “Pardon me, my lord. I had not meant to speak aloud. Lovely day, isn't it?"

“One of those heavenly days that cannot die,” he quoted with studied enthusiasm and a pointed glance at the threatening overcast.

“Wordsworth,” she identified instantly.

“Who is my cousin?"

“You don't know?” A new frown formed on her forehead.

“This conversation is ridiculous,” he complained, steering her into a nearby confectioner's shop. “Suppose we begin again. Good afternoon, Miss Thompson."

“Good afternoon, my lord. Fancy running into you in Bodmin. Has Treselyan already grown so dull that you must seek the society of the largest town in all of Cornwall?"

“You tread upon my patience."

“Shakespeare, Henry IV. Forgive me, Lord Bridgeport. My mind seems to be unsettled today."

He raked her with a comprehensive stare. She did appear unnaturally discomposed. “Bad news, Miss Thompson?"

“Not really. I was just wondering if perhaps I was wrong about my father's lack of interest. Our neighbor was mincing down the street an hour or so ago. Since he appears so out of place here, it occurred to me that he might have agreed to check up on my whereabouts. But then I remembered that he is your cousin, which must explain his presence."

“Harold?” His voice held both surprise and displeasure.

“Exactly."

“I had no idea he was in the area. And I've no particular wish to see him. Can't stand his affectations.” Or the way he was constantly asking for loans.

“Tulip of the ton,” she agreed. “Does he lisp as well?"

“Incessantly."

Elaine laughed.

Mark suddenly straightened. “Of course! You would be perfect."

“How oft the darkest hour of ill breaks brightest into dawn,” she murmured.

“Good God! Euripides.” He looked amazed.

“Sir Jeremiah shares his library with us and often spends an evening discussing books we have all read."

“I had not remarked him as being particularly bookish."

“Why should you? He would hardly launch a discussion of Greek poets or Roman philosophers with a man whose reputation encompasses only sporting and debauchery and who is suspected of committing all manner of crimes. Nor are you prone to airing your own unexpected education from what I have observed, though frankly I have never understood why gentlemen would rather be thought empty headed than knowledgeable."

“Stop!” he pleaded. “You've shredded my character enough for one day."

“How poor are they that have not patience,” she mourned, shaking her head sadly.

“Saucy wench. Shakespeare, Othello, act II, scene 3."

“Show-off!"

“Quit sidetracking,” he begged. “You may be able to help me with a small problem. I just received word that a group of so-called friends will shortly descend upon me for a stay of undetermined length. I have been trying to find enough servants to handle a house party—and having abominable luck. But that is not what I wanted your assistance with,” he quickly added when she frowned. “Not only are these people uninvited, but the group contains equal numbers of men and women. With only myself in residence, the party will be uneven. Perhaps you could join us."

“Not a very flattering offer,” she said with a grimace.

“I did not intend to insult you, Miss Thompson,” he disclaimed immediately. “This has overset all my plans, you must understand. I have no experience organizing house parties. Nor does Mrs. Burgess. I desperately need someone to act as hostess."

“And how would I have learned to run a society gathering?” she scoffed. “You would be better off inviting Mrs. Hedges."

“Good God! How can you even suggest such a thing with a straight face?"

Elaine laughed. “At least she would jump at the opportunity. It would allow her to verify all the rumors. And I think she would enjoy rubbing elbows with so scandalous a set, for all she deplores your morals."

“You cannot be seriously suggesting I invite her!” His face was taking on a greenish tinge. “Please, Miss Thompson. Help me out. I quite look forward to seeing your exquisite beauty arrayed at the foot of my dining table or posed behind a tea tray in my drawing room. The house will seem warmer if you will only bless it with your presence. It will quite break my heart to be turned down."

“Considering that this plan occurred to you less than five minutes ago, I find that rather hard to believe. You are doing this much too brown. Praise, like gold and diamonds, owes its value only to its scarcity."

“Samuel Johnson. Perhaps I am tipping the butter boat a bit too far. But I would very much like you to join this party."

“I cannot consider it unless Anne comes, too. But that would merely throw the numbers off in the other direction."

“You are adamant about that?"

“Absolutely. Given your reputation and that of your associates when I was in London, I can hardly trust my own to a party of strangers who feel close enough to you to drop in uninvited,” she stated.

Bridgeport frowned. He could probably invite Sir Jeremiah. With this new information concerning that gentleman's character, it might be interesting. On the other hand, the baronet had shown a partiality for Miss Thompson that Mark did not want to encourage. It would interfere with his own plans for his former intended.

“Perhaps I should invite Harold,” he mused aloud. “The group is already so odd that his presence cannot possibly make it worse.” He bit his tongue, wondering why he had mentioned that. Disparaging his guests before he had Elaine's agreement would not convince her to help him. His address was usually far better.

“If they are such a trial, why not send them on their way and be done with it?” she asked.

“After they have braved the journey all the way to Cornwall just to see me?"

“You sound flattered."

Sarcastic was closer to the truth. “It is more a case of manners. I won't encourage them to stay very long, though, so you needn't worry on that score. Will you help?"

She sighed. “I suppose so, though only if you cease this ridiculous flirtation."

“What are you talking about?"

“Do not insult my intelligence. Your sudden warmth can only be ascribed to a masculine plot of reprisal. But you overstep your authority by doing so—vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. However high your title, you are not God. If I am going to help you with this little problem, I expect you to behave yourself. This is wasted effort anyway, for I will not succumb to your wiles. Now who is coming? And why would anyone travel this far if you are not close friends?"

“Lord and Lady Means are probably outrunning creditors. I expect several others joined them on a lark. Carrington came along to lend me moral support. He really is a friend, you might recall."

“Vaguely. I doubt I met him more than twice. When will they arrive?"

“I am not sure, though I expect it will be within the next couple of days."

“Anne and I had best move in immediately, then. Mrs. Burgess must be overwhelmed with work. But we cannot spend all our time with your guests. Anne will continue working with Helen, and I will not give up my usual activities."

“I doubt any of these folk will be up much before noon."

“I will not act as your official hostess,” she continued. “I will preside at meals if you insist, but anything more will be detrimental to my reputation."

“Very well.” His forehead was creased in a frown, but her tone had left no room for argument.

“How bad is the servant situation?"

“Improving, but it will not be pleasant. I found a housemaid and a kitchen-maid today, but there is no hope for more. Aside from the Burgesses, there are only two footmen. Perhaps that will encourage them all to leave soon."

“Since both Anne and I will be at the Manor, I can offer Lucy's services for the duration. She can do most anything."

“Thank you, Miss Thompson. I will be eternally in your debt."

“Coming it too brown, my lord. Again.” She noted a cart approaching along the road and jumped. “I must go. Mr. Jessup looks to have concluded his business."

“Did you ride into town with him?"

“Yes."

“You are welcome to return with me. I am driving a curricle and have a groom, so there would be no impropriety."

She hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Thank you, my lord.” After a brief word with Mr. Jessup, she returned.

They discussed what preparations needed to be made and considered possible entertainments for such a disparate group. It was a congenial meeting, Elaine admitted silently. He had even dropped his flirtation, though she did not seriously believe that he had abandoned his plans. He was too arrogant to concede the game to a mere female. This was but a short interlude while he developed a new strategy. By moving her into the house, he would have additional opportunities to pursue her.

A nagging voice wondered if perhaps this house party was neither as spontaneous nor as unwanted as he claimed.

Within moments of exiting the shop, they encountered Mr. Parrish. Elaine watched his eyes widen in shock at the sight of them—together.

“Well, Cousin,” drawled Bridgeport. “What brings you to Cornwall?"

“The Season was a dead bore this year,” lisped Harold. “I thought it might be amusing to see a bit of the countryside.” He flicked open a snuffbox and delicately partook of its contents, dusting his fingertips on a lace handkerchief.

“Rusticating, I suppose,” observed Mark goadingly. “But as long as you are in the neighborhood, perhaps you would care to visit Treselyan. A few friends are arriving soon, including one of your most dedicated imitators. You must be ready for fashionable company after several days away from society."

“Imitators?” lisped Harold.

“Mr. Reginald Taylor, budding fop."

“Indeed? It might be amusing. I shall join you tomorrow.” He turned to Elaine in mock surprise. “Fancy meeting you here. And in such unexpected company."

“True, I had not anticipated running into either of you when I came to town today,” she replied calmly. “But life does not always progress as one would like. I thought I had seen the last of you when I left home."

He grimaced. “Just so."

“Until tomorrow, Cousin,” said Bridgeport, piloting Elaine away. He had not liked the tenor of that last exchange.

The two stopped at several shops before finally reaching the inn. Mark's curricle was painted dark green, with the wheels picked out in gold. The seat was of light green leather in a shade Elaine had never before seen—almost the color of willow leaves. Bridgeport's steeds were perfectly matched chestnuts, their coats only one shade brighter than the earl's own hair. He helped her onto the seat, climbed up beside her and ordered his groom to release the horses. But when the man swung onto his perch, an ominous crack filled the air.

“Damnation,” muttered the earl, pulling his team to a halt.

The ostler leaped forward to hold the horses, while Mickey jumped down to examine the curricle.

Mark snubbed the ribbons, a ferocious frown marring his forehead. “You can enjoy a cup of tea while I see what the problem is.” He escorted Elaine inside to a private parlor, waiting only until a servant bustled in with a tray of sandwiches and cakes before excusing himself.

Elaine smiled in amusement. Her parlor overlooked the stable yard, its windows opened to catch the warm spring breeze. If Bridgeport had wished to hurry her away so that she would not hear the details of the incident, he had failed.

“Look `ere at the axle,” Mickey urged as soon as the earl returned to the yard. “Someone done this deliberate-like."

Mark swore luridly enough to raise Elaine's color. “It is sawed half through. But why would anyone want to keep me in town?"

The groom cleared his throat several times before venturing an opinion. “Perhaps `twas meant to cause a accident, milord. With only the two of us, `twould have taken a while to crack. Might not `ave `appened `til we was `alfway `ome. There's a right nasty stretch about there."

“That is even more fantastic,” scoffed Bridgeport. “No one has any cause to wish me injury.” Except Hardwicke, but he was not yet in the area.

“Pardon me, my lord,” said another voice. Elaine glanced out to see the ostler, his hat in his hand and a frown on his face. “Mayhap it weren't meant for you. The fancy gentleman what's been here the last fortnight has a curricle the same color as your own, though nowhere near the quality, as anyone what knows carriages can tell. But he's set up the backs of more than one man hereabouts. None of my lads seen anyone near your rig, my lord, sorry as I am to admit such laxity. But it might have been a prank on the other gentleman."

Speculation continued in the stable yard, but Elaine was no longer listening. Mr. Parrish had been in Bodmin for a fortnight, which was longer than Bridgeport had been at the Manor. But the rumors about Bridgeport had started a fortnight earlier. It could not be a coincidence. Parrish. It was exactly the sort of underhanded campaign he would wage.

Harold Parrish was eight years her senior. They had been only the slightest of acquaintances despite residing on neighboring estates. He had been packed off to school before she left the nursery, and he paid little attention to children when home on holidays.

But she knew many stories about him, both from neighborhood gossip before she left home and from Anne's cousin. Harold was a dishonorable and vindictive man who lashed out against anyone he considered his enemy, usually in sneaky ways. When Squire Perkins had annoyed him the year Elaine was ten, Parrish had retaliated with a whispering campaign that destroyed the man's reputation. If Harold had not been exposed as the author of the rumors, Perkins might never have recovered. As it was, there were still folk who believed there must have been some foundation for the tales. Where there is smoke, there must be fire—the credo of the gossip. If Bridgeport had annoyed his cousin, that could explain the rumors that had flown round the area since Harold's arrival.

Bridgeport returned to the parlor. “The curricle cannot be repaired before tomorrow,” he announced. “But the inn has a gig we can use to return home. Will that be acceptable? It cannot accommodate Mickey, but he must remain here to supervise the repairs anyway."

“I trust you will behave yourself,” he stated.

“My word of honor."

“Good.” She waited until they had cleared Bodmin—and Bridgeport had gotten over his pique at having to drive so plodding a creature as the inn's horse—before saying anything of her suspicions. “You are aware of the rumors that have been circulating about you."

“Of course. The subject arose at the squire's dinner, as you must recall."

“Had you heard the newest ones?"

“What?"

“You have squandered every penny you inherited, thus making it impossible to pay your bills."

“No wonder that employment office demanded a quarter's wages in advance,” he murmured to himself before responding to her. “Do you believe them?"

“I find it hard to imagine you wasting money on a new roof at Westron if you are that badly dipped, my lord."

“Thank you for that."

“What have you done to annoy your cousin?"

His hands jerked on the ribbons, making the horse jib. “What?"

“I do not know Mr. Parrish well, but I know a lot about him,” she stated. “He has used spurious stories in the past to retaliate against those he dislikes. His arrival coincides with the first of the rumors. Since you did not show up until later, without even warning Burgess that you were coming, I can't help but connect the two."

Bridgeport frowned. “I cannot imagine what grievance he might harbor. We seldom see each other, for we move in different circles. In fact, we have never been close, even attending different schools. Our respective mothers were mortal enemies, so his family rarely visited and mine never went there. Our fathers were twins and rued the schism, but both were incapable of overruling their wives. Are you sure Harold is behind these rumors?"

“No, but it's his style.” She told him about Squire Perkins. “That thought has been nibbling at my mind for days, though I could not call it into focus until I saw Mr. Parrish in Bodmin."

“I wonder what he blames me for. Many of these same rumors were titillating London just before I left."

“Is that what prompted this unexpected visit?” she dared.

“In part. I was not responsible for Wainright's death, as his doctor was quick to point out. But it seemed reasonable to absent myself until society uncovers some new scandal. It shouldn't take long. The truth is too obvious."

“Along with the tale of your sudden impoverishment is the claim that you killed Wainright so that you could wed his very wealthy wife."

“Absurd,” he snapped before breaking into laughter. “Dear Lord! The story in town is that I stripped him of his fortune—by cheating, of course."

“I am amazed that you admit such a charge. I always understood that cheating was considered to be even more dastardly than murder."

“True, but it is so ridiculous as to be funny."

“Your cousin was never very bright. He is cunning, however; enough to tailor the scandal to the audience's sensibilities—cheating in town; reneging on tradesmen's bills in the country. But he has ignored the fact that many people have access to both worlds. Are you sure you have given him no cause for displeasure?"

“Not enough to trigger this kind of retaliation. I turned down a request to invest in a canal venture being proposed by some of his cronies, but that was after the rumors started and was the first time I had seen him in several months."

Elaine remained silent for some minutes. “Perhaps it is not a good idea to include him in this party."

“Why? There will not be a soul there who hasn't heard the stories."

“I cannot explain it, but I do not believe he will stop at rumors. By your own admission this house party is already burdened with odd characters. He is manipulative and delights in inciting trouble."

“It is too late to change anything.” He shrugged. “But there is nothing to bother about. Harold is an annoyance, but no more.” With that, he deliberately turned the conversation away from his cousin. He did not wish to discuss Harold until he had had the time to consider this very peculiar situation.

Elaine made no attempt to resume the topic. Bridgeport knew his cousin better than she did. His unwillingness to discuss the subject was typical male arrogance. She was only a female, after all, and no more than a mild acquaintance at that. It was surprising that he condescended to match wits with her in the quotation game they had been playing. She really ought to cease that particular activity. It was far more seductive than his flirting.

Chapter Nine

Elaine escaped the Manor into the relative calm of the Treselyan rose arbor. The day had been hectic, not that she minded hard work. But she could not understand herself. Why had she agreed to be a part of this farce?

She was an intelligent, educated woman lauded by many for her common sense. Yet she had agreed—with hardly a protest—to move into the house of a man who was openly trying to seduce her, and to entertain a group of London ladies and gentlemen no different from those who had made her life miserable in the past. The house party could only cause pain, so why had she accepted the invitation? Surely it wasn't because the exalted Earl of Bridgeport vowed he needed her!

All the anguish of her brief sojourn in London returned with new and frightening understanding. She had been an outsider that Season, a child sneaking downstairs to glimpse the glittering world of adults and saddened to discover that even growing up would not provide entry and acceptance. She had found much that shocked her in the ton, especially among Bridgeport's very fast acquaintances, but her strongest emotion had been a yearning to belong—not admitted at the time, of course, because wanting to sin was a sin in itself.

Was that why she had agreed to join this party? Did the certainty of snubs and set-downs fade beside the prospect of again touching the glittering world of London?

She shivered. Never! She was no longer that abject creature who had cowered through a month of engagements, though some similarities remained. Her wardrobe was still unfashionable, her hair plain, her social graces limited. On the positive side, she had the confidence to ignore spite.

The big question mark was Lord Bridgeport. He had ceased all overt flirtation in Bodmin and had treated her as a casual friend ever since. But she refused to believe that he had abandoned his plans. Would he resume his campaign? Or would his London friends draw him back into his usual habits? That was what she hoped for—the opportunity to fade into the background and become invisible to him, as had been the case in town.

A more serious problem was Mr. Parrish. He had arrived barely an hour before, but it was already obvious that he was bent on fostering strife.

“Decided to swallow your pride, cousin?” he had lisped scornfully, staring at Elaine, who was unquestionably disheveled after a day spent helping Mrs. Burgess turn out nine bedchambers.

“Odd way to describe your presence,” countered Bridgeport, surprising Elaine with his support.

Harold snorted, but his response was drowned out.

“Papa! Papa! Guess what I found!” shouted an excited Helen, arriving at that moment with Anne in tow.

“What?” Mark smiled indulgently at his daughter, squatting to bring his eyes level with hers. Elaine was amazed by both his tolerance and his apparent affection.

She wasn't the only one. Harold gaped.

“There is a tiny horse in the stable that Toby says I may ride. Can I, please? Please?"

“It is a pony, and I bought it in Bodmin yesterday so that I can teach you. But first he is badly in need of a name. Suppose you visit Nana when she wakes and decide on one. We will christen him when we begin lessons tomorrow morning."

“Really?” Her green eyes grew rounder until they seemed to fill her face.

“Yes, really. Now you may have noticed that we have a guest. Are your manners ready?"

She nodded, spotting Harold for the first time.

Mark straightened. “Helen, may I present our cousin, Mr. Parrish? Harold, my daughter, Lady Helen Parrish and our friend, Miss Becklin."

Harold returned the barest nod, staring down his long nose. If so rigid and confined a body was capable of stiffening, his did.

“I don't think I like him,” decided Helen. “He has a secret face, and lavender looks better on ladies."

“Whatever your feelings, it is impolite to say that aloud,” chided Anne softly. “Apologize, and then we will go find Nana."

“I am sorry for being impolite,” Helen stated with a sigh. The words were accompanied by a glare as she turned to head upstairs.

“What is a child and her governess doing using the front door?” demanded Harold haughtily.

“Miss Becklin is not her governess, and I won't have her treated like one,” declared Mark. “She and Miss Thompson are friends who have kindly agreed to help me organize this gathering and entertain Helen until her new governess arrives. Her nurse broke a hip last week."

Elaine had remained silent, though she had wanted to strike Harold's sneering face more than once. It was unconscionable that she had committed Anne to such abuse. If Harold was so critical, the earl's London friends were likely to be worse. Whatever her own obscure motives, she should have at least put off accepting this invitation until she had discussed it with Anne. Bridgeport could dampen direct attacks in company, but nothing he did would prevent those subtle insults that society ladies were so adept at delivering.

Harold had immediately taken to his room to recover from his tedious journey from Bodmin. With luck, he would not reappear until dinner. The other guests were expected the following afternoon according to Carrington's latest note. Mrs. Burgess had the arrangements well in hand. Lucy was busy training the new maid, who had never been in service before. Mark had agreed with one of Elaine's suggestions during that long drive back from Bodmin. With the dearth of anything approaching a proper staff, the guests and their servants must pitch in to help. Anyone unwilling to do so was welcome to leave.

Elaine chuckled at how that edict was likely to be received. Mr. Parrish had not yet learned of it, though it was only a matter of minutes until he did. It was one reason that she had taken advantage of a break in preparations to escape outdoors. Let Bridgeport handle his cousin's fury.

She sighed. Escape might often be necessary in the coming days. At least she was nearly done with Thornton's sketches. She already had a new commission for another children's book.

* * * *

Mark stared out of the library window, shaking his head over Harold's arrival. He and his cousin were not particularly friendly, but never had Harold been openly contemptuous. There had recently been hints that Parrish was in dire financial straits. Harold himself had admitted to being at low tide the day he had brought up that crazy canal scheme. Outrunning the constable might explain his appearance in so odd a place as Cornwall.

Mark turned back to his desk. It was past time that he looked into his cousin's situation. As head of the Parrish family, he had a responsibility to help. Of course, giving money to a profligate would do no good. It would merely encourage him to new excesses. But there might be other possibilities—investing in his estate, arranging a post in the East India Company, or even finding him an heiress.

Restless and unable to concentrate, Mark locked away his papers and wandered out to the grounds. Ten minutes later he spotted Miss Thompson sitting in the rose arbor, engrossed in a book. Her words in Bodmin had raised chagrin at his own clumsiness. She had not only discerned his plans, but understood his motives. Not that he had any intention of changing course. It would be a cold day in hell before any female told him what to do—especially a Bible-quoting female who had already made him a laughing-stock.

Having her in the house would further his designs, for frequent meetings must weaken the fences she erected around her whenever he was near. But he needed a more subtle approach. He had acceded to her request to cease flirting because until the guests arrived, she could back out of their agreement.

Should he continue? Perhaps he should take the more devious route of courting her friendship first, leaving her heart for later. Matching wits was already building an odd rapport between them. The more relaxed she was, the more effort it would take to rebuild her barriers.

“Good afternoon,” he said casually, joining her on the stone bench. “I see you managed to escape for a time. May I extend my apologies for Harold's unspeakably rude greeting?"

“Why? It was certainly not your fault.” She shrugged. “He has always been a bore."

“Really? That does not accord with his reputation in town."

“I know nothing of that, of course. But his reputation around Chesbrough is appalling—not that I have witnessed anything first hand. Save for a few meetings in London, I have not seen him since I left home at age twelve."

“Ah, well. I have no real interest in discussing my cousin today. What were you reading so intently?"

“Mr. Thornton's second book of poetry.” She held it up for his inspection.

“Do you like it?"

“Very much. He speaks to me as no other poet manages to do. Not that I understand why. Perhaps there is some affinity that lurks beneath the words."

“That sounds odd,” he said, wondering if he could use this information in his campaign. But first he would need to discover just what it was that appealed to her.

“I suppose so, and it is difficult to explain. His writing seems multilayered, as if his descriptions of the natural world are allegories for other things—events, institutions, emotions, or sometimes all three. I am not even sure to which level I respond. Are you familiar with his work?"

“Yes.” He stifled a laugh.

“Then perhaps you have also noted that duality. It is interesting that a man who never writes directly of people can convey so much suppressed emotion in such seemingly simple verse. I suspect a great deal of pain in his background. And rage. But beyond that, I sense loneliness. Possibly it is that that speaks so loudly to me. Other poets have used loneliness as a theme or a scene-setting device—I wandered lonely as a cloud, for example—but at most it is but a transient feeling in their personal lives. Thornton, on the other hand, seems to live apart from the world, in it but not of it, if that makes any sense."

“I am not sure it does, actually. But perhaps I am wrong. Are you lonely then?"

“Not in the conventional sense. I lead a busy and fulfilling life and entertain no wish to change, but in the eyes of society, I must be considered an oddity. I have never conformed to the expectations of my own class, first because of a puritanical upbringing and now because I would be considered remarkably blue. But my birth prevents me from ever being fully equal to those of other classes. I am left to inhabit the world of poor relations and gentility, though I do not exactly fit there either."

“It must be awkward,” he replied, abandoning his feigned friendship in a burst of honest sympathy.

“Then I have given you a wrong impression,” she said stoutly, straightening her spine. “I have no regrets about my chosen course. Nor is there any reason to repine. The niche I have carved for myself is both rewarding and congenial."

“I will pretend to believe that,” he said smoothly. “But just as you claim to find hidden truths in Thornton's verse that he himself might not believe, I suspect emotions underlay your words that you are hiding even from yourself."

“You are impertinent, my lord,” she replied coldly. “Perhaps you should return inside and leave me to my reading. Your cousin should have discovered the reduced level of service by now."

Mark laughed. “Ah, hidden motives! So that is why you are enjoying the sunshine. It is to be my lot to face Harold. Very well. I will go, and I will even try to curb his sarcasm."

“Don't bother. Letting him goad you into chastising him will just make him worse. Let him think me a hopeless provincial. His opinions matter not. Nor do those of your other guests who will likewise scoff at me."

“No guest in my home will abuse another,” he swore with a frown, missing her point about Harold.

“As you will."

Bridgeport took his leave, his frown deepening as soon as he was away from the arbor. There was more to Miss Thompson than he had ever suspected. Her insights were frightening and her intelligence constantly amazed him.

His conscience warned that he should abandon his plans lest they turn against him, but another voice yearned to know this enigmatic woman better. A rewarding and congenial life? What could she possibly find to do in this isolated village that would fill her days and feed her spirit? Philosophical discussions with Sir Jeremiah and Miss Becklin could not be the answer.

As expected, Harold was waiting in the library, his face flushed with anger. “What is the meaning of this insult?” he demanded the moment Mark appeared in the doorway, so furious that he forgot to lisp.

“To which insult do you refer?” drawled the earl.

“That impertinent housekeeper had the nerve to inform my valet that if I wished to bathe, he would have to carry the water himself!"

