Lord Peter's Page

Mackey-Lord-Peter Lord Peter's Page Maureen Mackey Awe-Struck Copyright © 2000 Romance. 66414 words long. English Novel text/xml

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Lord Peter's Page by Maureen Mackey ----------------------------------Romance Awe-Struck www.Awe-Struck.net Copyright ©2000 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.

ISBN: 1-58749-015-3 For Wendy Newhouse Davis, for believing in me and helping me believe in myself. Chapter One On this sultry June evening the town house in fashionable Mayfair was ablaze with light. A crush of carriages on the street outside attested further to the festivities within. Inside the crowded rooms diamonds winked in the snowy cravats of stylish gentlemen, and brightly-colored gemstones sparkled on the bosoms of the women in their high-waisted, low-cut gowns. Garlands of flowers decked the reception rooms on the first floor, above street level, of the narrow house. The drawing and music rooms had been cleared to allow musicians room to play, with a small area set aside for dancing. The soiree was starting. Excitement was in the air. Downstairs, at any rate. Upstairs, in the chamber of the Honorable Charlotte Finbury, for whose benefit all of this had been done, misery hung like a cloud. The young lady in question sat at her dressing table, oblivious to the breath-taking picture she presented. In a few short hours her parents were to announce her engagement to the utterly wrong man. And it seemed there was nothing she could do about it. “The Earl is so very old,” she wailed to her abigail, Betty. “He is losing his hair. He will be bald any day now. And his fingers are perpetually stained with snuff!” “ ‘Orrible, Miss,” said the young Irish maid as she deftly twisted Charlotte's thick dark hair into a topknot. She secured it firmly and teased some pretty curls around her face. Picking up a spray of white roses from the table she tucked it into her mistress's gleaming coiffure. “It fair makes me blood boil to think of a young girl like you with that old man. So what if ‘e's rich?” “So what indeed,” echoed Charlotte. “He is not the least bit like Cyril.” Cyril. The very mention of his name sent Charlotte back to last autumn and Miss Adam's Seminary for

Young Ladies in Bath, where she first laid eyes on the man of her dreams. Cyril Cholmondeley was the older brother of Amelia, her friend at the seminary. Actually, Amelia was rather annoying, but once Charlotte had met her brother she was willing to put up with her silliness. From the instant she had seen him, Charlotte knew he was her one true love. Cyril looked like Lord Byron, only it was clear to the most impartial observer that he was far handsomer than the much-vaunted poet. Cyril was lean, almost gaunt, with curly brown hair and blue eyes that held a haunted look. He even had a slight limp, which she had no doubt he had earned heroically. He was young, too, only a few years older than Charlotte, and he most emphatically did not use snuff. He came to visit Amelia often that fall, though he saw more of Charlotte than his sister. Amelia had a romantic soul and good-naturedly included Charlotte on all her outings with her brother. While Charlotte had to concede she and Cyril had never actually plighted their troth, they had exchanged many meaningful looks and soulful sighs under the changing leaves of the trees by the river Avon. She was sure Cyril meant to ask for her hand in marriage, just as soon as he had enough fortune to impress her father. And that is what she told her parents when they told her they had arranged a good match for her with Lord Satterly. They in turn had laughed. Laughed! And used terms such as “green girl,” and “little pea-goose” while muttering darkly about the effects of too much time and too many novels. The end result was that the engagement was on, with tonight's soiree by way of a formal announcement. “If Cyril knew I was being forced to marry against my will, he would come here tonight, and, and, challenge Satterly and my father to a duel!” “'eaven ‘elp us!” whispered Betty in awe. “And just at the last moment, after Satterly had cried craven and Cyril had my father at point non plus, his sword point at his very throat, he would declare his undying love for me. And my mother would cry and say how could she have been so blind, and my father, after being graciously spared by Cyril, would humbly ask if we would accept his blessing. Then we would be married in St. Paul's and go to Italy for a glorious honeymoon. I can see it now, Betty—picturesque landscapes, just like those we saw in the paintings at the Royal Academy, and romantic gondola rides through the canals of Venice.” “Ahh,” Betty could only breathe. “Charlotte!” came an anxious voice from the doorway. “Are you quite ready?” “Yes, Mama.” Charlotte reluctantly stood for inspection. “My heavens, child, but you do look lovely,” said Lady Finbury, regarding her daughter who was exquisitely gowned in silver spangled net over white satin. Not that Charlotte had any need of expensive modistes, or indeed any artifice, to look beautiful. Her skin was unblemished and translucent; her lips, full and rosy; thick, sooty lashes fringed her sapphire eyes; and her lustrous hair shone blue-black in the candlelight. “I vow, many a heart will be broken tonight when we announce your engagement to Lord Satterly. I came to tell you it is time we went downstairs, daughter. Our guests will be arriving, and we should be forming the receiving line. Betty, you may go now.” “Yes, Lady Finbury,” said Betty, bobbing a nervous curtsey and scuttling with downcast eyes through the

doorway past the Baroness. “Charlotte, have you been speaking familiarly with Betty again?” the Baroness chided gently. “Betty is very young, and doesn't know yet how to maintain a proper distance. If you, as her mistress, don't teach her, she will never learn, and then she will have a most difficult job retaining a good position in a respectable household. You do understand, do you not?” “Yes, Mother,” said Charlotte, who really didn't. She enjoyed talking to the young abigail. Now that Charlotte was home from school, there were so few young ladies her own age she saw regularly and to whom she could confide her deepest feelings. Betty was an uncritical listener, interested in everything Charlotte said. And Betty never, ever told her she was a pea-goose. Her mother sighed. “You have always been a headstrong, impulsive girl. Your father and I overlooked much of your behavior because you were such a sweet, delightful child, and now we are reaping the rewards of our indulgence. Are you still averse to your betrothal?” “I will never be resigned to it. Never!” The Baroness sighed again. A handsome woman in her early forties, worry lines were beginning to form around her fine blue eyes. “I have spoken to your father, and he is adamant. Satterly is a good man, Charlotte. He will never hurt you. He has an ample fortune, and will take good care of you.” “He is so old, Mother!” “Forty-five may seem old to you at eighteen, but believe me, child, he is not yet at his last prayers.” A ghost of a smile lit the Baroness's face. “Oh, Charlotte, I can see you have some trepidation now, but soon you will come to care for Satterly, and know we have chosen well for you. I am convinced of it. I am aware there is much talk these days of marrying for love, but trust me, Charlotte, a carefully-arranged marriage is still the wiser course.” She crossed to Charlotte, and gently stroked her daughter's soft cheek. “Love in most cases is nothing more than physical attraction, Charlotte, and that fades with the years. When two parties are matched on the basis of mutual interest, temperament, and station in life, by those who know the parties well and have their best interests at heart, you have the basis of a stable, harmonious, and long-lasting relationship.” “Stable is right,” answered Charlotte bitterly. “It sounds as though you are discussing the breeding of one of Papa's prime bits o’ blood, or a transaction at Tattersall's auction yard, instead of your daughter's marriage. I will not have my future decided as though it was some sort of cold-blooded business arrangement!” “But that is exactly what it is, my dear,” said her mother, unruffled. “A business arrangement which often turns to love. I so well remember my own wedding day. I barely knew your father, who was also my senior by fifteen years. I was terrified then, yet you must allow our marriage has since proved to be a happy one.” “But you had not yet met your true love. It was all the same to you.” The Baroness clicked her tongue impatiently. “You are not going to bring up that Cholmondeley person again, are you? I vow, Charlotte, I would never have sent you to that school, no matter how your Aunt Agatha praised it, if I had known you would take such a maggot in your head. If the boy wished to be a serious suitor we would have met him by now. You made your come-out months ago. You must forget about that halfling, Charlotte, and grow up!”

Charlotte made one final appeal. “Please, Mother, do not make me do this!” Her mother ignored her daughter's outstretched arms. “It has been decided, Charlotte. At midnight, your betrothal to Lord Satterly will be announced, and you will be married to him before next Christmastide!” Knowing it would be useless, Charlotte made no further entreaty. Her mind was quite made up, anyway. By midnight, she would not be standing meekly at her father's side, her hand clasped in the dry hold of Lord Satterly. She would be long gone. And by Christmas she would be married, but not to Satterly—to Cyril! **** Charlotte decided the stroke of midnight would be the perfect time to leave. Until then, she must give no indication of her plans. She would dance with Lord Satterly, smile and be gracious. Her parents would suspect nothing. The soiree was a huge success; the rooms were so crowded people could barely move. Lord Satterly was ponderously polite. He smiled at Charlotte with a kind of sweaty eagerness that made her squirm. He was not an ill-favored man, though his hair was thinning and he was somewhat stout. When they danced he trod on her toes, and his conversation consisted mainly of the newest additions to his stables and the hunts he had ridden. Charlotte suspected the gentleman was far more comfortable on the hunting field than in a drawing room. Like many a member of the ton, he had come to London this Season to find a wife, someone to act as mistress of his manor and provide him with heirs. It probably did not matter to Satterly who he selected from the Marriage Mart, thought Charlotte, as long as she had the right bloodlines—which again made her think of Tattersall's. During the long evening many dashing young bucks danced with Charlotte, and paid her pretty compliments, but they all maintained a respectful demeanor. The on-dit had spread: she was soon to be pledged to the Earl. Charlotte glanced at the clock every time she could manage it. The minutes ticked by, so slowly she thought she would scream with impatience. Her mind was working feverishly, forming one plan after another as she chatted and danced to the lilting music. She remembered every romantic novel she had ever read (courtesy of Mr. Lane's Minerva Press) and thought of all their courageous heroines. Surely none of them would quail at running away from their homes to escape dreadful fates. She could do no less. Finally it was half past eleven. She stole a glance at the young gallant who was escorting her off the dance floor in the direction of her watchful mother. He was looking straight ahead. With a tiny gulp Charlotte resolutely and deliberately stumbled forward, the toe of her slipper firmly catching the hem of her dress. “Oh,” she cried. “My gown! I fear I have torn it!” “I say, I'm frightfully sorry,” said the young man. Charlotte could tell from his stricken expression that he assumed he had done it. “I assure you, it was my fault,” she said truthfully. “It is of no consequence, really. I believe I can effect a speedy repair.”

She smiled brightly at her mother and pointed ever so slightly with her fan to her torn hem. Then she gracefully left the room and mounted the stairs. The Baroness looked baffled, Charlotte thought, stifling a qualm as she headed for her chamber. She had to do this. If only her mother wouldn't get suspicious and come looking for her! She closed the door of her chamber firmly behind her, and crossed quickly to her bed. Still wearing her silvery gown, she knelt to pull a large trunk a few feet away from the foot-board. She took the key from under the mattress, and working the lock threw back the heavy hinged lid. Lifting out the linens and laces stored there, which were meant to accompany her into married life one day, she extracted from the bottom of the trunk a set of rather worn boy's clothing. Charlotte had gotten the idea of wearing boy's clothing from gossip she had overheard about Lady Caroline Lamb, Lord Byron's temperamental lover. She heard the eccentric Lady Caroline often liked to don a disguise as a pageboy, in order to go about freely in society. The idea of such freedom seemed utterly delicious to Charlotte. And tonight, she felt free! The sudden crack of a door hinge made Charlotte whirl around. “Betty!” “Miss?” Betty's eyes were as big as saucers. “What are you doing here?” “The Baroness sent me to ‘elp you fix your gown.” She gulped. “Whatever be you doin’ with those clothes, Miss?” “I'm running away, Betty,” Charlotte announced dramatically. “I refuse to marry one man while my heart belongs to another. You can go and tell my mother, if you wish, but if she stops me I will only do it another time.” “I'll not be tellin’ your ma, Miss Charlotte,” protested the abigail excitedly. “But where will you go?” “I will not tell you that. What you do not know you will not be held accountable for. But have no fear. I have a plan.” She had decided to go to the nearest posting inn and take the stage to Bath, where her aunt lived. It was a stroke of genius to bring Aunt Agatha into her plan. Aunt Agatha was the one who had suggested Miss Adam's Seminary to her parents. Aunt Agatha had given her some of her favorite romance novels to read, novels, which had seemed to mirror her very thoughts and feelings last autumn. Charlotte regularly had luncheon with Aunt Agatha when she was in Bath, and Aunt Agatha had loved hearing about Cyril. She would understand. And she would help her. Aunt Agatha would intercede for her with her parents, make them see why she could not marry the Earl. Her parents would listen to Aunt Agatha. Like many children of the ton, Charlotte did not have a close emotional bond with her parents. She had been raised primarily by her nurse and her governess. Still, the Baron and Baroness had proved to be indulgent, if absent parents. She had never been denied anything she wanted, nor thwarted in a desire. Charlotte was confident her parents would eventually come around to her view of the matter. All she needed was time, and Aunt Agatha's intercession. Which was why she had decided to go to Bath tonight. She had some money, enough she hoped to purchase a seat on the Bath coach with some leftover to secure some sort of lodging for the remainder of the night.

She trusted her boy's disguise would keep her from drawing too much attention. It wouldn't have to be for long. Given the amazing speed of the stagecoaches these days, she ought to be in Bath by tomorrow evening! Eagerly, and with Betty's help, she undid the tapes of her silvery dress and donned the shirt and pantaloons. “Um, Miss,” Betty cleared her throat. “What is it, Betty?” Charlotte was looking through the chest for the coat she had hidden there. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, but you don't look much like a boy in that there shirt.” She giggled. Charlotte regarded her reflection in the cheval glass. She saw nothing amiss. Then she turned, and looked at her profile. A gasp of dismay escaped her. “No, I do not, do I? I wonder if the coat will obscure my, er, feminine attributes?” She put the heavy coat on. Besides its shabbiness, it was a distinctly ugly shade of green. “It don't fit right across the chest, that it don't,” said Betty bluntly. “Hmm.” Charlotte thought for a moment, then rummaged around the chest till she pulled up an old woolen shawl. “This ought to do the trick, Betty!” She took off the coat and the rough cotton shirt. Working quickly, she wrapped the shawl firmly around her bosom, binding her breasts tightly to her chest. When she was done, she made a small, firm knot in the shawl under her arm. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “Now the coat will fit better.” “Saints preserve us,” breathed Betty, crossing herself. “You're as flat as a lad!” Charlotte laughed. “That is precisely the idea.” Again she donned the rough woolen shirt, and struggled into the green coat. From the bottom of the trunk she extracted a pair of boots and stepped into them, showing plainly that they were a few sizes too large for her small feet. Plucking the flowers from her hair, she grabbed a boy's cap and tried to set it on her head. “Oh, bother. This cap will not fit over my topknot. And I surely cannot wear my hair down.” Charlotte stared at her image in the looking glass. “I suppose there is only one thing to do.” She undid her hair and reached for the scissors she kept in her dressing table. Her long, thick hair shone black as midnight in the glow of the tapers. Charlotte knew a moment's regret. Then she thought of all the brave heroines she had read about. She lifted the scissors. “Oh, no, Miss Charlotte.” Betty's hands flew to her face. “You're not going to ‘ack off all that lovely ‘ air!” “I'm afraid it cannot be helped, Betty. Besides, short hair has been fashionable for some time now. I'll be all the crack.” Without a moment's further hesitation she cut her long hair up above her ears. And what a surprise awaited her! Free of its heavy length, her hair now curled beguilingly all over her head. Charlotte was

amazed at how easily and softly her hair curled. And how very feminine it looked. Betty moaned softly at the long dark locks of hair on the floor as Charlotte stared intently into the mirror again. “This still will not do,” she muttered. “I do not look anything like a boy with these curls.” She raised the scissors again, then stopped, with them poised in mid-air. She did not want to cut all her hair off. What would Cyril think? “I ‘ave an idea, Miss,” said Betty tentatively. “Maybe if you just smudged up a little...” “Betty, what a famous notion! Of course, no one will look too closely at me if I appear to be just a dirty boy.” Charlotte hurried to the fireplace, and scooped up a handful of ashes. She smeared the soot all over her face, and into her hair. Her hair became a muddy grey, and her face dirty. She yanked the cap down low over her forehead and on her ears, hiding most of the betraying curls. She smiled, pleased with her appearance. Much easier to pass undetected through the streets of London now. “There now, your own mother wouldn't know you,” said Betty admiringly. “I sincerely hope not,” was Charlotte's fervent reply. “You've been a real Trojan, Betty, but you had best leave now,” she added kindly. “The Baroness is going to notice you have been gone a long time. Now don't you make up any tarradiddles on my account. Just tell my mother you do not know where I am. That is the truth, after all.” “Be careful, Miss Charlotte.” Betty's brown eyes were filled with worry. Charlotte crossed the room, and enveloped the girl in a quick hug. “You can be sure I will. Thank you, Betty, for all your help. I hope my adventure does not get you into any trouble.” “Don't worry about me, Miss,” said Betty stoutly. “And if they come a'looking for you, I'll tell ’em you went downstairs the back way.” Charlotte waited for Betty to leave and close the door. Going back once more to the trunk, she took out a small wooden box that contained a pile of guineas she had carefully hoarded. Twisting the gold coins into a handkerchief, she stuffed it into her coat pocket. She hurried to her escritoire and extracted a folded letter lying beneath a pile of writing paper. She had written the letter earlier, before she went down to the soiree, but she took a few moments now to go over it one last time. Dearest Mama and Papa, Please forgive me for this abrupt departure. Be assured I am acting out of the utmost desperation and necessity. I cannot go through with the betrothal. I am certain I would expire, simply waste away, should I be forced to marry a man I do not love. I know this would distress you as much as it would me. I am going to a place of safety. Have no concerns for my wellbeing. I will write again, as soon as I arrive at my destination. I deeply regret any unease this may cause you. Respectfully, I am ever your most affectionate daughter, Charlotte Reading through it, she felt a sharp pang of guilt. They would likely be most angry, and distressed, and she had no wish to cause them pain. She hesitated, letter in hand. A picture of Lord Satterly came to her

mind, and her resolve hardened. Her parents had to understand she could not marry him! She folded the missive and left it propped up against the looking glass on the table. Under her bed she had stashed her bed-sheets, which she had earlier pulled off her mattress. As fast as she could she knotted them together into a long rope. She felt exhilarated; why, she was every bit as resourceful as anyone she had ever read about! Quickly she tied the end of the last sheet to the bedpost nearest the window. Flinging open the sash, she cast her makeshift rope over the sill. From deep inside the house she heard the clock start its long midnight chiming. By now, she knew, her father would be standing next to Lord Satterly, while her mother searched the room for her. Charlotte gave one backward glance over her shoulder to her room, and the security she had known there. Then she hoisted a leg over the windowsill. Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside her room. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if to break free. Her throat was dry, breathing rapid, but her mind was clear. Quickly she lifted her other leg over the sill, and with scarce a downward glance grabbed the roped sheets and plunged feet first into the night. Chapter Two Excitement building within her, Charlotte grappled awkwardly with the sheets, bracing herself with her clumsily-shod feet against the brick sides of the house, hoping to heaven the bedpost knot would hold for three stories. When she was a few feet away from the pavement she jumped off. It was dark and relatively quiet, the noise of the gathering inside muffled. She made her way to the back of the narrow courtyard behind the house, and climbed over the wall. Then she crept down the alley out to the street. Walking quickly, she threaded her way through the streets down to Piccadilly. The new-fangled gaslights did not provide much in the way of illumination. It was amazing, but traversing even a short distance down Piccadilly, a ho-hum carriage ride during the day, seemed a tremendous adventure at night and on foot. Several young bucks, weaving through the cobblestone streets, were making a clatter with their canes and loud companions. They're foxed, thought Charlotte, with a stab of apprehension. She knew men often drank heavily. Many times she had seen her father and his companions worse for the wear after several bottles of brandy and claret. When the young swells merely glanced idly at her and walked on, she breathed a sigh of relief, thankful her disguise was working so well. Further troublesome thoughts disappeared when the White Horse Cellar came into view. She had made it! All she had to do now was book a seat on the Bath coach. She knew she would have to wait till morning for the office to open. Still, the prospect of a wait didn't daunt her in the least. She optimistically planned to secure a bedchamber with the extra money she had brought. Excitedly she read the sign over the lantern in the doorway: “White Horse Cellar, Coaches and Waggons to All Parts of the Kingdom.” The crack of a whip echoed in the night air and a heavy coach lumbered past. Eyes fixed straight ahead, Charlotte in her haste didn't see the small figure crouching in her path till she tripped over it. “I do beg your pardon,” she began, hoping she hadn't hurt the little boy. He must be a street urchin. She had sometimes seen ragged-looking children on street corners and in alleyways from the small window of her parents’ carriage.

Her kind heart was touched. She bent down quickly to see if the lad was hurt. The gleam of a knife blade shone back at her. Fear rose like bile in her throat. Though she had no experience dealing with street thieves, she believed this one to be deadly serious. “Do yer have any brass?” snarled the lad. This close, he looked more like eighteen than eight. “Well, I, er,” Charlotte stammered. This seemed to tell him what he wanted to know. “Ye best ‘and it over then,” he said, “or I'll cut ya but good.” What would be worse, she wondered fleetingly: being knifed, or surrendering her guineas and being stranded penniless in the middle of the night in London? For a moment she was scared; then she got angry. “If you dare to come anywhere near me with that thing ,” she cried, “I'll scream my head off.” “Ooo now, and ‘oo do yer think will ‘ear? Yer look like a regular cove but yer sound like a swell, and I be thinking yer ‘ave a bit of blunt on yer. I'll take yer blunt dead or alive, makes no difference to me. Where is it? In ‘ere, maybe?” With a quick slice of his knife he cut a button off her coat, near the breast pocket where she had hidden the handkerchief. His bloodshot eyes peered into hers as he grinned horribly. She was close enough to smell his rancid breath, and the stale, unwashed odor that he reeked. “If yer thinking of making a racket, go on. No one'll ‘ear, or care what ‘appens to a dirty cove like yerself.” He put the knife close to her throat and started fumbling through her coat pockets. Charlotte's fear rose. He would most certainly take her money. If he discovered, in his groping, that she was a girl... She took a quick step back and reached into her coat pocket before he could react. “Here,” she said, throwing the handkerchief a distance. “There are several guineas in that. Take it, you horrible creature.” When the urchin bent down to retrieve the handkerchief, she ran. She ran through the coach yard, past the men loading a coach, down, down into the farthest reaches of the vast stables. She found a pile of straw in the back of an empty stall, and buried herself in it. She shivered, more from fright than cold, and wrapped her arms tightly around her body. I will not cry, she told herself fiercely. Only the most cow-hearted females in the books she read cried when they were in trouble. I am certainly not cow-hearted. I will devise another plan. But what? The question bedeviled her. She couldn't go back home now, and face a barrage of inquiries and accusations. Her parents, as much as they loved her, would most certainly be very angry. And there was still Lord Satterly to contend with. Her adventure had barely begun. Cyril, and those romantic gondola rides through the canals of Venice, awaited. She wouldn't turn back now. Somehow, she'd contrive to get on that Bath coach. A rustle in the straw caught her attention. It was followed by an unmistakable scampering sound, very close to where she sat. A scream welled up in her throat. Rats! Never, in all the books she'd read, had one of her heroines been required to contend with rats. She tried to calm herself. She shrank into the corner of the stall, wrapped her arms even more tightly around herself and tried to think logically. The rats weren't interested in her. They must be after the oats fed to the stall's previous occupant. She could just ignore them. But, oh, did it have to be rats? This was

worse than being robbed. To distract herself, she thought of different ways she could try to get on the Bath coach and get to her aunt's. As she forced herself to concentrate on the tasks at hand, her mind only half-registered the foraging of the rats in the straw and the sounds of the coach yard dying down as the night progressed. Soon, without even realizing it, her eyes grew heavy and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. **** A furious blast from a horn woke her. A cold gray dawn was breaking, reaching even the depths of the stall she was in. As the memory of her dilemma returned to her, she felt a bit ashamed of how soundly she had slept. She crept forward, from the stall to the doorway and then the coach yard, trying to see what was causing all the commotion. With a thunder of hooves and a great clatter, a black and maroon Royal Mail coach was pulling into the coach yard. A guard, dressed in scarlet, raised a three-foot brass horn to his lips and gave another blast to signal the arrival of the mail. The coachman stopped the great carriage with a flourish, while men ran from the inn and started changing the horses, which were stamping and steaming in the damp morning air. Charlotte watched in amazement at how quickly the horses were replaced with a fresh team. On the other side of the yard a stagecoach was being loaded quickly and efficiently. Steps were lowered from the interior. Charlotte saw a dapper old man mount the stairs, followed by a prim-looking woman of indeterminate age, a fidgety clergyman, and a stout, red-faced country woman with a squalling baby on each hip. They settled themselves inside. About a dozen more people, mainly men, clambered up on the roof. The coach's destination, Bristol, was printed clearly on its side panel. Charlotte watched as the heavy coach set off, its rooftop passengers clinging to the rails as it pitched and swayed at a turn. A sigh escaped her. To be setting out on a journey—those coach passengers were so lucky! Except, she considered, those mewed up inside with the fussy babies. If only she had not been robbed of her coach fare! She would have asked for a seat on the roof. That way she could see where she was going and feel the wind in her face. Oh, it would be so wonderful—the adventure of a coach ride, and Cyril at the end of it! She sighed. Across the yard another stagecoach was being loaded. When the men hoisting a trunk moved she saw the name on the panel. Bath! That should have been her coach. She decided to get closer to it. Leaving the shelter of the doorway, she made her way across the yard. The yard was crowded; she had to dodge ostlers and coachmen, and horses and stable boys just to get from one side to the other. She stopped a few yards away from the Bath coach and stood hesitantly behind another carriage while she prepared a hasty plan. The best plan she could devise was to simply throw herself on the coachman's mercy, or approach a sympathetic-looking passenger and ask for a loan of the coach fare. She was sure her aunt would reimburse anyone kind enough to oblige her. But how could she explain her pressing need to get to Bath without letting people know she had run away from home? Someone would be sure to call a constable and turn her over to her parents, especially if her disguise was seen through. The last thing she wanted was some Good Samaritan to return her to the bosom of her family. Why not tell them her aunt, her only living relative, was dying? Then she would be sure to arouse somebody's sympathy. But then how could she assure a benefactor a dying aunt would pay back the funds for her fare? “Who's this ‘ere chaise belong to, then?”

Charlotte jumped. Then she realized she wasn't being addressed; two men at the front of the carriage she was hiding behind were talking. “Couple o’ swells. Randolph, the cove said ‘is name was. Lord Peter Randolph. Has another cove with ‘ im. On their way to Bath, I ‘eard tell. Stopped ‘ere to get their first team of ‘orses, and some grub at the inn.” “Well, they'll ‘ave to get this rig out of the way. The Portsmouth mail is due.” “I'll get one of the lads to lead the ‘orses on a bit further. If I can find one who isn't being run off ‘is feet already. This is always the busiest time o’ the day.” “'ere I am, guv'nor.” Charlotte stepped forward and grabbed the bridle of the two strong bays. “I'll be ‘ appy to move ’em for yer,” she added in what she hoped was authentic-sounding stable boy dialect. “See that you do, lad,” said the first man with relief. “And then get back to yer duties.” With the barest of prodding the horses were led willingly by her. Looking inside the carriage, she saw it was carelessly packed with boxes and luggage. Whoever was handling the reins of this carriage obviously wasn't planning on any inside passengers. As she walked the compliant team, Charlotte had to work to keep the big smile she was feeling off her face. Once again, with a resourcefulness worthy of the most dashing of fictional heroines, she had solved her problems wonderfully. **** “Did we have to stop at this damnable posting inn?” the Honorable George Thorndike asked his companion plaintively. “Best place in the world for a quick breakfast,” replied Lord Peter Randolph blandly. “And you know we require sustenance for the journey ahead, Geordie.” “Ha. The way you handle the ribbons, I require my head examined to even go out with you. I must be as mad as the old King. Zounds, Peter, it's not even seven! Hardly an hour for a gentleman to be up and about. I swear my cravat must look a perfect fright—my man Wilkins isn't accustomed to dressing me so early.” “If we want to make it anywhere close to Bath by nightfall an early start is essential,” replied Lord Peter, unperturbed. Geordie folded his arms across his chest and maintained a sulky silence. Lord Peter sighed. He could depend on his friend for nearly anything except a good mood early in the morning. “You are ruining the line of your coat that way, Geordie,” he said cheerfully. “It's a shame to see all of Weston's artistry go for naught.” Geordie gave a “humph,” but relaxed his arms. Lord Peter was very familiar with his friend's ambitions to dandyism, and knew how his clothes looked and fit were of paramount importance to him. Unfortunately, he reflected, there wasn't much Geordie could do to alter a tendency toward plumpness which rebelled against being squeezed into skin-tight pantaloons, or a fair, florid complexion made even redder by high shirt points and an elaborately-tied cravat. Lord Peter shrugged good-humoredly. He never gave too much thought to dressing his own lean, muscular frame, beyond what was deemed necessary by society and Timmons, his tyrannical valet. With

his usual even temperament, he put up with the fussing of Timmons over his daily grooming, though much to Timmon's despair he limited the cravat-tying sessions to an hour. “I'm not Brummel, you know,” he would say lazily. “I have no aspirations to be taken for a Pink of the Ton, much less to be trying to achieve the latest pleats and knots in my cravat. If we cannot manage something passable in the space of an hour, why then, I will just go without, like Byron did. No one seemed to object to him in an open collar.” Lord Peter's hair gave Timmons rather less cause for complaint. His master's full, dark head of hair almost arranged itself into a fashionable windswept style, though Timmons did wish he would give more of a care to how he flattened it with his hat. This again was in a marked contrast to Geordie, who'd been known to torture his lank blond hair for hours in a hopeless attempt to achieve a similar effect. Lord Peter had often thought that if Geordie's kind nature were capable of any real animosity, he would resent him for purely sartorial reasons. “Ah, here comes the landlord with our breakfast,” he said to his disgruntled friend. “This ought to put a bloom back in those cheeks, eh?” Geordie thawed noticeably at the appearance of a steaming pot of tea, followed by cold pigeon-pie, boiled beef and ham, grilled kidneys and bacon, and hot buttered toast and muffins. The landlord, obsequious to such obvious members of the Quality, brought them a fresh pot of tea when theirs began to get cold. After twenty minutes of silent and dedicated eating, Geordie began to regain his customary good humor and volubility. “So why ain't we takin’ the coachman with us? Or Timmons? The chaise'll look dashed irregular with just us on it.” Lord Peter wiped his lips carefully with the edge of his napkin, folded it and placed it beside his plate. “I prefer to handle the ribbons myself, as you well know, Geordie. Hodges is an excellent coachman, but slower than my grandmother. If I allowed him to take the reins we would arrive sometime next week. As for Timmons, the poor man has come down with the ague. He tried to come, but I insisted he stay in Grosvenor Square. There are plenty of servants at Randolph House, and one of them will do as a valet till Timmons recovers. I trust we can see to our own needs for one day's worth of travel.” “Still don't see why you're haring off to Bath in this hurly-burly way,” grumbled Geordie. “Much less why I agreed to accompany you.” “I'm going, as you know, because of a summons from Her Grace, my formidable mother,” said his friend dryly. “I ignored her two previous commands to come to the family seat. This one, it seems, is more urgent. She reports my father is ill, but I rather suspect she has lured another simpering female to the manor, with the hopes I'll be smitten or at least do my duty and propose. “You, Geordie, are going out of pure goodness of heart, and another opportunity to sample the artistry of Pierre, the French chef my mother managed to bribe to come work for us. I do not believe his former employer, Lord Pembroke, is ever going to forgive her.” “Pierre's meals are pure poetry,” said Geordie, with a dreamy look in his eye. He snapped out of it, and regarded his friend shrewdly. “Why are they so hell-bent on your getting leg-shackled all of the sudden? Isn't your brother Richard already married?” “Ah, yes, to the redoubtable Lady Margaret, another of my mother's picks. But it has been five years now and my brother, the esteemed Marquess, hasn't managed to produce a suitable heir, or any heir, for

that matter. My mother is about ready to wash her hands of him, and they're looking to me to keep the line going, I believe.” “It's a terrible shame,” said Geordie sorrowfully, “that a fine buck like yourself has to leave London and sacrifice himself on the matrimonial altar, so to speak. And you still so young.” Lord Peter laughed. “You make it sound a gruesome fate. To tell you the truth, Geordie, the notion doesn't entirely repel me. Knew the day would have to come, don't you know. I'm nearly thirty—” “Twenty-eight,” Geordie corrected him. “—and I have led a rather rackety life till now.” A scandalized protest started to issue from Geordie's lips, but Lord Peter waved it down. “You know it's true; after all, you've been with me on most of my adventures. No, it's not marriage I mind, just the Duchess arranging it. I don't want to be bound for life to a Friday-faced female like m’ brother's wife.” He paused to down another gulp of tea. “It's not that the Marchioness is a bad-looking woman,” he mused, “but too serious for my taste. Like a beautiful statue. No life to her at all.” He shuddered and shook his head. “Don't see how Richard can stand it.” “It's a good thing you brought me along,” said Geordie complacently. He leaned back in his chair and absently patted his ample stomach. “When it comes to the fair sex, I can separate the wheat from the chaff. I've a good eye, if I do say so myself. Remember Sarah Templeton? Do you recall how everyone said she was a diamond of the first water? Only I knew how it would be after she married Fairleigh. Knew she'd turn out to be bossy, just like her mother. And what happened, I ask you? She's practically got him on leading strings now. Poor Fairleigh was so besotted he never saw it coming, but I did. I saw it coming all along. Women can't fool me.” Lord Peter hid a smile, thinking of all the opera dancers and “bits of muslin” who had done just that to his gullible friend. “No indeed,” he managed to say gravely. “I am very fortunate to have you along. Which reminds me,” he lifted a gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket, snapped the lid open and glanced briefly at the dial, “it is time we were on our way. Shall we go?” Geordie acquiesced, and they made their way out to the coach yard after paying the landlord for their repast. “I say, where is your traveling chaise, Peter? Didn't we leave it here?” “Yes, we did, and apparently it has been moved.” He scanned the bustling yard. “There it is, by the far wall.” “Damned impertinence,” grumbled Geordie, as they traversed the yard. “A cove ought to be able to find his own carriage after a meal.” “I agree,” replied Lord Peter, his lips twitching. “As I have told you on many occasions.” “If you are referring to my being unable to find my carriage after that masquerade at the Pantheon, it had nothing to do with my being foxed, which I most assuredly was not. Merely broaching a couple bottles of claret—”

“A couple dozen, if I recall it right.” “Nothing of the sort! Besides, I hold my drink better than any buck in town.” “As you say,” said Lord Peter solemnly. “I must be mistaken. Your carriage was obviously playing a dreadful prank on you that evening. Ah, here is the elusive chaise now. Climb up, Geordie.” **** Muffled though she was inside the chaise under a traveling rug, sandwiched between a trunk and an overstuffed valise, Charlotte still heard the two men approach. So far, everything was working out perfectly. The man with the deep voice was instructing his friend to climb up into the box, just as she had hoped he would. Her breath caught when she heard the door open instead. “Not in there, cawker—it's too cluttered,” said the man with deep voice. “Besides, Geordie, you don't want to shut yourself up in there. Sit up on the box with me. It promises to be a beautiful day for a drive.” “Don't know as I want that good a view,” Charlotte heard the man called Geordie reply, but he closed the door and she felt the chaise dip and sway as he climbed up next to his friend. She breathed a long sigh of relief, and relaxed as best she could on the squabs. She heard a slap of the reigns and a crack of a whip, and the team started to move. For a long time the only sounds that permeated her cocoon inside the chaise were the sounds of London traffic: horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones, the creaks of both the well and badly-sprung equipages as they jostled for space on the crowded streets, the calls of street vendors hawking their wares, and the greetings and curses, shouts and cries. All were a part of the cacophony of the huge metropolis as it attended to its business. Awhile longer, and the noise gradually lessened. Charlotte heard birds singing, and knew they must be out of London. She was miserably hot. Dare she take the traveling rug off her head? After all, they were well underway, and the men on the box could not see into the back of the chaise. She cast the heavy wool aside, and took a long breath of pure relief. Outside the window she saw sunshine, and trees. She would be in Bath in no time now. How easy it all had been! Then she heard the man with the deep voice speak. “I have never have been able to understand, Geordie, how you could be part of the dandy set and maintain your aversion to horses. Thought you would have gotten over it by now and be a famous whipster.” “You will never convince me they are anything but filthy, sneaking beasts, Peter, always looking for a way to scrape you off their backs with a tree branch, or overturn your rig. Don't trust’ em. Never will.” The man called Peter said, “Spoken like a man of feeling. I'll tell you what, Geordie, you just sit back, relax, and enjoy the scenery. I promise you, I'll never take my eyes off the devils.” “Still can't fathom why we didn't take Hodges. He may be as you say ‘slower than your grandmother', but at least we could ride in the carriage like civilized gentlemen.” Charlotte barely heard the other man chuckle. She dozed for a while, only to wake up quickly when the chaise stopped. She threw the rug over her head, but not before she learned they were at Thatcham, the halfway point, and were stopping to change horses. When they were underway again she relaxed and was able to cast the detestable rug aside once more. It was a beautiful early summer's day, the trees in full leaf and the birds singing in the fields. The sun had passed its zenith when she heard Geordie plaintively ask, “When are we going stop again?”

“We're almost upon Newbury,” the other replied. “We can stop there to eat if you wish.” Charlotte could see there was more traffic as they approached Newbury. She wasn't surprised; she knew Newbury was a busy coaching stop, a natural crossroads for Bath, Oxford, Winchester and London. Conversation once again ceased as the one called Peter, who must be the one handling the ribbons, gave his full attention to the road. “Oh, I say,” she heard Geordie say uneasily. “There's an awfully impatient fellow behind you—looks like he's going to try and pass.” “That's absurd,” replied Peter. “If he thinks he can squeeze by me in that ridiculous curricle—why, with the way this lane has narrowed I've hardly room for myself without going into the ditch.” “Look out!” Charlotte heard the alarm in Geordie's voice. “Watch that phaeton turning in front of us.” Charlotte had just a second to brace herself before she was knocked sideways by a crash. She could see the phaeton, mere inches away from the side of the chaise, and felt its wheel snag one of the chaise's. She heard a sickening snap, then was thrown once more as the chaise fell with a heavy jarring thud, and toppled to one side. A small wooden box fell off a trunk and into her lap as the chaise plunged. The horses whinnied in panic, their hooves making great scratching sounds as they pawed the ground and pulled at their traces. She heard Peter jump down from the box, and with a muttered “Hell and damnation!” he somehow calmed them. Her shoulders ached. Gingerly she checked her legs and arms, but nothing seemed broken. The box was lying securely on her knees. “Are you all right, Geordie?” said Peter. “All right?” she heard Geordie's anxious squawk. “We were nearly killed!” “No such thing, old man. Just tossed about. But I fear we will not be going any further today, not in this vehicle. Not only is the wheel off, but the end of the axle is splintered. We are going to have to see if we can get it repaired. Fortunately, there are many coaching inns in this vicinity where we can put up for the night while this gets fixed. I'll bet our belongings are properly churned up. By the by, you didn't pack anything fragile in there, did you?” “Only a piece of priceless Sevres porcelain for your father's collection,” replied Geordie. Charlotte heard the gloomy relish in his voice. “A vase. Probably in a million pieces.” Charlotte heard footsteps approaching the chaise. She tried to burrow down among the luggage to hide, but she couldn't move. She found the traveling rug and hastily threw it over her head. “Let's find out, shall we?” Peter was at the door. “Where did you stow it?” “It was in a box, on top of the trunk.” “Well, everything is in a sad jumble now. I'll have to search around.” Peter opened the door and luggage spilled out. Charlotte felt his fingers on the edge of the rug. He pulled it off, and she found herself looking into a pair of fathomless grey eyes. “Well, how is it?” called Geordie. “Shattered, I'll be bound. Out with it, Peter—is the vase broken or not?” Strong arms lifted Charlotte out. He handled her briskly, as he would a boy. She thought dizzily that she

had never been this close to Cyril. She knew she must look like the veriest ragamuffin, her original scruffy appearance no doubt worsened by a night in the stable and a morning crammed in the chaise. This was a catastrophe, but she had to brazen it out. There was no other choice. She hoped she still looked like a lad. She held the box out, and offered it to Geordie. “Here is the box your vase must be in. I believe it is unbroken, sir. I held it myself as the carriage fell.” Chapter Three “What's this,” asked a fair young man suspiciously. From the many long hours she had spent hidden in the carriage while the men talked on the box, Charlotte recognized his voice as that of the one called Geordie. “A boy, in our carriage?” “A stowaway,” said the other, lazy amusement in his voice. Charlotte deduced he must be Peter. “What were you doing in there, boy—trying to rob us?” Charlotte looked up into a pair of humorous grey eyes and a quizzical expression. He was dark, but not in the romantic sense; there was too much laughter lurking in his eyes and not enough of a melodramatic air about him for that. His gaze was clear and direct, and his bearing upright, not carefully posed. Although his grip was strong, he was not hurting her. She noticed he smelled of clean linen and good soap, with a musky, masculine scent all his own. Cyril, she remembered, always smelled of the honey water he wore. It was almost too sweet. She would never describe this man that way. Charlotte was surprised to feel herself slightly breathless at his proximity. He still held her by the coat collar, and both men were regarding her as if she was some sort of curiosity. Charlotte took a steadying breath. She couldn't help feeling a trifle vexed. This was not supposed to happen. They were supposed to go straight to Bath, where she could crawl out of the carriage unseen and make her way to her aunt's house in Laura Place. Now there would have to be explanations. “Beg pardon, guv'nor,” she said, trying her best to sound like a street lad, and aware she wasn't very good at it. “I only climbed into your carriage because I thought you might be headed west. I need to get to my aunt's house in Bath, you see, and I was robbed of my money at the coach yard.” “Hmm, a polite, well-spoken rogue. Yet so dirty. And so young,” said the tall one, Peter, not unkindly. He released her and regarded her thoughtfully. “What should we do with him, Geordie? Do you think this is a matter for the constable?” Charlotte scanned his face anxiously, and was reassured by the amused glint in his grey eyes. He was just teasing. “Oh, I do not think we have to go that far,” replied his companion. “He did save the Duke's vase from complete demolition.” “The Duke!” said Charlotte faintly. She felt all the blood drain out of her face. She'd never intended to deceive the upper echelons of the aristocracy. She imagined someone like a duke could get quite nasty if he felt he had been tricked, even if the tricking were done for the best of reasons by a brave, resourceful heroine. “Here now, are you all right, boy?” asked the tall one with concern. “I never thought to ask if you were injured in the accident. Let me check you.” His hands were large, with graceful, tapering fingers. Charlotte began to feel even fainter as he ran them

over her body. She jumped a step back. He must not discover I'm not a boy, she told herself firmly. She refused to admit her reaction to his touch was any more complicated than that. “I am all right, sir. I am just feeling a little weak from hiding in the chaise all that time.” He clucked sympathetically. “You must have been half-smothered under that rug. But tell me, boy, are you sure you had no idea I was Lord Peter Randolph, son of the Duke of Wickersham, and on my way to our family estate before you chose this particular carriage to climb into? I would hate to think you were nothing but a common thief, but damn me if any other explanation comes to mind!” “I knew no such thing!” Charlotte's impulsive nature got the better of her. How dare he make such a presumption! “I had no intention of robbing you, and I resent your insinuations! As I told you, I was merely looking for a way to get to Bath!” “And how did you know we were headed in that direction?” “I overheard some talk in the coach yard. Though frankly, if I had known you were going to harbor such suspicions, or make despicable accusations, I would have much liefer hitched a ride on a donkey cart!” Charlotte's eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth as soon as she had spoken. This man could take her to the nearest town and charge her with attempted theft, and no one would question him—after all, he was the son of a powerful peer. Lord Peter—his title revealed he was the Duke's younger son. What had she done? Lord Peter threw back his head and laughed. “A boy with spirit, Geordie! What do you say we take him with us?” “Why not?” said Geordie, preoccupied with trying to brush some dirt off his hopelessly torn coat sleeve. Lord Peter turned and addressed Charlotte directly. “You saved Geordie's vase, which showed a great deal of quick thinking under trying circumstances. Although Randolph House is not actually in Bath, we will be going near that city, and I dare say we can drop you off.” Her doubts and fears momentarily forgotten, Charlotte breathed a sigh of delighted relief. “Oh, thank you, sir—I mean, my lord!” “Not at all. You are just a lad, are you not?” Lord Peter continued to regard her steadily. He had the most penetrating eyes she had ever seen, Charlotte thought uneasily. “As it happens, we are without servants,” he continued, “and we will be required to spend the night in this vicinity while my chaise is repaired. Since I am without my man, you can attend me in return for your transportation, after you get cleaned up, of course. That is, if you have no objections. If you do, I will see what I can do about arranging that donkey cart you spoke of.” “No, my lord, I have no objections,” said Charlotte, her heart buoyed. She gave scarce thought to the difficulties of continuing her charade while acting as an attendant to these men. She had come this far, hadn't she? She had only the vaguest notion of what she would be required to do, but she was sure she could contrive somehow. The important thing was the passage to Bath. “What shall we call you, boy?” Lord Peter interrupted her reverie. “My lord?” she said.

“Your name, lad, your name,” said Geordie impatiently. “We have to call you something over the next couple of days.” “My name is Charl—I mean Charlie,” she stammered. “Charlie?” Lord Peter laughed again. “Like the Pretender? It's a fine, no, a bonny name for a lad such as yourself. And Charlie it is!” Geordie laughed, too, and Charlotte found the laughter infectious. A merry peal broke from her. Startled, Lord Peter stopped and stared. Her hand flew to her lips. Better not do that again. Probably didn't sound at all like a boy. Better get down to work, offer to unpack the chaise or something, to take their minds off her little slip. But she was not seriously worried. Everything was proceeding better than she could have dared hope. This was even more exciting than the adventures she had read about. Of course, Lord Peter was not the glowering, tormented hero usually featured in the books she read, but she was ready to overlook that. Cyril was the real hero of this adventure. Lord Peter did not count. Not at all. Not in the least. **** They found an inn with a coach yard where the chaise could be repaired and they could put up for the night. Lord Peter bespoke two chambers, it having been decided on the walk over to the inn that Geordie, a notorious snorer, made an unacceptable bedfellow. Geordie accepted this edict with good humor. The plan for Charlotte was that she was to sleep on a pallet in Lord Peter's room. When she was told this, Charlotte felt a twinge of alarm. Surely she should not be spending the night with a gentleman in his bedchamber? If word of that ever got out, she would be ruined for life. Maybe this went beyond the bounds of romantic adventure. And yet, no one knew she was the Honorable Charlotte Finbury. They all saw her as Charlie, a scruffy lad. Surely everything would be all right, as long as she kept out of his way as much as possible. When they out in the courtyard of the inn, after arranging repairs for the chaise, Lord Peter espied a pump. “Aha,” he exclaimed. “Now to remove some of that grime and see what you really look like, Charlie my lad!” He marched Charlotte over to the pump and started to work the handle. “Take off your shirt so you can get a good dousing.” The twinge of alarm she had felt earlier mushroomed into a full-fledged jolt. Take off her shirt! That would end her charade for sure, along with her reputation, and just about everything else. She knew it was common enough for a boy to strip to the waist to wash at a pump. How was she going to talk her way out of this one? Panic and the day's heat increased the chafing of the scratchy wool against her delicate skin. Indeed, she would dearly love to take off her shirt, but not here in the middle of the yard! Stalling for time, she took off her heavy green coat and began to roll up the sleeves of her shirt. “It is a trifle cold, my lord. And I do have a bit of a cough.” She strained to give a convincing rendition of a pathetic cough.

“Nonsense,” said Geordie briskly. “It is a hot summer day. Peter's right. You are filthy, boy. Strip, and take off that cap so you can get your hair clean as well. You are as dirty as a chimney sweep.” Desperately, Charlotte tried again. “I really do not think...” “Your shirt, boy, your shirt,” said Lord Peter impatiently. “Take it off now, or we will remove it for you.” Charlotte looked from one man to the other and saw resolve in their eyes. What could she do? She closed her eyes, and with a silent prayer slowly started to work the buttons of her shirt. Maybe something wonderful would happen, like a massive flood or a fire, so she could get out of it. Maybe she should announce dramatically she had Bubonic Plague. That would clear the courtyard. Perhaps even the whole town. But then how would she get to Bath? A carriage rolled into the yard. Charlotte's fingers stilled. This, at least, might provide a brief distraction, though a natural disaster would have been infinitely preferable. “Faster, boy,” said Lord Peter. “We do not have all day.” “Randolph,” interrupted a high, simpering voice that held a note of command. “Lord Peter Randolph. Fancy meeting you here!” A short, very stout woman was speaking as she descended a carriage with the help of a groom. Peeping out behind her was a pale young girl with soft chestnut hair and large brown eyes. “Lady Beaumont,” said Lord Peter, bowing with reluctant courtesy. “Allow me to present my friend, the Honorable George Thorndike.” “Thorndike, is it?” Lady Beaumont lifted a quizzing glass resting on a cord on her massive bosom, put it to one small piggy eye and examined him. Charlotte could see Geordie squirm under her rude glare. “This is quite a coincidence. My daughter and I are on our way to Randolph House, at the invitation of your dear mother, the Duchess.” She turned to her daughter, who had shrunk back a little into the carriage when Lord Peter spoke. “I do not believe you have met my girl, Randolph. She is just out of the schoolroom, and this is her first Season. Alicia, come down here and meet Lord Peter Randolph.” She pushed her daughter forward. Charlotte looked at Alicia curiously. She tried to remember if she had seen her at the various routs, soirees and assemblies of the Season. Alicia Beaumont was not someone who would stick out in a crowd. The girl had a hesitant, unsure manner about her. And she was not dressed to her best advantage. Her mother, dressed in a deep cherry red, obviously favored strong, rich hues for her daughter as well. The forest green carriage dress the young girl was wearing today was sadly at odds with her delicate coloring. Alicia looked like she wanted to cut and run, but instead she extended her hand awkwardly. Why, the poor thing is shy, thought Charlotte, and appears to be absolutely miserable. “Lady Alicia,” said Lord Peter, bowing over her trembling hand. Charlotte felt a rush of pity. Alicia looked so young, and ill-prepared to handle the awkwardness of such an unanticipated meeting. One look at the calculation in Lady Beaumont's face convinced Charlotte that she expected her daughter to capture Lord Peter's affections. Charlotte felt sorry for the doe-eyed Alicia, and though she guessed they were about the same age, she felt infinitely older. Embarking on a romantic adventure does that to a person, she reflected.

At least everyone has forgotten about washing me. The thought cheered her. Surreptitiously she rebuttoned her shirt. Perhaps she could quietly leave before anyone remembered her presence. It was not to be. Introductions completed, Lady Beaumont turned her basilisk stare on Charlotte. Charlotte had the uncomfortable feeling that Lady Beaumont had a good memory for faces. “Whatever in the world are you doing with that filthy urchin, Lord Peter? Surely he is not one of your servants?” “Cleaning him up, ma'am so he will be fit for decent company. We were all involved in an accident on the road. That is what has necessitated our stopping the night here. The boy is going to attend me. I suppose you could call him my page, since he is too young to be considered a valet.” “Well, I would hope you are not going to wash him yourself,” she said, clearly horrified. “No, indeed,” Lord Peter struggled to keep a smile out of his voice. “Geordie and I were merely encouraging the lad. Can I be of any assistance to yourself and your lovely daughter?” he added gallantly. “Yes, you can help us secure lodging for the night. You know how helpless we females can be without a man's protection,” said Lady Beaumont with a coy flutter of her eyelashes. Charlotte caught a look of startled surprise on Alicia's face, which was quickly suppressed. Charlotte had to bite back a laugh. She was positive “helpless” was not a word Alicia would ever use to describe her mother. Politely overlooking the fact that the Beaumont entourage included a coachman, a groom and two footmen, not to mention a lady's maid, any of whom could arrange their lodgings for the night, Lord Peter went into the inn to talk to the innkeeper. “Clean yourself up, Charlie,” Geordie tossed over his shoulder as he followed his friend. “It would never do to be dirty around the ladies.” With the aid of the pump and an old rag grudgingly supplied by the innkeeper, Charlotte scrubbed a token amount of grime off her hands and face. She did not want to get too clean; her dirt was too good a disguise. “It would never do to be dirty around the ladies,” echoed mockingly in her brain. The woolen shawl was itching, and she was so tired of her filthy, shapeless clothes. She felt that now she would gladly trade the freedom of her boy's clothes for the scent and softness of a clean muslin gown. It won't be long now, she consoled herself, till she was in Bath, at her aunt's. And then she could see Cyril, she realized. She tried to conjure up Cyril's face, but it was Lord Peter's image that came to mind, Lord Peter calming the team of horses, after the accident. She realized belatedly that his strength and quick thinking kept the accident from being much worse. He had done it all with such seeming nonchalance. As she ran the rag over her arms, the feel of his hands on her body came back vividly to her. She dropped the rag like it was a live ember. Cyril's hands. That's what she should be thinking of. Not Lord Peter's. But she could not. She could not recall ever feeling Cyril's hands. She gave herself a mental shake. That was only because Cyril was too much of a gentleman. She helped Geordie haul their luggage from the carriage up to their chambers. She learned Geordie and Lord Peter were to eat with Lady Beaumont and her daughter in a private parlor, and guessed she was expected to eat in the taproom. She figured she could do that inconspicuously enough; the taproom would most likely be crowded.

After setting the final trunk down with Geordie in Lord Peter's chamber she felt a sense of relief. Why, this was going to be easy! She wouldn't see much of the men tonight, and tomorrow they would be on their way again to her aunt's. Nothing could be simpler. Lord Peter's next words dashed her new-found feelings of complacency. “I would wash off this traveling dirt,” he said. “Charlie, help me with my bath.” “A bath, my lord?” “Yes, yes, a bath. I know I said you could be my page, but I find what I am in need of at the moment is more of a valet. Go down to the kitchen and see what can be done about heating water.” There was some grumbling downstairs about the eccentricities of the nobility and the trouble it would take to provide a bath, but when Lord Peter intervened and promised the innkeeper a handsome recompense for all the bother, the matter was settled. Charlotte thought her arms would break, hauling bucket after bucket of water up the stairs. She was already sore from taking the trunks up with Geordie. The innkeeper had provided a copper tub that seemed bottomless. At last it was full. Lord Peter took a look at it, felt the water, and pronounced it satisfactory. “Well, then, my lord,” she said nervously. “There you are. Soap, water, towel—everything you might need. I will be downstairs in the taproom if you want me.” “Do not be ridiculous, Charlie. Come over here and assist me. These clothes need to be taken off and pressed.” He lifted his arms at the shoulders, and Charlotte realized he was waiting for her help to remove his snugly-fitted jacket of blue superfine. As she tugged and pulled she could understand why; it was molded to his shoulders, almost like a second skin. He untied his nearly immaculate cravat, and laid it carefully down on the table by the bed. He unbuttoned his yellow waistcoat, and removed that, too. It was also carefully laid out, on the back of the chair. Charlotte bit back a gasp as his nimble fingers started on the fine cotton shirt. She had never seen a man unclothed before. This had to be very improper! She looked at the ceiling. But she was also dying of curiosity. “Help me with these cuffs, would you, Charlie?” There was no help for it. She looked right at him. He was standing in front of her, shirt open, chest bare. And what a fine chest it was! Even Charlotte, who had nothing to compare it to, had to concede it was magnificent, with its strong contours and smattering of dark hair. It looked rather like pictures she had seen of Greek statues. She took a step nearer. She could see tiny drops of perspiration glistening on his chest, and started to feel dizzy, like the time her cousin had pushed her fast and high in the garden swing. “What's the matter, boy?” Lord Peter leaned over to examine her face, so close she could see the roots of his chest hairs. “You look a bit green. You're not about to cast up your accounts, are you?” How could he be so callous? Not that she ever considered herself overly missish, but anyone's sensibilities would be a bit overcome in such a situation. So what if she was supposed to be a boy? That's no excuse for his insensitivity, she thought illogically.