“Mrs. Burgess is not impertinent,” countered Mark. “She is carrying out my orders to the best of her abilities. This house has been untenanted for fifty years and has only a maintenance staff. There is little I can do to expand it, for someone has been spreading scurrilous tales to the effect that my pockets are to let. Totally false, of course, but one cannot blame strangers for believing them. It is difficult to find servants for these isolated manors in the best of times, and the suspicion that they will not be paid makes it worse."

“Naturally,” murmured Harold. His face had paled alarmingly, to Mark's amusement.

“The result is that conditions are somewhat primitive. You or your man must see to all upkeep in your own rooms, down to the last detail."

“You mean emptying chamber-pots?” demanded Harold.

Mark nodded.

“Shoop will resign!” predicted his cousin. “He is an artiste who will never sully his hands with menial tasks."

“You may divide the work however you like,” commented Mark with a negligent shrug. “If you feel you cannot stay under the circumstances, I will understand."

“Tell me, has Federsham agreed to such terms?"

“Of course."

“That might sway Shoop,” said Harold slowly. “Though he is superior to your man, of course. Federsham has no flair for cravats."

“I shan't brawl with you over style, cousin,” declared Mark. “You will wish to change. We dine at six."

“Impossible,” croaked Harold. “It is already half past four."

“At six.” Mark's implacable voice sent Harold scurrying out the door.

* * * *

Elaine agreed to Helen's pleas that she observe the first riding lesson the next morning. She had planned to spend the time in her room working on an illustration, but it was such an important occasion for the girl that she could hardly let her down. Anne was also present. Only Harold had remained abed, to everyone's relief.

Dinner had been strained. Harold had arrived at the last possible second, fussing over imagined creases and other imperfections incurred because of unseemly haste. His complaints over the lack of service did nothing to endear him to the two footmen—nor did his disdain for both Anne and Elaine, especially when he decried the necessity of sharing a table with such lowly creatures. Bridgeport tried to ignore his cousin's provocation, but eventually delivered a quelling set-down. Anne sat in embarrassed silence. Elaine was furious—not for his slights of herself, but for his attacks on Anne. Yet none but Harold was willing to set aside manners, so it was left to the footmen to deliver the coup de grace.

Willy had joggled Ted's arm, causing him to spill an entire dish of mushrooms, drenching Harold in butter sauce from his cravat to his too-tight pantaloons. Harold had not returned after fleeing the dining room in hysterics.

Bridgeport had chastised the footmen, of course, but only over their choice of dishes, because he adored Cook's mushrooms and would have liked a third helping.

“I have no idea what is going on but do not take Mr. Parrish's rudeness to heart,” Elaine had told Anne when the ladies thankfully retired upstairs for the night.

“The opinions of such a coxcomb would not bother me anyway, but what do you mean by so enigmatic a statement?"

“You must remember Harold."

“Certainly."

Elaine explained her conclusions about the recent rumors. “I believe he is using his remarks to anger Lord Bridgeport. He cannot care enough for either of us to deliberately wound us, but his behavior makes sense if he is pursuing some private feud with the earl."

“As he did with Squire Perkins, Angela Thorpe, and me."

“You?"

“I have often suspected that he said something to your father that brought him home early that day. You know he never paid the slightest attention to your lessons."

“But why would he bother?"

“I had rebuffed his advances the day before.” She related the entire episode, including Harold's threats and Grimfield's tirade.

“Dearest Anne, I am so sorry. How can you stand to keep me around after my father treated you so shabbily?"

“Don't be absurd. I have never condoned passing the sins of the father onto his offspring. Now enough about me. What kind of feud could Mr. Parrish be pursuing now?"

“That must become the question of the hour. His lordship denied any enmity earlier, but that is hardly surprising. He would never bare his dirty linen to a virtual stranger, especially one with whom he has a legitimate complaint. But whatever pique Harold might have felt with you or me in the past, I am sure that his real target is now Bridgeport. When the earl was goaded into responding at dinner, Harold's eyes lit like a bonfire. And not with anger. I am convinced the look was satisfaction. But unless your cousin has mentioned something, there is no way to learn what grievance exists between them."

Anne agreed.

At least they would not be subjected to Harold's obnoxious presence at breakfast, Elaine thought now. He was clinging to town hours despite a fortnight already spent in the country. Or perhaps his very haughty valet was protesting his expanded duties by refusing to awaken his employer in time to eat.

Bridgeport finished his preliminary instructions and lifted Helen onto the pony, whose name was now Starlight. He had found a perfect first steed for his daughter, a beautiful dappled gray with a placid disposition. Elaine had to hide a spurt of envy. She had not been on horseback since fleeing London.

To keep such yearnings at bay, she pulled out a sketchbook and decided to record the momentous first lesson. Helen would like it. To protect herself, she used a very different style from her illustration technique. Amazingly, the man in the finished picture was the epitome of a loving, doting father.

Staring incredulously at Bridgeport, she saw that the portrait was true. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected him to tolerate children, let alone enjoy them. Such behavior ran counter to every tale she had ever heard of him. It was even more amazing because his own parents had never evinced any affection for their only son, giving him no experience of love. But it raised questions about his character. What else might he be hiding?

“Did you see?” demanded Helen, racing to Elaine's side when the lesson was over. “Did you see me riding?"

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “And very well you did, too. You must have inherited your father's famed prowess with horses."

Bridgeport seemed surprised by the words, but quickly nodded. “That may be right. She is a natural."

Helen spied the sketchbook. “What did you do today?"

“A present for you that I hope you will enjoy.” She detached the page and handed it over.

“Oh!” Helen gazed at it almost in awe. “It is beautiful. But it is so different. This is not at all like Beauty and the Beast."

Elaine had to deflect the observation before Bridgeport picked up on it. Helen was too astute for comfort. “But here we have beauty and here we have a beast,” she said lightly, pointing to the drawing. “Not that I think Starlight is a very beastly beast. Will you fall in love with him, do you think?"

“Of course. I already have. Look, Papa."

Mark's eyes widened as he studied the picture. “Amazing talent,” he breathed.

“Thank you."

“I can see why Helen enjoys your drawing lessons so much. May I see some of your other work?"

“Perhaps another time. I have nothing here at the moment.” It was not really a lie. The pad she was using was new. She had brought to the Manor only the sketches she needed to complete the final illustration, hiding them carefully in her room. The servant situation was useful, for Lucy was the only maid who would ever be in there.

“I will look forward to it."

“Can we do some drawing now?” asked Helen. “I want to make a picture of Starlight."

“We can try,” agreed Elaine. “But it will be frustrating. Animals are very difficult at first."

“Have you petted him?” Helen asked. “His neck feels just like the satin gown Nana showed me once. My Mama wore it when she was in London."

They turned their attention to work while Bridgeport retired to the house.

* * * *

Mark could not get Elaine's artistic talent out of his mind. Where had a girl with her wretched background learned to sketch like an angel? It didn't make sense. In fact, nothing about her made sense. The change over eight years was too great to comprehend. Nor could he understand how his mother had chosen her.

How indeed? Her father's estate was nowhere near Bridgeport Abbey. Her mother was dead, though it was possible she might have known his own.

A memory he had long forgotten suddenly returned—his mother's voice muttering to herself as he left the room. “We'll see what that wretched Agatha says now that she can no longer snatch up Miss Thompson for that odious Harold."

Mark had paid little attention at the time, but now he wondered if Lady Bridgeport had settled on Miss Thompson because his Aunt Agatha, Harold's mother, had expressed the desire to snare the chit for Harold.

But Harold had never intended to wed for aught but money, which Elaine did not have—picking a bride with no dowry was another way Lady Bridgeport had schemed to retain her own power. Had Aunt Agatha wanted to tie Mark to a religious fanatic who knew nothing of society?

There was much ill will between his mother and aunt, though no one had ever explained why. And there was no way to learn. All parties were long since dead, but that did not stop Mark from pondering the questions. He was still trying to find the answers when Burgess summoned him to the hall.

The guests had arrived.

“Sorry, old chap,” murmured Carrington, striding forward to greet Mark before the others were aware of his presence. “I tried to deflect the idea, but it had already taken on a life of its own."

“We will survive. With luck, the dearth of activities will soon send them elsewhere. To say nothing of the lack of amenities."

Richard raised a questioning brow.

“We can talk in the library as soon as everyone is dispersed to their rooms."

“Dearest Mark,” purred Mrs. Woodleigh, placing a possessive hand on his arm and effectively ending the conversation. “London is a dead bore without you. How naughty of you to abandon us so precipitously!” She reached up to straighten his cravat. “You have missed the most diverting happenings. Lord Oaksford cut Miss Severton after their mutual embarrassment, but barely a week later he was caught kissing Miss Dunston in an empty chamber—by Lady Jersey, no less. They will marry, of course, though half of London thinks she trapped him. And that same day Mr. Mannering—"

“Welcome to Treselyan Manor, ma'am,” he interrupted coldly, moving just enough that her hands fell free. It was time she understood that he had no intention of resuming this particular liaison. He deliberately turned to the next guest. “Lord Means. And Lady Means. I trust the journey was not too difficult."

Lady Means simpered, her eyes gleaming over Mark's snub of Mrs. Woodleigh even as she launched a detailed explanation of their dreadful journey. “But seeing you again has made it all worthwhile,” she concluded, putting a wealth of meaning into the words. Then she pulled an unexpectedly beautiful girl forward. “And this is my niece, Miss Lucinda Throckmorton. While not making her official bows until next Season, she is now of an age to mingle with society."

The girl batted long lashes, and Mark stifled a groan. He had been wrong. Maude was going to foist her niece on him in hopes that he would make the girl his second wife. Why would she think he might be interested? He must be twice her age, and the chit's looks could not mask a vacuous mind that was already the talk of the town.

But he knew the answer. Miss Lucinda was precisely the sort of girl he had offered for in the past—four times. That he no longer considered any of them acceptable did not, for the moment, occur to him. He was too busy cursing fate. Lord Means was probably not dodging duns after all, despite his straitened circumstances. Instead, he was hunting a suitor to avoid the cost of a Season. Since all of Bridgeport's betrothals had been arranged in the country, Mark was an obvious pigeon.

Mark smiled thinly at Miss Throckmorton before turning to the most surprising member of the company. “Mr. Hardwicke, welcome."

“Bridgeport.” Peter nodded coolly, his eyes glittering like slates in the sun that streamed through the open door. Mark had been right about this guest. If anything, Hardwicke's sense of grievance had grown since they had last met.

The others crowding into the hallway were mere irritants compared to the potential plagues he had already welcomed. Reggie Taylor hardly looked old enough to be out of school, a month on the town coating him with little bronze. He appeared besotted by Miss Throckmorton's beauty. Poor Margaret Westmont seemed even more abject than usual after several days on the road, effacing herself in a corner while the important members of the party made inane comments about the Manor. But now she bustled forward to accept a sharp rebuke from her employer.

Bridgeport cringed. His own snub was responsible for Caroline's sudden irritation. Perhaps Miss Westmont would find congenial company in Miss Thompson and Miss Becklin. She was not stupid.

He conducted the guests to their rooms, then thankfully retired to the library with Richard.

Chapter Ten

Mark poured two brandies and settled into a chair. “What happened?"

Richard grimaced. “I'm not exactly sure. We were all gathered around the punch bowl at the Wharburton masquerade—it was atrociously hot that night—when someone, I think Mrs. Woodleigh, commented on your absence. Before I had time to think, they had all decided to pay you a visit. The most I could do was join them to give you at least one friend in the crowd."

“Ah well. I cannot imagine they will stay long. There is nothing to do and they will find me far too busy to cater to their whims. I expect their servants are already threatening to quit. You won't lose Kesterton over this, I trust."

“What are you talking about?"

Mark explained.

“Oh, Lord!"

“Willy and Ted are willing to assist you, of course,” said the earl. “But I don't wish to be too obvious about it. Have you discovered anything more about that rumor campaign?"

“Very little. Lady Wainright returned to town the day you left, fueling speculation about the duel by refusing to go into mourning."

“She will find herself ostracized if she keeps that up."

“It's possible that she has no choice,” mused Richard with a frown. “The fleecing story might have more basis than we credited. Wainright was rolled up when he died, leaving his wife virtually nothing. Her ill-concealed liaisons have alienated her own family. She needs a new husband immediately if she is to remain afloat. But that is not your affair,” he added as guilt twisted Mark's face. “One new rumor popped up the day you left."

“What now?” His weary voice cracked.

“You were the challenger in that duel. It may have sprung from speculation over the choice of weapons, for everyone knows your respective abilities. Whatever started it, it suffered a quick death, for no one could supply a motive for such a challenge. The interesting thing is that after you left town, the rumors dried up—except for stories about you fleecing several gentlemen, including Hardwicke and Wainright."

“But all tales of murder, duels, and poison ceased?"

“Precisely. The others have been around long enough to have taken on a life of their own. I have been unable to trace any of them to a source, which is frustrating. Lord A heard it from Lady B who got it from Mrs. C who claims her source as Lord A. Not quite that clean, but that is what it amounts to. I am sorry."

“Don't be. I believe I may have discovered the source myself."

“Here?"

“You sound shocked. Several days before I arrived—I dawdled through some side trips along the way—a number of vicious rumors began circulating locally. Oddly enough, the content differed from those making the rounds in town. Elaine claims that they were probably started by Cousin Harold, who arrived in Bodmin at precisely that time. I had not really believed her, but now that I know the stories stopped in London, it is probable."

Richard frowned. “But why would he wish to discredit you?"

“I am not sure, but I have been thinking about our hypothesis of a man who was fleecing gentleman in my name. I never considered Harold in that guise, but Elaine related a number of tales of his youth that lead me to believe that he might be capable of such a scheme. If he fears exposure, perhaps he thinks discrediting me will prevent people from accepting my protests when the truth emerges."

“Is he that dipped?"

“Frankly, I cannot say—yet. I just mailed a request for Cramer to look into his affairs. I would have thought the inheritance he received from my uncle was sufficient, and his mother brought even more into the family, but he may have lost it at the tables. He has always been a gamester."

“Let us hope that Cramer can learn the truth,” said Richard, draining his glass. “You cannot allow the man to blacken your name."

“I know. With luck, I will have an answer within the week. In the meantime, I will keep an eye on Harold myself. He is here."

“What? You must have lost all your wits, Mark. Suspecting that he is plotting against you, how can you invited the man into your home?"

Mark shrugged. “I needed him to balance the numbers. And isn't it better to watch him than to leave him free to spread his poison where and when he will?"

“Perhaps, but your counting is off. If anything, you already had too many men."

“I know, which is why I asked Elaine to join us. But she would not come without Miss Becklin. I had no objection, of course. Indeed, it was easier, for Miss Becklin was helping Helen. But that overbalanced the numbers again. Hence Harold."

“My head is whirling. Helen? Miss Becklin? And Elaine?"

Mark grinned. He had finally piqued Richard's curiosity enough to force the questions. “Helen is my daughter."

Richard choked on his wine. “I thought she was in Yorkshire,” he said when he had stopped coughing and wiped the spots from his coat.

“She usually is, but the manor needed a new roof, so she and her nurse came here for the summer. But the nurse broke a hip last week. Until the governess arrives, Miss Becklin is caring for her."

“The lady sounds intimidating. I suppose she is an elderly spinster or the vicar's sister or some such. Is Elaine her companion?"

“Wrong on all counts, Richard. Miss Becklin is about our age. At one time she was a governess, but she now has a legacy that leaves her independent. She agreed to temporarily take on Helen as a favor. Elaine is one of her former students, who has resided with her for some years, though I am not privy to their financial arrangements. In fact, now that I think of it, there must be something I do not know. Elaine is not the sort to accept charity, but I cannot imagine where she would acquire any income of her own. She swore her father disowned her."

“You aren't enamored of the chit, are you?” asked Richard suspiciously.

“Far from it. Her full name is the honorable Miss Mary Elaine Thompson."

Richard stared. “Not—"

“Exactly. Viscount Grimfield's only daughter, who has lived here since precipitously leaving London eight years ago. She goes by Elaine now. You will see her again at dinner."

* * * *

Dressed in the same green silk she had worn to the squire's, Elaine was one of the last to come down that evening. The first person she saw was the Marquess of Carrington. Her eyes blinked as he identified her, though she kept her face in a pleasant smile. Bridgeport must have warned him, for he betrayed no surprise at finding her there.

“It has been a long time, Miss Thompson,” he said politely.

“Quite,” she agreed. “I trust your journey has not tired you."

“We took as much time as I could manage on the road. I thought Mark deserved a little warning,” he added in a lighter tone, as he noted the twinkle in her eye.

“Smart man.” She smiled. “You would have found no servants at all otherwise."

“None?” His brow shot up.

“Well, the Burgesses were here."

“Mark claims you solved a riddle for him."

“Oh?” It was her turn to raise a questioning brow.

“About the author of the rumor campaign."

“Ah. Scurrilous things, rumors, and even more so when deliberately planted."

“Unlike the one you started?” he challenged her.

“You are a good friend to him, I see. That did not unfold the way I planned, for which I accept full blame. His humiliation must have been appalling. I only hope he can someday forgive me."

“Has he not done so?” Carrington asked.

“Surely you know him better than that!"

“Decidedly,” he agreed with perfect understanding as he offered her an arm. “Have you met the others?"

“Not that I recall."

Carrington led her around the room, introducing her to the rest of the guests. Bridgeport had previously done the same with Anne and now remained by the window, talking with her and Miss Westmont.

Elaine hid her amusement at her reception. Carrington had dropped his antagonism, but remained aloof, as if he had not yet decided what to think of the girl who had publicly jilted his best friend. The others did not connect Elaine Thompson with that long-ago scandal, so their thoughts were easier to read. All judged her a country dowd. There also seemed to be some confusion over her role in the house party.

Mrs. Woodleigh and Lady Means examined her as if they were all competitors for some prize. Both were dressed to the nines in the latest style, but it was Mrs. Woodleigh who commanded the most attention. Despite being several years older than Elaine, she retained the freshness of youth and the beauty of an Incomparable. Blonde hair and blue eyes glowed above a matching blue gown that displayed her voluptuous figure to perfection. Elaine had no doubt what the rakish earl's relationship was with the widow.

Lord Means and Mr. Hardwicke had more male speculation in their eyes, Mr. Hardwicke even going so far as to pull out his quizzing glass. Mr. Taylor and Miss Throckmorton were too young to consider her as aught but the ape-leading spinster she really was.

She joined Anne and Miss Westmont, exchanging a brief greeting with Bridgeport before he excused himself. The earl was even more fashionably dressed than at the squire's dinner party, his black velvet jacket, embroidered white waistcoat, and dove gray pantaloons emphasizing the vast gulf between them.

Elaine relaxed. He must also sense it. He would hardly wish to be seen pursuing someone so dowdy, so would turn his attention to his friends and leave her in peace.

Mark led Richard to a secluded corner of the room.

“I can hardly decide what to think of the chit,” Richard murmured. “She has a quick wit and does not seem the sort to run off like that."

“She had her reasons, and I must admit that much of the fault lay with her father, who lied to all parties, including me. But her manners were execrable nonetheless."

“You are not planning something stupid, are you?” demanded the marquess sharply, catching the undercurrent of pique in Mark's voice.

“Not at all."

Further conversation was impossible.

“This certainly is a quaint house,” said Mrs. Woodleigh, joining the gentlemen. “How am I to summon my maid?"

Mark shrugged. “Either send a footman—one will usually be stationed in the upstairs hall—or arrange that she attend you at a specific hour."

“Must I arrange everything in advance?” she asked suggestively, laying her white hand on his sleeve. Richard slipped away, leaving Mark to handle her in his own way.

Mark dislodged those possessive fingers. “It is best. You know how few servants I have. The house will seem quite primitive."

She shrugged. “Margaret can earn her keep for a change. It is actually a charming idea. One can move around quite freely without being observed. How clever you are, my lord."

“Not at all. It is a cursed nuisance, if you must know. So much unexpected company will make things very difficult for my staff. And there is no way I can help them. I have far too much work of my own to be able to spend time with any of you."

But that was a little too blunt for her taste. “You must know I only came on this journey to relieve your boredom,” she pouted.

“In the unlikely event I am plagued by any, I will let you know.” With an enigmatic smile, he moved on to speak with Reggie.

Harold was the last to come down, mincing through the doorway barely five minutes before dinner. Mr. Taylor tore his gaze away from Miss Throckmorton to admire the dandy's dress.

Parrish had outdone himself this night—his lavishly padded turquoise satin coat broadened his indifferent shoulders; the judicious use of a Cumberland corset had shrunk his waist at least three inches; his cravat was arranged in an oversized oriental that stretched his neck to rival a giraffe's and pressed his elongated shirtpoints perilously close to his eyes; and his valet must have found help to have stuffed him into such tight breeches. Harold quizzed the room with fashionable ennui, sniffed at Taylor's own sartorial efforts, then turned to Mr. Hardwicke.

“I am shocked to find you part of this group, Peter,” he stated in overly familiar fashion.

“Why?” murmured Hardwicke coolly. Himself a Corinthian, he had little use for dandies and fops.

“Terribly sorry, my lad,” apologized Harold, lisping affectedly. “My wretched tongue—flaps about on its own sometimes. I didn't mean that the way it came out, of course, only wishing to express surprise that you would pay a friendly call on the man who fleeced you of your inheritance. Shows a magnanimity not many possess. I admire that."

“You mistake the facts, sir."

“Oh, quite, quite!” agreed Harold with an insincere laugh. “Of course there was no impropriety in that game. Watched most of it myself. The eyes don't always see what they should, but what can one expect in such a crowd?"

Elaine grimaced. Mr. Parrish continued in the same vein, his voice pitched so low that he probably thought no one could overhear. What was he up to now? Before she could share this very disturbing conversation with Bridgeport, Burgess announced dinner.

The seating arrangements elicited speculative glances from some guests and annoyance from others. Elaine occupied the hostess's chair opposite Bridgeport's own. Mrs. Woodleigh's pique increased when she discovered that she was positioned halfway down the table while Mark was flanked by Lady Means and Miss Throckmorton. She had to endure an entire meal stuck between Mr. Parrish and Mr. Taylor.

By the end of the first course, Elaine detected a gleam in Mr. Hardwicke's eyes similar to the expression she had seen in the eyes of many a rake during her sojourn in town, though never before directed at her. Even more disturbing were the expressions on other people's faces. Harold was murmuring to Mrs. Woodleigh whose gaze grew fiercer as it flicked between Bridgeport and Elaine. Lady Means was casting sly looks at the earl, ignoring her niece, who flaunted herself shamelessly. By the end of the second course, Harold's eyes showed satisfaction and Mrs. Woodleigh's glared. Lady Means seemed annoyed after a lengthy tale drew only a halfhearted shrug from Bridgeport.

Mark hid a growing irritation. Even Cook's mushrooms tasted flat after listening to Lady Means murmur suggestive remarks whenever she could work them into the conversation. She was even more adept at using double entendre than he was. Her niece was flirting outrageously, batting her lashes and leaning forward so he could hardly miss the generous bosom barely concealed by a scandalously low-cut gown. Did Lady Means really believe him to be so slavish to his appetites that he could not resist such obvious charms?

But failing to accept what was offered opened the door to further danger. If she was so desperate to marry off her niece that she would throw the girl at a man she still wanted for herself, might she arrange a compromise to force his hand? It was a reality every unmarried gentleman had to consider. The greedy would stoop to any depth to win—as Oaksford had just discovered.

With relief, he watched Elaine lead the ladies out.

* * * *

Elaine poured coffee in the drawing room, wishing for the thousandth time that she had not accepted this invitation.

“It is too bad that you don't have someone to help you understand the empty promises of notorious libertines, Miss Thompson,” purred Mrs. Woodleigh after five minutes of inane pleasantries that were apparently intended to establish an unbiased friendship. “You have made a disastrous mistake by linking your name with the earl. But I suppose you have no way of knowing his reputation."

“On the contrary, I know it quite well,” she replied smoothly, wondering if this was a disinterested warning or whether she was correct in her impression that the widow was one of Bridgeport's mistresses. She supposed she should be shocked by that idea, but the earl had never been secretive about his activities.

“If you have any aspirations in that direction, forget it, dear,” continued Mrs. Woodleigh. “Mark has no interest in provincial misses. So worldly a gentleman needs a more experienced lady. All of society knows he is planning to offer for me."

“I am not surprised.” She shrugged. “Like calls to like, as the saying goes.” Since Mrs. Woodleigh had just finished calling Bridgeport a notorious libertine, there was no mistaking the cut. With an overdone sniff, the widow retreated.

Elaine sipped coffee to steady her nerves. This party might prove even worse than she had feared. So far Bridgeport showed no signs of being swept back into his London circle, appearing irritated at dinner and behaving coolly toward Mrs. Woodleigh earlier—though that could have been natural caution since one did not usually include one's mistress in a respectable gathering. Worse, Mrs. Woodleigh was showing signs of unreasonable jealousy. How far was the woman prepared to go in expressing it? If the earl renewed his insistent flirting, would Elaine's own reputation survive?

Lady Means joined her on the settee. “Poor Mrs. Woodleigh,” she said softly. “Such delusions! How can she possibly think that so high a lord as Bridgeport would make a permanent offer to one of his companions? You are not shocked, I hope."

“Hardly. But it seems odd to find a lady of the ton like yourself knowingly cohabiting a house with a fallen woman. Or has society changed that drastically in recent years?"

Lady Means flushed. “She is not exactly a courtesan,” she admitted grudgingly, then shifted to her own concerns. “How long have you known the earl?"

“We have met from time to time, though I would hardly call us friends,” said Elaine. “But he was desperate for help when word arrived that so many people had decided to pay an uninvited visit. Treselyan is hardly capable of entertaining a crowd."