“No, my lord,” she answered with spirit. “'Tis merely the heat. It is terribly close in here. There, now, the feeling has passed.” Loyally she tried to imagine Cyril standing half-naked in front of her, instead of Lord Peter, but she could not. She found she did not possess that much imagination, not with Lord Peter standing before her. “Good. That would be one disaster too many today. Now let us get this over with, and then you can eat and get some rest before we resume our journey tomorrow.” He sat down on a wooden chair by the table. “Help me with these boots, Charlie.” “Yes, my lord. Then I shall go,” she added hopefully. “You will go when I am done with you.” Lord Peter sounded testy. “Now help me get these infernal things off.” Charlie sat in front of him and regarded the boots uncertainly. Lord Peter thrust a leg at her. “Pull!” he commanded. Charlotte grabbed the end of the boot and pulled. Nothing happened. “I said pull!” “I did.” She blew a stray wisp of hair off her face. This was unbelievably hard work. “The wench in the scullery could pull harder than you!” “Then why not ask her to do it!” Charlotte yanked with all her might, twisting as she pulled. The boot came off with such force that she fell over backward and knocked over the table, depositing the carefully-laid cravat on the dusty floor. “Ouch,” said Lord Peter, rubbing his ankle. “I said take off my boot, not my foot.” Charlotte rubbed her backside. “I never knew taking off boots could be so difficult.” “You have never taken a boot off before? You surprise me.” “Oh, of course I have taken off boots. Lots of boots. Off lots of feet. I just never had one that was so stuck on like that before. You do not suppose they are too small, do you?” Dubiously she eyed first the boot in her hand, then Lord Peter's foot. “That would be news to Hoby's, my bootmakers, but I will check into it when I get back to London,” he said dryly. “Now, shall we attempt the other boot?” This time Charlotte braced herself firmly on the floor, and pulled with all her might. The boot barely budged. “Again,” said Lord Peter, sounding bored. “I vow my grandmother would make a quicker job of it.” “You really should not keep invoking your grandmother in these types of situations,” said Charlotte severely. “It is most disrespectful. Besides, why should your grandmother be taking off boots or driving carriages in the first place?” “How the devil—” he began, then bit off his words with an epithet as she gave another fierce twisting

pull. The boot slid off his leg, again toppling her. “Remind me not to have you do this again,” said Lord Peter, wincing. He rubbed his newly freed foot. “With your aid, Charlie, my cane will soon be serving more than a decorative function. Now, you can take those boots away and polish them, but first help me with my trousers.” “No,” said Charlotte quietly but firmly. “I beg your pardon?” Lord Peter was standing, barefoot and bare-chested, his hands on the waistband of his trousers. “No. You see,” she lied desperately, “I was very strictly raised. I am not allowed to see people unclothed. For religious reasons.” “But surely, since we are both male—” “That does not matter. Ever since God cast Adam out of the Garden of Eden it has been man's fate to remain fully clothed. At all times,” she emphasized. “Makes bathing somewhat impractical, would you not agree?” “Oh, well, as far as that goes, if you must bathe, we believe it is best to do it alone. And in the dark. So, I must leave you now.” She gathered up the boots and went to the door. “Charlie—” “I really must go.” In a panic, she opened the door. “Charlie!” Lady Beaumont and Alicia were on the landing outside the door. They both turned and stared in; Lady Beaumont scowled and her daughter swallowed a giggle. “Alicia, avert your eyes,” Lady Beaumont intoned. Charlotte could hear Lord Peter swear under his breath. In two strides he was across the room and at the door. He stood behind the door and started to shut it. “Charlie, you get in here and finish attending me!” But Charlotte, her arms full of his boots, was already halfway down the back stairs. **** For over an hour she hung around the taproom and the coach yard. Ever so quietly she ventured up the stairs back to his chamber. She tiptoed down the hall, and was going to deposit his boots outside the door and slink away when suddenly the door opened and a firm hand on her collar pulled her in. Lord Peter shut door and let go of her abruptly. He did not look happy. Charlotte observed with relief that he was at least dressed. “Here are your boots, sir. All polished up.” Wordlessly he took them and examined him. “The innkeeper's wife is cooking your dinner now, sir,” she added in the same bright tone. “It smells

delicious. I believe Lady Beaumont and her daughter are already on their way down. So if you are taken care of—” “Actually, Charlie, I am far from being taken care of. My clothes, as you will observe, are wrinkled. My cravat is pathetic. I wouldn't dream of soliciting your help in tying it, for fear of accidental strangulation. And these boots,” he held them out, “are in even worse condition than they were when I gave them to you to be cleaned. In short, I am a mess. And you are a complete disaster as an valet.” Ridiculously, Charlotte felt hurt. “But, my lord, I worked hard on those boots. I even let the stable boy spit on them. He said that would give them the best shine.” “Spit,” Lord Peter echoed faintly. “You polished my boots with spit from a stable boy. And to think, poor Brummel had to make do with champagne. Perhaps when it gets out that my valet polishes my boots with stable boy spit, I, too, can set a fashion that thousands will copy.” “And I did bring up your bath water, my lord.” As she thought about all those trips and heavy buckets she flexed her aching shoulder muscles. “And spilled a good portion of it on the floor, as I discovered when I got out of the tub and slipped, flat on my—” Charlotte started to laugh. She couldn't help it. “I am so pleased this amuses you. Perhaps you will be equally amused finding your own way to Bath!” Her eyes widened. “My lord, you would not do that! Abandon a poor helpless—” she stopped herself just barely from saying ‘girl'. “Yes?” “—lad in a situation like this! Indeed, it would be heartless of you! Just because of a little mistake. I cannot believe you are capable of such a thing. It is not as though you hired me to be your valet. I never claimed to know how to do it.” Lord Peter sighed, and ran his hand absently through his hair. “No, I suppose you have the right of it. A bargain is a bargain. You cannot be held responsible for your lamentable lack of ability.” There was a knock on the door, and Geordie entered. “Ready, old man? Oh, I say, Peter, what happened to you? I know it's fashionable to look rather windswept, but you look as though you were blown about in a gale. Good thing the Beau's in Europe; hate to think what he would say if he were to see you now. By the by, Charlie, where were you this afternoon? I was looking for you. Required your services, don't you know.” “Consider yourself fortunate,” said Lord Peter feelingly, “that you made do on your own. Charlie's talents, not to mention his religious convictions, do not lend themselves to valeting.” “Told you we should not have traveled without the servants.” “Yes, so you did, as I recall. Well, there's no hope for it now; we will just have to go down the way we are. Lady Beaumont and her daughter await us. The game, I very much fear, is afoot.” “Game?” asked Charlotte, startled into comment. She hadn't planned on saying anything; she was still

catching her breath after narrowly missing being thrown out of Lord Peter's entourage. “Lady Beaumont. Wants to bag Peter for her daughter,” explained Geordie. “He is quite a catch, being a duke's son and all. Even though he is not the heir, he has his own estates and money, so most of the matchmaking mamas in London are after him for their daughters.” “I see,” said Charlotte, privately thinking that must be the reason for Lord Peter's occasional pomposity. It would be hard to be humble if half the ton were trying to curry favor with you. Yet something about Geordie's perspective did not sit well with her; she was still smarting from her parents’ arrogant arrangement of her life with Satterly. “But what if,” she said diffidently, “the daughters do not want to be matched?” “Oh, they have no say in the matter,” said Geordie. “Arranged for them. It is of no consequence to them, one way or the other. Not at that age. The marriage is the thing.” “You could be wrong about that,” she continued, even more tentatively. “Even young girls sometimes know what they want, or rather what they do not want.” “For heaven's sake, Charlie,” said Lord Peter impatiently, his hand on the doorknob. “It is a woman's duty to marry well, according to her parents’ wishes. We are all bound by duty. Soon I will marry, to do justice to my name, and I do not expect any great romance. The only reason to marry is to improve one's estates or beget heirs.” Charlotte felt she would like to wipe the smug look off his face. What did he know of being forced to marry against his will? As if that would ever happen to the great Lord Peter Randolph! “And what about love, my lord?” she blurted. “Love? What is this about love, Charlie? What does a boy like you know about it? Do not tell me the art of love is part of your religion as well?” Amusement was in his voice. Charlotte felt herself reddening. “No, my lord,” she mumbled. “I am vastly relieved. I fear more than one encounter with your religious principles a day would quite overset me. Well, Geordie,” he tried to straighten his rumpled cravat, “shall we go? I trust you will be well fed in the taproom, Charlie. You need not wait up for me—I believe I can attend myself just as well without as with your services.” “Yes, my lord,” said Charlotte, feeling miserable again. Why did she have to prattle on about love? He certainly was not interested in the opinions of a mere “boy,” and she did not want to draw any more attention to herself than she had already through her own incompetence. She had let her emotions get the best of her—hearing him talk like her parents about duty and marriage. He had no idea, really, what he was talking about. She was fairly sure he would never be coerced into marrying a female almost thirty years his senior! She ate her bread and cheese, and drank her ale by herself in a corner of the taproom. Her thoughts inevitably went back to Lord Peter. To be so dependent on such an infuriating man! Unbidden, the image of him standing clad only in his trousers came to her mind. She blushed just thinking about it. He had looked so handsome. Even better than when he was in his coat and cravat. And when he smiled, it lit his whole countenance like moonlight over a heath. She shook her head, to clear it. Lord Peter was pompous, mocking, and held her fate in his hands. Somehow, she had to get him to take her to Bath. And be done with him.

She finished her meal and headed for the stairs. Lord Peter and Geordie were still with the Beaumonts; she heard their laughter as she passed by the parlor. She had seen Alicia in a bright yellow gown, which did not suit her any better than the green carriage dress. Lady Beaumont must be color blind, thought Charlotte. Still, the gown was soft and pretty, and Alicia, smiling and somewhat relaxed, looked attractive. Charlotte glanced down at her own increasingly dirty clothes, which had been none too clean to begin with, and sighed. She lingered a moment, and saw Alicia say something to Lord Peter, heard her tinkling laugh and his own answering chuckle. She felt a stab of something sharp somewhere near the region of her heart. Must be that overripe cheese I just ate, she told herself. Slowly she made her way up the stairs in her clumsy shoes, to the chamber she shared with Lord Peter. She took her pallet and placed it against the far wall of the room. Sitting on the pallet, she removed her shoes and coat and pulled the cap down further on her head. She blew out the candle that was burning on the little bedside table, and laid down in the darkness, facing the wall. It was hard to get comfortable, even though she was careful to lie on the side that didn't have the knot from the shawl that bound her breasts. She would pretend to be asleep when Lord Peter came up. Oh, if only she were at her aunt's house now! Clean, and in a bed, wearing her familiar night rail. No one must ever know she spent the night in the same room with Lord Peter Randolph. The disgrace of it, combined with running away, would probably finish her off in society forever. Still, it was undoubtedly a famous adventure! She pulled her cap once more over her black curls. For once, she had scarce a preliminary thought of Cyril before falling fast asleep. Chapter Four “Faith,” muttered Lord Peter as he clutched the newel post at the base of the staircase, “but it's been a long day, Geordie.” “Aye, and a long evening.” “I thought the dinner would never end. Alicia is a nice enough chit, but that mother of hers is a dragon. Every time the young Beaumont opened her mouth, her mother corrected her, or told her to sit up straighter, or some such nonsense. All the while telling us how magnificent Beaumont Hall was, and what grandeur they were accustomed to.” “Poor gel,” murmured Geordie in assent. “Quite a taking thing, I thought. Probably bullied to death by Lady Beaumont.” “It will be interesting to see how the Duchess deals with Lady Beaumont. If she tries to bully anyone at Randolph House, or puff off her consequence, my mother will make short work of her. The Duchess will carve her up and have her for breakfast.” He started to laugh. “Shh, Peter, the Beaumonts will hear you.” “They went upstairs hours ago, Geordie. We were in the taproom with our brandy quite a while.” “Yes, indeed. Too long, I vow. Since you will probably want to rise at the crack of dawn again and get back on the road.”

“Most assuredly we will rise early, Geordie old man. Or would you rather stay around till Lady Beaumont is stirring, so she can inveigle us into escorting her to Randolph House?” Geordie shuddered. “Wouldn't mind spending the time with the fair Alicia, especially if it slowed your pace, Peter, but being closed up in a carriage with Lady Beaumont is more than a man can be expected to endure.” He shifted uneasily. “I say, you don't suppose we should tag along just to protect Alicia from her mother's constant carping, do you?” “No, I do not,” said Lord Peter firmly, starting up the stairs. “Even the strictest interpretation of the code of chivalry would not require such a sacrifice of us. Have no fear, Geordie, you will have plenty of time to champion the fair Alicia when we get to Randolph House.” Geordie brightened, then a dull flush spread across his cheeks. “Now, see here, Peter—” but Lord Peter, chuckling quietly to himself, was already halfway up the stairs. When he got to the door of his chamber, he was about to fling it open when he remembered the boy was most likely asleep inside. He paused a moment, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding the candlestick with its glowing taper, and a smile touched his lips. What a troublesome lad Charlie had proved to be! Completely inept at performing the least personal service. Lord Peter could not really say why he had taken the boy on and promised him transportation to Bath; he just remembered being shocked by those deep blue eyes, and the small little face, smudged with dirt. He stopped at the threshold of his chamber and shook his head. Charlie was just a boy, and deserved no more thought. He would be glad to deposit him at his aunt's house in Bath and be done with him. He entered the room quietly. Deep in the shadows against the wall he saw the sleeping form of the boy. His body was curled, knees drawn up, facing the wall. As Lord Peter advanced, he saw the boy's cap had fallen off the back of his head, all the way off the pallet and onto the floor. He grinned. How like a careless boy! Why, the lad had gone to sleep fully clothed. He had only removed his coat and shoes. The ugly green coat was folded neatly in the corner. Feeling magnanimous, Lord Peter decided to retrieve the cap and put it on the coat before the boy rolled over onto it. Quietly he knelt by the sleeping boy. He saw a tumble of dark curls on the pallet, glowing blue-black in the candlelight. He drew even closer, and saw curly wisps of the same lustrous hair lying on his cheek. The boy's skin looked soft, translucent even under his grime, and as hairless and blemish-free as an infant's. Without thinking Lord Peter reached out to touch the softness. Before his hand made contact Charlie stirred, and shifted, moving his arms up to cradle his face. Lord Peter bit back an exclamation, recoiling in horror. There, under the boy's arm, clearly visible through the rough fabric of his shirt was the outline of a hideous growth. How is it he hadn't seen it earlier? He gave a low groan, striking his forehead with the palm of his hand. No wonder the boy hadn't wanted to remove his clothes to wash at the pump! He hadn't wanted anyone to know about his deformity. Was it painful? Lord Peter wondered. Perhaps it was merely a boil of some kind, and could be lanced. Gingerly, he poked it with his finger. “Aaaaahhhhh!”

The boy's eyes widened when he saw Lord Peter bending over him. Charlie screamed again, flailing his arms and knocking the candlestick out of Lord Peter's hand onto the wood floor, where it promptly extinguished. The room was plunged into darkness. “By Jove, boy, that wax is hot!” “Get away from me!” he heard the lad gasp. “Calm yourself, Charlie. I cannot even see you. I hope I have not caused you too much pain.” “Pain?” He sounded baffled. A lusty scream issued from somewhere beyond the closed wooden door. “Thieves, murderers!” Lord Peter heard the words as clearly as though the walls were open windows. “We will all be murdered in our beds!” There was a loud knocking on the door. “This is the landlord! Everything all right in there, my lord?” “Yes, yes, of course. I startled my page, and the candle got knocked over. Come on in and help me find it.” The landlord bustled in, pitiful wails following him through the door. With the aid of his candle, the landlord found the one overturned on the floor. He relit it and handed it back to Lord Peter. “Nasty burn on your arm, my lord.” “Yes, candle wax, I fear. What is all the racket about?” The landlord coughed. “Apparently Lady Beaumont ‘eard the screams of your page, and mis'hinterpreted what ‘appened. My wife is attending to ‘er, my lord.” He paused. “M'wife's got some sort o’ potion wot would be good for that burn, too.” “No need to trouble your wife about this.” He pointed to his arm dismissingly. “She has her hands full already, I wager. But do thank her for the excellent repast we had earlier.” The landlord's creased face beamed. “Thank you, my lord. She will be most pleased to ‘ear you liked the meal. As for ‘im there,” the landlord cast a disapproving glance at Charlie, cowering in the corner, “if the lad is disturbing yer lordship, ‘e can sleep down in the scullery.” “That will not be necessary. I am sure he will settle down now. But if you happen to know of an apothecary nearby, I would like his direction in the morning.” “Yes, my lord.” The landlord bowed and scraped his way out of the room, shutting the door as he did so. “An apothecary, sir?” said Charlie timidly. “Were you burned that badly?” “It is not for me, Charlie. It is for you. I could not but notice that growth under your arm. Maybe an apothecary could help you with it. Lance it, perhaps. Why don't you let me see it?” he added gently.

Lord Peter noticed with alarm that as he spoke, the boy's face had gone from flushed to deathly pale. “Please, sir, I am in no need of medical attention. This lump, er, it comes and goes.” “Comes and goes?” “That is right. Sometimes it is large, as you see here, and other times it is completely gone. An affliction I was born with.” “I would wager you are the wonder of your neighborhood.” Charlie grinned weakly. “You are pleased to jest, my lord.” “I have a hard time believing a growth of that size comes and goes.” He frowned. “But if you insist—” “Oh yes, indeed, my lord, I do.” “—than I do not suppose there's anything I can do about it. Are you sure it does not pain you?” “Not in the least. See, I can press it as hard as I like,” Charlie pressed the lump with his fingers deep into his ribs, “and it feels just like, why, like a bit of cloth. No pain at all, my lord.” “I see.” Lord Peter cleared his throat. He did not believe a word the boy said about the lump coming and going, or it's not hurting for that matter. Certainly a growth that size would have to be painful! But clearly the lad was embarrassed, and to press him on the matter would only make him feel worse. Perhaps when they got to Bath he could have a private word with his aunt and see if she could convince the lad to accept medical care. “Well, then, I guess we had better get to sleep.” He set the candle down on the table. “We will be up early in the morning. I will just get out of these boots, and trousers—no, Charlie, do not get up, I can manage on my own—and I will snuff the candle. Good night, Charlie, my lad.” “Good night, my lord.” Charlie lay back down on the pallet. It seemed to Lord Peter that he shrunk as close to the wall as possible. With a shrug, Lord Peter undressed. What an unaccountable boy! Well, Charlie had occupied too much of his attention already. He would be gone by tomorrow evening, and it would be on to Randolph House and further auditioning of Alicia as a marriage prospect. She was pleasing enough, he mused, if one could overlook her mother. He tried to conjure up her face, her big brown eyes like a fawn's, her soft brown hair. But what came to him unbidden were a pair of deep blue eyes set off by black curls, and an anxious little face occasionally overcome by delighted laughter. There he was, thinking about that boy again! He shook his head in exasperation, and blew out the candle. Noise within the room was stilled. As Lord Peter closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, he became aware of a persistent, deep rumbling. It grew louder. It seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves. The candlestick rattled on the table, and the windowpanes shook. “My lord!” said Charlie, his voice frantic in the darkness. Lord Peter sat up in bed and listened intently for a moment. Then he started to laugh. “That's just our Geordie next door. Sleeping like a baby, and snoring like one of Watt's new steam

engines. That is the reason I refuse to share a chamber with him. Our fine young buck must have slept through everything that happened here tonight, even Lady Beaumont's ravings. I vow, Charlie, he could sleep through Judgment Day, all the while making enough noise to wake the dead!” He heard Charlie chuckle, and was glad the boy's fear had evaporated. “Now, get some sleep, my boy. That is, if you can with Geordie coming at you through the walls!” **** As Lord Peter had promised, they were up and on the road again as the first lemony rays of dawn streaked the sky. Charlotte rode in the carriage, comfortable against the cushions amidst the luggage. A strange contentment crept over her. In a few hours she would be at Aunt Agatha's in Bath. All her troubles were nearly behind her now; she could afford to relax a bit. The drone of Geordie's and Lord Peter's voices reached her from where they sat up front on the box. Lord Peter again had the reins. She was glad she was traveling a bit apart from them; after yesterday and last night she needed some distance from Lord Peter. She would never forget waking up to find him inches away from her, poking at her mysterious “lump.” She shook her head in embarrassment as she remembered her exceedingly lame explanation about the lump that “comes and goes.” At all costs she couldn't let him examine it, much less have an apothecary try to treat it. Hence her preposterous story, which he apparently believed. She might have invented something more clever perhaps if she hadn't been startled out of a deep sleep. And it had been so disturbing to have him so near, to see the candle flame flicker in his gray eyes, smell the brandy on his breath, feel the warmth of his skin. After that it had felt good to scream, though whether it was out of terror, surprise or excitement, she wasn't sure. It was foolish to be thinking of Lord Peter all the time. He was not even particularly kind, like Geordie. He could be impatient, imperious, and sarcastic; none of them endearing qualities. And their situations could not be more different. For just a moment, she wondered what it would be like if he found out that she was really a girl, that he had almost bathed in front of her, and slept in the same room with her, and thrown his luggage at her to be loaded into the chaise. Maybe that would shake his maddening aplomb! It would almost be worth it to tell him, just to see his reaction. Her reverie ended when she realized Lord Peter and Geordie had suddenly lowered their voices. They were sitting out on the box, Lord Peter again holding the reins. By leaning out the window and straining her ears, she could just make out their words above the sound of the carriage wheels. “The devil you say! A lump that comes and goes! Do you suppose, Peter, that the boy would let me see it?” “I doubt it. He seems to be quite sensitive about it. I think it is best we pretend not to notice. It will not be long till we have him deposited at his aunt's in Bath, anyway.” “Tis a pity, that,” said Geordie wistfully. “I would have sorely liked to see such a curiosity. It would be something to remember, I vow.” If you only knew, thought Charlotte silently, drawing her head back in the window. They rode steadily west, stopping only to change horses. At the second stop Lord Peter went inside to

talk to the innkeeper, emerging back into the courtyard twenty minutes later with a large wicker basket, which he tossed into the carriage beside Charlotte. “I say, Peter, aren't we going to stop and eat here?” asked Geordie plaintively. “No, I have something better in mind. A picnic lunch, to be eaten outside in the bright sunshine instead of a dark inn smelling of old ale and too many travelers. Now, don't filch anything out of that basket, Charlie,” he added with a laugh. “If anything is missing we will know who ate it! Be patient, and soon we will stop.” Charlotte barely registered his teasing admonition. A picnic! That would be delightful! The dewy morning had become a glorious, warm summer day, and Charlotte thought with pleasure how nice it would be to get out of the stuffy carriage and eat in the fresh open air. One last adventure with Lord Peter and Geordie, and then she would be deposited at her aunt's and would probably never see either of them again. She felt suddenly, and unaccountably, depressed. After another hour or traveling Lord Peter turned his chaise onto a side lane that wound down by a stream. With an easy “Whoa,” he halted the team. “Here we are, gentlemen! The perfect spot! Charlie, bring that basket out here, and it had better all be there!” His manner was so light and carefree she could not help laughing. Geordie spread the traveling rug under a tree while Lord Peter untethered the horses and led them to a grassy spot down by the stream to rest and refresh themselves. Charlotte and Geordie had laid out the slices of cold ham, cheese, pickles, loaves of crusty bread and bottles of ale the innkeeper had provided. “A feast,” said Geordie happily. “Simple, but filling,” agreed Lord Peter. “And good,” added Charlotte shyly. “Traveling does make one so sharp-set.” They ate in the warm sunshine, and Charlotte noticed the men drank several bottles of ale to her half-bottle. Soon their heads were lolling as they lay back on their elbows, and a few moments later Charlotte saw Geordie was dozing soundly, his snores sonorously echoing the drone of the bumblebees. “Check on the horses, would you, Charlie,” mumbled Lord Peter, his eyes closing as well. “I am just going to rest here a while. If I am not up in half an hour, you can wake me.” He lay back all the way on the rug, and was soon asleep. Charlotte got up and went down to the stream. The horses were grazing contentedly. Just a few feet away, under a spreading willow was a tranquil pool of water. The water mirrored the blue sky and the leafy canopy above it. So cool and inviting! Just looking at it made Charlotte keenly aware of how hot and uncomfortable and dirty she felt. She had been in the same clothes for two days now, even slept in them, and to her delicate nostrils they smelled rank. Or maybe, she thought with dismay, it was she who smelled rank! She clambered halfway up the bank, and saw where the men lay motionless, sleeping in the sun. She looked back to the serene water. The temptation was overwhelming. Five minutes, she promised herself. Just enough to cool off and wash away some of the dirt. No one but her would know the difference till it was over. Quietly she crept behind the bushes and stripped off the hot, hateful clothes. She unwound the tight,

scratchy woolen shawl from her chest and took her first unconstricted breath in what seemed like forever. By Jove, as Lord Peter would say, but that felt good! She spread her shawl, along with the rest of her clothes, on a bush nearby. Peering around, she reassured herself she was alone, and stepped down into the water. Oh, but it was glorious! The water was just as cool and fresh as it looked. The surface was scattered with the petals of the flowers growing near the bank. She sank down to her chin, then she dipped her head under the water, coming up sputtering and dripping water from her hair. She splashed, a laugh escaped her lips, and then she stopped guiltily to listen. All was quiet again. She had not woken anyone, she was sure, so she resumed her swim, this time more quietly. It was so hard to get out after such a delightful time, but she dare not stay too long. Reluctantly she swam towards the bank, stepped in the soft mud and grabbed the long shawl from the bushes. She used the rough fabric to towel off, and was resignedly pulling on the filthy pantaloons when she heard a twig snap. She whirled around in horror. There, not five feet away was Lord Peter. For half a second she froze, and in that time she saw in his eyes shock, and dawning appreciation. She screamed, whipping the shawl in front of her and clutching it to cover what she could of her body. “By Jove,” he said in a dazed way. “I believe I have discovered the true cause of your mysterious affliction, Charlie. And what is more, I would even venture to say it looks like a permanent condition!” Chapter Five “How dare you!” gasped Charlotte. “Turn around! This instant!” Grinning, Lord Peter slowly turned around. “Certainly, Master Charles. But then you had better be prepared to answer some questions. Though I believe I have discovered some answers already.” Charlotte picked up one of her heavy shoes and threw it. It landed squarely in the middle of his back. He staggered a step. “Ouch!” “That is just the beginning. When my father finds out what you have done, why, he'll curry your hide and hang it out to dry! Cyril will, too!” She had been dressing hurriedly while she spoke, and when Lord Peter turned around with a grim expression on his face, she had everything in place but her cap and her shoes. The hated shawl had been discarded. “I think a light is dawning. I must congratulate you, Miss...” “Finbury,” Charlotte replied, as haughtily as she could. “Miss Charlotte Finbury. My father is a Baron.” “Miss Charlotte Finbury. This is the most elaborate ruse I have ever heard of to try to entrap a man into marriage. After spending a night with me in the same chamber at an inn, not to mention this little incident on the stream bank, you are well and truly compromised. Can I expect to see an irate father with a pistol, or perhaps a blunderbuss, coming around the bend?” Charlotte felt hot all over, as though her blood was actually close to boiling. She picked up the other shoe, and hurled it with all her might. “Entrap? Why, you conceited, arrogant coxcomb! As if I would go to all this trouble, not to mention discomfort and embarrassment, to force you to marry me! Why do you think I left London in the first place? If it was marriage I wanted, I could have stayed and gone along with

my parents’ wishes. It may be difficult for you to comprehend, but Lord Satterly is considered an even better catch than your illustrious self. He is an earl, while you are just the younger son of a duke!” Lord Peter bent down and thoughtfully picked up the shoes. “If compromising yourself with me was not your aim, why did you threaten me with your father and brother just now?” “My brother? Oh, you mean Cyril! He is not my brother. He is the man I intend to marry.” “Poor devil,” murmured Lord Peter. “And I brought up my father because of the way you insulted me, of course. No man should spy upon a lady unclothed, and then make vulgar comments. I would have thought you knew better.” “I was not spying on you, I was searching for you to tell you it was time to leave. And if you will recall, I had no way of knowing you were female.” “You should not have snuck up on me in any event.” “You are impossible, Charlie!” “Charlotte.” “No, I believe I will continue to call you Charlie. It suits you better. Now, you are going to march up that bank with me to Geordie and give us the whole story. Nothing left out. Then perhaps we can figure out what to do with you!” **** “So, you see, I thought I would go to Bath and plead my case with my aunt,” Charlotte concluded her story. With her fingers she smoothed the picnic blanket around her legs as if she was spreading a skirt. Her hair, still damp, clung to her neck and shone blue-black in a shaft of sunlight through the trees. “Aunt Agatha is the one who convinced my parents to send me to Bath in the first place. And she has met Cyril. She is the only one who really understands.” “Ah, yes, Cyril. The paragon,” said Lord Peter. He was having a hard time keeping a rein on his temper. The fact that she looked absolutely enchanting, her skin fresh and glowing from her dip in the water, did not help matters any. Thinking of the water did not help, either. He kept seeing her arising from the pool like Botticelli's Venus, minus the long hair and giant seashell, of course. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “We keep coming back to Cyril. Now, let me see if I understand this so far. Your parents have made an unexceptional match for you, with a man who is wealthy and titled, and whose worst fault seems to lie in that he is interested in managing his estates.” “Plus he is old,” added Charlotte. “And he is not Cyril,” said Geordie helpfully. Lord Peter gave Geordie a quelling stare. “To repay your parents for their conscientious efforts on your behalf, you chose to run away from home in the dead of night, and travel unescorted and on foot through London to the White Horse Cellar.” “Do not forget I was in disguise.”

“Ah, yes. And it was absolutely impenetrable. But to continue, at the very portals of the White Horse, you were robbed, and you were forced to hide in a stall for the remainder of the night. In the morning, you overheard someone mention Geordie and I were bound for Bath, so you hopped aboard our chaise.” “How did you know no one would come inside the chaise and find you?” asked Geordie interestedly. “I took a chance. I reasoned it would not have been packed if someone was planning to sit there. And since I knew the passengers to be male, I assumed—hoped, really—that one of you would take the ribbons and the other would ride alongside him.” “And how did you know there were no females with us?” “Oh, that was easy.” Her cherry-ripe lips relaxed into a bright smile. “The stable hands did not mention any females. And besides, I did not see a single hatbox in the whole carriage!” Geordie slapped his thigh. “Deuced clever, wouldn't you say, Peter?” “No. Deuced cork brained, that is what I would say. Do you have any idea what evils could have befallen you, child?” “I am not a child,” Charlotte replied haughtily. “And I had everything well planned, my lord.” He raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. And have you given any thought to what your parents must be experiencing? Did you leave them a note?” “A shadow crossed her face. “Of course I did. I am not so unfeeling as that! But I did not tell them of my plans. They would have tried to intercept me. I intended to write to them from Bath. I should have been there by now.” “And this Cyril person, I suppose he encouraged this behavior?” She flushed a becoming shade of pink. “No, he would never suggest I do anything improper. He is a gentleman. I planned to write to him, also, from my aunt's.” “And propose marriage, I presume?” She gasped. “You, sir, are an utter blackguard!” Her blue eyes were flashing, her chest heaving with indignation. She tossed her head back, sending her dark curls into a riotous tumble. How could I ever have thought, even for one second, that Charlie was a boy, Lord Peter marveled. Why, she oozes femininity from every pore! Without that ridiculous shawl she was delightfully curvaceous, with quite shapely legs, well outlined in the old pantaloons she wore. Innocent and alluring, she seemed entirely unaware of her effect on male senses. She was also blissfully unaware of the potential consequences of her impulsive actions, and for that he would like to shake her, though at the moment she looked ready to strangle him. Geordie intervened.

“Now, now, Charlie, don't get yourself into such a taking. Peter's just trying to make some sense out of this whole thing. You see, old thing, you've put us in a bit of a spot.” “Nonsense. Merely convey me to Bath, and I will be out of your lives forever.” “Wouldn't be at all the thing, you know. If you show up with us, after two days on the road, the tattlemongers will have a field day. Your reputation would be in shreds, beyond repair.” “I never listen to gossip,” she said primly. “Then you are unique in England, nay, all of Christendom,” said Lord Peter. “Geordie is right. You have landed us squarely in a bumblebroth.” Charlotte's brow creased in thought, then cleared. “Why not simply drop me near my aunt's home? I can walk the rest of the way, and I will just say I found my own way there. You and Geordie will not have to come into it at all!” “I don't know...” “It is as good a plan as any, Peter. No reason why we cannot at least give it a try.” It was tempting. Once she was out of sight, she would surely be out of mind, and that would be a relief. Wouldn't it? “And what if it does not work, Geordie?” “Why, then you will have to come up with something else,” his friend answered serenely. “No need to fret, Charlie. Peter's got the best brain box in London. He will figure something out.” Lord Peter ground his teeth. **** The sun was setting as though drove through the ancient city of Bath, down the London Road, over Pulteney Bridge and on to Laura Place. “Turn here,” said Charlotte, indicating a side lane. “I can just walk around the corner.” Lord Peter rounded the corner and pulled the team to a halt. “Maybe we should wait until dark,” said Geordie. “Do not be silly. This will be fine. I cannot wait to get to my aunt's.” She opened the chaise door and jumped out. “Charlie—” “Yes, Lord Peter?” She saw him wince in the deepening twilight. “Surely we are on familiar enough terms after our little adventure that you can simply call me Peter.” “Certainly, Peter. As long as it will not offend your consequence.”