“He cannot claim surprise,” declared Lady Means. “We discussed it before he left town, for he is ready to wed again, and dear Lucinda has finally reached a marriageable age."

Elaine refrained from repeating Bridgeport's own description of the party. It was possible that he would accept Miss Throckmorton. She was little different from his other prospective brides.

Lady Means continued. “You must find it annoying to be forced to live in so dreary a place. I cannot imagine foregoing a Season."

Judging the baroness to be a year or two younger than herself, Elaine shook her head. “I found London to be insipid, my lady. And the character assassination that passes for conversation is not to my taste. Life here is more interesting to any but the most shallow."

“You have been to town?” she asked in shock.

Elaine ignored the implied set-down. “Of course. I came out some years ago, but I prefer living here."

“What a novel way to explain a failure to take,” sneered Lady Means.

“On the contrary. I turned down an eligible offer, to the chagrin of my family. Remaining single is more attractive than putting up with the spiteful tongues of arrogant matrons."

The gentleman arrived at that moment, precluding further conversation. Bridgeport immediately commandeered Elaine and drew her apart from the others. Beauty and the Beast, she thought irrelevantly. It was a feeling she had suffered every time they met in London. He was so handsome and up to snuff that it threw her own shortcomings into sharp relief.

She thrust awareness of her inadequacy aside. It really did not matter.

“What think you of these fribbles?” he asked.

“I think them typical of London, my lord. At every word a reputation dies."

Mark burst into laughter, drawing all eyes. “Pope. That was naughty of you."

“But true."

“Come now, Miss Thompson. Surely you do not condemn people for sharing the news of the day."

“How can I? Doing so would merely lower myself to their level. And that is as low as one can get, for tale-bearers are as bad as the tale-makers."

“Sheridan, School for Scandal. I forget which act."

“The first, but your attention was undoubtedly focused elsewhere than the stage,” she said before she could stop the words.

“What was that you just said about reputations dying?"

Elaine giggled, again drawing the attention of the others. “Touché, my lord."

“Obviously my cousin has no pride whatsoever,” drawled Harold into the momentary hush. “How else can one explain Miss Thompson's presence?"

“Whatever do you mean, sir?” trilled Mrs. Woodleigh.

“Why, surely you must recognize the chit. She left him standing at the altar some years ago—'twas the scandal of the Season."

All eyes instantly turned on Elaine. She managed to maintain her impassive face, though she could feel a flush creeping upward.

Mark's eyes turned hard. “There was nothing to forgive,” he stated shortly. “The entire fiasco was a misunderstanding. Her note, describing how she had been called away to a deathbed, was mislaid by her totty-headed aunt, so that I did not receive it until the next day."

Why had he jumped to her defense? wondered Elaine as Richard joined Bridgeport in laughing over the ancient contretemps. Was this another ploy in his campaign? But that made little sense—unless he was unwilling to allow his cousin to be the instrument of revenge.

Or was he honestly trying to save a guest from the embarrassment the disclosure must entail?

“I wonder what Harold is up to now?” said Mark softly, so only Elaine could hear. “Was that another attempt to discredit me, or has he decided to attack you as well?"

“You. He can hardly hold a grudge against me, though he would not hesitate to drag me down if he could hurt you in the process. And he may well do so. A truth that's told with bad intent—"

“—beats all the lies you can invent,” he finished for her. “Blake. Does airing our past really hurt?"

“Not here. It matters not what these people think of me. If I don't react to their unkind words, they will soon tire of the sport. But if the tale spreads to the village, it could cause trouble. Country folk are very conservative, as you should know. I would not want my presence to reflect poorly on Anne."

“Then we must see that it does not."

His voice was a caress, but Elaine ignored it. Such a sentiment was appealing but impractical. Servants learned everything and rarely kept gossip to themselves. Her only hope of killing this story was if Bridgeport treated her as the casual friend he claimed she was. Was he enough of a gentleman to do it?

Chapter Eleven

Elaine idly thumbed through her pile of completed sketches. She had escaped the Manor by offering to fetch a book for Anne, and once back in the comfortable simplicity of the cottage, she could not help lingering. It was another world. Her world. A place free of spiteful tongues, icy glares, and selfish plots. If only she did not have to return to Bridgeport's world.

Her hand froze on `To a Summer Sky.' Instead of the serenity of Thornton's poem, she saw agitation and chaos. How had that escaped her eye all this time?

She had drawn it shortly after Lord Bridgeport arrived, and her mental turmoil must have affected both fingers and judgment.

This confrontation was more upsetting than she'd admitted. Had it influenced her other work? Again she thumbed the sketches, this time critically examining each picture before sighing in relief. Only one was bad.

Removing the offending page, she returned the rest to a drawer. There was no time to make a replacement today. She already risked being late for dinner. Thus she could no longer deliver the project to Mr. Holyoke when the party visited Bodmin tomorrow.

She sighed. During their four days in residence, the company had risen earlier each day until they were following her own schedule. It robbed her of the morning hours she normally used for work. And having no time to herself was not just affecting her drawing. She needed a period of peace to maintain her sense of worth, for try as she might, she could not ignore the cuts of these arrogant aristocrats.

Mr. Hardwicke was the worst. He was pursuing her favors with an unflattering relentlessness that made her want to scratch his eyes out. He had no real interest in her, even for dalliance, but he was locked in a silent struggle with Bridgeport. Every attention by the earl elicited matching attention from Hardwicke, and worse. That very morning he had followed her into the kitchen, trapped her in the pantry when Cook stepped out, and boldly caressed her breast.

She had ordered him to leave, aided by a knife that she picked up from a table, but his insistence left her shaking. Being treated like a light-skirt was a new and terrifying experience.

Lord Means was nearly as obnoxious, though he was concentrating on Anne. She and Anne had discussed the situation the night before, deciding that if it worsened, they would return home.

Elaine had been vacillating over whether to mention the problem to Bridgeport. Given his reputation, she was not convinced that he would decry the behavior of his friends.

Elaine's relations with the female guests were also combative. Mrs. Woodleigh and Lady Means were lashing out at anyone who might thwart their personal plans. The widow used sly innuendo and open insult to keep the country upstart in her place. She was pushing hard to bring the earl up to scratch, so her antagonism increased whenever Bridgeport spoke with Elaine, especially when their exchanges erupted in laughter as they so often did. Lady Means was not much better, throwing her niece at Bridgeport, while monopolizing Miss Thompson herself. If Elaine had not been their target, she might have been amused.

Mr. Parrish lurked in the background like a malevolent spider. After he'd revealed Elaine's identity that first night, Anne had related new tales she had heard from her cousin. Harold certainly had not improved with age. He was determined to stir up trouble. Sometimes he repeated rumors he claimed to have heard elsewhere. Often, he commiserated with Hardwicke's gaming losses, hinting that the earl had cheated. He fanned jealousies—with snide remarks about Bridgeport's first betrothal; by exaggerating the closeness between the Parrish and Thompson families; through set-downs of Mrs. Woodleigh's ambitions; and by scoffing at Miss Throckmorton's brazen flirtation. He also drew attention to every contact between the earl and Elaine, not even having to stretch the truth, for Bridgeport lost no opportunity to seek her out.

And that was her biggest problem. Nothing would dissuade him. Though he stuck to friendship, with only the lightest flirtation, she recognized his purpose. And he knew she did. Yet he continued.

Worse, she enjoyed their exchanges. Their shared interests showed in the quotation game they continued to play. She liked matching wits with him, but his undeniable appeal threatened to undermine her determination. It wasn't fair that so handsome a gentleman should also possess charm, wit, and a well-formed mind. She had refused to recognize his animal attraction all those years ago in London, for such thoughts had no place in a moral mind. But that deliberate blindness had kept her from preparing for it, leaving her even more susceptible now. It was another reason to go home.

Yet she could not do it. No matter what excuse she offered, leaving must be interpreted as abandoning him, for he had made it clear that he wanted and needed her at the Manor. It would echo the way she had jilted him, reviving the memories and guaranteeing that the tale would spread far beyond Cornwall. These spiteful guests would gleefully repeat it in town, again exposing him to society's wagging tongues. After all the public embarrassments he had suffered in the interim, and after Mr. Parrish's malicious rumor campaign, she could not subject him to further humiliation.

And so she stayed.

But she would not accompany the group into town. Carefully locking the cottage door, she turned toward Treselyan Manor. She had to redraw that illustration, and what better time to do so than a day when everyone was gone? She might even be able to start the new commission.

But she did not want to answer questions about her plans. Burgess could tell Bridgeport at departure time that she was not going.

* * * *

Bridgeport closed the library door and thankfully sank into a chair.

The house party was even more irritating than he had expected. Caroline refused to take his hints, even though he'd pointedly avoided her bed. She believed his new propriety was a prelude to proposing. How could the woman delude herself so thoroughly? Besides being little more than a courtesan, her birth was hardly top-drawer. Her father was a baronet's younger son, and her mother was the daughter of a country squire.

He may not have cared for any of his fiancées, but all had been ladies, something Caroline should know. But he could handle her. He could even handle Maude's hints that he return to her arms. What he feared—and what had sent him to ground in the library—was being maneuvered into compromising Miss Throckmorton. The chit was not at all what he wanted for his second wife.

What did he want?

He frowned, his fingers steepling against his nose. Many of his ideas had been chiseled in stone since boyhood, such as never wedding anyone who might try to control him, which barred any emotional attachment. Even friendship could leave him vulnerable to manipulation.

On the other hand, he wanted no repeat of his first marriage. His wife must be attractive, and passionate enough that he could enjoy bedding her. But intimacy was not the only reason he now considered appearance. His countess must be installed at Bridgeport Abbey. Since he spent a month there each year checking the books, he would have to look at her even after she produced an heir. That was the second flaw in his original plan. He had never thought beyond his father's death to the duties his wife must assume.

After his parents had died, he'd abandoned all thoughts of marriage, so relieved that his mother could no longer badger him about it that he was nearly giddy. Only recently had he admitted that it was time to take on another spouse. He was already nearly twice the age of the girls who appeared on the marriage mart each Season. They were looking younger and less attractive all the time. Miss Throckmorton was an excellent example. She hardly looked older than Helen to his eyes, though to be honest, Helen seemed far older than her years.

As soon as he returned to London, he would choose a wife. She must be demure enough to spare him tantrums, serious enough to refrain from endless chatter, yet intelligent enough to sustain a reasonable conversation. She must also be biddable, respecting his position as head of the family and allowing him to make all decisions without interference. And he needed someone capable of running the house without calling in a mother or some other managing female to help. His frown deepened. His requirements sounded incompatible—demure, quiet, and biddable, yet intelligent, passionate, and competent.

In the meantime, he would remain behind when his guests visited Bodmin. Aside from Richard's warning—the marquess had a bad feeling about the journey—Mark needed some time to himself. On the pretext of estate problems, he had managed to slip away twice but it wasn't enough. Even in London he had not spent more than a portion of his day in company. One of the expected benefits of rustication had been the luxury of uninterrupted time to reflect and to write. If he could get rid of the house party for the day, the solitude might soothe his spirit so that he could tolerate them a while longer.

But if he announced his intentions, Caroline would find a reason to stay with him. And others might follow suit. So he could not allow anyone to guess his plans.

A moment's thought decided how. Freddie, the estate groom, would bring word of a minor problem just as they were leaving. He would urge the others to start, for on horseback he could easily catch up to the coaches. Only Richard would know that he had no intention of joining them.

Mark finally relaxed into a smile. This was a dirty trick to play on Elaine, of course, for she would be left to entertain his guests by herself, but he needed the solitude too much to care.

* * * *

Elaine sank onto her favorite rock and smiled. She had not felt this free in weeks. In fact, it was the first time since Helen's arrival that she could be sure of an afternoon entirely alone.

The view was perfect today, the air holding no hint of haze. Patches of purple thrift, yellow daffodils, and the ubiquitous heather complemented the bright new growth of spring leaves. Sunlight glinted from the sea, which was as smooth as she had ever seen it after a week with no storms. The sky arched in a brilliant bowl overhead, lightly dotted with tiny puffs of cloud whose raison d'ętre was to emphasize the intense blue. Far out in the channel, the faintest hint of a sail bobbed in and out of sight. A hawk lazily floated above the moor. Leaves sighed in a gentle breeze, punctuated now and then by squabbles among the gulls.

A summer sky. Should it be seen through the lacy screen of a tree's canopy, or from a forest glade with heavier foliage around the edge? She had tried both and was satisfied with neither. Without color, they did not work. And that was the trouble, for the impact of the sky came primarily from color. Pulling the verse from her bag, she again read Thornton's words. Perhaps—

Frowning, she picked up her sketchbook and set to work.

* * * *

Mark waited until the carriages were out of sight before slipping out of the stable. Things had gone even better than planned. When the groom had pulled him aside, Burgess had also tried to speak privately to him. He had put the butler off until the stable problem was resolved. If anyone questioned him, he could now point to two crises that had arisen. Richard had instructions to inform Elaine of the truth before they reached Bodmin so that she would have some warning.

By the time he cleared the grounds and reached the cliff path, he felt as if the weight of the world had fallen from his shoulders. It had been several months since he had been able to enjoy this long a stretch with no obligations. And it was a beautiful day. He headed for the spot that had become his favorite, the cave and lawn halfway up Lookout Peak that offered such a marvelous view over moor and sea.

Tension flowed from his body. The sound of waves gently kissing the cliffs soothed his soul. Chattering sparrows contrasted with the majesty of a distant hawk. Words danced in his mind, weaving sun, bird, and water into a vision of peace that was abruptly shattered.

“What are you doing here?” he exploded as he rounded the last outcropping. Dressed in an old kerseymere gown, her hair pulled back in a simple knot, Elaine appeared so at home in this setting that she provided the final flourish to a perfect day.

But that thought proved so disturbing that he thrust it hastily aside.

“My lord!” She had been so intent on her drawing that she had not heard his approach. “Oh, drat, now I've ruined it.” The muttered words barely carried to his ears.

“May I see?” he asked curiously, but he was able to catch only the briefest glimpse as she quickly slipped the sketchbook into her bag.

“It is nothing, and I ruined it when you startled me.” Her heart threatened to burst from her chest—because he had surprised and frightened her, she decided firmly. And because his appearance threatened exposure of her professional identity.

“Why are you not in Bodmin?” Mark seated himself on a nearby boulder.

“I could ask the same of you, but I needed some time to myself. I am unaccustomed to this much socializing and find it wearing."

“Precisely my reason,” he responded smoothly.

She raised her brows. “Doing it a bit brown, aren't you, my lord? For someone who lives much of the year in London, you can hardly claim to be tired of company after less than a week."

“Not at all. I have a number of activities, only a few of which involve society entertainments."

“Of course,” she agreed, but her blush revealed her thoughts.

“For shame! That is not what I meant.” His teasing leer deepened her color.

“You don't spend your days sparring, fencing, and shooting?” she riposted in mock astonishment. “Rumor has certainly misled a great portion of the country."

“Baggage,” he chided. “I wonder how my houseguests will fare with neither of us to point out the sights."

“You forget that your cousin stayed in Bodmin for a fortnight. He probably knows more about the town than you do."

“True. I have only been there once, though I recall that visit with great pleasure.” His eyes caressed her and she again flushed.

“Enough, Lord Bridgeport. I remained behind today so that I could enjoy some solitude. Are you gentleman enough to accede to so simple a wish?"

“As did I. Since you have already claimed this spot, I will take myself elsewhere. But I do love this view."

He was looking over the channel, so she accepted his words at face value. “It is probably the most beautiful spot in the area, and a wonderful place for thinking and dreaming."

“Do you come here to dream, Miss Thompson?” he asked softly.

“More often to think. But everyone needs to dream now and then. It keeps life from becoming stagnant, for dreams can lead one in new directions."

“New directions,” he repeated in a whisper. “Perhaps that is what I need. My life has become too predictable. And far too boring."

“If this house party is typical of London, I can understand why,” she murmured, almost afraid to speak lest she break the spell that had suddenly bound them. There was something pulsing in the air that had nothing to do with flirtation. It was almost as if she was seeing a glimpse of the real man for the first time in their acquaintance. Breathing became a conscious chore.

“I had never considered myself bored,” he said in wonder. “My days are filled with activities, yet life has become stagnant. I have fallen into a rut. Perhaps more than one, but there is no challenge in ruts."

“Maybe you are looking at life as a single quality,” she suggested. “Like the sky, life enfolds everyone in its embrace, presenting a similar face to all. Yet if one reverses the perspective, there is so much variety. The sky looks down on sea and moor, on field and forest, on rich and poor. The life-force that animates all living things is constant, yet like the world as seen from the sky, it can be expressed in an infinite number of ways."

“Is this what contemplation does to you?” he asked softly. “Do you become profound after a short time alone?"

“I doubt it. But you must admit that life is more interesting if one occasionally tries something new."

He nodded. “True, though I did not come here to analyze my life, but to enjoy the beauty of the day. Sun raining quiet contentment."

“Thornton, and also, sharpened sparks upon the waves."

He laughed. “But not the same feeling at all. Forgive me for intruding. I will leave you to your solitude."

“Thank you, my lord. You are a man after mine own heart."

He frowned. “I must be slipping. Shakespeare, but I cannot place the play. Or is it from one of his sonnets?"

She laughed. “Try the Bible, I Samuel. But I am not surprised to find you less conversant with that source."

“Your claws are sharp. I must retire before you strike again, lest I be forced into bed to nurse my wounds."

“Hardly your customary bedroom activity,” she said without thinking, then blushed furiously.

He laughed. “Minx!"

“You might explore the cliffs beyond the village. There are several stunning views from there,” she suggested, desperate to get rid of him before she said something even more embarrassing—like commenting on the brilliant green of his eyes that made the most glittering emerald appear dull. Or did something incredibly stupid—like running her hands over the hard muscles of his shoulders, or kissing that full, sensuous mouth.

Stop it! she screamed silently. This was unreal. She was merely off balance because she had expected to spend the day alone.

Thankfully, Bridgeport turned back downhill.

Mark frowned as he retraced his steps to the Manor, blind to the beauties of the day. He would not follow her advice at the moment, having lost some of his enthusiasm for grand vistas. After his earlier reflections on where his life was heading, her words made him wish for nothing more than the solitude of his study in London. As that was impossible, he would have to accept the dubious substitute of the Treselyan library.

Was he really in a rut?

Life had turned stale in recent months, but it was more a case of fragmentation. His public and private lives were totally separate. Worse, both of his halves were further fractured into myriad activities—Corinthian, rake, politician, financier, writer. Even his writing stretched in too many directions—sober commentary, reformist exposés, social satire, poetry. And each face required its own personality.

Rather than boredom, he was suffering from exhaustion.

He had pulled out Thornton's second volume, leafing through it so he could chide Elaine with inaccurate memory on her `Waves' reference, when the truth suddenly slammed into his midsection. While her quote resembled a line from that poem, it was actually a quotation from `The Sea,' which was part of the as-yet-unpublished third volume.

Could she have seen it at Mr. Beringer's house? The verses had been sent with the original commission. Or she might be acquainted with Merriweather, who must reside somewhere in the area despite his current absence. Mark had been unable to discover where, for he could think of no way to explain his interest.

But the kaleidoscope of his mind suddenly shuffled memories to form a new pattern.

Helen's voice—"This is not at all like Beauty and the Beast,” and earlier, “She does the most fantastic drawings."

He pulled out several books Murray had sent that contained Merriweather illustrations. Extracting the samples that had prompted him to accept an artist he had never met, he frowned in concentration, trying to recall that brief glimpse of Elaine's sketch up on the hill.

The bishop's voice echoed from a long-ago Sunday—calling the banns for the marriage of Mark Allan Parrish, Lord Staynes, to the honorable Mary Elaine Merriweather Thompson...

M. E. Merriweather. Horror rapidly transformed into fury.

How dared she? And how dared Beringer? It was unconscionable that so well-regarded an artist would perpetrate such a fraud. No chit barely out of the schoolroom should pass herself off as an artist.

He slammed his copy of Beauty and the Beast onto the desk. It had been published fully six years earlier. It was ridiculous!

Yet his fury quickly spent itself. Passing herself off as an artist? She was an artist. More than an artist, she was a genius with a brush. He could hardly denigrate her talent when he had spent the last two months in awe of it.

He had wondered after Helen's first riding lesson how Elaine—with her restrictive background—had learned to draw so well. Beringer had lived next door to her for eight years. Why had he never considered that the artist might have taught her? Nor had he ever wondered why she spent so much time sketching—Helen claimed that Elaine was out every day. That was exorbitant even for the most dedicated lady of leisure.

His impressions had been right. She was not a person to live on charity. When she had severed all ties to her family and repudiated marriage, she had pulled herself together and established a paying career.

Mark sank into a chair, willing his heart to cease hammering and his breathing to become less labored. Other thoughts jangled in his mind, raising goose bumps on his arms. She had often demonstrated the ability to crawl into his head, as if his public facade were a window rather than a mask. She had not learned anything from their meetings, either, for she did not connect him to Thornton. She gained her insight solely from his poetry.

Should he tell her? He had considered revealing himself to Merriweather the day he was quizzing the artist's solicitor. After a lifetime of furtive behavior, it had seemed a frightening step to take. But now it appeared less momentous. Knowing that she was hiding a secret identity of her own, he could trust her to remain quiet about it.

On the other hand, what would be the purpose?

His original intent had been to judge Merriweather's character. He did not like working with an unknown. The thought had been teasing his mind that he might turn his satirical series for Life in London into an illustrated book, but the libelous nature of some of his parodies would require absolute secrecy. Should he speak to Elaine about it?

This sudden urge to bare his soul to another—especially to a female—was shocking, but perhaps it was just a product of impatience. He longed to see what she had done with his poems. Or maybe it was a desire to continue the analysis she had started on Thornton's character. He had been amazed at her perspicacity, and more than a little frightened at the idea that others might also see as clearly.

Writing had begun as an emotional outlet when he was still so young he could barely hold a pen. Words that he never dared utter to his mother had poured out on paper, to be immediately consigned to the fire lest he be discovered. With time, the paper tales gained incisiveness, becoming exposés of her manipulative cruelty. And he wrote other stories whose characters embodied all the traits she lacked.

After he discovered a secret panel in the old wing, he saved his writings, reading former outpourings as another way to relieve stress. By the time he enrolled in Oxford, he had turned his pen to the oppressed of all classes and began selling his essays to newspapers. His command of language was such that he experimented with poetry, liking the structure that forced him to hone his ideas into precise images. But never had he believed that he was exposing his own core by doing so.

He was not ready for revelation, he decided, returning the books to a shelf. Such an act would risk pain. Not understanding himself in the least, he decided to remain anonymous.

Chapter Twelve

"Yes, Burgess?” Mark looked up from his book as the butler appeared in the library doorway.

“Mickey wishes to speak with you, my lord."

“Send him in.” The words were prosaic, and his demeanor remained unchanged, but it was surprising that the groom would seek him out. Stable problems fell under Freddie's purview.

His normally cheeky servant seemed oddly subdued to find himself inside the big house, but Mark soon realized that it was not the setting that was affecting the man's spirits.

Mickey dropped a wickedly barbed piece of metal on the desk. “Milord, I cain't say `ow it come to be there, but I found this under Ranger's saddle when I brung `im back this mornin'."

Mark fingered the piece. Three prongs protruded fully half an inch from one side of a triangular base. “I suppose the points were down.” Anger flicked through his voice.

“Yes, milord."

“Tell me about the preparations for this expedition,” he ordered softly.

“We was told to have the `orses ready at ten.” Mickey detailed what everyone had done to accomplish that. Two carriages were harnessed—Lord Carrington's traveling coach and Mr. Parrish's curricle—and five saddle horses.

“Was Ranger readied last?” asked Mark.

“Not quite. I `ad `im rigged out—though without cinchin' the saddle tight `cause I knew ye wasn't really goin'.” Mickey was the one whom Mark had asked to call him away before the party left; Freddie had been busy when Mark delivered the message. “Afore I could lead `im out to the yard, Mr. Parrish's bays spooked. It took four of us to calm `em down."

Mark smiled at the disgust in Mickey's voice. Harold was not known for his horsemanship. His seat was bad, his driving worse, and his judgment of horseflesh left him prey to every coper in the country. The bays were mismatched, ill trained, and nervous, jumping out of their skins at the tiniest sound.

“Who was helping calm the bays?"

Mickey frowned. “Me, Davie, Tom, an' Freddie."

“It would be more helpful to consider who was not helping,” decided Mark.

“Jem and Eddie. They was both saddling `orses."

“Jem works for Lord Carrington,” he mused, knowing the man well enough to discount any funny business in that quarter. “Who is Eddie's master?"

“Mr. Hardwicke. The lad's a good enough fellow, but a mite green."

“Was there any other time after you saddled Ranger that you were not with him?"

“Once. After we got the bays calmed, we brung all the `orses round front. I `ad to give Ranger over to Jem so's I could come discover the problem that kept you `ome. You sent t'others on their way, and I took Ranger back to the stable. He were a mite feisty by then, but I figured he just wanted some exercise. It was when I took off your saddle to put on mine that I found that thing. I'd a told you sooner, but you was gone."

“Thank you, Mickey. It is certainly not your fault, and no harm has been done. But it would be best not to mention this to anyone else until I know why. In the meantime, keep an eye on Eddie."

Mickey nodded and departed.

Mark paced slowly around the room, his mind churning in disgust. There was little doubt that Eddie had slipped the barb under his saddle. Since the man had no reason to dislike his host—Mark had never even met the groom—Hardwicke must have ordered the action. It would seem that Peter had talked himself into seeking revenge. That was the trouble with high-stakes card games. Losers rarely blamed themselves for their poor judgment.