He sighed. “You are truly a rogue, Charlie. I hope all goes well for you.” He tipped his hat. Geordie grinned. “You've got lots of pluck, Charlie. First time I have ever seen anyone get the better of old Peter here. Best of luck to you.” “And you, too, Geordie,” Charlotte replied warmly. “It has been a wonderful adventure, though some parts are better left forgotten!” She laughed, and headed for the corner. She was so close now! To think, she'd made it all the way from London! She scarcely saw the couple approach her till they were within hailing distance. “Boy, I say there, boy! Stop a moment, we would like to ask you a question!” How could it be? Panic flooded her body. With a muffled cry, she turned and ran back to the chaise. Opening the door, she dove inside, barely registering the astonished look on the faces of Lord Peter and Geordie. The couple had quickened their pace, and almost running, approached the chaise. “Beg pardon, sir,” said the man. “Our intention was not to frighten your tiger. Merely wanted to ask him a question. You see, our daughter is missing, and we thought she might be in the vicinity.” “Your daughter is missing?” repeated Lord Peter. “Most likely just on a walk, and lost track of the time,” added the woman hastily. “My daughter is an impulsive girl. She is staying with her aunt, we believe.” “Don't you know?” asked Geordie curiously. “Of course she is with her aunt,” added the man, with a warning look at his companion. “My wife is just a little overset, at the moment. You know how women worry. Our name is Finbury, by the way.” “Not Lord Finbury?” asked Lord Peter with a growing sense of dread. “Yes, how did you know?” “I believe I have heard your name. I am Lord Peter Randolph, and my companion is Geordie Thorndike. I am sorry for your predicament, but I have not seen any young women out tonight. Would you like to have us help you look?” “No need, no need,” said the man hastily. “But if we may speak to the boy...? “That will not be possible, I am afraid. He is terribly shy.” “That is unfortunate,” said the woman. “I would have liked to speak to him. You see, there was something so familiar about him.” Her husband led her gently away. Charlotte heard their voices fade. She sat up and peered through the window of the chaise. She opened the door and sprang out, and would have run down the street after them but Lord Peter grasped her arm. “Now, Charlie, do not try to stop them.”

“But I must, Peter. I feel like a complete monster. You heard how worried they are.” She slumped against the side of the chaise. “Nothing has worked out the way I planned. My parents knew right away to look for me at my aunt's. And I never intended to cause them so much anxiety on my behalf. I suppose I did not think things through too well.” “I agree. It's a damnable, er, excuse me, a terrible coil. But if you go to them now they will know you have spent the last day and a half with us. Your reputation will be damaged beyond repair.” She stilled. “I see, my lord. You fear being accused of compromising me, and us being forced to wed.” He winced. “Blast it, Charlie, neither of us wants anyone to know we spent last night together in the same chamber at an inn.” “Would look deuced bad, Charlie,” said Geordie. “No argument there.” “Our best plan is to get you somewhere else, somewhere respectable, where you can pretend you have been all along. You cannot go to your aunt's now—your parents have been there, and know you were not there last night. Do you have any friends here in Bath?” She frowned in concentration. “No, no one nearby. All my friends at the seminary came from other parts of the country.” Lord Peter sighed. “I suppose I will have to take you with me to Randolph House.” Geordie sucked in his breath. “I say, how are you going to pull that one off? The Duchess is generally awake on every suit. You cannot just show up with a female she's never seen in tow.” “Oh, it will be respectable, have no fear. For the duration of our visit, our short visit,” he added, with a look at Charlotte, “Charlie will be your cousin, newly arrived from America.” “But I do not have a female cousin,” said Geordie wonderingly. “And no one in my family's ever been in a ship, much less America.” “Well, you have a female cousin now.” “Do not,” Geordie repeated stubbornly. “Yes, you do.” “Wait a minute,” said Charlotte, torn between hope and confusion. “What exactly do you have in mind? I am used to thinking up my own schemes, you know, and I am quite good at it.” “Oh, quite,” echoed Lord Peter. “Tell me the whole of your plan and I will tell you if I think it will work, or if I even like it.” “What do you mean? Does this mean you do not want to be my cousin?” asked Geordie, sounding perversely hurt. “It is not that, Geordie, it is just that I do not want to be exposed as a fraud. You see, I do not know you very well, or your family.” “'Course not. How could you know any of us? You have been in America. Virginia, I believe.” Charlotte took a breath, and strove to speak patiently . “I am not sure I can pretend I am from America.

I have never been to America. I do not even know much about it.” “Not much to know, from all I can tell. Lots of plantations and red Indians.” He paused. “Of course, Americans are a scurvy bunch of rebel ingrates, fighting the Crown and all. Heard they wasted a perfectly good lot of tea by pouring it into the ocean. Undrinkable after that, I would wager.” Lord Peter gave a shout of laughter. “You cannot really expect her to discuss the Boston Tea Party. It happened before any of us were even born.” “Well, they will expect her to know about it at least, would you not think?” “I doubt it. In fact, I think she should just be charmingly vague if anyone asks her anything at all about America—” Charlotte thought she was going to scream. “Please, please hold for moment!” Both men looked at her questioningly. “Now, Peter, if you do not mind, tell me why I am to go to Randolph House and pretend to be Geordie's cousin.” “To give you some respectability, of course, and us a reason for bringing you along.” “And once I am there, then what?” “The first thing you are going to do is write your parents, and ease their minds. You will tell them you are visiting an old school chum—” “Who?” “I do not know,” said Lord Peter impatiently. “We will work that out later. Maybe my sister-in-law—” “Too old for Charlie by half,” objected Geordie. “They probably were not even in school at the same time.” “Then we will come up with somebody else. Alicia Beaumont perhaps. The important thing is to have a plausible reason for your presence. Then you can go on to your aunt's in Laura Place, and all scandal will be averted.” “A brilliant plan,” said Charlotte. “Yes, I think so, too, if I do say so myself.” Lord Peter tried to look modest. “Except for one tiny detail.” “Don't you follow you there, Charlie,” said Geordie. “Seems to me Peter's got all the details worked out. Told you he had the best brain box in London.” “In that case, perhaps he can tell me how I can be presented to his mother looking like this.” She indicated her well-worn pantaloons and coat. Lord Peter and Geordie were struck silent. “She does have a point, Peter.”

“Yes, I had not thought of that, to tell you the truth.” “She does look rather like a boy.” “Rather like an urchin. A scruffy street urchin, at that.” “Not at all how I would want my cousin to look.” “I have it.” Lord Peter snapped his fingers. “We will get her some clothes here. We will rack up at the nearest inn, buy some frocks in the morning, and then we can take her to Randolph House.” “I cannot walk into a shop looking like this,” Charlotte interjected. “In fact, I cannot walk into a shop with you two at all. How would it look?” “No need.” Lord Peter looked smug. “We will buy them for you. Right, Geordie?” “Right, old man. I suppose we know a thing or two about ladies clothes, eh?” He nudged him in the ribs. “I should say so,” Lord Peter agreed, with a hearty laugh. Charlotte bit her lip. She didn't know whether to join in the laughter, or run while she still had a chance. **** They found a hostelry in town where they put up for the night. Lord Peter bespoke two rooms, and a private parlor, where they supped on game pie and mulled ale. After their host had left, Lord Peter turned his chamber over to his “page” and went across the hall to sleep with Geordie. Charlotte passed a quiet night in her pleasant chamber. She woke to sun streaming through her window, and paused to sniff the lavender left on the sill by the innkeeper's wife. They had given Lord Peter a very nice room. She intended to tell him so when he came down to breakfast. She awaited Geordie and Lord Peter in the parlor. She could not help staring at the two men when they entered. They made quite a contrast. Geordie appeared hale, hearty, and eager for the day's adventures. Lord Peter presented a somewhat different picture. Though his cravat was perfectly knotted, and his trousers barely creased, his handsome face looked as rumpled as an unmade bed. Geordie was the first to greet her. “Wonderful morning.” He thumped his chest. “Feeling fit as fiddle, though a bit peckish. Slept like a log.” Lord Peter walked directly to the table and poured himself a strong cup of tea, which he drained in one long gulp. He poured another and sat down at the table, glaring at his friend. “One would think that even you, Geordie, would be kept awake by the ungodly racket that issues from your respiratory tract at night. I doubt even the bedbugs slept through it.” “Don't mind him, Charlie. Noticed he's a bit crotchety this morning. Never really saw you like this before, Peter, old man. Not a endearing trait, what? But I'll overlook it, seeing as how you had a rough night. Heard you tossing and turning before I fell asleep. Hard for a cove to feel jolly if he's a light sleeper, by Gad. Must be the very devil,” he added sympathetically. Lord Peter gave him a look of loathing and poured himself another cup of the strong brew. “Breakfast

will have to revive me. We must go over to the shops and find a few dresses for Charlie here.” Charlotte poured a small quantity of milk into her cup, and added hot tea to it. She stirred a teaspoon-full of sugar into the mixture before speaking. “There must be some way I can accompany you. Or at least send some measurements. Perhaps the innkeeper's wife has a measuring tape.” Geordie waved his hand. “No need, I assure you. I have a prodigious amount of experience in these matters.” He loaded his plate with eggs, bacon, tomatoes, fried bread and black pudding. “You do?” said Charlotte doubtfully. “You do?” Lord Peter echoed, a look of mischief in his eyes. Geordie reddened. “I have often gone with m'mother to the mercer's. And I do not know how many times I have had to look through those dashed—, I mean, dreadful Belle Assemblees.” “You look through fashion magazines?” Charlotte was incredulous. “In a manner of speaking. M’ mother so often wants my opinion, you know.” Lord Peter smothered a laugh with his hand. Then he added gravely, “Geordie's advice on fashion is widely solicited.” “I am not at all sure this is a good idea,” Charlotte began doubtfully. “Yes, it is, it's famous!” said Geordie. “Do not fret, Charlie. We will have you slap up to the mark and ready to go to Randolph House in no time. When we get done with you, you will set everyone at Randolph on their ears.” Charlotte sighed. “That is precisely what I am afraid of.” She waited in her chamber throughout the long morning while the men shopped. She was just getting ready to try to go out and find them, despite Lord Peter's instructions, when there was a knock on the door. “We had the most wonderful luck, Charlie,” said Geordie triumphantly, waving parcels as he strode in the room. “Found a mantua-maker in Milsom Street who happened to have three frocks already made up. Her client had a huge unpaid account, and would not cough up the ready for these, so she sold ’em to us.” Charlotte felt a great misgiving. “How do you know they are going to fit?” “Bound to fit,” said Geordie. “We told her how tall you were, and she got some of her girls to alter them right there.” “How tall am I?” “You are just about up to here,” drawled Lord Peter, placing his hand near the top of his chest. Charlotte felt herself blush. He was right.

“What colors are they?” “One's some sort of sprigged something, one's yellow, and one's blue.” “Deep blue. The color of your eyes,” added Lord Peter. Charlotte looked closely at the parcels. “Are these just gowns? Is there a pelisse, or a bonnet, or gloves, or,” she delicately cleared her throat, “any sort of undergarments?” Lord Peter and Geordie looked dumbfounded. “By thunder,” said Geordie. “Didn't think of any of those. We just concentrated on the gowns, don't you know.” “Well, never mind. I will contrive somehow. It is warm enough that mayhap it won't look too odd if I appear sans gloves and a bonnet.” “That's the spirit,” Geordie agreed heartily. “Whatever you do, it's best we leave soon,” said Lord Peter. “Yes, put one of those frocks on. If we get on the road now, we'll make it to Randolph House in plenty of time for supper,” added Geordie, patting his stomach. “I'll wager Pierre has cooked up something wonderful for your homecoming, Peter.” “Thank you for the dresses,” said Charlotte, taking the parcels. “And please do not think I am being ungrateful for all the effort you have expended on my behalf. But how am I supposed to walk out of here dressed as a woman when the innkeeper thinks I am your page? It's been difficult enough for me to stay in here all morning without him becoming too curious.” “Hadn't thought about that, either,” said Geordie cheerfully. “Suppose you'll just have to come down quickly and go straight to the carriage.” “Change quickly, Charlie,” said Lord Peter. “We will go see to the chaise.” Shaking her head, Charlotte closed the door behind them and took one of the parcels. She unwrapped it, shook it out of the tissue and held it up to her neck. It was the blue one, a deep, jewel-like hue, and she gave a little cry of delight. It was beautifully made, and the fabric felt soft between her fingertips. It felt so smooth against her skin! She twirled and twirled in it, holding it to her neck. It was the perfect length. Lord Peter really did know her size. The thought of that made her blush. Eagerly she stripped off the boy's clothes she had been wearing for days and put on the lovely gown. A narrow band of blue ribbon tied high under the waist. She tied and re-tied the ribbon. Something was wrong. She untied it, and tried again. Finally she stopped. No matter how hard she tried to adjust it, it was obvious the bodice was cut way too large for her bosom. Just how in the world had Lord Peter described her? He must have thought he had seen more of her than there actually was. Face flaming, she couldn't help laughing. What was a resourceful heroine to do now? Go out with her bodice gaping open? She had no doubt the other dresses fit much the same way. How was she to know Lord Peter was given to exaggeration? She thought fast. She had no pelisse to wear, even if she could stand one in the heat of the summer. A shawl would work, but she was not about to drape her shoulders with that dirty old woolen thing she'd

had bound to her chest for the last few days, and she had no other. She could delicately clasp the top of her gown, and hold it closed while attempting to appear nonchalant. She tried it, and sighed. It wouldn't do; it looked too much like she was having an attack of the vapors. A discreet knock sounded at her door. “Ready, Charlie?” hissed Lord Peter through the door. “I have the carriage blanket, and I am here to smuggle you downstairs.” She had an idea. She opened the door a crack. “Give me your cravat.” “I beg your pardon?” “I cannot explain right now. Just take off your cravat and give it to me.” He sighed. “I believe you are still determined to ruin my appearance.” He undid his cravat and handed it to her. She shut the door. Taking the starched piece of linen, she rolled it, bunched it, and stuffed it into her bodice. Then she surveyed the result as best she could without a looking glass. True, she looked suddenly very well-endowed, a trifle padded perhaps to the discriminating eye, but at least her bodice would not gape open. She gave the ribbon one last tight re-tying, and opened the door to Lord Peter. “Where is my cravat—zounds, Charlie!” “Pray, do not say it. If I look a little odd, it is because the structural dimensions of this gown were not quite right. Fortunately, your cravat came to the rescue.” “Well, we will do something about this when we get to Randolph House,” he said undaunted. “Till then, I will just travel with a little less in the way of dressing. And you, conversely—” “Again I implore you, my lord, do not say it. I know I am showing up unannounced on your father's doorstep, with neither luggage nor proper attire, and looking a bit upholstered as well. But it cannot be helped. May I remind you this is your insane plan, not mine? Oh well, we can tell your family dressing in this fashion is an American custom. Perhaps they will not even notice.” “No man in his right mind would not notice,” replied Lord Peter frankly. “But, indeed, you are right, it cannot helped. As for my plan being insane, may I remind you that you are the one who ran away from home in the first place?” “For a noble purpose,” Charlotte protested. “Fah! Cyril, I suppose? The young jackanapes you are always on about?” “Cyril is not a jackanapes! He is, he is...” Lord Peter had crossed the room and was standing very close to her. His face was flushed, and his eyes were flashing. His shirt collar was open, and she could see the pulse at the base of his throat beating angrily. He smelt of the fresh morning air, and his scent invaded her senses. He was gazing into her eyes, his own grey eyes fathomless, and slowly he took her chin in his hand and tilted it upwards.

“If Cyril were truly the man of your dreams, he would have come looking for you by now, and would have found you,” he said roughly. “He would be standing right where I am now. And he would want to do this...” He lifted her mouth to his. She could not move; she felt suspended in time and space. “Cyril is a—” she started to say, but the words were just sounds with no meaning. Lord Peter's arm stole around her back and he pressed her to him. His lips met hers, and her head seemed to swirl. “Peter!” came Geordie's voice in the corridor. “Where the devil are you?” The door started to open with a rusty squeak. In an instant Lord Peter drew apart from her, a look of dazed shock in his eyes. Charlotte struggled to regain her composure as Geordie walked in. “There you are! I've got the chaise downstairs and ready to go.” He glanced at Charlotte and stared. “I say, old girl, are you all right? You look a bit, well, squashed.” Charlotte looked down and saw that Lord Peter's carefully rolled cravat had been seriously compressed. Her hand flew to her bosom. “Good heavens! Now I will have to re-stuff it!” “You know, Charlie, I'm sure Peter would be the first to tell you don't have to go to such lengths to impress his family,” said Geordie kindly. “Really, you look tip-top just the way you are.” “She is not stuffing it to enhance her figure, you nodcock,” Lord Peter said brusquely. He fidgeted with his open shirt collar. “She has to because the gown won't fit otherwise.” “Oh. I guess we got carried away, eh, Peter?” “Yes, I suppose we did.” He cleared his throat. “Geordie, check again to make sure everything is in the chaise, will you? We will be down in a moment.” When Geordie left, Lord Peter turned to Charlotte. “I owe you an apology. My behavior just now was abominable, especially since you are under my protection. I assure you, it will never happen again.” Charlotte placed her hand on her chest, trying to get her breathing even again. That kiss was unlike anything she had ever experienced, or even imagined. A romantic heroine was supposed to swoon in such a situation, she believed, but she didn't feel in the least like swooning. She felt as though she had received an electric shock, as if struck by lightning, and all her senses were still tingling from it. She was shaken, but didn't want to admit it to herself. So she took refuge in indignation. “That was most ungentlemanly of you, Peter. I am sure Cyril would never have dreamed of behaving in such a way.” A cynical gleam came into Lord Peter's eyes. “No, from what you have told me of him, I am quite sure he would not.” Though he was merely agreeing with what she had said, Charlotte was sure he had just thoroughly insulted Cyril. “It doesn't really matter now,” she said sinking into a chair. “I am properly in the basket, anyway. Your family will never receive me looking like this, even with the preposterous story you have concocted.” “My family will think what I tell them to,” said Lord Peter firmly. “Leave my family to me. The real

question is, do you have the courage to proceed?” Charlotte flared. “I have plenty of courage. I have come this far on my own. I will make it the rest of the way.” “For Cyril's sake, no doubt,” he said mockingly. Charlotte didn't answer. She didn't trust herself to. Chapter Six It was a short ride to Randolph House, just a few miles out of Bath off the Lower Bristol Road. Charlotte sat in the carriage with Geordie, gazing unseeingly out the window. She was still shaken from the kiss. Cyril had never kissed her like that! Cyril had never kissed her at all, save once, chastely, on the forehead. It certainly hadn't set her body her whole body aflame, as Peter had just done. Peter had kissed her, and she hadn't struggled a bit. She had behaved like a perfect wanton, her treacherous body responding to the surprising passion he had evoked. She was bewildered; and it was all Peter's fault, every bit of it. For surely that wasn't a gentlemanly thing to do! She couldn't imagine Cyril behaving with such impropriety. To be honest she hadn't imagined much about the physical side of love at all. To her love was flowers and poetry, meaningful looks and long sighs. Not that strange heat and lethargy she had felt with Peter. She was thoroughly confused. “Look over there, Charlie,” said Geordie, pointing out the window. “Randolph House, in all its glory.” Charlotte paused in her thoughts, and gasped. Randolph House was a massive structure of red brick and grey stone, built in a classic style, overlooking a vast park. The facade of the house featured four Ionic columns, topped by scrolls, and an ornate triangular pediment. The entire front of the house, and the forested hills behind it, was mirrored in an ornamental lake. The sight of it took her breath away. It also intimidated her. “It's magnificent,” she said. “Huge old pile,” said Geordie amiably. “Sixteenth century, I believe. Used to get lost there when I was a boy. Still do, on occasion. There's 175 rooms, don't you know. Even secret passages and a priest's hole. The roof alone covers over an acre. More staircases than I can count. Wellington could billet a whole battalion there and there would still be plenty of room left over.” Charlotte gulped. Hard. “Oh, Geordie, I am not at all sure I can do this. They are going to see through me in a minute. I do not know why I ever agreed to this charade. In fact, I feel like I am going to be sick.” “Here now, don't do that! We're with you. Won't leave you, you know. This will be a famous lark.” He eyed her uneasily, while awkwardly patting her shoulder. “You've shown plenty of pluck up before this, Charlie. Don't turn missish on us now.” He was eyeing her with alarm. Why, I am turning missish, she thought wonderingly. Quite unlike the resourceful and spirited heroines she had been modeling herself after. It had be the effect of Peter's kiss. Well, she wouldn't let it affect her any further.

“I will do no such thing,” she declared, with a return of her old spirit. “I am not such a ninnyhammer as that. After all, I have come this far, do you not agree? And after masquerading as a boy, pretending to be an American and your cousin should be quite simple!” Carriage wheels crunched on gravel as Peter easily pulled the team up the sweeping drive to the entrance portal of the impressive house. Lithely he sprang from the box and opened the chaise door. “Shall we go in?” he said with a wink. “It is time for the first performance.” Gingerly she took his arm, as though it was covered with live coals. Her impressions as she stepped into the hall were of shining lights reflected in gilt mirrors, echoing footsteps on highly polished floors, and the disapproving glare of a very grand butler. “Ah, Paxton, good to see you,” said Peter, handing him his hat and cane. “Is the Duchess of Wickersham about?” “Yes, Lord Peter,” answered the superior servant. He accepted Geordie's hat and cane, and expressed the barest surprise at seeing Charlotte. “The Duchess is in the Green Drawing Room, with the Dowager Duchess, and Lady Beaumont and her daughter.” “We will just go up, then,” said Peter breezily. “No need to announce us.” He turned to Charlotte, and again offered her his arm, this time with an absolutely blinding smile. She felt the same strange warmth she had experienced when he kissed her course through her body again. Devil take him! How could he do that so easily to her? With Geordie close behind, they went up the marble staircase, down a long corridor and up to closed double doors. Peter opened them with a flourish. “Mother!” “Peter! We were just speculating on what could be keeping you. Lady Beaumont was just telling us of your carriage accident in Newbury. It was very provoking, however—” Her words, along with her welcoming smile, died on her lips as she looked behind her son. “Geordie I was expecting, of course, but who is this young person with you, Peter? And why are you not wearing a cravat? You look positively disgraceful.” “Allow me to present my traveling companion to you, Mother. Miss Charlotte Thorndike, Geordie's cousin.” “Newly arrived from America,” said Geordie, stepping manfully forward. “She arrived ahead of her parents. They own one of those plantations we hear so much about,” interjected Peter smoothly. “Naturally, we just couldn't leave her alone in London—” A deep frown was forming on the Duchess's forehead. “I hope you are not about to tell me, Peter,” she began in an awful tone, “that you and Geordie traveled with this young woman alone in a carriage all the way from London?” “We certainly did not see her at the inn,” Lady Beaumont chimed in. Alicia said nothing, but she gave Charlotte a shy smile.

“Did I say London?” Peter smacked the side of his head. “What a sapskull I am! I meant Bath, of course. We met Miss Thorndike in Bath. Surely it cannot be improper for two gentlemen to escort a young lady such a short distance.” The Duchess still looked suspicious. “Step forward, Miss Thorndike, and let us get a good look at you.” Charlotte stepped forward diffidently, and made a deep curtsey. The Duchess raised her lorgnette from her bosom, and peered through it. She stared in growing curiosity and horror at the bodice of Charlotte's dress. “Why, Peter, I do believe she is—” “Absolutely exhausted,” said a plump, white-haired lady who had been sitting unobtrusively in the corner. Charlotte, who was in an agony of mortification, nonetheless noted the woman's eyes were merry and her face was kind. “Come to me, Peter, and give your old grandmother a kiss. And then we will see about getting this poor girl a place to rest and refresh herself. She appears about ready to drop!” She crossed the room, and pulled the bell cord. “Really, Minerva,” she addressed her daughter-in-law, who looked about to protest Charlotte's leaving, “we will have plenty of time to get acquainted with Miss Thorndike later, after she has rested. Ah, Watkins,” she said, to the pert maid who entered. “Miss Thorndike is in need of a room. Show her up to the Rose Chamber, next to mine. I believe it is vacant. That is, if those arrangements suit you, Minerva dear?” “That will be fine, Your Grace,” said the Duchess through clenched teeth. “By all means, give Miss Thorndike the Rose Chamber. But Peter, I would like to have a word with you at the earliest opportunity.” The Duchess of Wickersham was not a woman who was easily bamboozled, thought Charlotte uneasily, as she followed Watkins up another flight of stairs. She wished she could just leave this place and get to her aunt's house in Bath. Peter had said it would be easy, but it seemed the more questions they tried to answer, the worse it got. She was shown into a pretty room, with pink draperies at the window and a pretty wallpaper patterned with roses climbing a trellis. She sat on the pink satin coverlet, and looked around her. She tried to think of Cyril, but it was impossible to conjure up his face. Peter, however, was never far from her mind. She was in his home, surrounded by all that was his. She had to see Cyril. Once she did, everything would fall back into place again. Peter had said he would have found her by now if he was the man of her dreams. But how could he? He had no way of knowing her predicament. That was it! He did not know! If he did, he would come right away for her, of course. But she did not want him to come to Randolph House. For some reason, she wasn't eager for Peter to meet Cyril. Instead, she would tell him to meet her at her aunt's in Bath. From there they would fly north, to Gretna Green, where they marry over the anvil. And then, of course, they would go to Italy, for that wonderfully romantic honeymoon. And she would be able to forget all about Peter and the disturbing effect he had on her. She hurried over to the delicate escritoire in her chamber. It was equipped with writing paper, pens and

ink. She brushed a black curl out of her eyes, sat down and began to compose. **** “And so, Peter,” said the Dowager, her bright eyes sparkling, “tell me how it is you came to show up at Randolph with such a fetching young girl, gowned so absurdly?” “We told you—” “Yes, I heard. Geordie's American cousin. That will not fadge with me, you know. I know you too well. I know when you are up to something. What is the real story?” “The real story is quite long, Nana, and silly to boot,” he replied, taking her hands into his own. They sat cozily by a fire in the Dowager Duchess's sitting room. “It has been a while since I heard an amusing story. And I suspect this one will be vastly entertaining.” As briefly as possible he recounted the events of the last few days, glossing over how he made his discovery of Charlie's true gender. “A young woman of spirit,” said the Dowager. “And imagination.” “She is a child,” scoffed Peter. “A reckless infant, with a silly infatuation for a unlicked cub.” “She is not so young as that,” said the Dowager consideringly. “And I have not seen you so animated in a long time, Peter. In fact, I do not believe I have ever known you to get involved in anything like this.” “Fortunately, God is merciful, and situations like this do not often arise. If you are thinking I have developed a tendre for Charlie, you are fair and far off. I admit, she can be a fetching little thing, but she is amazingly stubborn. No,” he shook his head decisively, “when I get leg-shackled, it will be to a biddable sort of female, one who will not always be involving me in one scrape or another.” “Nonsense,” said the Dowager briskly. “A milk-and-water miss would never do for you. Take this Alicia Beaumont, for example. Your mother's latest candidate for you. Quite set on it, your mother is, so be warned. Alicia is a sweet girl, certainly, but you would be bored to tears by her within six months. Alicia's chief virtue in your mother's eyes is that she could easily be bent to your mother's will. No, Peter, you need a woman who can keep you on your toes. A woman of spirit and imagination.” Peter shook his head. “Not Charlie, Nana. She is not even interested. All she thinks about is Cyril. She's built him up to be a mixture of Lord Byron and Adonis.” The Dowager was silent for moment, ruminating while sipping her tea. “Cholmondeley, you say? I believe I may know the family. I wonder how difficult it would be to invite young Cyril here for a while.” “Whatever for?” She twinkled at him. “Heroes look the most dashing from a distance. Up close, they sometimes prove to be disappointing.” Peter shook his head. “I know what you are about, but I warn you, it will not work.” “We will see,” she said. “In the meantime, I will not breathe a word of this to your mother. And I will see if I cannot make your Charlotte appear a little more respectable. Really, Peter, you and Geordie buying dresses for her! It is a wonder the girl can wear them at all! You must have seen her more with your

imagination than your eyes when you had the opportunity.” Lord Peter had the grace to blush. **** Charlotte had just folded her missive to Cyril and affixed a seal when she heard a shy knock on her door. When she answered, the door opened to reveal a small, dark woman. She was dressed as a servant, but had an indefinable air of style about her. “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle. My mistress—the Dowager, hein?—sent me to assist you.” Charlotte was mystified. “Assist me?” “Oui. The dress, she does not fit, no? I will change that for you.” “You are a mantua-maker?” “I am good with a needle,” the woman answered modestly. “My name is Marie. I am the Dowager's, how you say, lady's maid. She is making a cadeau, a gift, of me to you during your stay.” Marie cocked her head and stared appraisingly at Charlotte. She stepped forward to poke gently at her padded bosom. “This will never do. Non, non, non! Remove it at once, and I will, how you say, make it right.” The French maid proved to be a wizard with her needle. All afternoon she stayed with Charlotte, altering her dresses. She brought with her a host of accessories—gloves, fans, ribbons, jewelry and an assortment of necessary undergarments. With unequivocal authority she summoned a bath to be brought up to the room, and filled the water with scented oil before allowing Charlotte to get in. While Charlotte luxuriated in her first real bath in days, and washed her hair, the little maid worked on her clothes. She did more than just take in the bodice; she added a tuck here, a dart there, removed a ribbon from one dress and attached it to another. When she was done, the dresses looked somehow much smarter and more sophisticated than they had when Geordie and Peter had given them to her. “Thank you, Marie,” said Charlotte warmly. “You have made my gowns elegant.” Charlotte fanned the skirts of the improved sprigged muslin dress she was wearing. Marie barely acknowledged the compliment. She was assessing Charlotte's hair. She sighed. “The hair, she is beautiful, but the cut is rough, no? I will fix it for you.” She shoved a hand into her apron pocket and took out a tiny pair of sewing scissors. She worked quickly all over Charlotte's head, taking tiny snips of hair here and coaxing a curl out with her fingers there. She took a step back, satisfied, and picked up a discarded length of rose pink ribbon. Threading it through Charlotte's dark curls, she tied it loosely in a bow to one side of her head. She stepped back once more to look. “Enfin,” she said contentedly. “At last, you are done.” Charlotte stared at herself in the looking glass. She looked subtly different, more sophisticated. Gone was any trace of the “scruffy street urchin.” Her simple muslin gown swirled around her ankles, and the bodice was fitted shrewdly to show off the swell of her young bosom without vulgar display. Even her

hair looked softer, and more beguilingly feminine as a result of Marie's clever touch. “Thank you, Marie. Thank you so much!” “It is not bad. The Dowager has ordered more clothes be made for you.” “Why is she doing this for me?” The French maid gave a typically Gallic shrug of her shoulders. “Very fond of her grandson, that one,” she said obscurely. Charlotte had to be satisfied with that. It was with a new confidence that Charlotte went down to dinner. This confidence was bolstered by Peter and Geordie's reaction when they saw her. Peter looked startled, and then his eyes widened appreciatively. He bowed and kissed her hand. “You are looking especially fine this evening, Charlie.” Geordie whistled. “I say, Charlie, you look very taking! I am still not accustomed to seeing you in a dress. Ow! You kicked me!” he added accusingly to Peter. “You are not accustomed to seeing your cousin in a dress?” asked the Duchess suspiciously. “Why not? Do women not wear dresses in America?” The Dowager Duchess laughed. “Really, Minerva, you do say the most absurd things!” Dinner seemed to Charlotte to be an endless succession of rich dishes and stilted conversation. Turtle soup was followed by turbot, which was followed by saddle of mutton, roast beef, then chicken, tongue and ham. There were West Indian limes, greenhouse peaches and pineapple, cheeses and olives, and an apricot tart. Charlotte could scarcely swallow a mouthful. She noticed Peter ate sparingly as well. Only Geordie attempted to do justice to the lavish spread. The Duke of Wickersham presided at one end of the table. He was a quiet man with an authoritative air. As far as Charlotte could see, there was little or no communication between him and his wife. When Peter presented her to the Duke, the Duke studied her briefly as she curtseyed, murmured a few pleasantries, and then paid her no more attention. Charlotte didn't know if she should feel slighted or relieved. When the women withdrew to allow the gentlemen to linger over their port, Alicia shyly approached Charlotte. “Do tell me about America,” she asked prettily. “I do not know very much about it.” Neither do I, Charlotte thought. But instead she said, “It is not so very different from England. Just a bit hotter.” “What about the Red Indians?” Alicia shuddered. “I heard they actually collect people's scalps.” “I never saw any Indians,” replied Charlotte truthfully. “I tried not to think about it.” “You must be very brave,” said Alicia, sighing. “I do not possess an ounce of courage.” She glanced briefly at her mother, who was deep in conversation with the Duchess. As if by telepathy her mother looked up, and frowned to see her in conversation with Charlotte. Her frown was echoed in the eyes of

the Duchess. “Alicia,” said her mother, “please play us something on the pianoforte. Alicia has a splendid fingering technique,” she said proudly to the Duchess. “Her instructor told us so.” Alicia's eyes never looked more doe-like; in fact, she looked a hunted and cornered deer, Charlotte decided. “Oh, Mother,” she said, blushing miserably, “I do not think I can. I am really not very accomplished.” “Nonsense,” said her mother, in a tone that was more bullying than supportive. “I am certain we would all love to hear you.” Alicia hung her head and looked wretched. The Dowager spoke up. “I believe Alicia would rather not play just yet. Charlotte, perhaps you would oblige us, instead? You do play, do you not?” Charlotte took one look at the newly inspired hope in Alicia's eyes, and stood up. Why not play? She couldn't be any more ill at ease, anyway. And her playing would at least spare the gentle Alicia the anxiety of performing. She sat at the pianoforte and tried out a few notes. The instrument appeared to be in excellent tune. Spreading her fingers over the keys, she began to play and sing in a clear voice. Alas, my love, you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously And I have loved you so long Delighting in your company She didn't realize the men had entered the room till she was on the haunting refrain of the 16th-century song. She sensed rather than saw Peter come up beside her. Her heart beating faster, she continued the song. Greensleeves was all my joy Greensleeves was my delight Greensleeves was my heart of gold And who, but my Lady Greensleeves? She couldn't go on. He was too near. Her breath caught in her throat. His hand came down, and lightly covered hers on the keyboard. She looked up, and surprised a gaze of such intensity in his grey eyes that she had to look away. “That is one of my favorite songs,” he said in a low voice. “You do it more than justice.” She was about to reply when the Duchess came bustling up in her stiff brocade gown. “Peter! You must not be neglecting your guests! You and Alicia have had no time to converse since your arrival.” She turned to Charlotte and forced a light laugh. “And you must not deprive Geordie of time with his with long-lost cousin.”

They all turned at the same time to observe Geordie deep in conversation with Alicia on the settee. He was talking with animation, her head was bent towards him, and they both seemed oblivious to everyone else in the room. “I should not like to intrude, Ma'am,” drawled Peter, a smile twitching on his lips. The Duchess practically snorted in frustration. But she wasn't about to be beaten so easily. “Come then, Charlotte,” she said, with determination, taking her arm. “Lady Beaumont and I are simply dying to hear all about America, and most particularly how you got here!” **** Charlotte wrote to her parents before she went to bed, reassuring them as to her safety. It was a difficult letter to write; she explained she had taken refuge with an old school chum, and apologized again for any anxiety or embarrassment she may have caused them. At the same time she urged them not to come for her, assuring them she would contact them again very soon. She then wrote to Aunt Agatha, imploring her to allow a visit, and further asking her aunt to keep her whereabouts secret from her parents for just a little while. In the morning she asked Marie to post both the letters with the one she had written to Cyril, after having written the direction on each. She decided for her own peace of mind to try and avoid Peter as much as possible. Practically engaged as she was to Cyril, in mind if not in fact, she felt it would be disloyal to spend time with another man. Particularly another man who had such a devastating effect on her emotions. She spent the next several days being fitted for gowns by the Dowager's mantua-maker, talking with the endearing Alicia, and trying to avoid the Duchess as well as her son. She could not avoid, however, the eccentric Dowager who had been so kind to her. “Why do you not spend more time with my grandson?” said the old woman, who had a disconcerting tendency to speak whatever was on her mind. “Not your cup of tea, eh?” “Lord Peter has been very good to me,” Charlotte began. “Good? Pshaw! Men generally do as they please. If he did not care for you, gel, he never would have brought you to his family's home. Ah, that was some afternoon, was it not?” She smiled in reminiscence. “I thought Minerva was going to have apoplexy. She thought Peter had brought home one of his lightskirts.” Charlotte's face flamed. The Dowager laughed. “I did not credit that for a second. But still, I could tell it put a spoke in her wheel. Minerva does so want Peter to marry a biddable female—someone exactly like Alicia. And you, my dear, are not biddable in the least!” Charlotte stiffened. “I believe you are mistaken, Your Grace. Lord Peter has no interest in me, I assure you.” “Ha!” “Even if he did, it would make no difference. For my heart belongs to another.” She tried to sound convincing, for her own sake as well as the Dowager's. “Does it now,” said the Dowager, unimpressed. “Tell me about this other.”

“Well, he is noble and refined, with the most delicate sensibilities. He is a perfect gentleman in every respect. He would never take advantage of a woman in a trying situation. He never makes me feel uncomfortable.” “Sound dull as dishwater, and poor spirited to boot,” said the Duchess cheerfully. “Does not sound at all like the right sort for a gel like you.” “He is exactly the right sort for me,” Charlotte declared passionately. “You do not know him. He is perfect. He is—” the sound of carriage wheels on gravel caught her attention, and she glanced out the window. She gasped. “He is here!” Chapter Seven Charlotte flew out the door to meet him. “Cyril! You came! Oh, I knew you would!” He gaped in astonishment. He was dressed exquisitely, she noted, from the tip of his hat to the shine on the toes of his polished Hessians. She wondered irrelevantly if his boots would be as difficult to remove as Peter's had been. But how could she be thinking of Lord Peter when faced with her idol? “Cyril, I am so glad to see you!” He looked taken aback at her enthusiasm. Was that consternation she saw on his delicately molded countenance? She checked herself before flying into his embrace. “Why, Charlotte, this is a surprise. Are you staying at Randolph House, too?” “What do you mean? Did you not receive my letter?” “What letter?” Charlotte shook her head in bewilderment. “Then why are you here?” “The Dowager Duchess invited me to her house party,” he replied with a touch of pride. “Said she was friends with my late grandmother. Couldn't exactly cry off, not when a Duchess asks you most particularly to come.” “Cyril,” Charlotte began, “I have had the most amazing adventure, and I must tell you about it—” “I cannot tarry now, Charlotte. How would it look if I am chatting out here when the Duchess is expecting me? Since you are obviously a guest here also, I am confident we will get an opportunity to converse later.” “Cyril,” Charlotte touched his sleeve. “Before you go in the house, there is something I must implore you to do for me. I will be introduced to you with a name you do not recognize. It is of the utmost importance for you to act as if you have never met me. I know it will be difficult, but I will explain everything later.” “By all means,” he said impatiently. “I will pretend I have never met you. Now I must go. The Duchess is waiting.” He hurried off.

Charlotte stared after him. “So that was the magnificent Cyril,” said a mocking voice behind her. “I must have just missed him. Pity.” She whirled around. “How is it he happens to be here?” Peter shrugged his shoulders. “A whim of my grandmother's. After hearing you ran away from home to be with him, she was curious and wanted to see him for herself.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I think that is perfectly vile. You invited him so you could mock him!” He looked hurt. “I did no such thing. I thought you would be glad to have your heart's delight staying under one roof with you. Much easier to plan the future together. Besides, Cyril does not seem at all unwilling to be here.” She sniffed. “Of course, he is impressed by your stately home. But that will not last. He is simply not that shallow!” **** Cyril was all that was polite at dinner that evening. If the word “fawning” came to mind, Charlotte resolutely banished it. He complimented the Duchess on her home, the Dowager on her appearance, the Duke on his fine collection of porcelain. Peter's brother, the Marquess of Wickersham, had arrived that day with his wife. Richard Randolph resembled his father the Duke, only he had more of a humorous glint in his eyes. His wife, Margaret, was beautiful, with her creamy skin, auburn hair and green eyes. She had a quiet dignity about her, but she looked as though she seldom smiled. Cyril did his best to be charming to both of them, trying to coax Lord Wickersham and Lord Peter into an account of the hunting in the area. It sounds for all the world like he is angling for an invitation, thought Charlotte, dismayed. Peter sat back in his chair, watching with an amused look. Charlotte felt uncomfortable every time his gaze rested on her. She could sense he was aware of her growing embarrassment at Cyril's toad-eating. She was hard put to defend Cyril's behavior, but she cast about in her mind for an explanation anyway. Of course Cyril came across as fawning. He was probably unsure how to behave in such exalted company. The Duchess alone would be enough to shake anyone's nerve. Besides, she comforted herself, Cyril was probably longing to be alone with her, so preoccupied with it, in fact, that he spoke rashly, barely conscious of what he was saying. That had to be it. When the ladies retired to the drawing room after dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their port, Charlotte found herself seated next to Alicia and Lady Wickersham. The latter, not that much older than Charlotte and Alicia, did her best to put them at ease. “So, Charlotte,” she said kindly, “I trust Randolph House is not too dull a scald for you after your adventure in getting here.”

Charlotte was startled, thinking for a moment that Lady Wickersham knew about her masquerade and flight from home. Then she remembered she was supposed to have journeyed from America. “Not at all,” she replied. “I have found my stay here to be most stimulating.” Lady Wickersham almost smiled. “That I do not doubt, what with your cousin and my brother-in-law to keep you both entertained.” She included Alicia with a nod of her head. “And now, it appears, there's another eligible parti on the scene.” Alicia was blushing prettily. Oddly enough, Charlotte found she could not work up any jealousy at the thought of Alicia being interested in Cyril. Then Charlotte remembered that the Duchess had invited Alicia to Randolph House in the hope of making a match between her and Peter. It would only be natural for Alicia to be taken with Peter, Charlotte admitted to herself. His looks were striking, he was intelligent, and he could be quite charming. All this in addition to being the son of a duke. She could see why he would be considered a prime catch. She thought of Peter married to Alicia, and her spirits sank. “Margaret, I do hope you are not talking nonsense to these girls,” the Duchess's voice cut imperatively across their conversation. Whatever light had begun to glimmer in Lady Wickersham's green eyes was promptly extinguished. “Miss Thorndike is here with her cousin on what is most assuredly a short visit. Alicia, of course, will be staying somewhat longer.” She favored Alicia with a grimace that Charlotte supposed was her attempt at a smile. “As for that Cholmondeley fellow, he is, well,” “He is my guest,” the Dowager cut in smoothly. “Quite a fascinating young man. His grandmother and I attended Miss Adam's Ladies Seminary together, many years ago. I thought he would round out my little party nicely.” “Party, Mother?” asked the Duchess in a strained voice. The Dowager laughed, a merry tinkling sound. “Did I not mention it? I only invited some of the local gentry over, my dear, next Saturday evening. Dancing to the local village band, cards, that sort of thing. Nothing too elaborate. I thought these young people could use a diversion.” “I have planned diversions, Mother.” The Duchess was clearly controlling herself with an effort. “Picnics, excursions into the countryside, a shooting party for the men—” “Really, Minerva, you cannot expect to entertain young people with such tame amusements! No, a soiree will be just the thing. I have already seen to the invitations!” The Duchess smiled tightly and said nothing. For a moment Charlotte almost felt sorry for her. It must be difficult to have such a forceful mother-in-law. They were quite worthy opponents, but of the two of them, the Dowager had the upper hand. For despite her pink-and white fluffiness, and twinkling eyes, she had a core of steel and knew how to get what she wanted. Her daughter-in-law, relying on sheer force of will alone, was no match for her. For the next few days Charlotte tried to see Cyril alone to explain her circumstances, but found it unexpectedly difficult. To her growing consternation, he failed to seek her out, or even make himself available. He was always either out riding, shooting, ingratiating himself with the Duchess, or walking around the park-like estate. He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time with Lady Wickersham, who was all but abandoned by her husband. The Marquess spent his days going over estate business with his father, or hunting hare and fowl. Charlotte felt more and more desperate. Why wasn't he being more lover-like? What was worse, if he should let slip her true identity, it would put her in a most embarrassing predicament. She had to intercept

him somehow. On the morning of the Dowager's soiree she staked out the breakfast room early and simply waited for him. Her efforts paid off. He sauntered in about nine-thirty, well before any other guests could be reasonably expected to appear. He headed for the sideboard, which was laden with hot chocolate, warm bread and honey, cold breads, and a variety of egg dishes, meat, fowl, and fish. Yesterday's Morning Post and Gazette were already on the table. He didn't see Charlotte as he walked in. She cleared her throat, and he turned sharply. “Charlotte! You are up early this morning.” “Cyril, I have got to talk to you.” She was about to launch into an explanation of her fabricated background and assumed name, when curiosity and pique got the better of her. “Why have you been avoiding me?” she blurted. “Avoiding you?” He shifted his feet. “I do not know what you mean.” “Well, perhaps that is too strong a word. But after our experience in Bath last fall, I had supposed us to be on closer terms.” Cyril paled. “My dear Charlotte, let me assure you that you have my highest esteem. But I am in no position to make promises of any kind. I deeply regret if you misunderstood—” “The poetry, Cyril. The long walks by the Avon. How could I misunderstand those?” Cyril put a finger between his neck and his cravat, as if he needed air. Charlotte looked at his pale blue eyes in the morning sunlight that flooded the room, and realized for the first time that those eyes, which she had once thought so eloquent, had a definite gooseberry-ish quality. She sighed, and it was as if scales suddenly fell from her own eyes. All of the things she had felt about Cyril since he arrived at Randolph Court but did not want to admit to herself struck her now with full force. Cyril was young and insincere and had merely been flirting with her last fall. She had experienced a schoolgirl crush, nothing more. And for this she had run away from home! Still, she considered, Cyril wouldn't have looked nearly as attractive to her if she hadn't been faced with the prospect of marriage to Lord Satterly. She hadn't been running so much to Cyril as away from Lord Satterly. Both actions were really reactions to events over which she felt she had no control. She sat down on chair at the table, and poured herself a cup of tea. At this moment she felt a lot older than the girl who had slipped out of her bedroom window at midnight dressed in boy's clothes. The thought occurred to her that perhaps was time to make her own choices in life instead of blindly reacting to what others chose for her. Such reflections would have to wait, however, till she was out of this particular scrape. She took a sip of tea, and set the cup down squarely in the saucer. “Disregard what I said, Cyril.” Pent-up breath escaped his lips and his whole body relaxed perceptibly. “Go ahead and take some breakfast, and then listen to me. I am in a rather peculiar situation, and I need your help.” He looked wary. “You do not have to do anything,” she assured him hastily. “Except promise not to expose me.”

“I do not like the sound of this at all,” he said a trifle pompously. “You will like it even less when you hear the whole,” came a lazy voice from the doorway as Peter walked in the room. “But for what it is worth, I am involved in it up to my neck, too, old man. And you had better get your story out quick, Charlie, while I keep an eye on the door. People upstairs are stirring.” Charlotte began a bare bones recitation of the events of the past week, glossing over her disguise and the time she spent with Geordie and Peter, and dwelling on her present impersonation of Geordie's cousin. Cyril's eyes fairly goggled when she told him of her supposed voyage form America. “That will never fadge,” he said bluntly. “What if you run into someone who really is from the colonies?” “The former colonies,” she corrected him automatically. “And I do not plan to do this for long. Just until my parents leave my aunt's house in Bath and go back to London so I can go to Laura Place.” “Why do you want your parents to go back to London?” he asked suspiciously. “Because,” she tried to be patient, “if they get wind of where I am, they will come. Randolph House is very close to Bath. And if they come, they will never go along with this story. They will probably insist I go back to London with them and try to patch things up with Lord Satterly.” “Seems like a sensible thing to do,” said Cyril. To her intense irritation, Charlotte noticed Peter's mouth twitch as he tried to conceal a smile. “Why did you come to Bath anyway?” Cyril persisted. “Should have known your parents would come to your aunt's house first. Don't you have relatives someplace farther, like Yorkshire or Northumberland?” “Yes,” Peter echoed Cyril. “Why did you decide to come to Bath?” He looked as though he was enjoying himself hugely. Charlotte longed to throttle him, or give him a sharp kick in the ankle. She was not about to tell Cyril, or even infer, that she came to Bath with her head full of romantic notions involving him. The very thought of it now seemed unutterably silly. “Why I chose Bath is beside the point. What I am asking of you, Cyril, is to go along with this, pretend you just met me and my name is Charlotte Thorndike. Will you do that for me?” “I don't know,” he said, scooping the last forkful of eggs off his plate. “What if the Duchess finds out? How would it look if I attempt to deceive her in her own home?” “It is my home as well,” said Peter softly, “and I would deem it a favor if you kept quiet as to the young lady's true identity.” “Well, if you put it like that, I would be happy to oblige. It will be our little secret, eh?” He winked at them both, and went back to the sideboard for another muffin. Peter gave Charlotte a sardonic smile. Now Cyril believes he is on intimate terms with a duke's son, Charlotte realized, and Peter will have to deal with the repercussions. It was painfully obvious that Cyril was quite taken with rank and social status, and that he was not the romantic poet, above such petty considerations, as she had fantasized. She shook her head again. How could she have been so blind! She excused herself to an unhearing Cyril and fled the room. She went out to the garden, where the the summer morning air was heavy with the scent of roses, and found a bench under a sycamore tree. That was where Peter found her a few minutes later.

“I suppose Cyril is now merely flesh and blood, like the rest of us poor specimens of manhood.” “Do not gloat, Peter. If you came to tell me that Cyril has been revealed as a toad-eating mushroom, you can save your breath. I have a hard time recalling now what it was that attracted me to him. As I remember it, his poetry was not even that good.” She viciously kicked a pebble. “I never gloat,” he said, sitting next to her on the stone bench. He lifted her small chin with his finger, and brushed a curl away from her blue eyes. “Cyril simply was not good enough for you, Charlie. And he certainly would not have been able to manage a woman with your spirit. You are like one of my prized thoroughbreds. Only a man of skill and understanding can handle them.” He leaned his head very near. Charlotte quivered with indignation—and something more. His scent was more intoxicating than the roses, and had much more of an effect on her pulse. But she was not about to let herself get silly over a man again. She was still recovering from her lack of perception regarding Cyril. But Peter was so very different from Cyril. His nearness alone was enough to send her senses reeling. And his touch ... better not to think about it. Hadn't he just compare her to a horse? She concentrated on that instead. “Manage, my lord? Am I like a horse to be managed or handled? Prized thoroughbred or plain old hack, the comparison is just as insulting. Why, I have never—” “Charlie, can you not be quiet, just for once?” He leaned over and kissed her tenderly. His lips were soft against her cheek, his fingertips resting gently on her shoulders. She turned her face to him in surprise, and his lips sought her own. His fingers tightened as he pulled her closer. His tenderness started to deepen to something more passionate, and Charlotte felt herself slipping once more into a swirling vortex of unfamiliar emotion. She felt weak in his arms, her resistance melting. Then he pulled back abruptly, with a look of surprise. “That is the second time you have done that,” she said irrelevantly. She took a large swallow of air. “Why did you stop?” “My wits must have gone begging. I am sorry, Charlie, I do not know what comes over me when I am near you. That is not why I came out here. My purpose was to offer a bit of brotherly comfort after what must have been an unpleasant revelation.” He looked rattled “And were you also feeling brotherly back at the inn?” She put a hand to her throat, trying to get her racing pulse back under control. “No, devil take it, you know I wasn't. He got up, and stood a few feet away from her. “There is something about you, Charlie. Though you must surely be the most infuriating female God ever created, I cannot seem to keep my distance, as propriety and common sense would surely dictate. I am drawn to you like a moth to a flame.” “I see. I have gone from a horse to an insect. Next I suppose I will be a speck of earth.” “No, if you will think for a moment, I was the moth. You are the flame.” “I—” He silenced her by holding up one hand. A reluctant smile lit his grey eyes. “We should be getting back, Miss Thorndike. It will cause no end of scandal if we are discovered out here. But if you would care to save me a dance tonight, just to show there are no ill feelings...”

Ill feelings? Charlotte was experiencing many feelings, most of them new to her, but not a one she would describe as ‘ill'. She nodded, wondering as she did just which one of them was the moth, and who indeed was going to get burnt at this rate. **** The Dowager's idea of a simple evening of dancing and cards turned out to be an elaborate affair for 200 people. Charlotte heard the village musicians tuning up as Marie made the final adjustments to her toilette. She couldn't remember being so excited about a dance before, not even when she was making her come-out in London. Thanks to the generosity of the Dowager, she had an elegant dress to wear, a slip of blue satin covered by a transparent cloud of silver net. Her only adornment was a single sapphire on a silver chain, lent to her by the Dowager, and a white rose set amongst her black curls. Marie exclaimed over her appearance, but Charlotte didn't need the little maid to tell her she was glowing with excitement, and that she had never looked better. Finally the last glossy curl was brushed in place, and she went out into the hall. Waiting at the top of the stairs, one gloved hand on the balustrade, was Lady Wickersham. She was attired in rich green satin, her magnificent red hair piled high on her head and held in place with an emerald-studded comb. Charlotte sighed in admiration. “You look lovely, Lady Wickersham.” “Vanity of vanity, all is vanities,” the Marchioness murmured, half to herself. She turned towards Charlotte and smiled slightly. “Call me Margaret, please. And you look lovely yourself, my dear.” She lifted her eyes, and Charlotte saw a look of pain cross them. “Ah, here is my husband.” The Marquess approached, coolly elegant in severe black formal wear, a diamond pin in his impeccably tied cravat his only ornament. Wordlessly he offered his wife his arm, and they proceeded down the curving marble staircase. “I say, Charlie,” said a hearty voice behind her. “Bang up to the mark again, ain't you? What do you say I take you down to the party, Cousin?” She turned in time to see Geordie give her a broad wink. A laugh bubbled up inside her. “Why Cousin Geordie, I would be delighted. But where is Peter?” “He already went down with Alicia. The Duchess, you know, is determined there will be a match there.” “Oh.” Charlotte felt a trifle deflated. “Which makes perfect sense, really,” Geordie added, with a studied disinterest. “Alicia's family is very bon ton, and she has a sizable dowry, not that Peter has to worry about that, and she herself is beautiful and sweet-natured. What more could anyone want?” he finished with a burst, his face slightly flushed. Though Charlotte had her own reasons for hating the idea of Alicia and Peter together, her kind heart was more touched by Geordie's ill-concealed distress. She took his arm, and walked down the hall a little way to an alcove with a bow window. She wanted to continue their conversation, but with a bit more privacy. “Surely the Duchess will not try to arrange Peter's marriage for him,” she said gently. “After all, he is a man, and as such can choose where he pleases.” Geordie gave a rather inelegant snort. “Don't wager against that one, Charlie. You weren't around when

the Duchess arranged Richard's marriage. Everyone thought he would offer for Sophia Westerly, the belle of the Season that year, but the Duchess had other ideas. Lady Margaret Durning was the daughter of an earl, and brought a considerable dowry, including an estate, into the union. Plus, she had none of Sophia's high temper, which was a definite advantage in the Duchess's eyes, I can assure you. In fact, Lady Margaret was exactly what the Duchess was looking for in a daughter-in-law. So she introduced Margaret to Richard, here at Randolph House, and six months later they were married. I tell you, Charlie, the Duchess is used to getting what she wants.” He looked so glum Charlotte hastened to try and cheer him. “I do not know Peter as well as you do, Geordie, but he does not strike me as the sort who would let his mother command him. He will do as he wishes. And I trust he will not wish for Alicia,” she added, more to herself. Geordie bristled. “What do you mean? She's a perfect angel! A man would have to have maggots in his brain box not to want her!” “Of course,” said Charlotte hastily. “I did not mean anything unkind, All I meant was that she is not Peter's sort. I do not believe they would suit.” “I cannot imagine her not being anyone's ‘sort.’ But if you think she would not suit him, then who would?” Me, answered Charlotte's heart promptly, much to her surprise. Her eyes widened at the sudden revelation, and a blush stole across her cheek. How could this have happened to her? Could she truly be in love with Peter? Was there ever anything more hopeless? Geordie regarded her quizzically, and then realization dawned in his eyes. “What about Cyril?” he said abruptly. “Cyril is a fool,” she answered briefly. “I was a child to fancy myself in love with him.” “This ain't going to be any easier,” he said shrewdly. “The Duchess will have you for breakfast if she thinks you are interested in her son.” “Pray do not be ridiculous, Geordie.” Her cheeks were painfully flushed now, and she fanned them with the delicate ivory-stick fan the Dowager had loaned her. “Admit it, Charlie, we are both of us in the briars. I would like nothing better than to be able to court Alicia, but the Duchess would never permit it. And as for you with Peter, well, I do not know how the land lies with him, but the Duchess would rather see you shipped back to America and the Indians in a birch bark canoe than have you interfere with her plans for her son. Remember Sophia Westerley. The Duchess knows what she wants for her sons, and she is accustomed to getting it.” “We need to get downstairs, and besides, I do not want to discuss this any further. My feelings for Peter are too new to have borne examination, and I do not know what he may think of me. But I do know this, Geordie Thorndike, if I was sure of my own inclination, as well as his regard, nothing, not even that dragon of a mother of his, would discourage me. You think on that, Cousin!” Charlotte did not feel nearly as strong as she had sounded to Geordie when she walked into the ballroom. Unlike the Finbury town house, Randolph House had a magnificent ballroom, with plenty of space for dancing. She saw Peter partner a lovely Alicia in the opening quadrille, and observed the Duchess nod indulgently towards them as a waltz started up later. Alicia was wearing a gown of blush

satin, and her soft brown hair was swept up on top of her head, with wispy tendrils framing her face. She looked adorable, a contrast to Geordie whose face betrayed his misery as he watched her dance with his friend. Shaking off her own dismay at seeing Alicia and Peter together, Charlotte danced with Geordie, and with Cyril, who was in transports at the company he found himself in. “Lady Wickersham danced a quadrille with me, and promised me the supper dance,” he informed Charlotte breathlessly in bursts as they negotiated the steps of the Sir Roger de Coverley. “She is elegance itself. And Lady Alicia has promised me a country dance.” Charlotte sighed at the irony of it. There was a time when she would have dreamed of dancing in Cyril's arms under crystal chandeliers. Now she simply wanted the dance to be over, and for him to go away. The dance finally ended, and Cyril left to obtain a glass of lemonade for her. She fanned herself gratefully. “My dance, I believe?” “Peter! I did not see you approach.” “I had to wait till the glorious Cyril left your side. Where is your cavalier, anyway?” “He went to get me some lemonade.” “Then, if you can delay your thirst, this would be the perfect time to dance.” “But they are striking up a waltz. Do I not need your mother's approval?” “Not unless you want to dance with her. You already have my approbation.” She went into his arms, and felt as though she was floating. All the noises in the room seemed to fade away, along with the press of people, the heat, and the confusion in her brain. She felt the pressure of his hand in hers, the strength of his arm against her back. She leaned against that arm, and became weightless as they swirled around the room, like leaves falling through the air. After what seemed an eternity, or but a moment, the dance ended. They no sooner stopped than the Duchess materialized at their side. “Peter! I believe you are promised to Alicia for this next dance.” “Really, Mother?” he said lazily, with a hint of steel in his undertone. “I doubt it. For that would make three dances this evening, and could cause talk. We are not betrothed, you know.” “Of course not,” she said, with a brittle smile. “Still, Alicia is our guest, and I am sure under the circumstances an allowance can be made. We would not want her to have to sit out any dances.” “I believe there is no danger of that, Your Grace.” He indicated the far side of the dance floor, where Geordie was happily partnering a radiant Alicia. “She looks as though she is being well taken care of.” The Duchess nearly ground her teeth in frustration. She turned to Charlotte. “Miss Thorndike, my dear, would you mind terribly accompanying me to the card room? Lady Beaumont and I are looking for someone to partner Lady Wickersham in a game of whist. I am sure my son will not mind sparing you while he attends to his duties as host.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” said Charlotte. What else could she say? She looked over her shoulder to see Peter's thoughtful look as she was led into the card room. Is he regretting the dance already? Does he think her unsuitable for anything more than a dalliance? Her cheeks burned as she remembered the times he kissed her. No gentleman would treat a lady that way unless he were about to propose marriage. The thought that her wild masquerade had put her beyond the pale of respectable society, and induced Peter to think she could be trifled with, was infinitely depressing. How had she gotten into such a muddle? She thought back, to her impetuous flight from London, only to be drawn into yet another charade at Randolph House, and come face to face with Cyril's callowness and Peter's improper advances. Any right-thinking heroine would indulge in a fit of vapors about now, begin a long decline, or at the very least make inquiries as to the availability of a convent to immure herself in. She amused herself for a moment, playing out each of those options in her mind, then gave herself a mental shake. The Duchess awaited her. She prepared herself for a long session at the card table, since she suspected the Duchess would not allow her to return to the dance floor and risk distracting her son from paying court to Alicia.. How could things possibly get worse? Chapter Eight Charlotte slept in late the next morning, and she was in her bed, sipping a cup of chocolate when Marie knocked hurriedly and came in. “The Duchess is tres agitee,” she told Charlotte breathlessly. “She wants to see everyone, toute la compagnie, downstairs in the drawing room. Immediatement!” “What happened?” “Moi, je ne sais pas, I know nothing. But I heard from one of the upstairs maids that there has been a burglary.” Marie helped her with the tapes of a soft yellow muslin gown, and tied a yellow ribbon through her hair. Barely pausing long enough to spare a glance for the looking glass, Charlotte rushed downstairs. She stopped for a moment on the threshold of the drawing room. The Duchess was standing, very rigidly, in the center of the room. The Duke was placidly reading the Morning Post in a wing chair by the hearth. Peter and his brother the Marquess were conversing desultorily by the window, while Lady Wickersham sat composedly at the table. Lady Beaumont, looking very scandalized, sat close to her daughter on the settee, as Geordie hovered awkwardly behind them. The Dowager, also seated at the table, was surveying her daughter-in-law with amused condescension. Charlotte glanced towards Peter, and he looked up from his conversation with a slow smile. Her heart seemed to turn a somersault. He was in morning riding dress of a frockcoat, boots and spurs; his hair was wind-blown and his cheeks ruddy from being outdoors. Charlotte thought he looked devastatingly handsome. “Really, Minerva,” the Dowager was saying as Charlotte entered the room and took a chair by the hearth. “You needn't enact a Cheltenham tragedy.” “It is the rubies, Mother. The Randolph rubies. They have been in the family for generations, and now they are gone!”