He grimaced. At several points, he had tried to end the game, but Hardwicke had been belligerently foxed, claiming his luck was on the turn and that no gentleman would deny him a chance to recoup. The exorbitant side bets among the onlookers had made for an explosive situation. And so Mark had continued, unable to convince Hardwicke to write off the afternoon and go home. Short of deliberately losing, there had been no way to minimize the damage. Since allowing the lad to win would merely have encouraged him, Mark had had no choice but to continue, drinking little so as to maintain his wits as the stakes rose higher and higher. He had even accepted that last mad offer of double or nothing on a single cut of the deck. Utter stupidity, of course, but Hardwicke had been past all reason by then.

But this confirmed why the man had joined the house party. What would he try next? Tossing the barb into a drawer, he shook his head and left the library.

* * * *

The guests returned while Mark was in the stable checking on Ranger. Ten minutes later he headed back to the house, only to meet Mrs. Woodleigh when she rounded the corner of the terrace, not five feet away. He stifled a groan. She had not wasted a moment before tracking him down. Nor had the company stayed long in town.

“There you are, my love,” she purred, laying a possessive hand on his sleeve.

“Did you enjoy Bodmin?” he asked politely.

“How could we without you to show us the sights?” She smiled seductively up at him. “It was naughty of you to stay behind."

“Nothing of the sort.” He shrugged. “Problems must be dealt with immediately lest they turn serious. I warned you that I had too much work to be able to accommodate guests."

“But you promised to join us,” she pouted.

“The situation took longer to resolve than I expected. Besides, I know nothing of Bodmin. My cousin is a more knowledgeable guide."

“Your cousin is a bore, and not overly welcome in town. At least three people cut him. What happened to keep you here?"

“Nothing you need concern yourself about.” He pointedly removed her hand. “I am sure that there are refreshments in the drawing room. You must be thirsty after so long a drive."

“Merely hungry.” Her tone left no doubt for what.

“You will find ample sustenance inside,” he informed her in deliberate misunderstanding.

Her eyes narrowed. “It's that Thompson chit, isn't it?” she spat. “You have been ogling her like a moonling, for all she is nought but a dowdy ape-leader without the least sense of fashion or conversation. I notice she also stayed home today."

“She spent the day with my daughter,” he replied smoothly, consumed by fury and not sure why. He had always known Caroline was ill-bred. “Not that it is any of your business."

“Why not? Surely you cannot regard me as a stranger. You have always been pleased with me.” She gazed longingly into his eyes, her body pressed against his.

Mark pushed her away. “You are making a cake of yourself, Mrs. Woodleigh,” he said coldly. “Do not exaggerate your role in my life. Yes, you have pleased me—as much as any other casual liaison. But even the most delicious experiences pall with over-exposure. When you return to town, I suggest you find a new protector."

“But—"

“Never,” he stated implacably, interrupting before she could complete her protest. “When I marry again, it will be to a lady and not one of my courtesans."

She flushed painfully, for she had never considered herself in that light. “You misunderstood,” she said softly, but her eyes glittered with anger. “I only wish to please you."

“In that case, I need not fear another unpleasant scene.” He mastered his irritation, resuming the demeanor of the perfect host. “Tea will be waiting in the drawing room. I have business to attend to now, but will see you later."

“Until later,” she cooed, but her face was resigned. She had played and lost.

* * * *

Elaine caught the end of this exchange through the open dining room window. She shook her head, furious that he would continue his assignations in a house sheltering both respectable guests and his daughter. It was bad enough that his mistress was here at all.

Well, she wished them both to Hades. Mrs. Woodleigh had been positive that they would make a match of it, and it did not seem unlikely. Secure in righteous indignation, she refused to recognize her pain. And she had no time to think about it just now. Where was Burgess? Lucy had been sure the butler was in the dining room.

It took another five minutes to run him to ground, her increasing anxiety leaving her nearly frantic. It had been a long day.

After Bridgeport had left Lookout Peak, she had remained for nearly an hour, frozen in place. He was becoming dangerous to her peace of mind, actually invading her dreams just before dawn. She needed to leave, yet the arguments for staying remained as powerful as before. Nor would it do any good to retire to her cottage while he remained in the Manor. Not seeing him when he was so close would be worse.

Appalled at the direction her thoughts were taking, she had abandoned all hope of work, returning to the house in a state of confusion. Tossing her bag onto her bed, she went to visit Helen.

The girl was delighted to see her. Anne had developed one of her rare migraines and was resting. Helen showed off her progress in reading and math before bringing out her latest drawings. A happy two hours ensued, which allowed Elaine to thrust the confrontation with Bridgeport aside.

“How is Nana today?” she asked late in the afternoon. “Shall we visit her for a few minutes?"

“Please, let's do. She was still in terrible pain when I peeped in this morning. I hope she will heal soon."

“You must pray for her,” urged Elaine. “But you must also be realistic. A broken hip is a terrible injury, especially for the elderly. It is unlikely that she will ever walk again. The most we can hope for is that her pain will diminish so that she may someday be able to sit in a chair."

Tears trickled from Helen's eyes. “Does she know that?"

“No one will have said anything, but I doubt she could have lived this long without learning what the future must hold.” She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped the girl's face. “Don't cry, Helen. It would upset Nana to see you unhappy. I believe that you are old enough to know the truth, but reminding Nana will not be good for her."

Helen nodded. “I think I knew even before you told me,” she admitted. “But I did not like to picture it."

“Life is often unfair, but it is possible to deal with adversity and not allow it to break you. Once the pain eases, that is what Nana will do."

They walked hand in hand down the hall to the room where Nana would live out the last days of her life. A groan seeped through the door. Helen's eyes widened.

Elaine pushed her way into a scene of chaos. Nana thrashed weakly about in the bed, groaning every time she twisted her hip. The maid was trying ineffectively to hold the nurse down, but the girl was only fifteen and not very large.

“Fetch Mrs. Burgess,” Elaine ordered Helen. The child scurried away.

“Oh, miss, she's growing ever so hot!” sobbed the maid. “And she is so restless and unhappy. How can she stand this?"

“Calm down,” instructed Elaine. “I will hold her while you find water to sponge her off. We must get this fever down. Has she taken her medication?” Nana's skin was fiery red and burning to the touch.

“She is supposed to drink this for fever,” said the maid, holding out a glass. “But she refuses to swallow today."

“Find that water immediately,” commanded Elaine, lifting Nana's head. “Drink this, Miss Beddoes!” Her sharp tone seemed to do some good, for Nana managed to choke down most of the medication. Elaine tossed the sheets aside, loathe to countenance anything that might hold the terrible heat close to the nurse's body. She unbuttoned the gown and pushed it aside as well. Enormous bruises still mottled the skin.

“Lie still!” ordered Elaine as Nana twisted again. Accepting a cloth from the maid, she began bathing the heated body. “You do her head and face,” she suggested to the girl.

They had been at it for half an hour before Helen returned with Mrs. Burgess. The housekeeper's eyes widened at the sight of the nearly naked woman on the bed.

“Her fever is alarmingly high,” reported Elaine. “She managed to swallow the medication, but it seems to have done little but dull the pain."

“I will take over here,” declared Mrs. Burgess. “This is no place for a single lady.” She tested Nana's temperature and grimaced. “Send for the doctor."

“Immediately,” promised Elaine. “Helen, Miss Anne should feel better by now. Will you remain in your room until she comes to see you?"

“But—"

“I know you want to help, dear, but there is nothing you can do at the moment except pray. Mrs. Burgess will tell you what the doctor says.” She looked at the housekeeper who nodded in understanding.

And so Elaine had embarked on her frenzied search for someone to fetch the doctor, finally locating Burgess in a pantry. He was teaching the footmen how to polish silver, but immediately sent one of them running to the stables.

Deciding she had endured enough tension, Elaine eschewed the drawing room. A peaceful stroll in the gardens would better soothe her rattled nerves. It had been an exhausting day, from her meeting with Bridgeport on Lookout Peak, to the frantic fight against Nana's fever, to that suggestive exchange between the earl and Mrs. Woodleigh.

Why that last bothered her was something she refused to consider.

She rounded the corner of the terrace, only to face Bridgeport coming the other direction. They both paused in momentary surprise, barely ten feet apart. Before she could speak, a chunk of stone crashed to the ground between them. She screamed.

* * * *

Mark watched Mrs. Woodleigh disappear into the house, fury bubbling through his veins. He had known that she had designs on more than his body. Her proprietary behavior was one of the reasons he had decided to end their affair. Outside of bed, the woman had no redeeming virtues and cared only for his title and wealth.

But why should that bother him?

He frowned, trying to understand what was happening to him. He hardly knew himself anymore. Uncharacteristic thoughts seemed to be taking over his mind. Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced the terrace for several minutes. It was bad enough that he'd considered baring his innermost secrets to Merriweather. How could he explain changing his ideas about matrimony? Since when did he want a wife who cared for him? He would do nothing but bed the chit a few times. The last thing he needed was emotional involvement on either side.

Yet one of the reasons he was resisting Caroline was her focus on money. And what about Miss Throckmorton? His most pressing complaint with her was uneducated stupidity—the one attribute shared by all his previous fiancées.

He must have caught some strange malady. The wisest thing he could do was to forego all thought of marriage until he recovered his customary good sense. He headed for the library.

A moment later, he stopped in his tracks as a disheveled Elaine strode around the corner, her face also creased in thought. She looked like she had just engaged in a rambunctious wrestling match.

Pain suddenly seared his leg as a stone crashed onto the terrace between them.

She blanched and screamed.

“My God, are you all right?” he demanded, leaping forward to catch her before she could fall.

“Of course,” she gasped, but he could feel her shaking. “What happened?"

He glanced up to see a gap in the roof line. “One of the coping stones broke loose. Are you sure you are all right?"

“You may release me, my lord."

“If I do, you will collapse,” he observed, tightening his hold. “Come into the library."

* * * *

“Drink.” Not until Bridgeport shoved a glass into Elaine's hand did she realize that she was sitting in a chair with no recollection of how she had got there.

“Ugh!” The brandy tasted awful, but it warmed her lingering iciness and snapped her mind back into focus.

“One more sip."

“What happened?” she asked again after complying.

“A piece fell off the roof, nearly killing you. Were you hit?"

“No. Merely startled. How about you?"

His leg made its presence known, throbbing in sudden agony. “A chip must have winged me,” he admitted, noting for the first time that he was bleeding.

“And you did nothing for it? Idiot! Look after yourself. I do not need cosseting. Or are you using this as yet another excuse to force yourself on me?"

“I will impute your obvious hysteria to shock,” he snapped. “I would never force unwanted attentions on anyone. No gentleman would."

“There are very few gentlemen in the world, then,” she scoffed. “Including yourself. Do you really think I am blind to your stratagems, my lord? Despite my request that you cease your attentions, you continue your efforts to seduce me. My feelings and my reputation mean nothing to a libertine's mind, do they? All you think about is your own selfish plot. It matters not that you cared nothing for me. It matters not that you immediately married someone else. An arrogant, self-centered lord thinks of nought but himself, so you are bound to seek vengeance. And there is little I can do beyond begging that you reconsider. Perhaps you will realize how childish revenge is, and how unsatisfactory."

Tears stood in her eyes, the sight burning into Mark's conscience. “I have already done so,” he claimed, not entirely truthfully. “You may rest easy. I shan't force you into my bed. Shall we cry friends?"

She frowned. “Friendship is not something one consciously bestows. It either occurs naturally or not at all."

“Philosophy. You must be feeling better.” One hand brushed lightly across her shoulders to comfort her, but he quickly snatched it away. The touch was weakening his own knees. Apparently, three weeks of celibacy was scrambling his wits, and there was little he could do about it now that he had officially broken with Caroline.

“I am fine,” insisted Elaine again, suppressing a betraying shiver. “But I do not believe that stone fell on its own. I saw movement on the roof out of the corner of my eye. Whoever was up there must have seen me. If I had not stopped, I would have been under it."

“As would I, but do not let imagination run away with you, Miss Thompson. The place is falling to bits."

Of course, she castigated herself. Neither Mrs. Woodleigh nor Lady Means was desperate enough to kill her. But Bridgeport's enemies might be. “This has nothing to do with imagination. Mr. Hardwicke is muttering louder each day about fleecings, and staring daggers at you while he does it. I thought you said the rumors were false."

“They are, though the game with Peter can be twisted to support them. He backed me into a corner one afternoon, so I could not escape playing with him. He was drunk. I won. There was nothing dishonorable about it. It happens every day to someone."

“But it gives him a grievance."

“Fustian! He might try to embarrass me, but he is not the sort to attempt murder. At least half a dozen birds darted into the air when that piece fell. They are undoubtedly what you saw."

“Of course.” Elaine pulled herself together. Despite her disclaimer, she remained badly shaken, her condition worsened by his sincere concern, which penetrated her defenses more easily than his usual banter. His face twisted into a frown as he paced the room. Or was it pain? He was noticeably favoring one leg. “You are dripping blood all over the carpet,” she observed. “Let me look at that cut."

“Nonsense! It's my carpet. I can drip if I want to. Mrs. Burgess will bandage it later."

“She can't. Nana is worse, suffering a high fever that threatens her with convulsions. Mrs. Burgess is trying to bring it down and must remain there until the doctor arrives. The maids are no use at all."

“Is that why you are so disheveled?” he asked.

“How chivalrous of you to notice, my lord. But yes, I was with Nana for half an hour. Now sit down and quit being stubborn.” She pushed him into a chair, none too gently.

“You are a nuisance."

“And you are a mule.” She took out her handkerchief, already damp with Helen's tears, and dabbed at the cut on his leg. His pantaloons were ruined, so she ripped them to better examine his injury. “I suspect you will need stitches, though no more than two or three. You are fortunate. The cut is clean and will heal without problems as long as you do not aggravate it. Freddie can stitch it if you don't care to wait for the doctor. Have you a handkerchief? This one is past using."

He silently handed his over.

“Very good,” she said, making a pad and laying it on the wound. “Now give me your cravat."

“This is ridiculous,” he snorted.

“Which would you prefer, my lord?” she asked maliciously. “Leaving a trail of blood between here and your room, or sneaking up one flight of stairs without a cravat? I never pegged you for a dandy."

Still grumbling, he untied it and handed it over. Elaine knotted it in place and left without another word.

She should have curbed her outburst, but had not been able to summon the energy. His touch had burned clear to her soul, terrifying her far more than the falling stone. If she did not soon escape this house, he would win, and she would hate herself for all eternity.

Thoroughly drained, she headed for her room.

It wasn't until she had washed and changed into a clean gown that she realized her bag was not on the bed. But Lucy would not have straightened her room. The girl stayed belowstairs during the day.

Anger had not had time to take hold before she found the bag on the floor next to the dressing table. She frowned, trying to recall if she could have placed it there herself, but she was positive that she had left it on the bed.

It took no more than a minute to confirm her suspicions. The sketchbook was closed though she had shoved it hastily out of sight when Bridgeport appeared, and had not taken it out after he left, being too upset to think about work.

Someone had been in her room and had searched her things. Who could possibly have both the desire and the bad manners to do so?

* * * *

“You enjoyed the trip into Bodmin, then?” asked Elaine. She and Miss Westmont were sitting in the drawing room that evening, considerably apart from the others.

“Very much,” murmured Miss Westmont. “It is a charming town, though the setting is rather stark."

“The hills do seem to glower down,” agreed Elaine.

“Mr. Sedgestone has a wonderful bookshop. I found a volume on native plants that will make walks on the moor more interesting. I would have liked to remain longer, but the others were determined to return as quickly as possible."

Because Bridgeport had not accompanied them, suspected Elaine. “It is not a place likely to amuse London ladies,” she agreed quietly.

“Or gentlemen,” said Miss Westmont, but she was interrupted before she could explain her enigmatic comment.

“Are there other things to do around here?” Miss Throckmorton asked, joining them as the gentlemen arrived after a round of port.

“Yes, surely there must be interesting places to visit,” chimed in Mr. Taylor. He was spending more and more time at Miss Throckmorton's side.

“Not much,” admitted Elaine. “If you like ruins, there is Tintagel, of course, but the roads are so bad that an expedition requires a full day by carriage.” There were insufficient riding horses to mount all the guests.

“It might be worth a look,” said Lord Carrington. The isolated corner was now the focus of the room as more guests eschewed the comfort of the fireplace.

“Isn't that where King Arthur was born?” asked Miss Throckmorton.

“According to legend,” agreed Anne.

“Perhaps we can make a trip of it,” suggested Lady Means.

Elaine nodded. “There is a circle of stones called the Dancing Maidens near the Tintagel road that might also be interesting. Or it can be reached by riding into the moor from here. Shall we include that in the excursion?"

“I thought the Dancing Maidens were farther west.” Carrington sounded interested.

“You are thinking of the Merry Maidens, my lord. It is the most famous of Cornwall's circles. I've not seen it myself, though those who have are invariably impressed—nineteen stones rather than seven, and each considerably larger—but our own maidens are interesting."

“Why are they called maidens?” asked Mr. Taylor.

“It is probably a corruption of maedn, old Cornish for stone. But legend is more fun. The story claims that seven sisters slipped away in the dead of night to dance in the moonlight on a midsummer's eve. Worse, the clock turned round to Sunday while they capered on the moor, adding a more grievous sin to their disobedience. And so they were turned to stone, condemned to stand for all eternity as a warning.” She laughed. “It quite helps parents discipline their children."

“And you say these stones are on the way to Tintagel?"

“Yes. In fact, you can see them from Lookout Peak, though it is too far to walk from here,” warned Elaine.

“But you walk out there all the time,” Hardwicke said to Mark.

“To Lookout Peak,” agreed Mark. “That is only a couple of miles. But the maidens are another three beyond that.” Actually, they were inland, so the distance was not that far, but he had no interest in leading a walking tour of the moor.

Talk returned to the expedition to Tintagel, which was set for four days hence, weather permitting.

Chapter Thirteen

Elaine awoke to a foggy dawn. She had thrashed around for fully half the night, then found her sleep tormented by nightmares. None of the details were clear now, but despite the early hour she feared to try again. Instead, she donned a dressing gown, pulled out her sketchbook and drawing board, and set to work on Thornton's last illustration. Three hours later she nodded her head in satisfaction. It would do.

The job was complete. In a state of euphoria, she pulled on her cloak and indulged in an energetic walk along the cliff path. The morning sun had burned away the earlier fog, leaving the air clear. Gulls rose in shrieking clouds as she approached, to settle, grumbling, back in place once she had passed. Two seals played tag just offshore, their antics widening the smile on her face. In charity with the world, she turned back to the Manor.

But her good humor waned when she entered the hall. The first person she ran into was Bridgeport. Despite his vow of friendship, she was uncomfortable in his presence. Her own growing attraction could no longer be ignored.

“Good morning, my lord,” she murmured, intending to return to her room.

“Have you already been out for a walk, Miss Thompson?” He smiled. “I envy you that. I have just come from visiting Miss Beddoes."

The words halted Elaine in her tracks. She looked up into green eyes that were much too close for comfort. “How is she?"

“Worse, I fear. Dr. Martin arrived after you had retired for the night, but he does not hold out much hope. The hip is infected."

“Poor Helen,” replied Elaine with a shake of her head. “She will be heartbroken when the end arrives.” At the earl's questioning stare, she continued. “Miss Beddoes is the only mother she has ever known. In the last two years, their roles have been nearly reversed, with Helen looking after the nurse. There is a very strong attachment there."

“Of course.” He frowned. “I hope her governess arrives soon. The more people she has to comfort her, the easier it will be."

“Perhaps.” She did not believe that a stranger would be able to offer any support. On the other hand, if the woman arrived soon enough, perhaps Helen would develop some rapport with her before the inevitable end. “Did Dr. Martin see after your own injury?"

He nodded. “As expected, it is nothing. I am on my way to collect Helen for another riding lesson. Will you join us?” The invitation was prosaic but his eyes gleamed warmly.

“Not today, my lord,” she managed to reply calmly. “I have some business with Mrs. Burgess this morning.” She needed to discover when someone would next travel to Bodmin for supplies. If it was soon, she could ride along and arrange for Mr. Holyoke to send the illustrations to Murray. If not, she must make her own plans.

“I have been remiss in not offering thanks for organizing this gathering so efficiently, my dear. I don't know how I could have managed without you.” He raised her hand to his lips, the touch sending shivers down her spine, for neither of them was wearing gloves. His eyes burned into hers.

“You are mistaken,” she protested. “I have done nothing. And how quickly you forget your own fair words. If you truly wish for friendship you should practice acting less like a rake."

Pulling her hand from his, she turned toward the stairs. Insufferable man! How could he expect her to believe his flirting? No country dowd could attract him when he had Mrs. Woodleigh to warm his nights.

Too far away to overhear their words, Mr. Hardwicke nevertheless saw that intimate caress and noted the look in Bridgeport's eyes. His passion for revenge burned all the hotter after his failure, and he meant to embarrass the earl as much as possible. Stealing the man's current mistress would strike a suitable blow to that puffed up lord. No woman had ever broken off an affair with the fellow.

Consequently, he haunted the house, shrugging off a suggestion by Lord Means that he join the gentlemen for a morning ride. Two hours later, his vigilance was rewarded when Miss Thompson headed for the secluded workroom where every day she arranged the flowers used in the dining and drawing rooms. He checked to see that no one was in the vicinity, then followed.

“My dear Miss Thompson,” he began smoothly, stopping in the doorway so she had no exit from the room. “You are looking remarkably beautiful today.” Her dark hair glowed mysteriously in the uncertain light of the workroom, turning her eyes to translucent gray. The unfashionable gown did little to hide her curvaceous figure.

Elaine frowned. “Did you want something, Mr. Hardwicke?"

“I have admired your floral artistry ever since we arrived,” he continued, smiling warmly. “It is such a pleasure to find someone who makes the most of the unique shape of each stalk instead of indiscriminately stuffing them into the nearest container."

“Thank you, sir.” She turned her attention to her work, hoping he would take the hint and leave. The treacly voice and insincerity were disturbing, and the gleam in his eyes made her nervous.

“Such clever fingers,” he noted, the seductive tone making his meaning all too clear. “Long and slender. An elegant hand, capable of so much more than arranging the day's flowers."

“Lord Bridgeport is in the library,” she suggested, finished an arrangement and beginning another. “He will doubtless welcome company."

“But I have no interest in speaking with him,” he said softly.

Alarmed, Elaine realized that he was no longer propped against the wall. The door clicked shut as he scrutinized her arrangement—by sidling around the table.

“I have work to do and must ask you to leave, sir,” she said frigidly, torn between fleeing in panic and forcing him to give up his game, whatever it was.

“But I have no wish to leave.” His implacable voice told her too late that she had underestimated her danger. His movement had already trapped her in a corner. Waves of tension radiated from him, though her terrified mind could detect no hint of either lust or attraction. He picked up her icy hand and made as if to kiss it.

“Your conduct is offensive,” she snapped, trying unsuccessfully to pull away. But his grasp tightened, his other arm whipping around her shoulders to pull her into an iron embrace.

“Come now, Miss Thompson. Don't play coy. You will find me just as accomplished as your current protector, and even more lavish."

“Let go!” Her free hand slapped his cheek hard enough to snap his head to one side.

His leer changed to fury. “You will pay for that, my country vixen,” he growled, twisting one arm behind her and making an unsuccessful grab for the other. “It is not fair that Bridgeport keeps two doxies when there is not even a chambermaid for the rest of us."

“You must be drunk,” she panted, thrashing uselessly as he pulled her tighter against him. “No gentleman would attack a lady!” She twisted her head to avoid his kiss and spotted the shears still lying on the table. If only she could reach them! Easing her posture, she relaxed into his embrace in apparent capitulation. She could feel his triumph as one hand shifted to her breast. Panic engulfed her but she let him force her onto the worktable, then reached out with her free hand.

“Damned wench!” he gasped as the scissors dug into his side.

She jabbed harder until he rolled off, allowing her to jump out of reach. “Get out!"

“Never!” he swore. “No country slut will get the best of me."

“I don't know where you got these ridiculous ideas, but you are wrong,” she gasped, tears springing to her eyes.

“You needn't bother perjuring yourself,” he spat. “Everyone knows you are one of Bridgeport's whores. He is never faithful to his women, so why should you be.” He was inching closer as he spoke, taking advantage of her paralyzing shock to grab the shears.

“I always suspected you were stupid, Hardwicke, but this proves it,” drawled the Earl of Bridgeport from the newly opened door.

Hardwicke whirled, his color draining so fast he swayed. The shears ricocheted off the wall to land at the earl's feet. Sobbing, Elaine collapsed onto a chair.

“You cannot deny the truth,” shouted Hardwicke, launching an attack on the earl.

Bridgeport sidestepped, landing quick punches to the jaw and stomach that crumpled Hardwicke to the floor. “No, I cannot. The Honorable Miss Thompson is the innocent daughter of a viscount and the epitome of propriety. I will tolerate no one—especially an uninvited guest—abusing her or any other person residing under my roof. Is that clear?"

Looming over Peter like a gargoyle, the earl grabbed the man's cravat in one fist, and yanked him to his feet.

Hardwicke nodded.

“Very well,” said Bridgeport, stepping back. “You will apologize for your ungentlemanly behavior, then you will take yourself off for the rest of the day. If I note the slightest sign that you are stepping out of line again, you will leave."

Hardwicke flushed under the earl's steely glare. “My apologies, Miss Thompson. I cannot explain what came over me. My behavior was offensive and unforgivable. I can only pray you will ignore it and try to forget it ever happened."

She nodded, but could not bring herself to speak to him.

Hardwicke bolted from the room.

“Are you all right?” asked Bridgeport softly.

“Yes, my lord.” But tears streaked her cheeks and she was visibly shaking.

“He shan't touch you again,” Mark promised, squatting down to wipe her face with his handkerchief. But the tears would not stop, nor could she stifle the sobs that now filled the room.

“Everything is all right,” he crooned, pulling her into his arms so that she could muffle the sound against his shoulder. It was odd to be offering comfort to a weeping female, for it was something he had never before done. Never had he cared enough to bother.

Minutes passed before she pulled back and finished mopping her face. Mark paced the room several times to give her time to regain her composure.

Elaine folded the earl's damp handkerchief into a neat square.

“Forgive me, my lord. I am not usually such a watering pot."

“There is nothing to forgive.” Actually, she had handled the attack far better than he would have predicted. Most ladies would have long since succumbed to hysterics—those who had not swooned dead away. “Let me apologize again for his disgusting behavior,” begged Bridgeport. “I suspect that this was another attempt to irritate me."

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” she demanded. “He only attacked me to avenge himself on you. How flattering! If you knew his plans, why did you not stop him earlier, or at least warn me of his intentions? You cannot claim ignorance, for you admitted yesterday that he is trying to embarrass you. His interest certainly did not spring up overnight. He has been leering at me since he arrived. Two days ago he trapped me in the pantry. And it is all your fault! He only believes that attacking me would annoy you because of your dishonorable campaign to seduce me yourself!” Tears again flowed freely. She turned away to lean her head against the wall while she fought to regain control.

“My God! I had no idea,” he protested, though his conscience was already rising up to flail him with the truth of her words. “Why did you not tell me he was annoying you?"

“What good would that do? His behavior is no worse than yours and that of your other friends. Witness how Lord Means is stalking Anne."

“I had not noticed,” he admitted. “But I certainly do not condone it."

“Do not add new lies to the old, Lord Bridgeport,” she begged, sniffing loudly into his handkerchief.

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her around so that she was forced to meet his eyes. “I never meant to hurt you, Elaine,” he lied.

“Do not take me for a flat, my lord. That may have been true in London, but can you swear by your honor as a gentleman that it is true now? You have had your fun, and you have ruined my life. There is no way I can ever hold my head up in this area again. I will have to find a new home."

“Now you are growing hysterical. What nonsense is this?” he demanded, shaking her.

“Do you truly believe that Hardwicke's words will not spread outside of the house? How naďve."

“Nonsense. There was no one anywhere near this room, and I certainly will not repeat his lies to others."

“You are as blinkered as a London cart horse. Are you really so ignorant? Your behavior has convinced your guests that I am your doxy. The servants must have heard the talk. If you think word has not already spread, you are living in a fantasy world. The Burgesses might be loyal enough to keep their mouths closed, but those you brought in from Bodmin know nothing about me and have no reason for silence."

Tears again shone in her eyes, twisting a knife into Bridgeport's heart. While it was true that he had wanted to hurt her, publicly degrading her was a act he had never contemplated. Nor was driving her from her home. She appeared so vulnerable, so broken by Hardwicke's attack. Without thought, he lowered his head and took her mouth in a gentle kiss.

Elaine was so shocked, that all thought froze.

He pulled her closer, fitting her comfortably against him as her lips softened, responding to the pressure of his own. His last coherent thought was one of wonder—at sweet innocence, pliant lips, and arching body. The kiss deepened, sending excitement racing along his nerves and tightening his loins.

After the emotional havoc of the last half hour, Elaine's senses were numbed. But not for long. Bridgeport's lips were warm and gentle, stroking lingeringly across hers. A comforting hand slid down her back, smoothing away tension and fear.

But before she had even registered tranquility, his kiss changed. As did his touch. His lips parted, allowing his tongue to lap at her mouth. Shocking heat followed the path of insistent hands, swirling excitement into her weary brain that drove the last remnants of reason into hiding. She arched into him, seeking more and closer contact.

Not until his groin hardened did she come out of her trance. Jerking away in horror, Elaine slapped him.

“Still bent on seduction, I see,” she snapped with loathing. “Does nothing matter to you but your own selfish desires?"

Mark was reeling with far more than the force of her hand. “Forgive me, Elaine,” he begged. “I don't know what came over me."

“Obtuse, aren't you? And you one of London's premier rakes! Nor do you have permission to use my name."

Bridgeport grimaced. “Dear God, what have I done? My conscience has a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain,” he quoted sadly, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

“Mayhap you should listen to them. You might learn something useful."

“No author?” he teased with a sudden smile.

“I am in no mood for games today, Lord Bridgeport, but if you insist—Shakespeare, King Richard III, though I may be wrong about that last. My thinking is muddled at the moment."

His eyes gleamed.

“Lecher!,” she snapped. “Two assaults in the space of an hour would confuse anyone."

“My pardon, and your source is correct. But I am a cad of the worst sort, as you so rightly pointed out. All I can do is plead temporary insanity. It is true that I childishly sought revenge for the embarrassment you caused me so long ago. And it is true that I did not consider the ultimate effect of carrying out so dishonorable a course in front of others. So much attention was bound to cause talk and damage your reputation. A grain of sand, a tuft of hay, / the mighty oak erodes away."

“Thornton's `The Wind,'” she identified wearily.

“I never intended seduction, only some private distress. Yet I have ruined you even more than if your suspicions were correct,” he admitted ruefully. “There is but one way I can rectify things. You must accept my hand in marriage."

Elaine stared, her mind again whirling in shock. “Thus speaks the arrogant lord. However unscrupulous your actions, you can repair all harm by tossing a sop to the victim. You belong in Bedlam! Do you really expect me to give up my freedom for the dubious pleasure of incarcerating myself on one of your estates? If I must leave here, so be it. But I will do so under my own power and in my own way. Good day, my lord earl. Please be so kind as to leave me alone.” She swept from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Flowers lay scattered across table and floor, mute testimony to the chaos that had raged.

Mark stared for a long time, finally gathering the blooms and thrusting them into a container of water. It was ridiculous to feel either hurt or empty at her rejection. He certainly deserved no better.

Yet he could not help himself. Twice he had offered his hand. Twice she had preferred to build a new life, giving up all that she had known. At least this time she had the means to support herself.

* * * *

Elaine threw herself across her bed and indulged in another lengthy bout of tears. It was shameful to react so strongly, but the shocks had piled atop one another so rapidly that she had been unable to deal with them.

She frowned as Bridgeport's words echoed in her ears. Not his proposal, which had been grudgingly offered and spurned without thought, but the quote from `The Wind.' It was one of the verses that would appear in Thornton's third volume, and there was only one way he could know it. It must have been he who had searched her room. Though not one of the poems that she was illustrating, the text was in her work bag.

She scanned her papers to be sure. It was there. But if Bridgeport had searched the bag, he would also have seen the sketchbook that contained ideas and abortive layouts for the drawings she had completed while at the Manor.

She paced the room in agitation. This placed her in far more danger than any of his seduction plots. What could she do? If she included them in the completed work, Bridgeport might recognize them—would certainly recognize them.

There was no hope that he might not see the book. It was precisely the sort of thing he was sure to read. It gave him yet another sword he could hold over her head—this one all too real. All he had to do to reap his revenge was tell Murray who M. E. Merriweather really was, and she could say good-bye to any hope of supporting herself. Even if Murray continued to buy her talent, he would never pay a mere woman as much as he had offered Mr. Merriweather.

There was only one chance. She would have to choose different poems and discard these illustrations. Or perhaps she had enough without them. Would he spot the similarities in style between Merriweather and herself? Helen had. Not having met the girl's mother, Elaine had no idea which parent had contributed her creativity and eye for form.

But it was pointless to worry about Bridgeport's eye. There was nothing she could do about it short of refusing the commission entirely, and that would guarantee that she never got another job as an illustrator. She sighed.

In the meantime, she must act as if nothing had happened. There were flowers to arrange and guests to look after; snide remarks to ignore and lecherous plots to deflect. What a wonderful prospect. How far she had fallen from her morning euphoria!

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” exclaimed Mrs. Woodleigh, who was in the hall when Elaine left her room. “You must have had a rough night.” The suggestive voice made the insinuation clear.

Willing herself not to blush, Elaine kept her face rigidly composed. “Yes, it was rather long. Miss Beddoes is worse, and the doctor was unable to get here until after midnight."

That silenced Mrs. Woodleigh, but Elaine could not stand another minute in the house. Having to deal with catty females was bad enough in the drawing room. Turning her footsteps to the nursery, she offered to take Helen out on the moor to practice her sketching.

It wasn't until they were ensconced on the lawn before the cave that Elaine realized why Mrs. Woodleigh had attacked her. The woman must have spent the night alone and was now lashing out at the one she suspected of supplanting her in Bridgeport's arms. First Hardwicke, and now Mrs. Woodleigh. It was only a matter of time before Elaine felt the censure of the other guests. She had to escape.

“This gull is ugly,” complained Helen, drawing Elaine's attention to the girl.

“He just looks a little skinny,” observed Elaine. “Why don't you try to puff out his chest a bit."

Helen added a few lines and giggled. “Now he looks like a pouter pigeon. Mr. Jacobs at home raises pigeons. He has all kinds of funny-looking ones, but the pouters are my favorites. They stick out so far they ought to fall over. Papa says many of the dandies in town look like that too."

“I am sure they do. Both your cousin Harold and Mr. Taylor are dandies. Have you noticed how the cut of their clothes, those ridiculous cravats that force their heads back, and the ruffles on their shirts make their chests protrude a prodigious amount?"

“And the funny way they walk,” added Helen, succumbing to laughter.

Elaine smiled. “That is called mincing. Tight clothes prohibit anything else, especially when they cinch their waists in so much they can hardly breathe."

“Papa doesn't dress like that."

“No. He is what is called a Corinthian. That is a sportsman. Corinthians appreciate clothes that allow them to move freely.” Bridgeport would undoubtedly prefer to dress himself after his nightly indulgences, she realized—and promptly blushed. To cover her confusion, she continued talking. “Corinthians also like more sober colors—browns, blues, blacks, the darker greens, wine reds—instead of the lavenders and pinks Mr. Taylor wears or the turquoise coats and brightly embroidered waistcoats of Mr. Parrish. You can watch dandies sauntering through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour whenever it doesn't rain."

“I must go see them. Papa says there are fun things to do in London,” confided Helen. “He promised I can go with him when he returns. And if I am very good and learn to ride well, he will take me to Astley's to see the horses, and to the Tower to see the other animals. Have you ever been there?"

Had Bridgeport really proposed such a thing? wondered a shocked Elaine as she answered questions about her brief stay in town. It was out of character for the man. The image of the libertine lord showing his young daughter the sights boggled her mind. But she hoped he would carry through with the promise, for she did not wish Helen to be hurt.

Chapter Fourteen

Burgess found Mark studying an estate ledger in the library. Bowles had just departed following another unsatisfactory discussion. After only a fortnight in Cornwall, Mark knew more about Treselyan Manor than the steward did.

“Mrs. Hedges and Miss Paddington have called, my lord,” announced the butler.

“Good Lord! What the devil are they doing here?” He was in no mood to entertain guests—especially the local gossips. The entire day had been nothing but problems—urgently needed stable repairs, inbred sheep flocks, new complaints about service, Hardwicke's attack on Elaine

No! He refused to think about that until he could explain his own actions.

“I have placed them in the drawing room,” intoned Burgess, ignoring his employer's ferocious scowl.

Mark sighed. “Very well, Burgess. Make sure refreshments are served."

Would he ever forget the squire's dinner party? Miss Paddington was a twittery old bird like so many country spinsters, but Mrs. Hedges reminded him all too much of Lady Beatrice. She already believed him to be a murdering, cheating reprobate. If Elaine was right—and he had no reason to doubt her outburst—the lady would have heard rumors that he had ruined Miss Thompson. Given the ill-assorted group gathered at the Manor, there would be even more fodder for her acid tongue if he did not remain on his toes.

He smiled as he entered the drawing room, determined to play the role of an unexceptionable host. Miss Becklin and Miss Westmont were already there. Lady Means and Mr. Hardwicke followed close behind him. “Good afternoon, ladies. This is a pleasant surprise."

“Hardly a surprise,” denied Mrs. Hedges. “It has been a week since we have seen our dear Miss Becklin. We had to call and discover how she is getting on.” But the way her eyes devoured both the room and the house guests repudiated her statement.

Several others arrived, and Mark made introductions. Elaine appeared just ahead of the tea tray, Burgess setting it before her. Mrs. Hedges took in this evidence of her position in the house with gleaming eyes.

“Has Tom Bennett recovered from his accident?” Elaine asked Mrs. Hedges as she poured out tea.

“Nearly, though he still cannot understand how that path became so unstable. Mrs. Sutton claims that her husband had been over that same section only the day before—and he must weigh nearly twice as much."

“That does seem rather strange, but perhaps Tom was walking closer to the edge,” suggested Elaine, though the path was quite narrow at that particular spot.

“Hmph!” snorted Mrs. Hedges, then turned the subject. “That silly Lisa Smith is calling banns this week."

“Heavens! She is hardly a day over fifteen."

“Old enough to get herself in an interesting condition!” stated the gossip.

“No! I cannot believe it of her."

“Why else would she up and wed so suddenly? And at her age, too!"

“Who is her beau?” Elaine asked.

“The lad who delivers supplies to the Merry Mermaid."

“I should have known."

“Do you mean you knew of her assignations and never warned her parents?” demanded Mrs. Hedges loudly, attracting every eye in the room.

“What assignation?” countered Elaine. “Roger Anderson is Lisa's second cousin. Their families discussed a match two years ago, postponing the decision until she was old enough to wed. Surely you knew the lad took bread with them every trip."

“Well, yes,” admitted Mrs. Hedges. “But what can they be thinking of to marry off the girl so young?"

“Probably that Roger is able to support a wife, while feeding a growing daughter on a dwindling income gets more difficult each year."

Elaine turned the conversation to the injury suffered by Miss Paddington's cat, determinedly keeping the talk on local matters for twice the half-hour that local custom allowed for calls. Anne and Miss Westmont were entertaining Miss Paddington with tales of Helen's exploits and Miss Beddoes's injury. The other house guests broke into groups to talk amongst themselves. Lady Means was looking peevish, probably because both Miss Throckmorton and Mr. Taylor were absent.

Mrs. Hedges finally showed signs of leaving, and Elaine was congratulating herself on surviving the gossip's scrutiny, when Mr. Parrish let out an affected laugh.

“Oh, the Curst Lord! My cousin got that nickname in quite another way,” he lisped, still laughing at Mr. Hardwicke and Lord Means. Carrington tried to say something, but Harold overrode his voice. “He is under a curse, sure enough, but it does not affect the rest of the family. Miss Thompson cast the spell on him when she left him standing at the altar, and it has worsened every year since. His wife died producing a puny girl. His next betrothed was killed by a runaway barrel a week before the wedding. The most recent eloped with a soldier rather than marry him, only to die of a fever within a month of reaching Spain. He'll never produce an heir now. They say four girls turned him down, fearing for their lives!"

Mark was fighting to keep the anger from his face. Carrington glanced nervously between the earl and Parrish. It was too late to silence him, and the mixture of half-truths and lies had already achieved results.

Mrs. Hedges rose to her full height, her chest swelling with indignation as her maliciously gleaming eyes darted from face to face. “Such scandalous behavior comes as no surprise to me,” she flung at Elaine. “I always suspected there was something unspeakable in your background. No proper lady would have shown up here with nought but a half-grown child as a companion, and no proper lady would ever wander around unchaperoned the way you do. So you ran away from your marriage! In my day such behavior would never have been tolerated.” She blazed a look of pure venom at Anne.

Elaine could feel her contempt, but she refused to say a word. She had suspected that it would be necessary to leave, and now she was sure.

“Come, Emily,” commanded the gossip, her voice drawing Miss Paddington unwillingly to her side. “The stories are obviously true. We must leave before our own reputations are besmirched by this collection of libertines and fallen women. If they dare not remain in London during the Season, they must be bad indeed."

Shock appeared on more than one face, but the two women had already swept from the room. Elaine noted that Anne seemed on the verge of a swoon.

“How dare she pass judgment on her betters!” gasped Mrs. Woodleigh.

“The woman is nothing but a country bore,” decided Lady Means with a snort.

“I am amazed you let the harpy in the house!” thundered Lord Means.

“Are you all right?” Carrington quietly asked a white-faced Mark. “Perhaps you should try a glass of wine.” Outraged commentary swirled about them.

“Why would Harold toss that out now?” murmured Mark to himself. “Was it carelessness or was he deliberately trying to harm Miss Thompson?"

“He cares for no one but himself and would give no thought to her,” Richard reminded him. “I suspect he was trying to embarrass you by ripping up your character in front of the locals."

“I was afraid of that. But it wasn't me he hurt.” He circled the room, trying to gauge the effect of the contretemps. Lady Means and Mrs. Woodleigh were furious to be labeled fallen women. Hardwicke was looking nervous, as if he expected Mark to blame him for Harold's diatribe. Miss Westmont had already helped Anne upstairs. Elaine might have been turned to stone. He wanted to comfort her, but any attention could only make matters worse. When the other guests began to drift away, he did likewise, drawing Harold into the library.

“That was a despicable demonstration of a small and malicious mind,” he stated once the door was shut.

“Trying to keep your mortification a secret, cousin?” taunted Harold. “Why should the world not know that the myth you have built around yourself hides a heart so black no woman will willingly wed you."

“I care not one whit what the locals think of me, Harold,” said Mark, his eyes blazing with enough fury to make his cousin pale. “I am rarely here, so their opinions mean nothing. What I cannot forgive is the way you callously play with others. Your pointless diatribe accomplished nothing but devastating one lady and badly injuring another. Does it give you pleasure to harm innocent bystanders?"

“Innocent bystanders? The wench jilted you. She deserves no better."

“Severance from society is punishment enough, don't you think? She has spent eight years here already. But how do you explain hurting Miss Becklin? She had nothing to do with ending my betrothal, nor did she know anything of it until after the fact. Yet she must also suffer for your irresponsibility. How long do you think she can stay here now that Mrs. Hedges has turned against her?"

“So set her up somewhere else.” He turned toward the door.

Mark slammed a fist into Harold's jaw, holding him on his feet with his other hand. “I might have known you would have no heart at all. What gives you the right to judge others? My affairs are none of your concern, Cousin. And I have had more than enough of your spiteful tongue. You would be happier returning to your own estate."

“Later, perhaps.” Harold shrugged, pulling away and making an elaborate production of smoothing his coat and picking lint from the sleeve Mark had touched. “I told you in London that the dibs were not in tune. It suits me to stay here for the nonce—unless you would care to consider that loan we discussed earlier."

“I never finance a sure loser,” Mark reminded him. He paused to regain control of his temper. There was nothing either of them could do to retrieve Elaine's reputation. Calling his cousin out would provide personal satisfaction—though little sport—but he could not kill the man, and defeating him would just hand him another grievance. He recalled his earlier thoughts on Harold's problems. “I might consider investing in your estate, however, provided you make an effort to improve its productivity. As collateral, I would require a new steward of my choosing, an improved crop rotation plan, and a trustee to guarantee that the money is used to address problems and not finance your profligacy."

“You might as well demand I hand over the estate right now,” he sulked.

“No, for then you would have no assets at all. If you stay away from the tables and rebuild, you could recoup your fortunes within ten years even without my help. Think about it."

Mark frowned once Harold left. It was unlikely that the offer would be accepted, but he had to make it.

His mind returned to the scene in the drawing room. The blame must be laid at his own door. Elaine was right. His attentions had spawned rumors from small-minded people like Caroline and Harold, rumors Mrs. Hedges must have heard. Revealing that Elaine had jilted a lord made those rumors seem credible, for it was a short step in a gossiping mind between a breach of manners and gross impropriety. If it ever came out that Elaine was supporting herself as an illustrator, she would be forever beyond the pale, for artists were always suspected of loose morals.

So what could he do?

He had ruined her life. His attentions and his cousin had expelled her from local society. She had already turned down another offer of marriage. He would ask again, of course, but given her reaction that morning and her earlier oath to never wed, he doubted she would accept. Perhaps she would allow him to help her relocate. Or it might be better to pull strings so that M. E. Merriweather received a steady stream of well-paid work.

He was still mulling options when he collected Helen for the ride he had promised during her morning lesson.

“Let's go out to the Dancing Maidens,” she begged. “I have not seen them, and I have already been along the cliff today."

“You have?” He was surprised that she had been out.

“Miss Elaine took me up to the cave so we could draw this morning. I wish all these people would leave. She does not have as much time for me since they got here."

“That is the way of the world, Helen,” he reminded her. “When you grow up, you will discover that adults have many activities that do not include children."

“Miss Becklin tells me that, too.” She sighed. “I wish it would happen soon. I do so like to be with grown-ups."

“You will have a new grown-up to be with very soon,” he said. “Your governess will arrive any day now."

She frowned. “I wish Miss Becklin could be my governess."

“She is a delightful lady, but it is not possible."

“I know. She will be getting married soon, but I wish I could stay with her. She tells the most delightful stories."

“I had not heard of her engagement,” said Mark with a sinking feeling. “Do you know who she will wed?"

“Mr. Reeves, the vicar. They have had an understanding for two years, but Miss Becklin did not like to leave Miss Elaine alone."

Mark digested this in silence. Was she waiting for Elaine's income to increase, or for her to grow old enough to live without a chaperone? Either way, her actions were unexpected. Not many people would sacrifice their own lives for someone who was not even related.

Elaine was lucky to have had Anne to run to when she fled London. But what would the lady do now? Would Harold's careless words put her betrothal in jeopardy?

Perhaps the vicar was firm enough in his attachment that he would not heed malicious gossip, but how could a vicar's wife expect to assist her husband in so small a community if Mrs. Hedges and others decided her character was lacking? Mark would have to speak to the vicar. Maybe he could arrange a living elsewhere. Or he might have to take on Mrs. Hedges and defeat her. Surely the lady had a weakness.

“I heard the most famous argument yesterday,” trilled Helen, breaking into his thoughts.

“Eavesdropping is not considered a virtue,” he dutifully intoned.

“I could not help it. I was in bed for the night, and they were right under my window. Lady Means was yelling at her husband, demanding that they leave because the service is so bad here. But he refused, saying something about drowning in a river and having to get rid of Lucinda. What do you suppose he meant by that?"

“Drowning in the River Tick is an expression that means he is deeply in debt. One way to recover is to visit friends, for that reduces his expenses."

“Oh, like outrunning the constable,” said Helen in understanding. “That is what Cousin Harold is doing. And Mr. Hardwicke is dodging dumps."

“Duns,” corrected Mark, hiding a smile.

“Dodging duns. What is a dun?"

“It is a reminder that a person has not yet paid for something."

“Is dodging duns worse than not having a feather to fly with?"

“Yes, I suppose it is."

“I heard Lucy describe Mrs. Woodleigh like that. She is looking for a husband to pay her bills. Are all the people here having money trouble?"

“You are too knowing, little one.” He smiled indulgently at his daughter. “But the answer is no. Lord Carrington has no need to outrun anyone."

“I know that. He is your friend, so he doesn't really count as a guest. Cousin Harold certainly is not a friend."

“What does that mean?"

“He looks at you the same way Freddie looks at a rat. He found one in the stable yesterday and killed it dead. He would not let me watch, though. He says that killing is not suitable entertainment for a lady, even when the victim is a pest. I think he needs a new cat. His best mouser disappeared last week. He says she is gone for good, but Mickey claims she is off having kittens. Do you think she might be? She was not particularly fat."

“I'm afraid I did not notice the stable cat,” he said solemnly, trying not to break into laughter at her delightful chatter.

“Yes, you seldom see anything but the horses. Lord Carrington is the same. Oh, look, there are the Dancing Maidens. Miss Elaine says that some people believe they were young ladies who disobeyed their mothers and stayed out too late. For punishment, they were turned into stones to remind other girls to follow the rules."

He suppressed a smile. “Be sure you do then."

“I am most careful to always return home before dinner,” she said with a grin. “I would not want to spend eternity frozen on the moor."

“Good."

They paused to rest in the stone circle, though Helen showed no signs of weariness. She darted in and out, criticized the stones' unmaidenly shapes, picked seven varieties of wildflowers, and then amazed her father by telling him the name and uses of each one. By the time they remounted and turned the horses back toward the house, Mark was pleasantly exhausted.

Helen continued to chatter about all manner of things. He was surprised to find that he not only did not mind, he actually enjoyed being with her. She had a quick wit and a keen intelligence, neither of which she could possibly have inherited from her mother. After only a fortnight of formal instruction, she had already expanded her knowledge to prodigious levels.

* * * *

“What am I going to do?” Elaine asked, dropping into a chair by the fireplace in Anne's room. “Mrs. Hedges will never let this drop. She has been looking for a scandal in my background since I refused to divulge the aristocratic connections she was convinced I had."

“You are right, of course. She is jealous of a pretty young girl, and that is worse now that everyone else admires you so much. She is a stickler for propriety, and does not consider me to be enough your senior to count as a proper chaperone. Knowing you jilted a lord is just the ammunition she has been seeking. Frankly, I am amazed we have kept your artistic endeavors a secret for all these years."

“It is worse than just the jilt,” said Elaine with a sigh. “Bridgeport's attentions have convinced the lower-minded members of this party that I am his latest conquest. Rumors to that effect must have made it to the village, judging from her parting words."

“Oh, no!"

“Oh, yes. So what am I to do? I cannot move too far from Bodmin, for Mr. Holyoke is my only connection to Mr. Murray. There is little chance of developing another. Most men feel too threatened by the idea of female competence to consider helping one, no matter how remote a threat she poses to them. Yet I cannot stay in the area. There is no way to ignore ostracism in a community this size."