“You know, I believe I would prefer you do not call me ‘mother,'” said the Dowager musingly. “'Your Grace’ is fine, or even ‘Judith’ if you must. But I digress. I still do not comprehend, Minerva, what the fuss is all about. How do you know the jewels were stolen? They could simply be missing. I seem to recall they were missing for a whole generation a century or so back. Turned up eventually. Apparently the third Duchess was a bit addle-pated, and she had dropped them in a dark corner of the wine cellar and forgot all about them.” She chuckled wickedly. “No one could understand what she had been doing down in the cellar, but there were rumors about her and a certain footman...” “Mother—I mean, Judith!” cried the Duchess while Lady Beaumont attempted to cover Alicia's ears. “If you please! Pray, do not consider me in the same light as my flighty and immoral ancestor! I am distraught! Absolutely prostrate with grief!” “Oh, for heaven's sake, Minerva! It cannot be as bad as all that!” replied the Dowager. “Those rubies were monstrously ugly and you know it. Now, out with it! Tell us precisely what happened.” The Duchess was deeply offended. Nevertheless, she began to speak in a fairly straightforward manner. “I was wearing the bracelet last night when I sat down to play whist. As the game progressed, I removed it, since it was so heavy—” “—and hideous,” murmured the Dowager. “—it was impeding my play,” the Duchess continued, ignoring the interruption. “I set it right next to me on the table. But the game was most absorbing. I actually won 50 guineas!” There was a touch of pride in her voice. “We must have played for over an hour. It was well past midnight when we stopped. We were the last group left in the card room—the only souls in there. Then everyone got up from the table, and went back to the ballroom. It was at that moment that I remembered my bracelet. When I went back to the table, it was gone!” She placed the back of one thin, be-ringed hand to her forehead in a theatrical gesture. “Then surely one of the servants must have taken it, Mother,” said Peter in a bored voice. “It is perfectly obvious.” “They had not the opportunity. Besides, I questioned the servants. I have even had their rooms searched.” “Then what are you saying, Minerva?” asked the Dowager, her voice curiously soft. “That one of my guests stole it?” “The conclusion is inescapable, Madam!” “No, not inescapable, I should think. Indeed, I am surprised anyone I know would have the bad taste to steal such an ugly bauble.” The Duchess stiffened. “It is worth a considerable amount of money.” The Dowager shrugged. “Well, there is no accounting for taste, is there? What do you propose to do, Minerva? Call the Runners?” “That will not be necessary. For I know who the culprit is, Madam! It is someone who sat at my whist table last night!” Charlotte started. She had been sitting at that table! Along with the Lady Beaumont, and Lady Wickersham. Both of those ladies started as well. Lady Wickersham at once regained her composure,

while Lady Beaumont gasped and clutched her throat. “You are being ridiculous, Minerva,” said the Dowager coldly. “I think not, Madam,” the Duchess answered with a triumphant smile. “There was no one else in the card room but us four when I last noticed the bracelet on the table. I was the first to get up to leave. And when I returned, well, as I already told you, by then the bracelet was missing.” “So,” the Dowager continued slowly, “are you accusing either Miss Thorndike, Lady Wickersham, or Lady Beaumont of having purloined your repulsive rubies?” “There can be no one else,” replied the Duchess simply. Peter and his brother were on their feet. “This is outrageous!” said Peter. “Mother, you cannot be serious!” said the Marquess. “My poor, poor boys,” said the Duchess with tears in her eyes. “Naturally I would wish to spare you this pain. But you must understand, I cannot ignore this. The rubies are family heirlooms. It is not so much that I mind for myself; it is your poor father I am thinking of.” Everyone turned to the Duke, who was reading unconcernedly. “He looks as though he is beside himself, Mother,” said Peter dryly. “Your Grace,” said the Duchess loudly, with a touch of irritation in her voice. “The Randolph rubies are gone. Stolen!” “The Randolph rubies, eh?” said the Duke, his paper still held up to his face. “Ah, yes, I recall ’em now. Damned ugly things. M’ mother never could abide ’em.” “That's right, dear,” said the Dowager, nodding. The Duchess clapped her hands in frustration. “You are all simply impossible. Under the circumstances, I have taken it upon myself to have the house searched.” “Searching the card room seems an excellent notion,” said Lord Wickersham robustly. “You should have done that first thing before bothering all of us with this fuss. No doubt the trinket will turn up under the table, or rolled into a corner.” “Not the card room,” said the Duchess impatiently. “Of course I have done that, and it proved fruitless. It is partially for that reason that I have ordered the servants to check in the bedchambers.” “Minerva,” said the Dowager silkily, “I hope you do not imagine I would countenance having my guests’ chambers searched.” “I had to, Madam. It is the only way to determine the location of the jewels.” “Mother, this is absurd,” the Marquess began. “It is quite all right, Richard,” said Lady Wickersham, a small smile on her face. “I am perfectly willing to have my bedchamber searched if that is what your mother wishes. Or if indeed, that is what you wish.”

Her husband made no reply. Lady Wickersham reddened painfully. “It is a piece of infernal impertinence!” declared the Dowager. “You may be mistress of this house, Minerva, but I cannot sit idly by whilst you execute such monstrous rudeness!” Peter stood up and crossed the room. He casually took up a position behind Charlotte, resting his hand on the back of her chair. “Mother, this is the outside of enough. The rubies have been misplaced, and they will most certainly turn up. Perhaps it would be best if you apologized to our guests, and this matter can be forgotten.” There was a knock at the door. In response to a summons the butler came in, carrying a bundle in his arms. He walked over to the Duchess and addressed himself to her. “Your Grace, you said to come to you at once if we found something in the rooms you directed us to search.” “The rubies, Paxton, did you find the rubies?” the Duchess asked anxiously. “I regret to say we did not, your Grace. But we did find these er, garments tucked away in a most clandestine manner under Miss Thorndike's bed. I thought you would like to be informed, Ma'am.” He handed her the clothes with a correct, cold smile, and exited the room without looking at anyone else. The Duchess took the bundle wonderingly, and placed it on the table. One by one she picked up and put down the shirt, the cap, the pantaloons and the heavy shoes. Then she lifted the coat. The morning sun illuminated its sickly-green color unmistakably. “I have seen that coat before,” said Alicia suddenly. “In the inn at Newbury.” She looked at Charlotte in surprise and dawning horror. “It was you! The boy with Lord Peter. He had your size, your coloring, your coat! It was you!” Lady Beaumont screamed. “You wicked creature!” She pointed her finger at Charlotte. “Alicia is right! That, that person was with Lord Peter and Mr. Thorndike in those clothes. I even saw him in Lord Peter's bedchamber!” The room exploded into an uproar. The Duchess sat down weakly, grabbing the back of the chair for support as if she was going to faint. Lady Wickersham rose to assist her while the Dowager started to tell Lady Beaumont in round terms how ridiculous she was. Geordie gesticulated with a shocked Alicia, and even the Duke was heard, plaintively asking what the fuss was about as his eldest son tried to answer. Charlotte's hands flew to her flaming face. Why had she kept those wretched clothes? Because she had it in the back of her mind that she may need to make another escape. How could she have been so foolish? She got up, and felt a strong hand on her shoulder. “Relax, Charlie, I have been in worse scrapes than this,” Peter murmured in her ear. In spite of herself she smiled and she shivered. Peter seemed to have that effect on her. “Really, Peter?” she replied in a low voice amid the clamor. “Your family thinks they have been duped into taking one of your lightskirts into their bosom, and unfortunately we have not any proof beyond your word that circumstances are not what they appear. You will get a slap on the wrist for this escapade, but my reputation is in shreds, beyond repair. I will be lucky indeed if I am not cast out into the woods in the middle of a howling storm with only the clothes on my back.”

“Surely you exaggerate? I was out riding this morning, and there was nary a cloud in the sky.” He smiled teasingly, but she could not bring herself to respond. “Never fear, Charlie, this mess will soon be cleared up.” At that precise moment Cyril came into the room. “Cyril!” exclaimed Charlotte. “It needed only this!” “Oh, Cyril,” said Alicia, disdaining Geordie and his passionate explanations. “You would never think on't, but Charlotte traveled with Peter and Geordie disguised as a, a boy! In boy's clothes! She pretended to be his page!” “Acted more as a valet, actually,” said Geordie conscientiously. “Cyril,” said Peter, who had been staring at him consideringly. “Just the man, I believe, to clear things up.” “I am?” By this time Cyril, burdened with the foreknowledge of Charlotte's masquerade, was looking exceedingly guilty. “How could dear Mr. Cholmondeley know anything of this?” asked the Duchess in an awful tone of voice. Charlotte repressed an insane desire to giggle. When had Cyril gone from an upstart to a “dear” in the Duchess's esteem? It could only be he was upgraded relative to her fall. “Cyril is only too aware,” said Peter, staring at the unfortunate fellow fixedly, “of how his tardiness at leaving London forced his sister to masquerade as one of my servants for the sake of propriety.” “My sister?” said Cyril, incredulously. “Have the decency, dear fellow, to hold your tongue till I have finished,” said Lord Peter with a rare hauteur. “Cholmondeley met Geordie and me at White's, and we shared a night of play together. He drank rather deeply, and at five that morning confided to us that he was due to convey his sister to Bath in a few hours and must depart. Now Geordie and I were naturally alarmed, because it was obvious that the fellow was unfit to drive his sister, as was his intention.” “But you and Geordie, of course, were,” said his brother dryly. “Indubitably, my dear Marquess. I never drink deep whilst at the card table. Abstinence, I find, gives me a distinct advantage. Ah, but back to my story. What were we to do? Geordie and I had grown rather fond of the young fellow, and when he told us that his parents were expecting him to leave London at seven in the morning with his dear sister Charlotte, and what the repercussions would be if they discovered he had been drinking and gaming after their express orders forbidding it, our hearts were touched.” “My lord, I really must object—” began Cyril. “And I find I must again beg your indulgence, and pray you hold your tongue till I have finished,” said Peter smoothly with a steel undertone in his voice. “He begged us to help him, and after some discussion we agreed,” he continued. “We decided the best thing to do was to show up at Cholmondeley's town house at the appointed hour to pick up Charlotte, and pretend we had Cyril with us. That is what we did. We took my traveling chaise, which does not have the family crest on it yet, so it would appear to be hired. Charlotte's parents thought we were coachmen, and that Cyril was inside our coach. Charlotte knew nothing of any of this.”

“Indeed I did not,” she said in a firm tone of conviction, tinged with admiration. Really, she thought, Peter was getting better at this! Perhaps he could salvage her reputation yet. “Our instructions to Cyril were to sober up, and meet us with his equipage at Newbury, from whence we would transfer Charlotte. You know some of the rest. An accident, no sign of Cyril, and the need for some sort of disguise to salvage the young lady's reputation. Once you and your daughter had seen us, Lady Beaumont, and in the continued absence of Cyril, there seemed to be nothing to do but convey Charlotte to Randolph House and hope her brother would turn up eventually. Which he did, at last. So you see how dreadfully unfair it would be to discredit the lady now when we took such extraordinary pains to prevent any hint of scandal from attaching itself to her. I assure you nothing untoward or improper happened when she was under my protection.” “But the inn! Your bedchamber!” expostulated Lady Beaumont. “I am sure you mistook the matter,” said the Dowager fixing her with gimlet eye till the poor woman shrank. “I suppose it is possible I was mistaken,” said Lady Beaumont weakly. “Of a certainty you were,” said the Dowager firmly. “There is no doubt in my mind.” Cyril, whose face had gone from white to red to purple to white again as Peter's story unfolded, looked now as if he were about to burst. “Your Grace,” he began, addressing the Duchess, “I really cannot let it be thought—” “Calm yourself, boy,” the Dowager interrupted him briskly. “No one will think the worse of you for abandoning your sister if you do not whine about it now. I am sure we all,” her eyes swept the room, “understand about youth and thoughtless behavior. The point is, we accept Peter's account,” here she fixed Cyril with a potent stare, “and we would be grateful to you now if you would just let the matter drop.” “Yes, Your Grace,” Cyril acquiesced miserably. “So,” the Duke's voice rang out piercingly, “Miss Thorndike is no longer Miss Thorndike at all, but in truth a Miss Cholmondeley.” “That is so, Father,” said Peter. Cyril made a choking noise. “We invented the story of her being Geordie's cousin to protect her reputation.” “I am not surprised,” said the Duke, settling back down with his newspaper. “I knew she was not from the Colonies.” “And how is that?” asked his wife in exasperation. “That is what she told us, what Geordie and your son told us, originally.” “No accent,” said the Duke with satisfaction, turning the page of his paper. “Everyone I ever heard from those God-forsaken plantations sound like they've got treacle coating their larynx. Really quite distinctive, you know.” The Duchess rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Why did you not say something sooner?” “No one asked,” he answered complacently.

He became fully absorbed once more in his newspaper. The Duchess dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “This is all very well and good, though I still think your behavior scandalous, Miss Cholmondeley.” “Minerva, has not the poor girl suffered enough?” demanded the Dowager. “To be abandoned by her family,” here Cyril winced, “forced to masquerade as a boy, and endure the company of my grandson,” her eyes twinkled, “before being tossed unprepared into the maelstrom of Randolph House? Must you continue the poor girl's abuse?” “Leaving Miss Cholmondeley's behavior aside for a moment,” said the Duchess, “everyone seems to have forgotten something. The rubies. They are still missing.” “Blast the rubies!” said Peter. “Can you not just forget about them, Mother?” “No, I cannot, my son. And I will not rest until they are found, and the thief discovered. You can be sure of that.” On that note she flounced out of the room, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Mad, quite mad,” muttered the Dowager. “She will probably find those dratted rubies in her claret cup, or caught on the sticks of her fan.” With the Duchess gone people in the room began to disperse, an embarrassed Lady Beaumont taking Alicia out of the drawing room with Geordie trailing determinedly behind. Lady Wickersham, waiting for her husband to approach her, strolled out with a bitter smile when he picked up a section of the Gazette to read instead. Cyril took one look at Peter and scuttled out of the room after Lady Wickersham. One of the Dowager's pugs bounded through the open door, and the Dowager picked ithe small dog up and carried it out, crooning to it. Charlotte, after a glance at the Duke and Marquis buried in their papers, turned to look ruefully at Peter. “That was a magnificent story, Peter,” she said in a low voice. “I could not have done better myself.” “High praise indeed,” he replied, his lips twitching. “But I fear it will not hold for long, and when it breaks you will be in much trouble.” He touched her chin lightly with his finger. “I would not let that worry you, Charlie. Only Cyril and Geordie know the truth, and Geordie will not tell, while Cyril cannot—I believe I instilled the fear of God in him.” “The Dowager seemed quite your ally, accepting everything you said without question, even backing you up most opportunely.” “Well, it is not inconceivable that she knows a thing or two about this affair,” he replied smoothly. Her blue eyes widened. “I knew it! You did tell her about me! But it does not matter, I suppose, even if she does let something slip. For now that your mother suspects me to be a thief, she will not be as concerned with my other failings.” “Charlie,” said Peter casually, but eyeing her intently nonetheless, “have you any idea what may have happened to those rubies?” Her heart sank. “You think I took them, is that not right?” “I did not say that,” he replied swiftly. “Why not?” she said bitterly, half to herself. “You do not really know me, and our initial acquaintance

was based on a deception. Perhaps you believe I have no scruples whatsoever and I took the rubies to pay off a wager.” “You were gaming last night,” Peter pointed out reluctantly. “And you have no funds that I know of.” “Lady Wickersham lent me some money so I could play,” she answered with as much dignity as she could muster. “And I won, and was able to return all of it to her.” “I am sorry, Charlie,” said Peter. “I did not really think you a thief, but the circumstances are against you. Can you forgive me?” She sighed. “I believe I would be suspicious, too, if I was in your place. I doubt I would trust someone like me at all, in truth! But I had hoped ... but doesn't signify anything.” She gave him a bright smile, to hide her aching heart. Peter looked about to say something, then didn't. He reached for her hand, then dropped his own to his side without connecting with her. “Well, you will be soon out of this madhouse, Charlie. It is time you left for your aunt's. The talk of all this will die down soon enough. I will see to it my mother does not indulge in any hurtful gossip, and I am sure my grandmother will aid me in that aim.” Charlotte looked at him in amazement. “You cannot be serious. Leave now? I cannot leave now. There is no choice but for me to stay. I have to prove my innocence. Even you thought I was guilty for a moment.” She shook her head, making a renegade curl escape the yellow ribbon tied round her head. Peter looked as if he wanted to touch it, but he restrained himself. “No, Peter, I will stay at Randolph House until those awful rubies are found, and my name, or Cyril's name, or whoever's, is cleared.” “Your wits must have gone begging, Charlie,” said Peter impatiently. “The longer you stay, the greater risk you run of your true identity being discovered. I think even my prodigious imagination would fall short of inventing a story to cover that turn of events.” “It does not matter what you say,” declared Charlotte, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I will not be thought a thief! And I do not shrink from adventure, as well you know. No, Peter, say what you will, but I will stay until this matter is cleared up. In fact, I may even be the one to discover the true culprit! It is a task quite beyond your mother, I fear. Yes, I will do it! I will find the rubies first, and then I will go!” Lord Peter groaned. Chapter Nine Randolph House remained in an uproar all afternoon. In a way, Charlotte was grateful for this. Speculation about the ruby bracelet kept scrutiny at bay regarding the preposterous tale Peter had spun about her. Even the part about her masquerading in boy's clothes, a most scandalous aspect, seemed to occasion little comment. “After all,” said Alicia earnestly, “it is not as if Lady Caroline Lamb had not already done something very similar.” Her mother, upon hearing this, nearly boxed her ears and told her that such gossip was not fit for a delicately-bred young lady to know of, much less repeat. Then Lady Beaumont looked with deep disapproval at Charlotte. In fact, Lady Beaumont and the Duchess together were the only ones to hold Charlotte in continued enmity. Everyone else seemed to forget her initial appearance at Randolph House under false pretenses,

and had accepted Peter's story completely. That the Duchess was still skeptical about his story, Peter knew, but it wasn't for that reason she commanded a private audience with him before dinner. “Peter,” she said, “I see no reason to be anything less than direct with you. It is time you did your duty to the family and married.” “What ho, Mother, that is direct. I was not aware that the need for me to get myself leg-shackled was so dire. It is not as though I am the future Duke. I am only the younger son, remember? Richard is the one you need to speak of concerning duty, and if my memory serves me well, he is already married.” The Duchess sniffed. “That marriage is proving fruitless. Really, I am most disappointed in Margaret. I had such high hopes for her! But the truth must be faced, and after so many years have passed I think we may have to stop looking for an heir from that quarter. Which leaves you, Peter, to ensure the future of the dukedom.” Peter frowned. “And I suppose you already have saved me the trouble of finding an eligible female, as you did for Richard?” “Oh, I assure you it is of no moment to me who you marry, as long as she is of good stock,” said the Duchess airily. “And, of course, I would expect you to know better than to bestow our good name on any female who has the least hint of scandal attached to her. I would not want a flighty daughter-in-law, my dear, nor one who is not, shall we say, quite up to the mark. Such a one could not be a good mother to your children. But I am sure you can see that without my having to point it out to you.” “If you by any chance are referring, however obliquely, to Miss Cholmondeley—” “La, Peter, I am quite certain I am doing nothing of the kind! Miss Cholmondeley is an attractive and an unusual young lady. I declare—her presence has quite enlivened my little house party. But surely, you are not taken with her, are you?” “Of course not, Mother,” he said impatiently. “When I am taken with anyone, you will know it. But I do feel responsible for Miss Cholmondeley, having brought her here under my protection. You would not want me to shirk my responsibilities, would you?” “Most assuredly not. You are a Randolph, after all. But speaking of responsibilities, in all the excitement I am afraid sweet little Alicia Beaumont is getting overlooked. She is our guest, too, Peter. After all, I did purposely invite,” she put emphasis on the word invite, “her and her mother here for a visit. I wish you would endeavor to spend more time with her, rather than leave her to that sad rattle George Thorndike. I am sure it is shockingly rude of us, and I do so hate to be rude. I know you will sympathize.” He bowed, and said gravely, “Of all things, Mother, rudeness is the blackest sin.” “I knew you would feel just as you ought,” said the Duchess complacently. “So I know you will not mind that I have already engaged your services to take Lady Alicia riding tomorrow. Her mother tells me she sits a horse to perfection. You will take her out, will you not, Peter?” He saw no way out of it. And besides, Alicia was a harmless enough chit. She could not help it if she was a pawn in the Duchess's game. “It will be my pleasure,” he answered. The Duchess left the room, well pleased. A soft laugh emanated from a leather chair by the window, its occupant obscured by its high back.

“So, Richard, is that you?” said Peter, recognizing the voice. “Our mother, I know, thought to make sure the room was empty.” Peter crossed the room, and took a chair opposite his brother. The Marquess closed the book he was reading and set it on his lap. “I believe I can be fairly unobtrusive when I try, dear brother,” he said with a chuckle. “I see Mother is going to work on you, in much the same fashion she did on me five years ago.” “Is that so? I must say, I do not recall.” “You would not. You were quite occupied with other pursuits at the time.” Peter cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, Richard, something has bothered me all these years. I remember being very surprised you did not offer for Sophia Westerley when you had the opportunity. In fact, I heard the odds were running prettily heavily in that direction in all the betting books in town.” “Ah, yes. Dear Sophia. I fancied myself quite in love with her, you know. I believed she was the sort of woman one dies for. The Duchess, however, saw it differently. She thought Sophia was not at all well-bred, you see, and the fact that her family had nothing much to speak of convinced Mother that Sophia was only interested in my title and fortune. All that aside, Mother had found Margaret, and deemed her a much more suitable bride.” Peter was aghast. “You gave up the woman you loved to marry our mother's choice?” His brother seemed amused. “Are you really so shocked? In case you had not noticed, Peter, our Mother has a will of iron. She had quite made up her mind that Margaret was to succeed her as Duchess.” “And you just went along with it?” Peter was still incredulous. “It was not entirely like that,” said his brother softly. “My first thought when I came here to find Margaret being thrown at my head was to defy Mother, go back to London and Margaret be—er—sent to perdition. But Margaret herself changed my mind. She was so beautiful, and so unhappy! You see, she is not wanting in intelligence, and was well aware that she was being forced on me by the Duchess. Her sensibilities were quite revolted, and she had been in London, and heard of my attachment to the fair Sophia. She was determined to spurn my suit and grant me my freedom.” Peter shook his head. “I do not understand. Why, then, are you not married to Sophia, instead of Margaret?” Richard gave an elegant shrug. “Perversity, I suppose. The more Margaret tried to free me, the less I wanted my freedom.” “And Sophia?” “To be honest with you, Peter, I forgot about her when I was with Margaret. As you know, Sophia went on to marry the very rich and very ancient Lord Melbury. She and I have become past history.” “But that is not what I hear in London, Richard,” his brother blurted. “The on-dit is that you and the recently-widowed Sophia had a most touching reunion at Lady Fortescue's rout, and that you squired her to all the fashionable affairs throughout the Season, while Margaret rusticated at your home in Kent.”

The Marquess's grey eyes, so like his brother's, hardened. “Idle gossip is so very idle, don't you find, Peter? I wonder you pay it any heed.” He opened his book. “Tell me one thing, Richard. Was the Duchess right to arrange your marriage? Are you and Margaret happy?” “Happy?” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I suppose we were, once. Marriage, I think, is not a happy state. But pray, do not let my story depress you, dear brother. By all means find a female properly suited to our elevated station in life, wed her and bed her till you beget an heir so that the future of the bloody dukedom is guaranteed. I assure you, Mother will settle for nothing less.” Peter sat up very straight. “I will marry who and when I please!” “Nonsense,” replied his brother in a tired voice. “You will do as you are bid, just like the rest of us. Now, do go away, there's a good fellow. I wish a few minutes solitude before the evening festivities commence.” He reopened his book, thereby effectively dismissing his brother. Peter stood, and, seeing that his brother was completely unresponsive, made his way out of the room. His aim was to retire to his own chamber and think over his recent conversation with the Marquis. He didn't have much time to indulge in the reflection he needed, however. As he walked out of the room he nearly bumped into Charlotte, who was coming down the hall. “Oh, Peter, there you are! I have had the most brilliant idea!” Her eyes were shining, her hair was disheveled, and he found her quite ravishing. He marshaled his feelings, ignoring the sudden desire she sparked in him. Charlotte looked around, and espying an alcove at the end of the hall, pulled him into it. “I have been thinking about the rubies,” she began, “and what your mother said about those of us at the card table being the only ones who could have taken them. She may be right, though I have not entirely discounted the notion that someone could have come in between the time we went back to the ballroom and the Duchess returned for her rubies.” He nodded. “Very sensible of you.” “Yes, but I must say that seems doubtful. There really was no one else in the room when we left, and it was only a moment or two before the Duchess returned for her bracelet. So, I have decided to follow the Duchess's logic and investigate those of us at whist.” “Except yourself, of course.” “Except myself,” she agreed. “But indeed, one of us would have had the best opportunity to take the bracelet. So that is where I must start—with the players at the card table.” He shook his head in dissatisfaction. “I still think it will not fadge, Charlie. Would not someone have seen one of you take the rubies?” “Not necessarily,” she said sagely. “The game was most absorbing, I can tell you! I gave most of my attention to my cards, and scarce noticed anything else. I certainly would not have noted a hand surreptitiously reaching for the bracelet.”

“And you think the Duchess would be similarly blind?” he said skeptically. Charlotte laughed. “More so! You should have seen her, Peter! She was winning! I assure you, she was oblivious to anything else.” “Supposing, just for a moment, your theory is correct. Surely only the person sitting next to the Duchess, specifically on the side where she put the bracelet, would have had the opportunity to take it without being noticed.” Charlotte's brow creased in concentration. “That is a most telling point. But it really does not eliminate anyone. You see, we changed partners and seats during the game. So we all had access to it.” “Well, then, Charlie, what do you propose to do? For I can tell by looking at you that you have conceived some plan.” “I am going to search their rooms!” she announced dramatically. “Oh, no, by Jove, you will do no such thing! A more cork-brained notion I have never heard! If you get caught—” “That will not happen,” she said confidently. “It has been done, Charlie, remember? The Duchess already had everyone's room searched.” “And I propose to do it again! I may not find the rubies, but I will wager I can find something to lead us to them. They cannot just have disappeared without a trace!” He held up his hand to make one last attempt at reason. “And just when do you propose to do this?” “I have that all figured out, too! Tonight, after dinner I will plead a headache and retire early. I can look through the rooms while everyone is playing whist. It is a perfect plan.” “And if one of the ladies whose room you are searching should also retire early?” “That would be most unusual. In fact, you know perfectly well no one ever does.” “And yet that is precisely what you are proposing to do. How do you know you will not start a general exodus?” “Now you are just being difficult! It is a good plan, and you know it. And I honestly cannot think of any better time to do it.” Peter sighed. “We had better be quick about it, then.” “What do you mean we?” asked Charlotte suspiciously. “You do not imagine, I hope, that I would allow you to do something like this on your own? If I am with you, we will have a much better chance of concocting a believable story if we are surprised by someone. You must admit, Charlie,” he added with a grin, “your stories leave a lot to be desired. Remember the lump that would come and go? Really, a most pathetic attempt to pull the wool over my eyes.” “But I believe I managed to do just that for a while, my lord,” she said demurely with a sparkle in her eyes. “Not for long, Charlie! Besides, I knew there was something deucedly feminine about you from the

outset. I merely went along with your charade to spare you embarrassment.” “Gammon! I had you well and truly fooled! You know I did, Peter! And if your idea of a good story is telling everybody I am Cyril's sister, and bullying poor Cyril into going along with it—” He raised his eyebrows. “Bully? Me?” At that she dissolved into helpless laughter. She looked so appealing, her eyes swimming in mirthful tears, her lustrous curls tumbled around her face, that he nearly swept her in his arms and gave her a resounding kiss. Then he checked himself. He had been giving his behavior towards Charlie a lot of thought lately. That he was attracted to her he could not deny. And from all he could tell, she returned at least some of his regard, especially now that her infatuation with Cyril seemed to be at an end. But was it right to give in to his urges to kiss her whenever he was around her? Not that he ever planned to kiss her. Being near Charlie, near enough to feel her warmth, smell her sweet scent and lose himself in the clear blue depths of her eyes was enough to make him forget who and where he was. For all his talk of protecting her reputation, he knew he was not behaving honorably towards her. He had not proposed marriage. He was still smarting from his mother's attempts to coerce him into that holy state. When he married, he was determined, it would be a contract mutually assumed, with consent given freely, on both sides. He was a cynical enough young man of the world not to expect to be in love with his future wife. In his social circle, the success of a marriage was measured by the degree of freedom the husband enjoyed and the complacency of his wife. Marriages, particularly at his social level, resembled carefully negotiated business arrangements much more than the romantic fancies of the sort to be found in the novels read by young woman. No, he would not be compromised into marriage, as most surely could happen if he continued to allow himself to be free with Charlie. He found her warm and appealing, with a very disturbing effect on his senses. But that, in his experience, was not the basis of conjugal happiness. Neither was being compromised into marriage. He shuddered to think of the repercussions were it to be known Charlie had spent the night, albeit as a boy, in his chamber at the inn at Newbury. From here on out he was resolved to treat Charlie with respect and consideration. She deserved no less. Any familiarity—and it was impossible not to be on easy terms with such an irrepressible scamp, especially after all they had been through together—would be of the brotherly variety. But, oh, it was so difficult to resist the pull of his feelings! Charlotte dried the laughter from her eyes. “Very well, my lord, I accept your offer of assistance. Meet me outside Lady Beaumont's chamber at half past nine.” He bowed. “I will be there, Charlie. But you must promise me that once we have settled this dratted business with the rubies you will write to your aunt and extricate yourself from this web of deception.” “Yes, Peter,” she said in a small voice. “I daresay you cannot wait to be rid of me.” And before he could contradict her, she left. **** Charlotte was so anxious to get upstairs and start her search after dinner that she had little difficulty looking pained enough to give credence to her tale of a headache. She made her excuses while in the drawing room with the rest of the ladies as the gentlemen lingered over their port. The Duchess dismissed

her with scarcely a second look, though the Dowager did eye her consideringly. Only Alicia appeared sorry to see her leave so early. Indeed, Charlotte experienced a qualm of pity seeing Alicia, looking young and vulnerable, formidably surrounded by Lady Beaumont, the Duchess and the Dowager. The deep tones of the stately grandfather clock chimed half past nine as Charlotte lightly tripped up the stairs towards the bedchambers. She had decided to start with Lady Beaumont's chamber, and while outside that lady's door impatience was about to overcome her promise to wait for Peter when she heard a heavier tread on the stairs. She whirled around. “Peter! You came!” “Certainly, imp! Though I imagine my mother is none too pleased with me.” “What did you tell her?” “Excused myself over the port. Told my father and brother that I could not face another evening in the drawing room with the Duchess and company, and they understood perfectly. Even thought I detected a bit of jealousy that they did not think to cry off first. Only Geordie looked askance. Said something to the effect that I must be some kind of fool not to want to associate with the fair Alicia at every opportunity.” “Peter, do you think Geordie is in love with Alicia?” “Don't know. Hope not, for his sake. Wouldn't do him a particle of good. Clear as day her mother as higher ambitions for her than a mere Honorable.” Not to mention your own mother's ambitions for her, Charlotte wanted to add, but something—pride perhaps—prevented her. She cleared her throat delicately. “I have decided to start with Lady Beaumont. Shall we enter?” “After you, my dear Charlie,” said Peter with a flourish. She grabbed a lit taper from the hall table, and entered the room. Peter followed behind, also carrying a taper. “You look on top of the clothes press,” she whispered. “I will check the drawers.” “Nothing here,” he announced cheerfully, standing on his tiptoes to check the top of the press. “And nothing here either,” he added a moment later after he had bent down to check under the bed. “Shall I lift the rug?” Charlotte didn't answer right away. “Look at this, Peter,” she said softly. She was going through the bottom drawer of a cherrywood armoire. “Underneath these turbans and shawls.” She showed him. “Ought I to be looking at such, uh, unmentionables?” “Forget about what they are, and look at the fabric. Worn at the seams, and practically threadbare.” “So?” “Lady Beaumont pretends to be so wealthy, always talking about how grand Beaumont Hall is, and what elegances they are accustomed to,” she said slowly. “But these stockings and chemises tell a different story. No one would ever see this, except a maid, and I have heard from Marie how Lady Beaumont has refused to have a maid assist her. Marie thought it was an eccentricity, but this tells me she did not want the condition of her undergarments to be known.”

“What are you trying to say, Charlie? Out with it!” “Well, it is just an idea, you understand, but perhaps she does not want anyone to know how impoverished she really is. Perhaps her appearance of wealth is just that, a facade to impress your mother.” “Poor Alicia,” murmured Peter. Charlotte found his comment particularly irritating. “The point I am trying to make is that Lady Beaumont may have need of money. And that would give her a reason to steal the rubies. Though I am not at all sure how she could hope to dispose of them.” “That would be simple enough. There are plenty of enterprising businessmen in London who would be glad to purchase such a set of rubies without asking too many questions. Still, I find your conjectures somewhat far-fetched, Charlie. If you do not have anything better, perhaps we should move on.” The next chamber they searched was Lady Wickersham's. “Not much here,” said Charlotte disconsolately. “Oh, I would not say that. I found The New Bath Guide most suspiciously lying by her bedside. Unfortunately, it seems to contain only local points of interest and coach schedules, no hollowed-out section where a bracelet could be stashed.” “Now you are teasing me, Peter. But I assure you if we look hard enough we will find something to point us to the rubies.” “Why not just look in her jewelry case? Perhaps it is just lying in there.” “You fancy yourself so amusing, do you not? Well, maybe I will look there.” She crossed to the dressing table and lifted the lid on an ornate case. Peter crossed over to her to get a better look. “What is in there? Oh, just some paltry pearls, I will bet. Or is there a contraband ruby bracelet to be seen?” “Well, we'll just have to see, won't we, Peter!” She lifted the box off the table, using the taper in her other hand to better illuminate the contents. The box was almost too heavy to lift with one hand. She tried, her hand started to wobble, and instinctively she moved the other hand with the candle to support it. The rapid movement made hot wax drip off the taper onto the fingers supporting the box. With a small scream she dropped the box, and her candle went out. Peter was at her side in a minute. “Are you hurt?” “No, just exasperated. How could I have done such a foolish thing?” “Trying to get back at me, I would expect. Never mind. We will get this cleaned up and then we will get out of here.” He relit her candle with his own, and starting picking up jewelry. Charlotte picked up the box. “Peter,” she said excitedly. “Look at this!” She had the box turned upside down. Barely visible in the candlelight was a tiny black clasp. She flipped it back, and the bottom of the box fell open to reveal a hidden compartment. From it a black velvet bag

fluttered to the floor. She gasped. He picked it up. “What is in it? What is in it?” “Nothing,” he said slowly. “At least nothing now. It has a puffed out appearance, however, as though something large recently occupied it.” “The bracelet!” “Now, we do not know that! That is nothing but the purest conjecture, and it does not bear the least scrutiny. Why would Margaret steal the rubies when they will come to her anyway one day? Come on, Charlie, let us just put this back and call an end to this night's work.” “Not yet, Peter. There is one more room to go.” He groaned. “You are not really going to search my mother's room, are you?” “Yes, I am. I told you, I have to search the room of everyone who was sitting at that table.” “And what about your own room?” He grinned. “Do not be ridiculous, Peter. Besides, I already searched it before dinner. Just in case somebody decided to cast the blame on me by putting the rubies there.” “You astound me.” “Yes, I am rather good at this, I think.” “That is not the reason for my astonishment.” They heard the clock chime ten as they entered the Duchess's room. “Can we not just skip this one, Charlie?” “No,” she said firmly. “Do not be so cow-hearted. You know the Duchess never comes up before she has played at least two hands of whist. That will be eleven at the earliest.” “Cow-hearted! Why, how dare you call me cow-hearted—” “Come on, Peter,” said Charlotte, pulling him into his mother's room. “There now, are you satisfied?” said Peter twenty minutes later. “We have been through everything, even though it does not make sense. Why you would think my mother would steal her own gems and then raise a hue and cry about them is beyond me.” “You would be surprised,” said Charlotte obscurely, opening the last drawer of the bureau. At his impatient intake of breath she decided to elaborate. “My mother told me once of a cousin of mine, a distant relative, who was a Viscountess,” she began. “Once at a large party she gave, a diamond and pearl choker turned up missing. She was beside herself, and turned the house upside down looking for them, even called in the Runners. Finally everyone gave up. A few weeks later her husband happened to be in a very unfashionable section of London, where he glanced into the window of a pawnshop and saw the very same necklace his wife had declared stolen. Imagine his chagrin when the shopkeeper described the Viscountess as the person who had pawned the jewels. Seems she was short of money, and it was

the only way she could think to trade them in without telling her husband and enduring his scold.” “A very charming tale, Charlie, but really I fail to see how it applies to this—” He broke off at the sound of Charlotte's gasp. “What is it?” “Look at this, Peter.” She held a sheaf of papers in her hand. “There are dozens of them!” “Hold them still, Charlie! I cannot tell what they are!” “I will tell you! They are vouchers! The kind you get when you owe money at cards.” She flipped through them, quickly, scanning their contents in the candlelight. “The Duchess must owe at least a thousand dollars. Maybe more!” “That is impossible! Why would she hide them?” “Perhaps because she does not have the money to pay them. Oh, Peter, it is just like the story I told you! The Duchess might have stolen her own rubies to get money to pay her debts! All the fuss she raised was merely to divert attention!” “I will admit this looks strange, Charlie, but really—” A tiny sound from the door, and the words died in his throat. Charlotte got one last look at his startled face before he blew out both their candles. Someone was coming into the room. Chapter Ten They held their breath as the door opened and the sound of a footfall crossed the threshold. Peter pulled Charlotte down into the space between the heavy clothespress and the corner of the wall. Charlotte crouched next to Peter as far down as she could in the cramped corner. They watched silently as the Duchess's abigail came in, a towel draped over her arm, a taper in a holder in one hand and a pitcher in the other. She set the candle on the dressing table and placed the pitcher and towel on the washstand. She bustled over to turn down the counterpane on the Duchess's bed, and plump the pillows. From where she hid Charlotte could see the abigail's every move. She could also feel Peter's body pressed up against hers, his arm around her shoulders as he pulled her tightly to him against the heavy furniture. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt in her chest; surely everyone could hear it? As they hid, wary, deep in the shadows of the room, Charlotte expected either to burst, or be discovered, or both at any moment. The bed prepared, the abigail looked up, put her hands on her hips and tsked-tsked as she saw the open window. A cool evening breeze was ruffling the curtains. Charlotte's beleaguered pulse raced even faster. If the abigail were to go around the bed, over to the window to close it, she would be right next to her and Peter. The abigail would have to be blind indeed not to notice them. Before Charlotte could fully comprehend this fresh danger, however; Peter was pulling her even closer to the floor, silently pushing her down, onto her stomach. She saw him lay down next to her and slide noiselessly under the bed, pulling her after him with him. His tugging was remorseless, and she felt herself gliding on the wooden floor, then crushed up against him, full-length, under the bed.

They made it with a scarcely a second to spare. On her thinly stockinged ankles Charlotte could feel the air swishing from the skirt of the abigail passing by the foot of the bed. For a moment she felt she might faint. She was acutely aware of Peter's body next to hers, the leather of his boots against her legs, the silk of his waistcoat on her bare arms, his warm breath on her hair. They were curled under the bed back to front, his arm like an iron band across her back and under her bosom. There was a rushing in her ears, and the sound of drumming, so loud she was sure the abigail would hear and raise an alarm. She put a hand to her chest, and realized from the vibration there that the drumming was her own heart beating. There was a thud as the window met the casement, then Charlotte heard the abigail's footsteps go back across the room. From under the bed Charlotte could see the flickering light move, then disappear as the abigail took the candle out the room, shutting the door behind her. Slowly her heart slowed its frantic beating. Then she became aware of how cramped she was under the bed. She tried to move, and coughed on a dust ball. “Poor Charlie,” said Peter, sounding rather breathless himself. “I always seem to be placing you in compromising positions, do I not?” He slid out from under the bed. Charlie heard him fumbling by the clothespress, then saw light from the relit taper. She started to wriggle out from under the bed, but found it impossible to move. “Peter, I think I am stuck.” Strong hands gripped her by the ankles, and he tugged her out unceremoniously. She sat up, rubbed her eyes and coughed again. He laughed, and started pulling bits of dust off his sleeve. “I wonder if the Duchess knows how dusty it is under her bed?” he speculated. “I doubt she has had occasion to inspect it as thoroughly as we have, Peter.” “Hold still, Charlie, there is something in your hair.” He reached out to pluck a bit of lint from a dark curl that had fallen onto her forehead. His hand brushed her cheek; his eyes were very soft in the candlelight. Instinctively she leaned into his hand, before pulling back. “Well, I think it has been a very successful evening,” she said, a shade too brightly. “We did not find the rubies,” Peter pointed out, his tone oddly subdued. “Maybe not, but we did find a motive—” “Or something resembling one.” “No, we found a motive! For all three of them. Lady Beaumont, we suspect, is pockets to let—a perfect reason for taking the rubies. And then there is your sister-in-law! She has the perfect set-up for hiding the bracelet, right on her dressing table. What would an innocent person want with a false-bottomed jewelry box?” Peter sketched a small bow. “Your logic is impeccable, Charlie. But you will forgive me for being concerned. Tell me, does the fact that I own a brace of pistols mean I will be the culprit of choice for any murder that happens in the district?” “You are pleased to make a jest of me, Peter. You are saying that merely the circumstance of finding

such a box in Lady Wickersham's possession is a far cry from proof that she took the bracelet. I agree. But it does mean we cannot eliminate her from the list of potential, uh, bracelet takers.” “Thieves, you mean, Charlotte.” She winced. “That sounds a little harsh.” “Perhaps, but believe me, my mother would have no hesitation applying the term to you if she could find the least shred of evidence to do so. Which brings us to the Duchess. I take it she has retained her standing in your little group?” “Oh, yes. I am sorry, Peter. But those vouchers give her plenty of motive to be very interested in acquiring money.” “I find the idea somewhat preposterous, Charlie, but not out of any overflowing affection for my dear mother. It is just that I have a hard time picturing her in terror of my father, and selling her jewels in order to secretly raise the blunt to pay her gambling debts. In all my tender years at the familial hearthside I have never seen her show the least awe or sign of intimidation by my father on any matter. I could sooner believe him intimidated by her.” “No, no, Peter, I assure you, it is a very common thing for titled women to be selling off their jewels to cover their debts. I told you about my mother's cousin.” “My dear Charlie, you appall me. What you describe sounds like an epidemic. Soon it will impossible to travel near the pawnshops of London without getting into a tremendous crush of traffic. I can almost picture it, carriages emblazoned with all sorts of distinguished crests cheek by jowl as hordes of aristocratic matrons rush into the shops, clutching boxes of family heirlooms for sale.” “Again you mock me, Peter. But I believe you will be surprised despite your witticisms when I finally discover the key to this mystery!” **** True to his word, Peter met Alicia the next morning for their promised ride. Unsure if Alicia was truly an experienced horsewoman or if his mother was indulging in exaggeration, he picked a gentle mare for her mount. To his delight he discovered she was a poised and competent rider. They rode for an hour across the rolling countryside, then pulled up to a stream to allow their horses some water. “My lady, you truly ride well.” She laughed shyly. “It is one of my few accomplishments, my lord. And one I most enjoy. Exercising like this in the open air allows me just a brief space to forget—” she colored, “—that is, it is very invigorating. Do you not agree?” “Certainly. But tell me, Alicia, what is it you wish to forget?” “'Tis nothing, my lord. My foolish tongue often runs ahead of whatever sense I possess.” She gulped hard. “Tell me, my lord, is it not a very fine day?” Peter was touched by her transparent attempt to steer the subject away from what was obviously a painful topic. He thought, not for the first time, how hard life must be for a sensitive girl such as Alicia with so overbearing a mother.

She really was a pretty little thing, he reflected. Everything about her was soft—her chestnut hair, her big brown eyes, her voice. She reminded him of the fawns he had seen in the forest. Though she might chafe at confinement, and her fine feelings revolt at having to endure social pretension or vulgarity, she would never cause any type of fuss. She would never dream of running away from home to thwart a proposed match. It would be utterly unthinkable for her to dress up as a boy, or attempt to act as a gentleman's valet. She would make a man a most comfortable, biddable sort of wife. Vivacity, sparkling blue eyes, and a willingness to adventure may be intriguing in a girl, even exciting, but no one could call it comfortable. Without any conscious effort he compared Charlotte to Alicia, and as he did his mother's words, like a slow-acting poison, came back to him. He had to think of his position, after all. What if Richard and Margaret never did produce a child? Then his son would be the heir to the dukedom. He had to think not so much of his preferences in a wife, but rather what sort of woman would bear the title well and make a good mother to a future Duke. He eyed Alicia kindly, and let her ramble on for a while about the weather. Her voice was most soothing, and he found it difficult, and unnecessary, to pay any attention to what she was saying. Really, she would make a most comfortable wife. And quite boring. He walked with her to the top of the streambank, and gestured towards the cultivated lands that lay spread below them like a patchwork. “Alicia, this is it. The Randolph estate.” He waved his hand in a wide arc. “It is very nice, my lord,” she said, coloring prettily. “I am not the heir, as you know, but I do hold a sizable estate in my own name. When I marry, my wife will find herself the mistress of a fine home.” “She will be most for-fortunate, my lord,” Alicia stammered. How shy she is, he marveled, quelling the sudden stab of irritation he felt. “You do not need to keep referring to me as ‘my lord,’ Alicia. I believe I asked you several days ago to call me Peter. Most everyone else around here does.” “I will try, my lord, but it is difficult for me, even though Geordie is at ease calling you Peter.” “He is at ease calling me a lot more than that, I assure you. But how is it you do not stumble over Mr. Thorndike's Christian name, Alicia?” “I do not know how it is,” she admitted, “but he makes me feel so merry and relaxed! From the first time I spoke with him in the inn at Newbury, I felt as though I had found a friend. He is so very kind, and amusing!” Peter had never seen her so animated. Her shyness and reserve dropped like a cloak, and for a moment he saw a gleam in her eyes. Then she recollected herself, and schooled her features back into perfect composure. He frowned. Could it be possible that Alicia was truly in love with Geordie? He had certainly seen Geordie mooning over her, but did not pay it any attention. Geordie was not a bad sort, but as the third son of impoverished viscount he could expect neither a title nor a fortune. In fact, his expectations altogether were severely limited. Peter was certain Lady Beaumont would not allow Alicia to throw

herself away on him. Peter stole another look at Alicia, her face so carefully blank, and felt a stab of pure pique. He had halfway convinced himself Alicia would make an unexceptional wife. Damn Geordie! Calm, undemanding, well-bred, Alicia was the sort of woman one could do one's duty by and then more or less ignore. But though Peter did not expect to find love in his marriage, he had scruples enough not to marry a woman whose affections were bestowed elsewhere. And the more he thought about it, the more his conviction grew that Geordie and Alicia were in love with each other. “Look, my lord,” said Alicia, determinedly bright. “A heron, in yonder marsh. It was standing so still in the water I almost missed it.” “Alicia,” said Peter softly, “are you in love with Geordie?” She gave a little sob, and turned her head. “Fie, my lord, how can you say such a thing? As if my mother would permit it!” “Has Geordie spoken to you on this subject?” Peter continued. “Oh, my lord, if my mother knew we were even discussing this—” “Has he?” Peter was inexorable. Alicia bent down to pick up a leaf, and turned it slowly in her hand. “It is hopeless,” she said sadly. “My lord, I beg you that this will go no further. My mother has forbidden me to speak of it. Geordie has applied to my mother for permission to court me, but she turned him away.” “Geordie is a fine fellow,” Peter began. Alicia turned her large doe-like eyes up to his face. “He has no money,” she said simply. “And neither do we. Even your mother has no idea how badly dipped we are. My father gambled away our wealth, and it is up to me to redeem the family fortunes. My mother would beat me for telling you this, but I cannot lie to you, my lord. If you wish to marry me, I will accept. I have no choice, you see. It is my duty.” Peter had never seen such a sad little face, or heard such a resigned tone of voice. As happened so often, the thought of Charlotte flickered through his consciousness. “You could always run away,” he said bracingly. “Oh, no, my lord, I could never do that!” She turned wide eyes upon him. “That would be terribly improper!” That was exactly what he tried to impress upon Charlie, but hearing it from Alicia made it sound excessively poor-spirited. It was clear Alicia would do whatever her mother bid her, no matter how contrary it ran to her own inclinations. Well, he was not going to be anybody's sacrifice, no matter how resigned the victim was to her fate. Deciding not to marry Alicia made him feel strangely relieved. But he could not in conscience abandon her to her mother's wrath, either. Once Lady Beaumont had gotten over her disappointment, she would simply find another rich aristocrat in need of a meek and biddable wife and bully her into accepting his suit. The next one would probably be old and indecently eager for a toothsome young wife. And Alicia would do as her mother bid. And there was Geordie to be considered as well. Peter had never known his friend to fall in love before,

much less apply for permission to woo a woman. Peter suspected Geordie was the type who fell in love once in a lifetime, and he was just romantic enough to set a great store by it. He sighed. There was nothing else to do. He would have to help Alicia and Geordie, since he very much doubted they could help themselves. “Alicia,” he began gently, taking her hand. “I will not offer for you, if you do not want me to.” Hope flared in her eyes, than died quickly. “My mother,” she faltered. “Your mother will be most angry with you. Do you think you could bear it if you were with Geordie?” With a little cry she flung herself into his arms. “You are the best, kindest person! But how will you manage it?” “I do not know yet,” he admitted. “But I think I know someone who would be willing to help me, though her schemes do tend to be a little wild. In the meantime, we will allow your mother to think we are getting along famously, yes?” She nodded tremulously. “May I tell Geordie?” “By no means! The fellow never could keep a straight face playing cards, and I very much doubt he could conceal this news any better. I will deal with Geordie. Can you deal with your mother?” Consternation furrowed her brow, but it was quickly replaced by a dawning resolve. “I will give it my best,” she said bravely. “But what about the Duchess? I believe she has her heart set on a match between us as much as my mother does.” Peter laughed, and gently chucked her under her chin. “Do not look so frightened! The Duchess is a formidable opponent, I will grant you, but she has been routed before. And I know just the person who can do it!” **** Dinner that evening was what Charlotte had come to expect at Randolph House; an endless procession of elaborate dishes unrelieved by any light or lively conversation. Perhaps it was the massive dining room, with its dark furniture and grim-faced portraits of Randolph ancestors staring down from the walls that oppressed people's spirits. The Duke usually ate in silence. The Duchess generally picked at her food, pausing to deliver scathing commentaries or subtle criticisms of the world around her, depending on her mood. Everyone else adopted a detached air, which further impeded conversation. As the meal progressed, however, it became apparent that tonight something was different. Peter, as always, was put next to Alicia, but instead of eating quietly he made an unprecedented effort to draw her out of her usual reserve. She gazed up at him gratefully, almost worshipfully, Charlotte thought, while Lady Beaumont and the Duchess beamed at the pair of them. The Duchess went even further, suspending her usual flow of nasty little comments, and became almost benevolent. The only one who did not seem to appreciate this turn of events was Geordie, who forked his food angrily and kept looking daggers at his old friend. Charlotte felt sorry for him; she had long seen how it was between him and Alicia. She was sitting next to Geordie and tried to distract him, to prevent him from wearing his heart so openly on his sleeve. But he was in no mood to be distracted, and responded to her well-meant sallies with monosyllabic replies. After a while she gave up the attempt, and gave herself over to her own growing resentment of Peter's behavior.

She was no fool. She knew Alicia had been invited to Randolph House for the express purpose of promoting a match between her and Peter. But up to now Charlotte thought Peter had not really been interested in the chit. She acknowledged the possibility that he might offer for Alicia, just because Alicia was so suitable and so obviously favored by the Duchess. Yet she did not really believe Peter would be attracted to Alicia. Surely a man like Peter would prefer a woman of more spirit, and not such a milk-and-water miss as Alicia Beaumont. Did men really like women who were as helpless as kittens? The thought gave her pause. She, herself, had never really felt helpless. Her imagination had always been able to supply her with a plan for any situation she had ever found herself in. And she was proud of it! The only time she had near to such an insipid emotion as helplessness was the time on the riverbank when Peter had surprised her and uncovered (she winced at the memory) her deception. Even then embarrassment and anger were the dominant feelings she had, and she quickly recovered. If a clinging sort of dependency, and a general incapacity to deal with life is what drew marriage proposals out of men, then she would defy convention and remain unmarried. Perhaps she would go even further, and pursue a life of adventure. Being a missionary in darkest Africa, or exploring the Amazon seemed infinitely more appealing to her than simpering through Society merely to elicit an offer of marriage. Next to her Geordie dropped his napkin, and bent quickly to retrieve it. When he straightened up in his chair, Charlotte saw he was much more flushed than the exertion would warrant. She looked in his face and saw hot, embarrassed misery, and she felt guilty for having thought only of herself for the last few minutes. She pushed the mushy turbot (it was Pierre's night off, and the food was woefully below par) aside on her plate, and felt renewed anger at Peter. How could he do this to his best friend! Surely even he could see Geordie was much more in love with Alicia than he was! Could this possibly just be a game to Peter? She gasped at the infamy of it, and then took a gulp of wine to banish the lingering taste of the abysmal turbot sauce. Well, she was just going to have to speak to Peter, tonight, after dinner. Not for her sake, of course, but for poor Geordie. She did not get a chance to speak to Peter until well after the meal, and the inevitable separation of gentlemen and ladies had been endured. “There is a lovely full moon tonight,” said the Duchess coyly after the men had rejoined the women in the drawing room. “Peter, do go and show Alicia how beautiful the white roses in the garden are by moonlight. I vow,” she said, turning to Lady Beaumont, who had smugly nodded her encouragement of the scheme, “the garden looks quite alive at night.” “And so romantic,” gushed Lady Beaumont. “That is a capital notion, Mother. It has been years since I have enjoyed the garden on a summer night.” Cyril harrumphed. “I would greatly enjoy seeing the garden, if perhaps I could persuade Lady Wickersham to accompany me.” Lady Wickersham looked to her husband, who gave an infinitesimal shrug. She turned to Cyril. “Certainly, Mr. Cholmondeley,” she said with a forced smile. “I should like it above all things.” “Geordie, you and Charlotte should experience this, too,” said Peter to his friend. Charlotte saw the sudden frowns on the faces of the Duchess and Lady Beaumont. But before they could say anything, Geordie said, with uncharacteristic sullenness, “Don't believe I want to, Peter.” “Why, Geordie, how rude,” said Peter teasingly. Geordie looked ready to rise to the bait, but before he

could say anything Alicia intervened, earning herself an even deeper frown from her mother, with the promise of a scold later. “Oh, yes, do please come, Geordie. I think we should we all see it.” Geordie was no proof against the soft appeal in her eyes. He grabbed Charlotte's arm, and nearly propelled her out the glass doors that led to the garden in his haste to follow Peter and Alicia. Kitten, thought Charlotte disgustedly, she looks like a kitten and men fall all over themselves to please her. Then once out in the garden, Peter did a surprising thing. “Geordie, old man,” he said casually, “do go and show Alicia the white rose bush. It is over by the back wall.” Geordie responded with alacrity, throwing his friend a surprised look of gratitude before bearing Alicia off. On the gravel path behind them Lady Wickersham lagged with Cyril. “I simply cannot abide white roses, myself,” said Peter cheerfully, by way of explanation to Charlotte, who was left standing beside him. “I much prefer flowers with a bit of color to them.” He gave her his most charming smile. She balled her hand up into a little fist and struck him on the arm. “How can you be so provoking! Your behavior tonight at dinner was just abominable. Geordie was really suffering! Can you not see how much he loves Alicia?” “Yes, I believe I do.” She stared at him in astonishment. “Oh, then you really are bad!” “Nothing of the sort, Charlie,” he explained patiently. “I had a talk with Alicia today during our ride, and it became clear to me that the situation is exactly as you described it. It was also apparent that Alicia had no idea how to what to do about it.” Kitten! thought Charlotte. “You were right, by the way—the Beaumonts are properly in the basket. Lady Beaumont apparently has her heart set on Alicia marrying me.” “And what are your feelings on that subject, if I may ask?” “Well, I have to confess the idea did appeal to me for a space of time, in that I am tolerably certain Alicia would never give her husband cause for the least concern.” “Neither would my papa's springer spaniels,” said Charlotte tartly. “Cat!” said Peter appreciatively. “Really, Charlotte, do not hold a grudge against Alicia! After all, she was sent here to entice me into marriage. But now I need your help, for you see I promised that somehow I would contrive a happy ending to her and Geordie's story.” Charlotte's spirits gave a sudden leap. He was not going to marry Alicia after all! He knew Alicia was in love with Geordie, and he was not at all upset! He cannot love her the least little bit. Though it was the moon that shone overhead, it might as well have been the sun for the brightness in Charlotte's soul. “Do you mean it, Peter? Are we really going to help them? How?” “I was hoping you would have some ideas on that score. Moderate ideas,” he added hastily. “I must say I do not like the way your eyes are shining, Charlie. I fear it betokens the birth of some lunatic scheme.” But Charlotte was not paying him the least attention. “Maybe we could have Geordie dress up as a highwayman, and hold the Beaumonts at gunpoint, and abduct Alicia and take her to Gretna Green for a

marriage over the anvil!” “She would be dead of fright before he could unmask,” said Peter dryly. “Cannot you think of anything less dramatic? Like somehow winning over Lady Beaumont?” “How dull,” said Charlotte emphatically. “Besides, I am not at all sure it could even be done. Just give me a moment, Peter, and I will think of something famous that will answer nicely.” But before Charlotte could get her moment, a heart-rending scream pierced the calm night air. They looked up, and saw a light in the window of the Duchess's bedchamber, which overlooked the garden. The window was open, and in a moment the curtain was cast aside. The Duchess leaned out, her face livid, etched in relief by the moonlight. “Mother, what in heaven's name has happened?” yelled Peter. “They are gone,” she announced dramatically. “The ruby necklace that matched the bracelet. Gone! Stolen by the same thief! And this time I know who it was!” Though her voice quavered with passion, her hand was steady as she pointed straight to Charlotte. “Miss Cholmondeley is our jewel thief!” Chapter Eleven “Mother, have you lost your wits?” said Peter sharply. “Do not dare try to defend the little baggage, Peter! My abigail saw with her own eyes Miss Cholmondeley skulking around my door last night, after she had retired early, pretending to have the headache!” “But, Your Grace,” Charlotte faltered. Now her goose was properly cooked! How could she plead her innocence? She had been the last one to leave the Duchess's chamber last night, and must have been in the hallway outside the door when the abigail saw her. Her own chamber was located away from the Duchess's, at the opposite end of the corridor. What possible reason could she give for being there? Peter gave her arm a squeeze, and a look that told her to hold her tongue. “Really, Mother,” he said with a slight drawl. “Must we air this here and now, for all the world and his uncle to hear? I propose we retire now, and discuss this in the morning, when we are clearer headed.” “My head is perfectly clear! And if you think I will tolerate one more night of having a thief under my roof...” “Mother!” This time there was a hint of steel in his voice. “We will discuss this in the morning!” The Duchess, uncharacteristically silenced, withdrew her body from the sill and shut the window. Charlotte looked around. Now that all eyes were no longer focused two stories up, she saw them looking at her with a mixture of shock and dismay. “I did not steal the rubies,” she declared passionately. “Well, the Duchess seems to think you did,” said Cyril waspishly. “And that is enough for her to toss us both out of Randolph House.” “Both of us? Why you?”