“It might be better to stay here and face her down. If you explain the truth to Squire Sutton, his backing could help. Julius would also stand behind you, as would Sir Jeremiah. Many people dislike Mrs. Hedges enough that they would support you no matter what the facts. There would be several months of unpleasantness, but in the end, you are bound to win."

“And that would help you, as well,” agreed Elaine slowly. “This rumor must be exposed for the falsehood it is if you are to be happy with Mr. Reeves."

Anne sighed. “There is little enough scandal to attach to me, so you need not worry about that. It might even enhance my credentials as a proper vicar's wife—an example of the Good Samaritan, though I don't for a moment endorse that view. It is your own life that we must address."

“Of course, but to be fair you must tell him what has happened and why.” She related Bridgeport's revenge plot and his vow to desist.

“The man is despicable,” sputtered Anne.

“Do not be too harsh,” begged Elaine. “It must have been a mortifying experience for him, and he did not know me at all. I can hardly blame him for seeking revenge. If I had had the least idea that Father would delay so long before notifying him, I would have risked sending him a note myself."

Anne gave her a sharp look, but dropped the subject. “I will speak to Julius tomorrow,” she promised. “And you will hold your head up and show Mrs. Hedges how a real lady behaves."

“All right. For the present, I will stay."

But it wasn't going to be easy. She headed for her room to change for dinner.

* * * *

Mark spotted Sir Jeremiah in the distance as he and Helen returned from their ride. It was as good a place as any to start his campaign against Mrs. Hedges. If he could crack the gossip's control of the community, he could at least rescue Miss Becklin's reputation. Elaine was a thornier problem, for even after he debunked the rumors, the facts would condemn her on their own. Jilting a gentleman—especially a lord—was unforgivable to country conservatives. It was bad enough in the eyes of a London society that accepted all manner of unprincipled behavior—including infidelity as long as it was circumspect. Unfortunately, logic did not intrude into the standards of the day.

Sending Helen back to the house, he rode out to intercept the baronet.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he called as he approached.

Sir Jeremiah nodded coolly and made as if to leave.

“I see you have heard the rumors,” Mark said, keeping his voice light and friendly. “Miss Thompson informs me that you are an educated man. I hope you can keep an open mind long enough to judge the truth for yourself."

“Very well, my lord. Is it true that you are a libertine of long standing?"

“Yes."

Sir Jeremiah glared.

Mark continued. “I have never hidden my interest in the fair sex, nor have I limited that interest to the demimonde, but I have never seduced an innocent. Such behavior is beneath the dignity of any gentleman."

The baronet stared at him for a long time. “Then how do you explain the stories?"

“I have a cousin who is an inveterate gamester. Some weeks ago I turned down his request for a loan. Soon scurrilous rumors began to circulate accusing me of all manner of crimes. I was unable to find the author, but when they began to damage the reputations of innocent parties, it seemed prudent to leave town for a while in hopes the furor would blow over. Unfortunately, the rumors followed me here, changing form to attract the maximum malice from the local population."

“Changing form?” asked Sir Jeremiah, raising one brow.

Mark grimaced. “In town I am accused of dishonorably fleecing numerous gentlemen of considerable fortunes, then poisoning one of them when he dared object. Imagine my surprise when I discovered in Bodmin that I have gamed away every farthing of my inheritance, acquiring so many debts that I cannot even pay my servants."

The baronet chuckled. “Have you discovered the culprit, then?"

“My cousin. He is the only one who was in both London and Cornwall. The London stories died when he left. Miss Thompson helped unmask him. She grew up near his estate and witnessed similar behavior in the past."

“Is that why you included her in this party?” he asked chillingly.

“No. The party descended on me without invitation. I needed help and asked Miss Thompson and Miss Becklin for their assistance. Unfortunately, my cousin seems to have talked himself into some other grievance I have yet to discover. Being dissatisfied with the results of his rumor campaign, he chose to strike at me again while Mrs. Hedges was visiting this afternoon. But this time his vitriolic remarks hurt Miss Thompson and Miss Becklin instead of me."

“Do you mean he accused her of being your mistress?” he asked bluntly.

“No. He has been doing that for days—wrongly, of course. What he did was to disclose, in the most damaging way possible, the one true fact that could give credence to his web of lies."

“And that was-?"

“Eight years ago Miss Thompson terminated our betrothal."

Sir Jeremiah blanched. “You were betrothed?"

“Yes. She was entirely right to do so. It was match arranged by our respective parents. When I learned that her father had forced her into it, against her wishes and without her consent, I gladly agreed to terminate it. But Mrs. Hedges knows none of those details and is so delighted to discover something scandalous that she is determined to pillory the girl. The result will hurt Miss Becklin and destroy Miss Thompson."

“There is no stopping Mrs. Hedges once she gets the bit between her teeth,” observed Sir Jeremiah. “The most I can do is mention the facts to others."

“Thank you. I hope they can judge the situation on its merits. I wish there was something more I could do, but any efforts I make would be misconstrued. I will have to settle for devising an appropriate punishment for my loose-lipped cousin."

Bidding the man farewell, Mark rode back to the Manor deep in thought.

* * * *

That night the drawing room atmosphere was tenser than it had been since the day the guests had arrived, and Elaine did not think that it was due only to her own problems. After all, Mr. Parrish had long since informed the houseguests of her perfidy. But Mrs. Hedges had struck more than one nerve with her parting diatribe. And dear Harold wasn't helping.

All eyes turned when she paused in the doorway, then all conscientiously returned to ongoing discussions. Lady Means was frowning openly at her niece, who was laughing with Mr. Taylor. Her expression darkened when Harold stopped to murmur something in her ear before passing on to Mrs. Woodleigh. That lady glared malevolently toward Lords Carrington and Bridgeport, who were conducting a low-voiced discussion in one corner. The widow finally embarked on a deliberate flirtation with Lord Means, whose responses soon had her purring.

Mr. Hardwicke and Miss Throckmorton also received Harold's attentions. Mr. Hardwicke's jaw had developed a noticeable bruise where Mark had hit him that morning. It hardened after an exchange with Parrish. Only Miss Westmont seemed normal, placidly conversing with Anne, but Elaine caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes and wondered if Mrs. Woodleigh calmed her own irritation by abusing her companion.

Dinner was likewise strained.

“This will blow over,” Carrington assured Elaine when the first course had been served. “I hope you are not planning to run away."

“Aside from having no place to go, I could not do that to Anne,” she replied softly. “She must live here for the rest of her life. It would be unfair to leave her with a damaged reputation after everything she has done for me."

“Wise of you."

“Just look at these Brussels sprouts,” groused Lady Means loudly, stabbing a fork into the mushy vegetable on her plate. “One would think Bridgeport might hire a decent cook. With all the other discomforts of living in this house, being subjected to wretched food is too much."

Elaine caught the earl's eye and nearly choked at his amusement. It was so clear she wondered that no one else could see it. Cook's efforts had grown markedly worse after a conversation with him two days before.

“Perhaps you would be happier back in London,” he suggested now, turning to stare at Lady Means.

“How dare she upbraid me for my manners when hers are so lacking?” whispered Miss Throckmorton to Mr. Taylor as Lady Means reddened, but the silence that followed Mark's suggestion allowed the girl's question to carry to every ear.

“The servant situation gets worse every day,” complained Mrs. Woodleigh, jumping into the cross-table conversation in support of Lady Means. “One of them has absconded with a whole skein of green thread. How can I possibly finish my needlework without it?"

No one bothered to respond, though Elaine caught the question in Bridgeport's eye and shook her head the tiniest amount. It had not turned up, and none of the staff had entered any guest's room.

“There is always Bodmin,” murmured Miss Westmont, though softly enough that Mrs. Woodleigh did not hear.

“I believe I may head back to town in a couple of days,” drawled Mr. Hardwicke. “The company here is too low for comfort."

Elaine felt a flush creeping up her face and wished there was something she could do—like fall through the floor. But then she realized that he was looking from Lady Means to Mrs. Woodleigh, both of whom gasped in outrage.

“No, no,” Harold snapped at a footman. “I don't want mushrooms. Nasty things. I shan't touch them."

Mark's attention was diverted from Hardwicke to Willy, who spooned a generous helping onto his plate. Harold had refused to even look at a mushroom since the `accident' though he had gobbled them as greedily as Mark earlier in that first meal.

“Will you be stopping at Newmarket on your way back to town, Hardwicke?” asked Carrington casually. “I hear Darlington's new filly is a sure bet to win."

His deliberate question soon had all the gentlemen discussing horses. Elaine breathed a sigh of relief and turned her attention to her plate. Mrs. Woodleigh and Lady Means began a conversation on the latest fashions that formed a counterpoint to the races. No one was bothering with manners this evening, but at least the tension had eased. By the time she rose to lead the ladies into the drawing room, Elaine had relaxed.

Chapter Fifteen

Elaine stared out of her window at the flank of Lookout Peak that was visible in the distance. It was tempting to walk out to the cave, but that would merely emphasize what she was on the verge of losing. A night of sleepless contemplation had altered her decision.

The eight years she had spent on this wild coast had been good ones, filled with kind friends, learning, intellectual discussion, and the establishment of a fulfilling career. But she could not stay. Despite Anne's words, knocking heads with Mrs. Hedges would never work. The woman was too entrenched as the arbiter of propriety.

Elaine had long suspected that the gossip retained her power through the subtle use of blackmail. The best she could hope for was the support of part of the community. But that ran the risk of creating a permanent schism. In a village the size of Treselyan, such a battle would harm everyone. And given the length of country memories, it might take several generations for the animosity to fade.

Her reputation was not worth the cost. And so she must leave. If she departed soon, the rumors would quickly die. And that was important. Anne would recover from their association. Her friend could then marry and build her own life.

Sighing, Elaine turned back to the room. Perhaps Mr. Holyoke could suggest a new home. She could change her name. It might even be possible to do business with the solicitor by post, though it would cut into her income. But if she moved to a large town like Exeter, it would be easier to hide her vocation.

The house party was visiting the ruins of Tintagel in two days. No one would care if she skipped the expedition. She would have ample time to drive into Bodmin and visit her solicitor. Once she explained the details of that ancient sojourn in London, he would understand the problem. He might already know the basic facts. Beringer had known her full name and must have connected her to the one who had jilted Staynes.

Decision made, she headed for her cottage. First she would sort and package the sketches, so they were ready to forward to Mr. Murray. Then she would arrange for the use of Mr. Reeves's gig. She had a standing invitation to borrow it whenever she needed to go into town. And it would not hurt to discuss the situation with Julius. He could help convince Anne that there was no other choice. Staying would thrust the vicar into the middle of whatever battle erupted. He could easily lose the support of both sides.

The morning mist had nearly burned away, leaving only bright sunshine that lightened her heart. The Treselyan gates opened onto a twisting lane flanked by ancient hedgerows rife with birds, all in full song. Passing Mr. Beringer's now-empty cottage, she pulled a key from her reticule, then turned in at her own gate.

The front garden needed work, she noted, shaking her head. It was amazing how unkempt it had got after only a week of neglect. Weeds had sprouted everywhere, faded flowers needed to be removed, and Anne had not finished the pruning before they'd moved to the Manor.

She pushed the key into the lock and gasped. The door was already open. Had Anne come down?

It was possible, of course. Elaine had not mentioned her own plans. Or perhaps she had sent Lucy to retrieve something.

“Who is here?” she called, pushing open the door.

There was no answer, but a footstep echoed from upstairs.

“Anne? Is that you?"

Still no response. Elaine ran lightly up the steps. The only open door led to her studio. She frowned. Neither Anne nor Lucy had any reason to be in there. They never entered without an invitation.

“Who is here?” she repeated, voice now sharp with annoyance. She strode briskly into the room and froze.

The Earl of Bridgeport stood red-faced before the window, holding a copy of Beauty and the Beast and one of the illustrations she had produced for it.

“What gives you the right to break into people's houses?” she demanded, fury swelling until she feared her head might explode. But fear was nearly as strong.

“Miss Becklin knew I had an errand in the village and asked if I would collect a sampler she wishes to show Helen."

Elaine glared, though that explained how he had come by the key. “You will hardly find it in here."

His jaw worked a moment before he managed to speak. “No."

“My question still stands."

He turned to stare out the window, the silence stretching until Elaine wanted to scream. “I knew you were Merriweather. I was curious."

“Curious?” she repeated scathingly. “It wasn't enough that you searched my room at the Manor. You must also break into my home. That goes far beyond curiosity, my lord. You should be locked in Newgate! This campaign to avenge an eight-year-old slight has grown out of all proportion. Must you destroy me?"

He glanced over his shoulder, shuddering to note the tears in her eyes. “You cannot believe that."

“Why not? Somehow you suspected that I illustrate books. Helen, I suppose; she has a remarkable eye for style. You have gone to great—and illegal—lengths to prove it. The only possible use you have for the information is to tell my publisher who I am so that he will cease offering me work. That fits your character. Your first reaction on seeing me again was to expose my whereabouts to my father. Your second was to announce my past to the community. But your cousin did that for you, so you derived no personal satisfaction from it. All that is left is to steal my means of support. Dear God! Why did fate have to throw me into the path of so despicable a creature?"

Horror kept Mark frozen at the window. Horror at the portrait she painted of his character. Horror at how true it had been even a week before. Horror at the pain she could not hide and the answering pain that stabbed his heart. “You are wrong, Elaine, about both Murray and me. Even if he learned the truth, he could hardly deny your talent."

“You are incredibly naďve, my lord,” she scoffed, but her voice revealed how near she was to collapse. “No matter how much he admires my skill, he could not ignore his own and society's prejudices. Oh, he might continue to offer me work—his business acumen is sharp enough for that—but the pittance he would pay would never support me.” She was crying openly by now, her life in shards around her feet.

Mark felt as though he had been milled down by a dozen Jacksons. His pique over being jilted had long since dissipated. He was left with nothing but admiration—for her skill as an artist, for the way she had taken control of her life without the help of either family or husband, and for the witty intelligence she brought to conversations.

“Elaine—” He gently pulled her into his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder to muffle her sobs. The embrace offered comfort. No more. He was determined not to repeat his previous errors.

One hand softly stroked her head.

How could he repair the damage? He would never reveal her identity, of course, for she had a valid point. Despite his many exposés of other injustices, he had always kept women firmly in their place. His own ideas had undergone a change when he wasn't looking, but the world remained the same.

Yet she had little reason to trust his word. Fear of losing everything would cast a pall over her spirits for years. Not even at his most vindictive had he wished to inflict that kind of punishment.

Her tears finally ceased, and she pulled away to stare unseeingly down at the garden. Her shoulders slumped, every bone and muscle in her body shouting that she had surrendered to hopeless despair.

There was but one way to convince her of his sincerity, decided Mark with a pang. “I will never expose you to Murray or anyone else,” he declared softly. “It is true that I entered your room the other day, but for the same reason I am here today—overweening curiosity. I had caught a glimpse of the sketch you were making that day on Lookout Peak. Once I recognized the style, I couldn't help myself. It was disappointing to find none of the finished illustrations at the Manor."

“Recognized the style?” she repeated incredulously, jerking her eyes away from the garden to glare at him. “Do not try to convince me that you are a devotee of fairy tales, my lord."

“Not until recently.” He picked up Beauty and the Beast. “You are very good. It wasn't until after I made the connection, that I remembered your full name. I should have realized it sooner."

“You are not making sense, Lord Bridgeport, but it doesn't matter. Thank you for your promise—not that I believe it. The truth will undoubtedly come out the next time you are miffed at something. Now will you kindly remove yourself from my house?"

“It makes perfect sense,” he countered, turning away from her angry eyes to absently run his fingers over the letter opener that sat atop her desk. “I had seen the samples you sent to Murray for Thornton's next book."

“What?” she croaked, spots swirling before her eyes.

“You can be sure that I will never betray you, my dear, for you will have equal power over me. You are only the third person to learn that I am Thornton."

Groping her way to a chair, Elaine plopped down with an inelegant thump. “You are Thornton?” Her voice seemed to echo from a great distance.

“You are white as a sheet,” he noted. “Put your head down. I don't suppose you have any brandy."

“In the parlor.” She dropped her head between her knees, hardly aware that he was gone.

Thornton was the Earl of Bridgeport? She still could not take it in. Why would a peer of the realm feel it necessary to dabble in poetry? And why would he hide his authorship? His work was marvelous, worthy of the acclaim it reportedly attracted. Lord Byron had made no attempt to hide his own literary efforts and was already lionized by society, so Bridgeport could hardly believe that social censure would result if his identity became known.

“Drink this,” Bridgeport ordered, returning with a glass.

She reluctantly complied, the burning spirits shocking her system into working again. The room quit spinning.

“Why?” she asked when the silence had stretched.

“Why do I write poetry, or why do I hide it?"

“Both, I suppose."

He wandered toward the window, more comfortable talking when he could not see her. “I have always written things, from the moment I learned to form letters. It was an outlet for the anger I could not show to the world."

“Because men are not supposed to admit their feelings?"

“In part, but it had more to do with my mother. Having met her, you should understand. I suspect she was more responsible for your decision to jilt me than my own behavior."

Elaine nodded agreement, though he could not see.

Mark thrust aside shock at what he was revealing and continued. “She demanded absolute, unquestioning obedience. No one was allowed to think for themselves. I soon learned that fighting her edicts resulted in painful punishments, so I became adept at staying out of her way, going through the motions of acquiescing, hiding my unacceptable activities, and pouring out my rage on paper."

“I suppose that is why you never told me anything in London."

He shrugged. “I did not know you. After a lifetime of hiding all the ways I had found to circumvent her demands, I could not chance you telling her what I had done."

She heard it then, the note of excitement in his voice that declared louder than words that he had won a decisive battle, but had never been able to talk about it. Until now. “Just what had you done?"

“I blackmailed my weak-willed father into deeding over all the unentailed property and giving me virtually every guinea he had. Besides ordering people's lives, Mother insisted on running the Abbey. But she was not very good at it. It was the only way I could protect my inheritance and protect my wife from her tyranny."

“I see. The gamester image was false, I suppose. It must have been, now that I consider it, for true gamesters never change."

“Clever girl. I had been diverting much of my allowance into investments since Eton and needed a way to disguise that fact lest she cut me off."

“So hiding your writing is part of a lifetime of secrecy."

“True. And I am trusting you to keep it that way. I have been publishing articles and essays for fifteen years now, under a variety of names. But that is hardly compatible with my reputation."

“As a rakish Corinthian? I should think not!” Elaine suddenly found herself laughing. “I should have made the connection when you quoted from `The Wind.'”

“Yes, that was stupid of me. Why didn't you call me on it?"

“I was too upset to place the poem in volume three until after I left, for it is not one of those I had been working on. When I did, it seemed obvious that whoever had searched my room had seen it—there was a copy in my bag. That was why I was sure it had been you."

“I didn't notice it, for I was only looking at your sketchbook. I wonder now if my mind was playing tricks on me, trying reveal my identity. I had considered calling on Merriweather as Thornton when I spoke with Mr. Holyoke that day, but he claimed Merriweather was away, so I discarded the idea."

“So that was you."

He nodded. “I did not know Beringer had lived here until the squire's dinner. Even then, I had no intention of looking up Beringer's assistant until I spotted Holyoke's office in Bodmin. I recognized the name, of course, for it was he who informed me of Beringer's death. My condolences, Miss Thompson. You must have been close."

“Thank you. He was more of a father to me than my own, and I miss him more than I can ever say. He made me what I am today. But as to your earlier observation, you may well have tried to reveal your secret with that quote. Your mind seems to work on multiple levels."

“Perhaps, though you are the only one to discern that. There is something very special about you."

“Nonsense. I am just an artist who happens to like poetry."

“What you are is remarkable. May I see the illustrations, Elaine? I had only been here ten minutes and had not yet found them.” His hand trembled, betraying his tension.

“Curiosity. Now I understand. Patience was never one of your virtues.” She pulled out the folder, inserted the last sketch, then hesitated. Opening another drawer, she extracted two more sheets, laying them face down on the desktop. “I came here to package everything for mailing, but I had not yet decided which of these—if either—to include.” She tapped the loose pages. “Look at the folder first. The one on top is in the same style as the others, but I have always suspected that the bottom image is closer to what was in your mind when you wrote that particular verse. I will be working in the garden.” Without waiting for a response, she left.

Mark picked up the folder and slowly moved to the window, where the light was better. His hands were shaking so much he feared he would drop everything on the floor. Below, he saw Elaine don a heavy pair of gloves and set resolutely to work pruning a rose bush.

“My God!” he breathed, staring at the first drawing. He was looking out of a cave at the power and majesty of the sea. His chest swelled in awe, as if he were gazing upon the world for the first time.

Two hours later, he closed the folder. Goose bumps tickled his arms and raced down his spine. Her work was better than he had ever dreamed possible, and far better than the poems themselves.

Returning to the desk, he turned over the top sheet. `The Siege.' Greedy waves crashed against a rocky shore, desperately clawing at a tree to draw it into a killing embrace.

Elaine was right. It would fit perfectly into the book, and it was so obvious a rendering of the poem that he could not believe there was any other interpretation. Certainly he had not considered anything else when he was writing it.

But he knew she was right the moment he picked up the second page. The witch! How could she have deduced something even he was not aware of? And how could she possibly have put so much meaning into it when she was still an innocent?

In a glittering ballroom an Exquisite held out his arm to lead a lady into the dance. But this man was no gentleman. His expression revealed lust and a diabolical determination to seduce her. He would draw her into an embrace that would ultimately destroy her ... without a qualm. But despite the lady's obvious innocence, her eyes held knowledge, amusement, and pity. Any observer could see that she would win. No matter how much energy the gentleman expended, she was out of his reach.

Mark shivered. He had penned that particular verse a year earlier and only now realized that he had been infatuated with Lady Collins at the time. But she had proven to be one of his few failures, a woman who was in love with, and faithful to, her husband.

Your mind seems to work on multiple levels. She had to be a witch.

* * * *

Elaine held her breath when she heard Bridgeport approaching. Despite all evidence, she was afraid that he would not like the work.

“You are remarkable,” he breathed.

“The drawings are acceptable then?"

“Acceptable? They are more than that. I have lived in awe of your talent ever since Murray forwarded your earlier sketches, but these surpass anything you've ever done. They will sell far more copies of this edition than my poor verse. I swear you must have lived inside my head for weeks—and uncovered more there than I ever have."

“Which `Siege' do you wish to include?"

“The first. It fits the mood of the book, though you were right—not that the thought consciously crossed my mind."

“Of course not. You are so accustomed to concealment that even your mind works in allegories."

“How could you capture so knowing an expression?” he had to ask.

“I've seen it before—on Devereaux and Wroxleigh, though ironically that particular one I first noticed on you."

“My God!” His tongue froze. Mrs. Hazelwood. Another of his failures. Eight years ago. “Multiple levels. How do you do it?"

She shrugged. “I have always had a strange affinity for Thornton's work, but I told you that once before."

“We make a marvelous team, Elaine,” he murmured, laying a hand on her arm. “Please marry me, my dear."

She flinched away from his touch. “I'm glad you like the illustrations, but don't let euphoria go to your head."

“I mean it. I had never considered allowing a wife to participate in my life, lest she decide to run it. But we work together so well, I cannot imagine that happening."

“No, my lord.” She shook her head sadly. “I cannot exist in your world. That was true eight years ago, and this house party has proven beyond all doubt that it is still true."

“But you were born to that world, Elaine."

“What has that to do with anything?” Annoyance filled her voice. “I despise the shallow posturing that characterizes society. Living in London is nothing but penance, even without the insipid conversation and judgmental harridans. You, on the other hand, thrive there. It would never work."

“At least consider it,” he begged, hating himself for doing so. “There are as many intelligent people in the ton as in any other class, if you look for them."

“It would be a waste of time. If you wish to publish another illustrated volume, I would be honored to participate. Beyond that, we have nothing in common. Now, enough of this. I would appreciate it if you would send the sketches on to Murray. It would save me a trip into Bodmin. For now, I have some work to finish and do not wish to be late for luncheon."

Bowing to the inevitable, Mark took his leave. But his heart was heavier than it had ever felt before.

* * * *

“There is a stark beauty to the moor that I never expected to find,” observed Carrington as he and Mark walked back to the house after a brisk ride.

“It touches a chord of loneliness,” agreed Mark. “But not everyone enjoys a bout of melancholy."

“How profound. This sojourn is doing something to you,” noted the marquess, an odd expression playing about his face.

“Perhaps it has forced me to look at myself. I had been drifting since my parents died, unwilling to establish myself as my own man."

Richard raised his brows in surprise. “I have always known you had depths you never show the world, but this sounds serious."

“Then I must not be expressing myself well,” said Mark with a laugh, retreating to his usual demeanor. Even his closest friend did not know all his secrets. And never would. Revealing his real self would leave him vulnerable, something he could not tolerate.

Except with Elaine. Why did sharing his secrets with her bring him peace instead of terror?

“Name yer shecondsh,” demanded Hardwicke, interrupting Mark's meditation by lurching out from behind a hedge to grab the earl by the arm.

“You are drunk,” noted Carrington coldly.

“I demand satisfaction,” continued Hardwicke with the single-minded purpose of the castaway. He tried to slap a glove in Bridgeport's face, but he missed, stumbling so badly he needed several steps to regain his balance.

“For what?” Mark frowned, wondering if this absurdity stemmed from the attack on Elaine. Had the idiot decided the punches were unwarranted?

“You cheated me out of my inheritance,” slurred the other.

“Fustian!” exploded Carrington. “You were the one who insisted on continuing the game long after Bridgeport wanted to leave. There are a hundred witnesses."

“Cheated,” insisted Hardwicke. “Just like you cheated Wainright and Hodgkiss and—"

“Who fed you such delusions?” interrupted Mark, his voice deadly.

“Not delusions. All over town."

“Lies. Every one."

“Who you callin' a liar?” demanded Hardwicke, swinging a fist.

Mark neatly sidestepped and Carrington grabbed Peter from behind. “Go to your room,” ordered the earl. “Sleep it off. Meet me in the library tomorrow morning. My cousin is spreading all manner of filth in a deliberate attempt to blacken my name. It is time to figure out why."

Hardwicke tried to protest, but Carrington hauled him away. Sighing, Mark went to dress for dinner.

* * * *

Elaine paced restlessly around her room, unable to think clearly. It was well after two, but she could not sleep. Bridgeport's proposal still rang in her ears. Despite her words, she could not put it out of her mind.

She had been through all the arguments against such a match. They were strong ones. But they were based on a public image that she knew was partially false. How much of the rest was real, and how much was an act he used to hide his literary career? It was that hidden self that plagued her now.

And more.

She could still feel his arms around her, comforting her tears. Strong arms that could soothe fear or incite passion. They had cradled her against broad, muscular shoulders that promised protection against the world. His lips were warm and gentle ... and utterly exciting.

Stop it! she admonished herself. Such thoughts were dangerous. The last thing she needed was to become his latest conquest. Gulping down a glass of water, she stared out the window.

Moonlight on the moor. Guaranteed to bring thoughts of romance to the fore.

A series of crashes jerked her attention back to the house, and she dashed into the hall. Her room was next to the main staircase. A low moan drew her eyes to the hall below.

Bridgeport lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.

She had taken two steps forward when she spotted a cord on the top step. Stooping to look closer, she found another. Each was tied to a newel post, the loose ends feathery where the cord had snapped. Rage burst through her veins. And fear. She raced downstairs.

“Are you all right?” she gasped.

Mark was sitting up, fingering his head. “I think so."

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If you can stand, go to the library. I will join you there in a minute."

“What—"

“Shh!"

He looked closely at her face and nodded. Stifling a groan, he staggered to his feet and limped away.

“What was that all about?” he demanded when she appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. She looked marvelous in a deep green dressing gown, her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders. Despite a host of pains screaming for attention, his fingers itched to rake that glossy mane.

“First, tell me what happened."

He shrugged. “I tripped. Stupid thing to do, but it happens to the best of us."

“Especially when you have help.” She held out the cords. “Someone obligingly stretched this across the top of the staircase. You might have noticed had you been carrying a candle, but you were not."

Lascivious thoughts forgotten, Mark poured a second glass of brandy and gulped half of it down.

“Why were you coming down so late?” she asked.

“I thought to do some writing. This is when I accomplish most of my work. I rarely need much sleep."

“Convenient.” No wonder he was able to juggle a writing career with a full life as London's premier rake and Corinthian. “So you are in the habit of wandering about the house at night. Is anyone else?"

“Not normally, though I have encountered all of the gentlemen on occasion. The brandy is in here."

“That does not do much to limit the suspects."

“What are you implying?"

“I am not stupid, and neither are you,” she snapped. “Cords do not tie themselves across stairs. You are known to come down here often, so anyone wishing to harm you could expect to do so."

“I suppose someone may have wanted to play such a prank on me,” he conceded.

“Prank?” She stared in shock. “People often die from such falls. Whoever stretched that cord must have expected to kill you."

“There is no need for melodrama, my dear,” he scoffed. “I have a fair idea who was behind this trick, and there is no doubt he meant it as a prank."

“Stubborn, aren't you?” she demanded. “At least do yourself the favor of being cautious."

“I thought you didn't care.” His voice was a caress.

“This is no time for a philosophical discussion on the many ways one person can care about another.” She frowned. “Since you are obviously not disposed to be sensible, I shall retire for the night. You may keep your secrets to yourself.” So saying, she departed.

Mark's face slipped into a frown once she was gone. He was more upset about the incident than he had let on. Was Hardwicke so far into his cups that he might try to harm his host? He picked up the cord and examined it. But there was nothing to be seen. Opening a drawer, he dropped the pieces atop the barb from under his saddle.

Of course this might have something to do with Harold, though his cousin was not the sort to move beyond spiteful innuendo. In fact, he would not have believed either of them could be responsible, but the possibility could not be ignored.

Chapter Sixteen

Elaine awoke early, though the night had been anything but restful. Images had swirled through her head, insistent and disturbing.

As expected, one of these was the picture of Bridgeport crashing down the stairs to possible death. Not for a moment did she believe that the cord was a prank. Nor did she accept the notion that anyone but the earl was the intended victim.

On the other hand, Bridgeport was not stupid. A lifetime of secrecy might prevent him from discussing the incident, but he knew as well as she what had really happened.

More disturbing was her interrupted contemplation of the earl's character. On the surface, her image of Thornton seemed incompatible with the one she had long held of Bridgeport. Yet they were indisputably the same man, and she must reconcile her impressions—not that she could explain why. Nor did she know how to do so.

Thornton was a sensitive man whose poetry revealed pain, rage, and a vast loneliness. Bridgeport was a libertine and sportsman dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure. He had claimed that his mother was the moving force behind his writing, and she saw no reason to doubt it. In the face of the woman's determination, she herself had fled, sacrificing everything she knew. But the earl had not had that option. Tied to his mother both by blood and by his position as Bridgeport's heir, he could flee only in spirit. And so he had lived his life as two disparate people.

Why had he broken a lifelong habit of secrecy to reveal himself?

It might have been a magnanimous gesture to relieve her fears, but she doubted it. Bridgeport was a selfish hedonist. Nothing she knew of Thornton countered that image. Of course, Thornton was only one facet of the earl's secret life. Without knowing his other pen names, she could not fully understand him.

Perhaps revealing himself was in expiation for his sins. He had done her considerable damage. Honor might compel him to pay that debt, and was probably what lay behind his proposal.

But a corner of her mind urged her to consider another possibility.

Could her art speak to him in the same way his poetry spoke to her? Such a truth would indicate that they were kindred spirits in a way she had never considered possible. Supporting this theory was the second sketch for `The Siege.' He admitted its veracity, yet claimed that he had not himself realized it. Such rapport with someone she knew only through the written word was frightening.

Bridgeport's sudden trust may have arisen from any or all of those reasons. Or he may have sensed a safe way to experience direct acclaim for Thornton's work. He knew how much she loved his poetry. Had the accolades paid to Byron made Bridgeport yearn to receive praise himself? Or did he specifically need her praise, perhaps even for ideas beyond the world of literature?

But that led her wayward mind into new channels. The overwhelming truth of their cottage confrontation was the safety, security, and excitement she had felt in his arms. Despite the rein he had held on himself—unlike the day before—his touch had ignited feelings she had never before experienced. No wonder he was so successful a rake!

And her reactions called into question some of her own decisions. Was marriage really such an intolerable estate? It had always seemed incompatible with her need to do illustrating, for few men approved of women in any serious role, and most considered female artists immoral. But Bridgeport might empathize with her compulsion to share her talent with the world—at least, he would if he truly cared. Though he had twice offered for her, she was not convinced his reasons were sound. Marriage would only work for her if there was equal commitment by both partners, but she could hardly identify her own feelings, let alone his.

She climbed down and drew on her gown. This was not the time to think of marriage. First she must recover from the recent shocks. And there was much to be done. Someone was trying to kill Bridgeport. Whatever the future held, she could not stand idly by and allow a murderer to roam free.

An hour later, she entered the breakfast room to find the earl already seated at the table. No one else had yet come down.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said a trifle grimly.

“You look like you could use some more sleep,” he commented irritably.

“As could you. Your charm and address got left in bed this morning.” She blushed as she heard the words, for her own manner was sadly lacking. “Forgive me. That was presumptuous."

A hint of a smile appeared on his face. “Certainly, but true nonetheless. I take it you slept no better than I."

She nodded. “I have been making inquiries. Several recent events have puzzled me. After last night, I decided to do more than shrug."

“This is hardly the place to discuss it,” he interrupted, and she had to agree. They stuck to neutral subjects until both had reluctantly eaten as much as they could manage, then he escorted her to the library.

“I suppose you are still convinced that last night's accident was no prank,” he said with a sigh.

“Do you honestly believe that it was?"

“No."

“Well, that is something. We both know who is determined to put an end to your existence."

“Hardwicke would never go that far!” he exclaimed.

“Did you think he was responsible?"

“He was both drunk and abusive yesterday.” He described the scene by the stables. “After refusing his challenge, I ordered him to meet me here this morning. It seemed logical that he might further annoy me."

“You are deliberately obfuscating the facts,” she charged. “The culprit can be none other than your odious cousin. And you know why."

“Fustian. Harold hasn't the courage to kill anyone."

“He is precisely the type to arrange an accident and leave the consequences to Fate. He has done it before. There was a tenant boy on his estate who infuriated him when I was ten. Within a day, the lad suffered a freak accident that left him with a broken leg. When Anne was my governess, she rebuffed Harold's advances. The next morning she narrowly avoided serious injury when a previously sturdy footbridge collapsed as she walked to the village. She only told me about it recently, along with similar tales that she had heard from her cousin. Harold is evil. In addition to arranging accidents, he revels in creating ill will—you need look no further than Mr. Hardwicke. I've seen and heard evidence of that often enough. Harold has goaded people into provoking fisticuffs, fighting duels, and creating permanent rifts in previously close relationships. It is a talent he undoubtedly inherited from his mother. She was a manipulator worse than Lady Macbeth, motivated by malice rather than ambition. She was never quite right in the head, as you must know."

“You exaggerate,” Mark protested. “And he would never try that on me anyway. He may be annoying, but he is also my cousin."

“Blood means nothing, especially to the greedy,” she countered. “Even offspring of the same parents can turn out quite differently. You are fortunate, for you inherited the best of both your parents—your mother's determination and energy; your father's intelligence and sensitivity. But Harold got the worst from his—his father's weak character and his mother's selfish, unstable mind. Even your appearances are different. Your fathers were identical, and your mothers very similar, yet you and Harold look nothing alike. You must accept the probability that he is trying to kill you."

Mark stared at her in shock.

She pressed on relentlessly. “Look at all the odd things that have happened since he arrived. I never did understand how the cliff path became so suddenly unsafe when there had not even been a mild rainstorm. I talked to Freddie this morning, and he admitted that he had been on that path not two hours before Tom Bennett and saw no sign of instability. Tom is smaller, yet the path collapsed. That was the day after you arrived and three days after your cousin reached Bodmin. I doubt he realized that it is a public thoroughfare that happens to cross your property."

“That is too long a shot to be believable,” he objected. “Why would he expect me to wander out along the cliffs?"

“Where did we meet the following day?"

“Touché. But Harold does not know me that well."

“I wonder. I suspect he knows you better than you think. Thornton must spend considerable time wandering the countryside alone.” He blinked, and she knew her supposition was correct. “But all speculation aside, his failures have probably made him more determined and less inclined to leave things to chance. I saw a flash of red on the roof that day the coping fell. It could not have been a bird. Harold was wearing a dark rose jacket that afternoon. And I also had an interesting talk with Cook this morning."

“What has she to do with anything?"

“Your cousin refused to partake of the mushrooms at dinner two nights ago, claiming that he was not partial to them. Understandable given his experience last week, but he was so pointed about it that he drew attention to himself. It struck me at the time as being odd, but only after your fall did I begin to understand why. Cook verified my suspicions. Someone replaced the mushrooms she had obtained for dinner with a nearly identical, but very poisonous, variety. She noticed the change when she was preparing them and was able to get others, but she insists the ones that were delivered were good."

Mark had blanched during her recital. “She is sure that they were tampered with?"

“Positive. She always checks mushrooms very carefully—something your cousin would not know, of course. Her sister died from carelessly ingesting the wrong sort."

“I cannot believe that he could wish to kill me."

“How well do you know him?"

“Not very. Our respective mothers never got on, and our respective fathers lacked the fortitude to insist on visits."

“I do not know him personally, except by sight, but I grew up on tales of his exploits. He is evil and sneaky, a man who has never balked at underhanded and outright illegal means to achieve his ends. His parents' deaths were quite odd, though there was insufficient evidence to support formal inquiries."

“What? I never heard a word of that."

“Your father would have been the one to deal with the authorities. Then there is his fortune. Even eight years ago there were rumors that he had squandered all his own assets and a good portion of his father's at the tables. Have you seen any sign that he has recouped?"

“No,” he admitted. “He has tried to talk me into bailing him out more than once."

“How does he support himself?"

“I don't know."

“But you suspect,” she stated, reading his eyes clearly enough to shock them both.

He nodded. “Rumors have circulated for months accusing me of fleecing various gentlemen, including some strangers. I have accepted wagers from none of them, but Harold might be doing so in my name."

“It sounds like him. I suppose Wainright was one of his victims."

“That was behind his challenge.” He snapped his mouth closed and stared at the ceiling. “Devil take it! You did it again—crawled inside my head and opened doors I had firmly nailed shut."

“So there was a duel."

“But I did not kill him."

“I never suggested you did. Why do you feel guilty?"

He sighed. “I chose swords since we were evenly matched at fencing—he was awful with a pistol. His pretext for the challenge left me in the wrong, so I could not kill him, but I had no intention of giving him a shot at me."

“I see."

“I'm sure you do.” His eyes danced. “But the bout lasted all of half an hour before I managed to pink his shoulder. I expect the exertion was too much for his heart. He died a week later."

“Stuff and nonsense! He would have died that day if there was any connection. But back to business. If Harold has been using your name, it is bound to get out sooner or later. He must know that—for all his faults, he is perceptive about anything that might threaten his interests. He probably decided to strike while he is still your heir."

“You are the one who is perceptive,” murmured Mark, sliding his arms around her to pull her close. “You see so much it frightens me. I need to think, and you must leave. I expect Hardwicke to arrive any minute. But we will talk later. In the meantime, please do not indulge in any more probing. If Harold is guilty of plotting against me, you put yourself in danger by investigating his activities."

“The servants would never expose me,” she objected, looking deep into his eyes.

“Promise me, Elaine.” His voice was implacable and his arms tightened. “Do not add to my problems."

“Very well.” She lightly touched his cheek before slipping out of his arms and the room.

Mark hardly had time to ponder her disturbing revelations before Hardwicke appeared.

“My apologies,” he mumbled as soon as he was seated. “The wine got the better of me."

“Wine has that effect. Apologies accepted."

“I should have known better than to suspect you of cheating, even in my cups,” he continued.

“Someone must have goaded you to produce such uncharacteristic behavior,” suggested Mark. “My cousin, at a guess."

His eyes widened. “How did you know?"

“You are not his first victim. Wainright was another—and infuriated himself into fatal apoplexy."

“Then the rumors about that are false?"

“Absolutely. What exactly did he say?"

Hardwicke spent half an hour recounting Harold's charges, describing the sly innuendo that raised so much fury, and reliving the drinking session the day before, when Parrish plied him with brandy and played on his sense of ill usage to bring his rage to a boil.

“As I expected. He would make the perfect Iago.” Hardwicke stared in incomprehension, and Mark mentally shrugged. Elaine would have understood. “Enough of that. Are you willing to put this disagreement to rest?"

“Yes. I know that it was my own fault I lost so badly. I hope you can also forgive me for a childish plot to embarrass you."

“The barb under my saddle. I thought that was you.” Mark tossed the wicked piece into Peter's lap. “The potential injury to Ranger is far more serious than anything it could have done to me."

Hardwicke blanched. “I did not consider that. And I had not seen the piece until now. Thank God you were called away."

“What about this?” He pulled out the cord.

Hardwicke frowned. “I have no idea."

“Good. I had not thought you responsible, but had to make sure."

“What is it?"

“Someone stretched it across the stairs last night, knowing I would soon be along."

Peter blanched. “I know nothing of it. Perhaps it was Parrish. He despises you."

“Any idea why?"

“No."

Mark collected the cord and barb, returning them to his desk.

Hardwicke sighed. “If you are under siege by your cousin, I feel even worse for the trouble I have caused. He is not someone I would want as an enemy. He took Graylock for every shilling the man had. When Graylock sobered up and cried foul, Parrish laughed in his face."

Mark paled. “Was that the day before his fatal carriage accident?"

“Precisely, though there is no way to connect them. But I would never wish to be classed with Parrish. Forgive me."

“It is forgotten,” agreed Mark. “But it is more than time you started acting like a man."

“Yes, seven-and-twenty no longer qualifies as a green cub. And reaping revenge cannot be considered a wild oat."

They shared a drink before Hardwicke left Mark to his unproductive thoughts. He was even less a green cub, yet he had also sought revenge—with more devastating results.

* * * *

After leaving the library, Elaine wandered toward the moor beyond the stables, her thoughts in deeper turmoil than before. It did not seem reasonable to do nothing in the face of such obvious plotting, yet she had given her word.

Even more disturbing was that unmistakable flash of mind-reading. She could feel herself being pulled under his spell, and that was not something she wanted. Her future had been carefully planned, and it did not include Bridgeport.

Yet that future suddenly stretched as a long, lonely eternity. She had recognized Thornton's loneliness—which she now knew was inherent to his secretive life—because she was in the same position. Though admitting it intellectually, she had never allowed the actual emotion to surface—until now. And it would get worse. It was unlikely that she would form close friendships in whatever new home she chose. Even if she stayed at Treselyan, she would be alone, for Anne would marry and devote most of her attention to Julius and the duties that attached to a vicar's wife.

For the first time in her life, the freedom she had struggled to achieve hung heavy, dragging her into deep melancholy that had little chance to dissipate. Must she live alone in order to remain free? Or might freedom be possible within the framework of marriage? Never having considered the idea, she had no answers.

She had reached the fringes of the moor and was on her way back to the grounds when she overheard two ladies talking on the other side of a hedge. Before she could make her presence known, their words stopped her in her tracks.

“Don't turn missish on me, Lucinda!” snapped Lady Means. “You know we cannot afford a Season for you. The townhouse went on sale last week. If it does not realize enough to come about, we may have to sell the Grange."

“But why must I attach Lord Bridgeport?” wailed Miss Throckmorton. “He is too old! And he pays me not the slightest attention. Reggie is much more interesting. And he loves me!"

“You will forget such fustian this minute! Mr. Taylor is merely toying with you. At most, he feels a passing infatuation, one of many he will experience before he settles down. Besides, the lad is constantly outrunning the constables and has no real prospects."

“You wrong him!” the girl sobbed. “He enjoys a comfortable income and will one day inherit his father's estate. In the meantime there are other family properties. And he is Carrington's favorite."

“Enough, Lucinda. Forget Taylor. Even if every word is true, he is not wealthy. You would not set foot in London until your children are grown, and you could never repay us for taking you in. Bridgeport will make you a perfect husband. If it wasn't for that overbearing Mrs. Woodleigh, he would have offered for you already. He has always favored young innocents like yourself. He is titled, rich as Golden Ball, and would certainly assist your family once you are wed."

“But what about the curse? I don't want to die."

“Idiot! There is nothing to that old rumor. It was probably made up out of whole cloth by someone bearing him a grudge—most likely a spurned candidate for his hand. Now follow my plan exactly, and you will find yourself betrothed before nightfall."

The two headed toward the house. Elaine could no longer make out Lady Means's low-voiced instructions, but the change in Lucinda's tone indicated that the girl had acquiesced.

Elaine slipped around the end of the hedge and watched them march away. The corner in which they had stood was private, yet it offered an excellent view of anyone approaching—except from the direction of the moor.

She could warn Bridgeport of this new danger, but that would not alleviate it. The only way to thwart whatever scheme Lady Means had devised was to stay close to Miss Throckmorton, preferably in secret.

She was not left to wonder for long about the details. Lucinda put the plot into practice within the hour. Upon returning, she had gone alone to the drawing room. Elaine hid across the hall, peering through a crack in the doorway. Lady Means soon joined her niece. Moments later the girl emerged and guiltily checked for observers, her intentions obvious. Elaine held her breath until Lucinda walked briskly toward the library, then followed.

Silly chit! She grimaced as Lucinda threw her arms around Bridgeport's neck. The girl had no finesse. If Lady Means was determined to force a betrothal, simply being alone with the man was sufficient cause. Mark's surprise focused all his attention on Lucinda, allowing Elaine to slip unnoticed into the room and seat herself in a chair hidden from the hallway.

Mark recovered in an instant, and bodily threw the girl onto the couch. “I don't know what kind of trick you are playing off, but there is nothing that would convince me to wed a scheming jade,” he growled menacingly. “I despise manipulators! Feel free to blast my reputation to shreds. All you will accomplish is to destroy your own."

Lucinda burst into tears just as Lady Means strode into the library.

“What is going on in here?” she demanded haughtily, eyes flashing.

Elaine spoke up. “Thank heaven you are here, my lady. I was just about to send Lord Bridgeport in search of you. Miss Throckmorton burst in here in tears and threw herself onto the couch, apparently believing the room to be empty. She was sobbing something about a horse killing a kitten. The shock must have been too much for her.” She met Mark's eyes to find him so close to laughter that she nearly lost control of herself, averting her gaze only just in time.

Lady Means seemed on the verge of apoplexy, her face purple and her eyes popping out. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded of Elaine.

“Not that it is any of your business, but Lord Bridgeport and I were discussing the arrangements for tomorrow's Tintagel outing,” she said coldly. “Would you be so kind as to remove your niece so that we may complete our business undisturbed?"

“But you couldn't have been here! I chec—” she protested before recalling herself and biting off the words.

Lucinda's tears changed to hysterics, prompting her aunt to slap her across the face. “Come,” she ordered shortly.

“What on earth—?” began Mark when the intruders were gone.

“Forgive me, my lord. But I overheard them plotting to compromise you and felt this was the best way to avoid a scandal. I doubt they will try again after your own performance.” She laughed.

He joined in. “I must thank you, of course. This is better than dodging ostracism. It is more than time to wind up this party. Once this Tintagel trip is over, I will see to it."

“Save your ire for Lady Means. Miss Throckmorton was reluctant. But her aunt informed her that there was no money for a Season and forced her into this.” She rose and went to the door. “I believe you are safe from further plots, but you might consider spending some time with Lord Carrington. He is the only other guest with a large enough fortune to restore Lord Means to affluence. Smiling, she slipped out of the room.

Mark immediately hunted out his friend and related the events of the past half hour. “You may be next on the list,” he warned. “Frankly, I am amazed that you were not on top. Your title is higher."

“But my fortune is not nearly as large as yours, and I have a reputation for being very hard to please. I will put Reggie to work on this problem. He wants to marry the chit."

“What?"

“You heard right. He claims to be madly in love with her. I refused to plead his case with his father, but perhaps I should."

“Do you think his infatuation will last?"

“How can one tell? But there are worse fates. If Lord Means is as far under the hatches as you suspect, he may sell Miss Throckmorton to somebody like Knowles.” The man was an elderly but wealthy lecher who, rumor claimed, had already abused three wives into early graves. “That would be unforgivable."

“Are you actually considering loosing Means on Reggie and your uncle?” snorted Mark.

“Reggie is actually quite wealthy,” retorted Richard. “I only started rumors to the contrary to deter fortune hunters, for the boy has no sense. But you are right. I cannot inflict Means on him.” His frown deepened when he glanced out the window to see his cousin and Lucinda embracing in the rose arbor.

Mark paced the room in thought. “Are you aware that the Colonial Office is looking for governors? In the Indies alone, one retired last month, another is retiring next month, and a third contracted an illness that will force him to relinquish his post."

“Ah! The perfect disposition for friend Means,” agreed Richard with a diabolical smile. “By the time his term is up, he should have amassed enough to settle his debts. Of course, Lady Means may not like the arrangement.” They both laughed. “I will talk to Reggie, then write a few letters."

Mark nodded and took himself off. The last two days had been one shock after another, and he needed time to sort it all out.

He was still coming to grips with his revelations to Elaine. Not that he feared she would betray him, but he could not understand himself. He had actually enjoyed sharing that most sacred secret with her. And his openness was still affecting him. There had been several occasions when he could swear they were reading each other's minds. It caused the oddest sensations—feelings that he had never before experienced.

So he needed time alone to put it into words. The library would never do. It was becoming far too public a place. Perhaps it would be better to avail himself of the solitude of Lookout Peak.

First he stopped at the stable. “Mickey, I will not be riding this afternoon after all,” he informed his groom. “I will walk out along the cliff path instead."

* * * *

Elaine noticed Bridgeport in conversation with his groom as she hurried toward the stable. Most of the gentlemen were outside today. Carrington and Mr. Taylor stood under a tree, deep in a serious discussion, if their expressions were anything to go by. Mr. Hardwicke was checking the saddle on his brown gelding. Mr. Parrish was walking toward the moor, an odd place for the dandy to go, but she doubted he would wander far. His groom was harnessing his curricle.

She caught up to the earl as he turned toward the cliff path. “Miss Dubois has arrived.” At his questioning look, she added, “The new governess."

“Ah.” Irritation flickered momentarily in his eyes. “I had best come greet her.” Setting Elaine's hand on his arm, he headed toward the house.

Chapter Seventeen

Mark sent Elaine upstairs to fetch Helen, then joined the governess in the morning room.

“Miss Dubois, I believe,” he said with a smile. She was standing hesitantly before the empty fireplace, hands clasped in front of her in an effort to hide her nervousness. Primly gowned in gray, with light brown hair and eyes, she appeared to be in her thirties. Cramer had checked her references, so Mark knew she was qualified. His own fears abated once he looked into her eyes. She seemed kind. “I am Lord Bridgeport. I trust the journey was not too uncomfortable."

“Not at all, my lord,” she disclaimed in a low voice. “It was thoughtful of you to provide a private coach."

“It was nothing.” He motioned her to a seat. “My secretary has not met my daughter, so he can have told you little of your charge. Helen is an exceptionally bright girl with a flair for drawing. I will expect her to learn all the accomplishments expected of a lady, of course, but I will also expect you to challenge her intellect. There are no boundaries on the subjects she may study except those erected by morality. Is that acceptable, Miss Dubois?"

“May I allow her to read such things as science, then?"

“If she shows an interest. She must understand the expectations of the world in which she will live and be capable of conforming to its rules, but I do not believe that her private reading should be limited by the narrow-minded constraints of an insular society."

“Yes, my lord.” Her eyes glowed.

“Miss Becklin is currently in charge of Helen's education. She will be pleased to discuss their present studies. For now, you may relax and get settled. Willy will show you to your rooms."

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured before following the footman upstairs.

Mark headed for the library. It would be impossible to get that walk he had wanted. Instead, he must speak with Helen about Miss Dubois. He needed to help the two develop a good relationship.

But he was thwarted in that goal as well.

“Helen is not in the house,” Elaine informed him, arriving in the library ten minutes later.

“When will she be back?"

“That's just it. I don't know where she is. Anne thought she was with Miss Beddoes—which is where she left her an hour ago. Mary—the maid who cares for Nana during the day—says Helen stayed only ten minutes before returning to Anne."

“In other words, she slipped away again.” He sighed. “Poor timing, but Miss Dubois will learn about this problem sooner or later."

“I am sure Helen will have less reason to explore now that she has an experienced governess. At least I presume she is experienced."

“Cramer is very good at uncovering exactly what I want. I told him that the woman must be good with children, young enough to keep up with a bundle of energy like Helen, well educated, and willing to teach more than the usual subjects imparted to females."

Elaine's eyes widened.

“According to Cramer, Miss Dubois was released with a marginal character from her last position for daring to encourage an interest in science in one of her pupils. She is the daughter of an Oxford don who died in debt."

“She sounds perfect. I look forward to making her acquaintance. You will not mind if she is friendly with the locals, I hope."

“Not at all, but in the meantime, we must find Helen. Surely one of the servants must have spotted her."

She nodded. “I will check the house. Perhaps you can quiz the grooms and gardeners."

* * * *

An hour later, Elaine and Mark met again in the library. “No sign?” she asked fearfully.

“Not a hint. Carrington is searching the grounds."

“Anne is searching the attics and Burgess the cellars. I hope she has not fallen into any of your cousin's traps."

His eyes met hers in unspoken agony, for he had been fearing the same thing.

“Nothing,” announced Carrington, appearing in the doorway. “I have a very bad feeling about this."

“As do we,” agreed Mark quietly.

Anne and Burgess arrived moments later, their faces telling of similar failures.

“Since we have no idea which direction she went, we will have to organize several search parties,” decided Mark. “Miss Becklin, will you and Lucy check the village? Question everyone who might have seen her today. Richard, take Jem and Mickey and look west along the cliff trail. Burgess, you and Willy search the house, including the guests' rooms. She may have fallen asleep somewhere. Freddie will do the same for the stables and outbuildings. I will cover the moor and return on the eastern cliff path. Helen and I rode out to see the Dancing Maidens yesterday. She may have decided to return."

“She might at that,” agreed Anne, sounding relieved. “We have been reading legendary tales the last two days—'Odysseus and the Cyclops,' `The Piper and the Dancing Maidens,' `King Arthur and his Magic Sword'."

Mark nodded. “Let us hope that is where she went. Miss Thompson, I need you to remain here with the other guests and suppress any curiosity, particularly among those we discussed earlier,” he added, for her ears only.

“So you think she may have fallen foul of a trap?” she asked once the others had gone.

“I hope not. You know how often she slips off without injury. But Richard has an uncanny feeling for trouble. If he is bothered by her absence, I cannot ignore the possibility. In that case, I would rather my cousin did not know of her absence. If it turns out that he is responsible, he must pay."

She shivered at the suppressed fury evident in his voice. “Be careful, my lord. I saw him heading for the moor when I came to the stables for you."

Something flared in his eyes and he tipped her chin up with one finger. “I will,” he promised, dropping a quick kiss on her surprised lips.

Before she could respond, he was gone.

* * * *

The afternoon stretched into an eternity, every minute creeping by in agonizing slowness. Elaine poured tea for the ladies in the drawing room. No one hinted that they knew Helen was missing. Mr. Taylor and Miss Throckmorton conversed in a corner, both nearly quivering with suppressed excitement. Lord Means and Mrs. Woodleigh laughed together on the settee, the heated looks they exchanged raising questions about what else they were sharing. Lady Means seemed oblivious to her husband's activities, instead lowering her standards to share the latest London gossip with Miss Westmont. None of the other guests joined them.

When another hour had dragged by without word from any of the search parties, Elaine could stand the suspense no longer.

She was on her way to again check the grounds when it hit her. Cyclops! Helen was fascinated with the cave on Lookout Peak. The Cyclops story took place in a cave high on a hill. Was that where she had gone?

With the question pounding in her head, Elaine could not remain in the house. Collecting a shawl and her sturdiest half-boots, she strode briskly along the cliff path. Bridgeport had promised to return this way, but with a large area of moor to search first, it would be some time before he could manage it.

Half an hour of brisk walking brought her to the foot of the hill. She had seen no sign of Helen—not even a childish footprint on the dusty path—and was already doubting the urgency that had sent her in this direction. But having come this far, she could not leave without climbing to the cave.

Doggedly she plodded up the trail, but the moment she rounded the last outcropping, she froze in her tracks.

Half of the grassy lawn was covered with rock where the peak had collapsed. In all the years she had come here, she had never suspected that the hill might be unstable.

Terror exploded, her heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the sea, the gulls, and other springtime sounds.

What had triggered the slide? There had been no rain for days. Already people were murmuring about the effect the dry spring would have on gardens and crops. Could excessive dryness cause the hill to crack?

But as she stared at that alien mound of broken stone, a whisper of breeze drew her attention to a length of green embroidery thread caught on a bush.

“Dear God!” One end swung loose; the other trailed under the rockfall. Another length shimmered further up the hill.

A second movement caught her eye and she identified a horseman on the moor, headed for the cliff trail.

“Mark!” she shouted, waving her arms wildly to attract his attention. In her agitation she did not even realize how she had addressed him. Blood drained from her head, leaving her dizzy. Tears ran down her cheeks. It took several more shouts before he spotted her and waved.

“Come here!” Motioning him closer, she could see the moment he understood her frantic signals. He jerked Ranger's head up, then spurred him to a gallop.

Elaine wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and examined the rockfall more closely while she waited for him to arrive. Broken heather on the cliff above identified its path. The slide was not extensive, but it covered the mouth of the cave completely—or nearly so. A hint of blackness showed near the top.

“Helen, are you in there?” she called, but there was no response.

Running footsteps pounded up the hill. Mark had left his horse at the bottom, as the path was too narrow for riding. He raced around the last corner and froze, his face paling to chalk white. “Oh, my God!"

Silently, Elaine pointed to the threads, and he pressed a hand over his eyes.

“I was coming up here this afternoon,” he choked out.

“Who knew?"

“Mickey.” He was swaying as if on the verge of a swoon. Elaine grabbed his arms and shook.

“Concentrate, Mark. You told him when you were down at the stables?"

He nodded.

“When I came to find you, Harold was heading toward the moor. He probably circled around to beat you to the hill."

“While I was searching the stables, I heard a muffled thud in the distance,” he whispered, paling even further.

Elaine trembled. “An explosion. So that's how he did it. He waited until his thread showed that you had entered the cave, and then sent his slide down to either kill you or seal you in where you would soon die."

His eyes sharpened and a trace of color returned to his cheeks. “Of course. She would have been inside and may only be trapped."

“There has been no sound,” she admitted.

“We must try.” Gingerly climbing up the rock pile, he reached that sliver of shadow. “Helen!” he called loudly into the opening. “Are you in there, sweetheart?"

She could see his shoulders sag when the silence remained unbroken.

“I must know,” he growled. “Move out of the way, Elaine. I am going to enlarge this opening.” He jerked out a piece of stone and sent it rolling down onto the lawn.

“Let me help,” she insisted, carefully climbing up the other side of the fall. He started to object, but held his tongue at the look on her face.

For half an hour they clawed at stones, taking care that nothing fell into the cave. Then came the sound they had both been praying for—a tiny groan.

Through watery eyes, Elaine saw tears rolling down Mark's cheeks. “Thank God!” he choked, closing his eyes briefly. “Helen, can you hear me?” he called softly.

Another groan echoed, but there was no other answer.

“She sounds injured,” whispered Elaine, tugging on a large rock. “If we can get this out of the way, perhaps I can squeeze through to see how badly."

Mark nodded and joined her in fighting to shift the boulder. When it finally broke loose, he lost his balance and tumbled after it.

“Are you all right?” gasped Elaine, paling at the blood running from a cut on his head.

“I'm fine.” He was already dabbing at it with his handkerchief. “Can you get through?"

“I think so."

“Then go. I will be back up there in a minute."

She knew he was hurt, but Helen was more important.

Squeezing into the cave was harder than she had expected, for her eyes had been squinting against the bright afternoon sun for so long that she was nearly blind once she passed inside. Feeling hesitantly for toeholds that would not loosen rocks that might land on the invisible Helen, she slowly crept downward. By the time she reached the bottom, her eyes had adjusted to the dim light reflected through the opening.

Helen lay crumpled against the back wall. The girl groaned again. One arm was twisted, and there was a large knot on her head that was wet to the touch. When Elaine shifted her, she discovered another lump on the other side. One of the stones must have hit the girl, throwing her into the wall.

“Mark?” she called softly, relieved to see his head appear against that patch of sky.

“How is she?"

“Still nearly unconscious, with a broken arm and a concussion at the very least. Is there anything I can use to immobilize the arm?"

He looked over his shoulder to scan the hillside. “I will find something. Can she be moved?"

“Have we a choice?” she countered sharply. “I pray it does no harm, but she cannot stay here."

“No, of course not.” He sounded dazed, and she again wondered how badly the fall had injured his own head. But there was nothing further to say. He was already scrambling down the rocks.

She tore the lowest flounce from her petticoat and set about bandaging Helen's head. At the moment all she could do was to keep the wounds as clean as possible and provide enough cushioning to protect them from movement.

Mark returned and pulled several smaller stones aside so he could join her.

“Move more to your left,” she suggested. “Then anything you kick loose will not land on us."

“Right.” A minute later he reached the bottom. One hand rested briefly on her head before he knelt beside Helen. “How bad is it?"

“I've no idea, but she is breathing evenly, and her heartbeat is strong, so it could be much worse."

He felt the bones, nodding when he discovered the break. It seemed clean, with minimal swelling. Gently straightening the arm, he produced two lengths of a tree branch that he had trimmed of bark. “These should do until we get back to the house."

Elaine tore another strip from her petticoat, wrapping the arm to protect the skin before lashing the splints in place.

Helen groaned, jerking sharply before again lapsing into unconsciousness. Mark used his cravat to tie the arm close to her body, then picked her up and turned toward the pile.

“Let me go first,” suggested Elaine. “Then you can pass her to me before you have to squeeze out."

“Good idea."

“I wonder if Harold knows that it was not you he caught in this trap,” she mused as she gingerly picked her way out of the cave.

“Why would he? If he had seen the victim, he would not have initiated the fall. And I doubt that Helen made any sound afterward."

“What will you do?” She reached the top and blinked several times, trying to adjust to the light, though the sun was now low enough that the cave and lawn were in shadow.

“It depends on whether I can prove he was guilty.” He handed Helen through the opening. Elaine braced to move the girl out of the way so Mark could make his own exit.

“Knowing he is to blame and proving it are not the same,” she admitted with a sigh. “I suspect that he is making himself noticed in quite another direction and will return with his entire day accounted for. His groom was readying his curricle."

She waited until he was halfway down the mound before passing Helen back to him.

He frowned as he picked his way to the ground. “Perhaps we can induce him to betray himself,” he said slowly. “It is worth a try. If nothing comes of it, then I must summon a runner to catch him in his next attempt."

Elaine shivered. “Which might succeed,” she pointed out. “Yet what would prompt him to give himself away?” She led the way to the base of the hill, clearing the path of loose stone so he wouldn't trip.

Mark remained quiet until he settled into the saddle, Helen still in his arms. As Elaine led the horse back toward the house, he outlined his plan.

Chapter Eighteen

Elaine shivered as a fresh wave of fear rippled down her back. She had agreed with Mark's plan only because she could not think of anything better. They had skirted Treselyan's grounds, tethered Ranger in a grove near the village, and slipped into her cottage. Once she had made up a bed for Helen and taken a closer look at the wound on Mark's head—which was not as serious as it had first appeared—she'd walked back to the Manor. It had been easy to dispatch Anne and Miss Dubois to care for Helen and to send Mickey into Bodmin to summon the doctor.

It was the rest of his plan that worried her. There was little reason to expect that an amoral man who could stomach cold-blooded murder would fall apart from a minor shock. Nor did she consider Mark's precautions to be sufficient even if things worked as he hoped.

But she had no other ideas.

And her brain was behaving far from rationally. Harold's plots aside, she was caught in a maelstrom of emotions. Mark was a different man than she had ever supposed. It was his treatment of Helen that amazed her the most. He had willingly spent time with the girl, demonstrating a patience with her that stood sharply at odds with his reputation in town. Until today, she had dismissed his actions as boredom or guilt for ignoring his daughter. But she could no longer do so.

He genuinely loved Helen. It had shown in his eyes—in the frenzy with which he'd organized the search, in the agony he could not hide when he feared she was dead, in his concern for her injuries, and finally in the gentleness with which he treated her.

Gentlemen of the ton did not care for children—especially hedonistic, selfish gentlemen like the Earl of Bridgeport. It was so natural an attitude that she had accepted it without question. They had little use for the infantry beyond the need to provide for the future. It was an unusual father who spent more than occasional duty time with his offspring—particularly with daughters. That Bridgeport did not adhere to that pattern spoke volumes about his character. He had not only spent a great deal of time with Helen, he had taken pains to find a governess who would encourage the girl's talents.

His public image was complete fabrication, she realized at last. Far from being two men in one body, he had carefully constructed a shield that would hide his real self from the world. The pursuit of pleasure was a artificial barrier that prevented emotional involvement. He may have lived behind it long enough that he no longer had to think about it, but that image did not reflect the real Mark Parrish.

So her aversion to his public persona did not matter. She was attuned to the real man—in love with him, she admitted at last. She had known it the moment he'd slipped down the rockfall.

Light tapping sounded on the library windows. Elaine whirled, then recognized Mark.

* * * *

Mark picked his way through the shrubbery, praying he could reach the library window without being observed. He had never been through such an emotionally draining day in his life—because he had never allowed himself to care for anyone or anything, he conceded. He had protected himself from pain by withdrawing into an inner world populated by no one else. It was that fundamental aloneness that Elaine had detected in his writing. But this trip to Cornwall had shattered his defenses.

It had started with Helen, who was so much like himself as a child—or like he would have been if his mother had not imposed her will on every minute of his day. He had felt an instant rapport with his daughter and had vowed to provide her with all the joys his own youth had lacked. In doing so, he had brought her into his inner world, which left him vulnerable to pain and to fear.

But that was not the worst of it. He had allowed Elaine inside as well, first by capitulating to the urge to test his wit against hers, then by admiring her character and talent, and finally by baring his darkest secrets to her ears. Worse than opening himself to pain, he had handed her the power that he had vowed no mortal would ever possess—the power to control him.

And yet he could not mourn as he would have expected to.

Perhaps it was because she would never use that power. He had no idea how he knew that, but he did. Giving her the information that could disrupt his life had been a willing gift, bestowed to soothe her own fears. But the fact that she had similar secrets did not explain his peace of mind.

He trusted her.

That was what had always been missing from his relationships. Trust. She would never use her knowledge to hurt him. Nor would she use it to control him. He trusted her. And he lo—

He shook his head in shock, but the thought remained. As alarming and foreign as the concept seemed, he loved her. The last of his ramparts collapsed, leaving him as nervous, as fearful, and as vulnerable as the greenest cub. He had finally found a woman who could truly understand him, yet she did not want marriage, especially to him. She would be a challenge like no other he had ever faced.

Her second drawing of `The Siege' shimmered against the night sky, and he shuddered. But surely it was irrelevant! A woman who saw so clearly must be able to see the truth in his eyes.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he tapped on the library window.

“Is Harold back yet?” he murmured once Elaine let him in.

“No. Lord Carrington will join us when your cousin gets here. Burgess will allow the proper anxiety into his voice when he tells him that you have not returned, even though you had an appointment with the steward some time past."

He nodded, his face strained. She could imagine how tense he must feel, waiting here to face a killer.

“How is Helen?” she asked, not wanting to think about what might happen.

“She is doing better.” One hand rested on her back to guide her closer to the fireplace, and Elaine could feel it tremble. “She regained consciousness about half an hour ago, but remembers nothing of the accident."

“That is just as well,” she murmured, trying to keep her mind on business. It was difficult, for Mark had pulled her into his arms and now rested his cheek on her head. She might have pulled away, but this was no flirtation. He needed to hold her for his own comfort.

“I thought she was dead,” he murmured now, tears choking the tortured words. “For nearly an hour, I thought she was dead."

“So did I,” she admitted, sliding her arms around his waist. “But it was not her time. God must have something better in mind for her."

“A comforting thought.” He pulled back a trifle to look at her. “I am so thankful you were there to help. I would have been lost without you.” Giving her no chance to respond, he took her mouth in a gentle kiss.

At least it started gently. Elaine had no thought of refusing him. She opened her mouth at his request, opening her heart and soul to him as well. Mind-numbing languor filled her, to be replaced by sizzling excitement as he groaned and pulled her closer.

Everything about him was perfect, from his hard-muscled body and demanding lips, to his pounding heart that raced in unison with her own, to the thoughts that even now were forming in his mind.

He lifted his head to gaze deeply into her eyes, his own blazing greener than she had ever seen them, open, without barricades, clear to his heart. “Elaine—” One hand reached up to caress her cheek.

The door handle jiggled. Carrington burst into the room to find two anxious people standing at either side of the fireplace.

“He just arrived,” Richard reported. “Burgess is suggesting that he tell me that he has not seen you. I am worried about your disappearance."

Mark nodded and faded into a corner where he would be unnoticed from the doorway. Only a single branch of candles burned on the desk.

“Enter,” called Carrington in reply to a rap.

“You wished to see me, my lord?” lisped Harold, sounding bored.

“Your cousin is missing. Did you see him when you were out this afternoon?"

Harold shook his head.

“Where did you go?” pressed the marquess.

“Through the village and into the next one. My groom discovered an inn there with an excellent ale—light and flavorful. Its qualities approach a German wine I sampled some months ago."

“How about earlier when you were out on the moor?” asked Elaine idly, wondering how anyone could seriously compare ale and wine.

Harold jumped, for he had not noted her sitting in the wing chair by the fireplace. “The moor?” he repeated stupidly.

“Yes, I saw you when I was out sketching. You circled around as far as Lookout Peak. Did you not see Lord Bridgeport there? He had intended to walk in that direction."

“No.” Harold had paled.

“Not very observant, are you, Cousin?” growled Mark, stepping into the light. “Of course, you could not really see who was approaching because you were hidden on top."

“You can't be here,” gasped Harold, swaying as the last vestige of color left his face.

“How wrong you always are,” stated Mark coldly. “You failed, Cousin. Again."

“How did you escape? There was no way out."

“You checked, didn't you?"

Harold's head betrayed the faintest nod.

“You slimy bastard!” snapped Mark, grabbing his cousin by the shoulders and slamming him into a wall. “You nearly killed my daughter this afternoon. For that alone I should turn you over to the runners and let you rot in Botany Bay for the rest of your miserable life. But she is not the only one you've harmed. How many other traps were sprung by innocent bystanders?"

“What?"

“Your traps, Cousin. Things like the cliff path that injured one of my tenants, the coping stone that narrowly missed Miss Thompson, the poisoned mushrooms that could have killed the entire household, and so many more.” His grip tightened until Harold could barely breathe.

“You don't understand,” cried Harold. “I had no choice. If I cannot raise ten thousand pounds by next week, I'll lose everything."

“And so you stoop to murder."

“It's your own fault. You refused to help me."

“My fault! I have no obligations to fund your profligacy."

“Lording it again?” demanded Harold bitterly. “I should be Bridgeport. I am older than you. My father was firstborn."

“He wasn't, and he got more than his expected share as it was,” Mark reminded him. “My father turned over nearly three times as much as Bridgeports normally allot to second sons. He even deeded over the wealthiest of the unentailed estates."

“Only because he felt guilty for cheating Father out of the title."

“Devil it! Where did you get such a preposterous notion?"

“You cannot deny it!” shouted Harold. “Mama knew. She told me all about it. She was Lady Bridgeport until your unspeakable mother forced Papa into exchanging names and positions. And you condoned it. You stole my inheritance!"

“Your sanity is slipping, Harold,” growled Mark. “My parents were married in London before the entire ton fully six months before yours were. Whatever tripe your mother fed you is pure fiction."

“It's not!” he shrieked. “You cheated. You all cheated. But I can get it back. Four gypsies confirmed it. Fate is behind me. A simple accident to redress all wrongs and I am Bridgeport!"

“What you are is crazy."

“You owe me my rightful place!” Harold twisted, and Mark pinned him more firmly to the wall.

“I owe you nothing, especially after enduring years of your enmity, your rumor campaigns, and now this."

“Rumors?” Harold sounded on the verge of denials.

“Don't think I am ignorant of who has been behind every derogatory story ever circulated about me, and that includes the most recent crop of tales. I overlooked that bit of spite. I even overlooked the way you have been using my name to fleece gullible gamesters. But nothing will induce me to overlook murder."

With a roar, Harold whipped out a knife and stabbed the earl. Elaine screamed and tried to grab Harold's arm. Carrington leaped forward to tackle him. In seconds it was over. Harold lay on the carpet, securely tied up, the knife kicked well out of reach. He was sobbing broken threats and curses, raving on again about his father's stolen patrimony, and vowing vengeance for a host of imaginary slights. Carrington kicked him once before opening the door to summon Burgess and Willy, who had been waiting in the hall. Elaine ignored the villain as she bound up a gash on Mark's arm. Burgess, Carrington, and Willy carried Harold out of the room.

“What will happen now?” asked Elaine, succumbing to shudders once the excitement was over.

“It depends on Harold,” said Mark with a sigh. “If he has gone completely round the bend—as it looks like he might—we can lock him in an asylum. Otherwise, I will have to prosecute him for attempted murder. It won't be easy, but he cannot be allowed another chance. I had considered shipping him to the Indies, but I can hardly condone exposing another population to his tricks."

“True,” she agreed softly. “That man has no concept of honor."

“Indeed.” He drew her close and smiled into her eyes. “Does your concern mean you might care for me just a bit?"

“I care for all people."

“Some more than others, I hope. I must ask it again, my dear. I do so damnably want to marry you."

“Why? Surely you are not still piqued over being jilted."

He laughed. “You might lift that awful curse that has hung over my head all these years. After all, you started it."

“Of all the absurd reasons to offer matrimony!"

“I wasn't—claiming that as a reason,” he added when she frowned. “The ultimate revenge is yours, my dear nemesis. I love you, Elaine. It is something I never thought could happen, but somehow you have slipped past all the walls I built around my heart. Not only do I want to marry you, I want to live with you. I cannot ignore my Parliamentary obligations, so we would have to be in town on occasion—which I know you do not care for—but most of the year we would stay elsewhere. Bridgeport Abbey is a delightful estate, and will be even better once we erase my mother's touch. Please, Miss Mary Elaine Merriweather Thompson, artist extraordinaire, I need you."

She looked into his eyes and saw the truth of the words. His expression was open, without artifice. But her own fears still pressed close. “When all is said and done, marriage is nought but legalized slavery, and you have shown that you are capable of both pique and underhanded coercion."

Mark's blood ran cold, but her eyes contained much more than fear—and who could blame her for hesitating after the example her father had set? “Neither of us wants to be dominated, love. My own dread of it makes yours easy to understand. Before we say our vows, I will make you independent. You will be able to walk out any time you desire. And don't ever think that I would try to curb M. E. Merriweather. I have too much respect for your talent to even consider it."

“You are so very different from the face you show the world,” she said with a smile. “Your poetry speaks to me in many ways, probably because your real character is so close to mine."

She reached up to lay a finger against his lips, and smiled. "He hath importuned me with love, in honourable fashion."

“Shakespeare, Hamlet, one of Ophelia's speeches,” he said, nipping her finger. “And I importune you as well. What must I do to prove myself?"

“I would never ask you to beg, Mark. And I know that you will never be the tyrant my father was. I would be proud to call you husband."

“I love you,” she whispered as he nuzzled her neck, one hand entwined firmly in her hair.

“I should have married you years ago,” he managed huskily.

“It would never have worked then,” she reminded him. “I was insecure, uneducated, and terrified. You would have taken me to Westron and left me there."

He laughed. “Probably. More fool me. What should a fool do with so good a woman?"

“Shakespeare, Othello. You mean you don't know? What shocking ignorance for a man of your reputation!"

“Never.” She pulled his head down for another kiss. “All that remains is to get rid of these pesky guests."

“Easy. I do believe that Helen has something contagious. They will be gone by morning."

“Except Lord Carrington and Anne,” she suggested. “We must observe the proprieties."

“In the eyes of the world,” he agreed, the laughter lighting his face telling her all she wanted to know as he drew her into another heady embrace.

Visit www.belgravehouse.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

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