“Have you forgotten, dear sister, that we are related?” With that he glared at Peter, not daring to say any more, but clearly blaming him for his forced participation in the charade. “No one is going anywhere,” said Peter in a bored tone of voice. “I vow, had I realized there was such a reservoir of dramatic talent in this house party, I would have arranged for us to put on a play! If the histrionics are quite finished for the evening, I suggest we all retire to our chambers, to be refreshed for tomorrow's act.” Charlotte went up to her room, as she was bid, but sleep eluded her for a long time. The situation had reached a critical stage. She could not allow the whole household to think her a thief, yet she stood accused. She knew Peter believed her, but she had seen doubt in the eyes of the others. Well, she would just have to take matters into her own hands. She would prove, by herself and to everybody, that she was not the thief. The next morning she rose at nine, and made her way to the Dowager's sitting room so she could speak to her before breakfast. She knocked on the door, and Marie answered it. “May I please see Her Grace, that is, if she will kindly receive me at this hour?” “Who is it, Marie?” Charlotte heard a firm voice. “Why, if it is not little Miss Cholmondeley! Come in. Come in, child! There certainly has been a lot of fuss about you lately.” The old lady was sitting up in bed, her hair caught up in a lacy cap and a pretty fringed shawl around her shoulders. She was sipping a cup of cocoa and perusing a stack of correspondence. “Thank you, Marie,” said the Dowager. “You may leave us now.” “Sit here,” she told Charlotte kindly, indicating a chair by her bedside. “And tell me why you have come to see me so early in the morning.” Charlotte had decided before coming to see the Dowager that she would tell her everything Peter had not already divulged. She trusted this small old woman with the kind eyes and confident manner who never quailed before the Duchess. “Well, Your Grace,” she began bravely, “I believe your grandson has told you I came to this house under false pretenses.” “Yes, yes, my dear,” said the Dowager with a twinkle in her eyes. “He gave me a most detailed account of your adventures, and I must say I was vastly diverted. You remind me of myself when I was your age, though you are perhaps a bit more timid.” Charlotte clasped her hands tightly in her lap and leaned forward in her chair. “Your Grace, I know the Duchess believes I stole her ruby bracelet and necklace, but I assure you, I am no thief.” “And you are no Cholmondeley, either. Or Thorndike, for that matter.” “I realize I have not been entirely truthful with you—” “Now, Charlotte, both those stories were concocted by my grandson, not you.” “Yes, and I know I could have done a better job, no matter how wild he says my schemes are!” said Charlotte, momentarily diverted from the substance of her conversation. “In all honesty, I ask you, do I even look like a Cholmondeley?”

“No,” said the Dowager assessingly. “I cannot say that you do. But perhaps Peter thought you would not mind the appellation, since you aspired so eagerly to an association with the fellow.” “It was no such thing, I assure you, Madam! Peter did it to annoy me. He knows I would sooner marry a-a—codfish as Cyril!” “But I thought you said...” “I was grievously mistaken.” “Ah.” The Dowager looked satisfied. “You prefer my grandson, then.” “Your Grace!” Charlotte blushed to the roots of her hair. “I hope you do not think I have been scheming to affix my interest in that quarter.” “Of course not. That would be even worse than taking the rubies.” “Which I did not! And that is why I came to see you. I lay awake most of last night, trying to find a way to discover the true thief and clear my name.” “Or Cyril's name.” “It does not matter. I will not be thought a thief! So I have devised a plan. Only I need your help.” “Have you told my grandson?” “No. He would only interfere. Besides, I want to prove to him that I can be successful on my own. Do you believe he actually called my ideas lunatic schemes?” “No,” answered the Dowager, biting back a smile. “How very provoking for you! I can see it is the most natural thing in the world for you to want to do this on your own.” “I thought you would understand.” “But what exactly is your plan?” “I am going to leave a piece of costly jewelry lying about, then wait and watch till somebody attempts to steal it.” “A trap!” said the Dowager approvingly. “But how can you be sure our thief will step into it?” “I am going to make it irresistible. Since everyone thinks I am the culprit anyway, it will seem a relatively safe proposition to the real thief to take the jewels and implicate me.” “Do you have anything attractive enough to bait your trap, Charlotte?” “No, and there is the rub,” Charlotte admitted. “That is why I need your help. I would like to borrow a piece of jewelry from you, ideally something no one knows or remembers you own, that I can use. You will get it back, of course,” she added as an afterthought. “How brilliant of you, my dear!” She put down her cocoa and moved the letters off her lap. “We will select something together! Bring me the jewelry box on my dressing table, and we will go through it right now.” Charlotte lugged the heavy box over to the bed, and the Dowager flipped the lid open. She took out the

upper tray, loaded with rings and earrings and brooches, and set it on the bed. “How about a nice necklace?” she said, lifting a heavy rope of pearls. “Jewels,” said Charlotte decisively. “Something that sparkles. That is what our thief seems to like.” “Something ugly as well,” said the Dowager. “That ruby set of Minerva's was hideous. Used to belong to her mother, I believe. Stands to reason: Augusta was a lot like Minerva. I tried to warn my son about that, but he would not listen. Stubborn, like his own sons.” She sighed. “Ah, this ought to do nicely.” She held up a heavy, filigreed silver necklace, encrusted with gems. Diamonds, emeralds and sapphires fought for notice amid the scrolls and arabesques of the elaborate design. The result was not pleasing. “Ugly as sin,” said the Dowager happily. “I doubt I ever brought myself to wear it; I certainly do not recall ever doing so. It was a family heirloom I received on my wedding day. No one would even know I had the thing, except the late Duke, and he is certainly in no position to be talking about it! If our thief liked the ruby set, this will be irresistible. In fact, it occurs to me, Charlotte,” the Dowager gave a considering look at the unlovely piece as she handed it to her, “it would not be an unmitigated loss if it really was stolen.” “No fear of that, Your Grace,” said Charlotte, slipping the necklace into her reticule. “This will never be far from my eyesight. You will not speak of this to anyone, will you?” she added anxiously. “I would not dream of it, my dear. I am much too eager to see what is going to happen.” **** Charlotte walked into the breakfast room just in time to overhear the Duchess renew her accusation of the night before. “I tell you, it was her! Mary saw her outside my door. And Mary has been with us for ten years. She would not invent a story such as that.” Charlotte stood in the threshold and surveyed the room. Peter and the Duchess were in the center of the room, at the table. Lady Beaumont and her daughter were huddled by the window, with Geordie standing miserably nearby. Cyril was posed rather self-consciously against the hearth, standing near Lady Wickersham, who was seated in a chair. The Duke and his eldest son were missing from the scene. Peter saw her first. “Charlotte! I was just explaining to the Duchess that her abigail must be mistaken when she says she saw you at the Duchess's door the night before last.” Charlotte took a deep breath. She had given this matter some thought as well last night as she lay in bed. Peter may not like it, but she did not want to discredit the abigail in order to try and exonerate herself. “In truth, my lord, it was me. I was checking to see if the Duchess had retired to her room yet. I needed her advice on a certain matter. When I saw she was not there, I waited for a space of time, and then I decided to leave.” “Advice?” said the Duchess suspiciously. “You wanted my advice on something?” “Yes,” said Charlotte, as innocently as she could. “I have a rather old necklace I was given by my mother for safekeeping, and with all the recent uncertainty in Randolph House I sought your opinion on how best to safeguard it.”

Out of the corner of her eye Charlotte saw Peter draw in his breath. She felt a twinge of satisfaction. It was a bold stroke on her part to take the whole matter and place it back in the Duchess's lap. Let him try and say again that her schemes were not up to the mark! This was absolutely her best plan yet. Like Peter, the Duchess was drawing in her breath, but unlike his, hers was not a barely perceptible motion. She was drawing her breath in so hard, and holding it, that her face was almost purple. She let it all out in an angry gasp. “Are you implying, Miss Cholmondeley, that my home is not safe for your baubles?” “Oh, it is scarcely a bauble, Your Grace, though I suppose it must be judged a poor thing next to your magnificent jewels. I hope I have not caused any offense,” she added ingenuously. “But I did hear you say there are thieves prowling about, and I am near distracted for fear my trinket will get stolen. It is a family heirloom, and my father in particular sets a great store by it.” Cyril looked as if he were about to interrupt at this point, but he was the recipient of a most quelling glare from Peter. Charlotte saw the exchange, and was grateful for Peter's assistance, though she could not but deplore the trace of laughter she saw lurking in his countenance when he turned his attention back to her. “Where is this heirloom, Miss Cholmondeley, that you would have us so worried about?” said the Duchess. “I keep it right with me, Your Grace. I feel it is safer than leaving it in my room,” she confided. “Do you not agree? Or what would you suggest?” As she spoke Charlotte pulled the Dowager's necklace out of her reticule. She held it up, and the jewels winked red, white and green fire in the morning sunlight that streamed through the window. Hideous as it was, it looked undeniably worth a fortune. There was a general gasp wrought out of the observers; Charlotte noted with satisfaction even Peter seemed surprised. The necklace appeared every bit as heavy and ornate here as it had in the Dowager's chamber, yet the Duchess seemed mesmerized by it. “You have had that here all this time?” she said slowly. “Yes, but I did not like to mention it. It is so massive, and I really did not have anything suitable to wear with it.” “You would not, of course,” said the Duchess briefly. “Why not have your brother take care of it for you?” Charlotte hastily cut in as Cyril started to speak. “Our mother entrusted it to me, Your Grace. It was a gift to her from her mother, my own dear grandmother. I could not bear to give it up, even for a short time, even to my brother.” “Commendable, Miss Cholmondeley, though perhaps a bit misguided. I believe it would be best if I took charge of your necklace for you during your stay here,” she added, extending her hand. “That is most thoughtful of you, Your Grace, but I believe I should keep it by my person. After all, the miscreant appears to have targeted you for the dastardly thefts you have had to endure. My necklace, paltry though it is, may only endanger you further.” With that she placed it back in her reticule. “I do hope I may have cleared up any misunderstanding my presence by your door may have caused,

Your Grace. I only sought your good opinion. Had I known you were shortly to be subjected to another theft, I would have stayed even longer in the hopes of apprehending the culprit.” “I certainly trust you would not!” said the Duchess, scandalized. “Such behavior would be highly dangerous!” “I am afraid Miss Cholmondeley is of an impulsive nature,” Peter intoned, shaking his head. “One can only hope maturity, and the good example of persons with superior sense and understanding,” here he nodded in Alicia's direction, “will prove an eventual benefit.” Alicia blushed, her mother smiled smugly, Geordie scowled at Peter's praise of his beloved while Charlotte longed to kick Peter in the ankle. Yet she had to admit he had helped to neatly divert his mother from her previous aim of branding Charlotte the thief and banishing her from the house. The Duchess was so thoroughly taken by the monstrous necklace that she had quite forgotten everything else. Charlotte knew Peter must be intensely curious about her plans, but it was not until after breakfast, when she was again walking in the garden, that he took her aside. “So, what sort of rig are you up to now?” he asked her. “I am going to unmask the true culprit!” she replied triumphantly. “I have worked out how to do so all by myself. I believe I have devised the perfect trap!” “Why do those words strike my heart with such a dread unease?” he mused. “Tell me, Charlie, what sort of cork-brained notion have you come up with now?” “We will just see how cork-brained it is, Peter! But I do not intend to tell you anything about it. You will just try to discourage me.” “Rescue you, rather, from the consequences of your own lack of forethought.” “Rescue me! When have I ever needed rescuing!” Peter opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it. He stopped along the graveled path, leaned against an old oak tree, crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her quizzically. “You are a most engaging scamp, you know, Charlie. I am never quite sure if I should laugh, or take you over my knee and spank you. I do not want you to get hurt, though for the life of me I do not know why I concern myself.” The look in his eyes as he spoke to her made Charlotte's breath catch in her throat. Her heart was beating erratically, and for one irrational moment she wanted to throw herself in his arms and once more feel his warm lips on hers. It was with something akin to desperation that she seized on his words and the irritation they provoked to steady herself. “No need for you to concern yourself with me, my lord!” she said a little too quickly. “I assure you, my plan is well-thought-out, and will work nicely. What we do need to work on, however, is your promise to Geordie. Just how do you propose we solve that particular dilemma?” “I thought I would let nature take its course.” “With the Duchess and Lady Beaumont in the picture? Nature has not the least chance of prevailing! No, I am confident all Geordie has to do is tell Alicia he loves her, and then overcome her objections by sweeping her into his arms! We must maneuver them both into a position where that may take place.

Then we may talk about letting nature take it's course.” “You are a hopeless romantic, Charlie. Geordie is too much of a gentleman to presume on Alicia's affections like that. And Alicia would faint dead away at the show of such excessive emotion. I do believe it would frighten her.” “No, I assure you, you are completely wrong! It would thrill her! All women want a passionate declaration from the men they love. An excess of respect can be seen to indicate a want of feeling.” Peter laughed. “It is as I have suspected, Charlie. You read far too many novels. I suppose you think it would be wonderful if Geordie would withdraw into a brooding depression if deprived of Alicia's hand, or challenge someone to a duel, or better yet waste away to an early death. What nonsense! People die of many things, Charlie, but love is not one of them.” His words hit her like a splash of icy water. How could he speak so dispassionately? Especially when his kisses had been anything but dispassionate. His feelings were a mystery to her, and perhaps to himself as well, she realized. “We will never agree on this subject, my lord,” said Charlotte calmly. “You are much too stubborn, just as your grandmother described. But we must put aside our differences of philosophy and work together to help Geordie and Alicia. For we both agree they are ill-equipped to help themselves! Now, what do you say we arrange to compromise them somehow, so they must marry?” Peter groaned. “Charlie, this is exactly the sort of bird-witted scheme I was afraid you would devise! Would you ruin the poor girl's reputation?” “To ensure her happiness? Certainly. But perhaps you have a better idea?” “Not at the moment.” “Then I suggest we execute my plan without delay. Tomorrow let us go to the ruins. We will make sure to stay late. We can take two carriages; we will leave in one, and contrive to leave them with the other, which you will have taken care to disable” She clapped her hands. “What do you think of that? Simple, perhaps, but certain to be effective.” He straightened from his position against the tree, and his face expressed amusement and disbelief. “I think it is utterly reprehensible!” “I am glad you like it,” she said demurely. “And unless you can devise a better plan I think we should do it. If we fail in our mission, you can be sure Alicia will dutifully marry some other boring old peer of her mother's choosing, and both her and Geordie's lives will be blighted!” He bowed. “Thank you very much.” “You know perfectly well what I mean, Peter.” “And what of Alicia's perceived obligation to her family? Do you suppose she will be happy with Geordie if she believes her family will lose their home as a consequence?” “You know as well as I that her marrying a rich man will not prevent her father from gambling further. In fact, it may encourage him. From what I have heard he sounds like an inveterate gamester. No, Alicia

would sacrifice her happiness merely to stave off the inevitable for a year or two. It simply is not fair to expect Alicia to repair the family fortunes, when they were lost needlessly in the first place!” “All right, Charlie, calm down! I agree with you, actually. The sooner Beaumont takes responsibility for his own management of the estate, and quits expecting his daughter's marriage to bail him out, the better. But will Alicia see it that way? She is a most dutiful little thing, I have found.” “I know. I, too, have found her sadly wanting in spirit sometimes. But this is for the best. I know it! I feel it right in here.” She placed her hand over her heart. Then a thought struck her. “Are you sure of Geordie's regard for her?” she asked Peter anxiously. “There is no doubt in my mind. I have known him many years, nursed him through many an infatuation, but never have I seen him struck so deeply by Cupid's arrow. If the extent of a man's attachment can be measured by his misery, then Geordie truly is in love.” “And you think they will suit?” “Admirably.” “Then the matter is settled,” said Charlotte firmly. “We will make our expedition tomorrow. You arrange for the carriages, and for heaven's sake, do not mention anything about our excursion to Cyril. He will attach himself to us like a barnacle, and it will ruin all of our plans.” “And if the Duchess learns of it?” “We must make certain she knows nothing of our plans till just before we leave. This must appear to be a sudden inspiration. You take care to see Geordie agrees with it, and I will make certain Alicia comes. But they, too, must not know anything of our intentions, for this will work only if they are taken totally by surprise.” “I am convinced they will be. Indeed, perhaps all of us will be. But where are you going now?” he asked as Charlotte prepared to leave. “I will see you at dinner, Peter. I must go to Alicia now.” And, she added to herself as she clutched her reticule firmly in her hand, I have a trap to set. **** All through the rest of the day Charlotte kept her reticule, bulging with the Dowager's necklace, conspicuously with her. That evening she decided to wear the necklace at dinner, to further whet the thief's appetite. She wore the Dowager's jewels with a simple blue silk gown; they did not match it very well, but then, she reflected, they really would not match anything very well. The Dowager, seated at the opposite end of the table, caught her eye and winked, and the wink gave her confidence. After dinner she played a game of whist with the Dowager, the Duchess, and Lady Beaumont. She could not help but notice that the Duchess could barely drag her eyes off the necklace long enough to look at her cards. As a result, the Duchess played very badly, but didn't seem to care. At eleven Charlotte gave a delicate yawn and announced she was quite fatigued, and needed to retire. Thus excused, she went to her chamber, where she took the heavy necklace off, and left it lying on top of her dressing table. She did not change into her night rail. Instead she crawled up on her bed, blew out the candle and waited in the darkness. She waited. After what seemed an eternity she heard a clock chime midnight from the depths of the

house. She waited longer, and before too long heard the clock chime half past. At one she was almost ready to give up. Her eyelids were drooping shut. Then she heard a stealthy noise at her door. She froze, then crept as quietly as possible as she could off her bed. Carefully she felt for the candle and a tinderbox on the side table, where she had previously laid them, and with them firmly in hand she crouched by the door. Slowly the door opened. Her eyes were drawn by the bright flame of a small taper. But whoever was holding it held it at full arm's length, and the light did not illuminate the bearer's face; it only blinded Charlotte. “Who is there?” she said, holding up a hand to shield her eyes. She never received an answer. Something heavy hit her on the side of her head, and she fell into blackness. Chapter Twelve “Charlie, wake up! I have to be sure you are all right. Charlie! Charlie!” The voice was urgent, but it sounded so far away to Charlotte. She was lying on something very hard; then she felt herself being lifted and moved. All the while the voice continued to sound distantly in her ears. “Charlie! My dear, my darling! Wake up!” Slowly she opened her eyes. Her head hurt badly. She was on the bed. Hovering over her was Peter, his strong features outlined against the shadows by the light of the candle on the side table. His grey eyes were almost silver with love and concern; his rich dark hair gleamed softly in the glow of the candle. For a moment Charlotte forgot the throb in her temple. Her eyes wide open, she didn't speak, and neither Peter. His hand rested on her cheek, and she reveled in the nearness of him. Had she dreamed those endearments or had he really used them? She tried to move, but the dull ache in her head intensified sharply and she gave a little cry. “Ouch,” she said weakly, reaching for the sore spot on the side of her head. “What happened? My head aches most abominably.” “I would like to know what happened, too,” said Peter, his anxious expression relaxing perceptibly at the sound of her voice. “I was walking down the far end of the hall when I thought a heard a strange noise in this direction. By the time I got down here saw the door to your chamber was open, so I came in. That's when I found you, Charlie, lying lifeless on the floor.” To Charlotte it looked as though he shuddered at the memory. “You rest here for a moment. I'll go rouse the household.” “No, Peter, don't do that!” She tried to sit up, but the sharp pain made her fall back with a groan against the pillow. “I almost caught the thief. I was hiding behind the door, and was just about to see who it was when I was struck by something. The necklace! Peter, check the dressing table, and tell me if it's still there!” With a frown Peter took the candle and crossed the room. “There's nothing here now, Charlie.” He returned to her side. “Am I to understand you took it upon yourself to set a trap for the thief?” “Yes, I did! And it worked!” “It worked all right! The necklace is stolen, and you were almost killed! I do not suppose you saw who

took it?” “No,” she admitted. “The light of the candle the thief held was in my eyes and prevented me from seeing anything.” “Charlie, that was a most foolish thing to do. You could have been badly hurt.” “This is not exactly a tap on the head, Peter.” “All you will get out of this episode is a bad headache. Which you deserve, by the way,” he added callously. “It could have been so much worse! You little featherbrain, why did you not inform me, at least, of the extent of your scheme?” “If I had, would you have tried to stop me?” “Yes!” “Then you have your answer, Peter. And now, unless you truly want to compromise me by continuing this interview in my bedchamber in the middle of the night, perhaps you had better leave before someone like the Duchess happens by.” “I could just shake you, Charlie. Or maybe I should bring a pallet in my room and make you sleep on it, like you did in Newbury, so I could at least keep an eye on you all night.” “A true gentleman would not keep reminding a lady of an incident that was most embarrassing to her,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster from a prone position. “A true gentleman would at least pretend to forget about it!” “I have tried, Charlie, but you are unforgettable.” He let his hand brush along her cheek one more time, and then he stood up. “Tell me this at least: was your trap worth getting a bump on the head and my grandmother's necklace stolen? Did you learn anything about the identity of the thief?” “I am not sure,” she answered slowly. “I only had a few seconds to record any impressions before I was struck.” “Then we are back to where we started, are we not?” he said softly, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. But that was not quite true, she reflected to herself in the darkness. True, it had been too dark to see her assailant, and the thief made scarcely any noise. Yet there was one characteristic that could not be obscured by darkness or stealth. The more she thought about it, despite her throbbing head, the more the elusive memory became certain. Lavender. She had smelled the scent of sweet lavender when her attacker had entered the room, and she recalled a rush of it hitting her nostrils just before she was struck. There was something familiar about the smell, but she could not quite place it. She knew she had smelled it since she had arrived at Randolph House. But on who? When she worked that out, she was confident, she would find the missing jewelry, and know who had wanted the Dowager's necklace badly enough to hurt her for it. **** She came down to breakfast late the next morning, and by the time she got there only Peter was at the table.

“How is your head this morning?” he asked solicitously. She looked quickly around, and saw they were quite alone in the room. “Much better, thank you.” She rubbed where it ached, tousling her curls. “I want you to know I thought about calling our family physician.” She gasped. “Oh, I pray you did not!” “No, I decided against it. You see, I have received the odd blow to the head in my lifetime, and I could tell yours was not too serious. And it did occur to me you might want to keep this knowledge to yourself for the time being.” “Very perceptive of you, my lord.” “Do you plan to tell the Dowager what became of her necklace?” “I trust that will not be necessary.” “O-ho, then, you have solved the case!” “Not quite.” She smiled. “But I believe I may be near.” Peter got up and walked around the table to her. He grabbed the back of the chair next to hers; Charlotte could see his knuckles whiten as he gripped the back of it. “Charlie, listen to me. No more of this amateur sleuthing, I beg of you. I think it is time we called in the local magistrate, or even the Bow Street Runners if necessary. I fear you are in way over your head, if you will forgive the allusion to that painful member.” “I am so close now, Peter! Allow me one more day. I must find the culprit, not only to clear my name, but because I believe I am in the best position to do so. I am certain you would join with me in wishing this matter to be settled as quickly and as quietly as possible, with a minimum of embarrassment to all concerned.” “Embarrassment!” said Peter in amazement. “You worry about the thief's embarrassment, when you were viciously attacked!” “Vicious may not be the right word—” “Charlie!” “Please, Peter. Just one more day.” She saw his features soften, and his hands relax on the back of the chair. “One more day, then. But I am not letting you out of my sight!” “Surely I will have to be out of your sight at some time,” she demurred. When she saw him about to object, she added quickly, “Have you remembered to plan our outing today, Peter? Do not tell me you have forgotten about our capital scheme to unite Alicia and Geordie!” “No, I have not,” he replied, with an odd look in his eyes that disquieted Charlotte. “You think it is foolish, then?”

“No more than your usual schemes, Charlie. But I promised you I would go along with it, and I have. The carriages will be ready at three. I told the Duchess that Alicia and I would be going on a little excursion, but we would return in time for dinner. You and Geordie will come along as a last minute whim—too last minute, I trust, for the Duchess to know of, or object to. Does that satisfy you, my little Machiavelli?” “Almost, my lord. Are you sure the accident will take place?” “I am certain.” “I must admit, I was hoping you could take care of that detail. When I thought up the plan, my imagination failed at how to contrive an accident to the carriage after we had gotten to the site.” “I believe I have it all worked out. Disabling a carriage is not as hard as you might think.” She clapped her hands. “Very good! Oh, I am so excited about this!” “Enough to forget about the jewels?” he asked curiously. “Of course not. But I am not such a poor creature that I cannot handle two such intrigues at a time.” “Charlie, sometimes you truly alarm me. Whoever marries you will have to be more than ordinarily vigilant to keep you out of trouble.” “I do not believe I will marry after all, Peter. Marriage, I have come to see, is for the faint of heart, such as Alicia. I have decided to embark on a life of adventure!” “And how do you propose to do that, and still retain any sort of position in Society?” “I have not quite worked that out yet. I have had other things on my mind, as you are well aware.” He sat down next to her, his clear grey eyes looking straight into hers. “Will not a life of adventure be somewhat lonely, Charlie?” She very much feared that any kind of life without Peter would be unbearably lonely, but she didn't want to admit that to herself. “No,” she said bravely, instead. “Not at all. And if one place, say the Amazon, for example, starts to pall, I will simply move on. I may even be a missionary,” she said, feeling more hopeful. “That way, I can go to exotic places and still be perfectly respectable!” Peter burst out laughing. “Oh no, Charlie, I cannot picture you as a missionary! I doubt you would be suited to the life at all, not to mention you would probably exhaust whoever was unfortunate enough to have to work with you. A missionary, indeed!” He laughed again. “Well,” she said, rising from her chair. “I am gratified to provide you with such amusement! One thing is certain: when I become a missionary, I will not even try to save your soul!” She felt his eyes on her as she left the room. “Maybe you already have,” she thought she heard him say softly after her. **** Charlotte spent the rest of the day trying to solve the puzzle of the lavender scent. She tried to visit with everyone on her short list of suspects. The Duchess, who carried on a brief, chilly conversation with her concerning the weather, smelled of roses. Lady Beaumont had the scent of carnations about her, while her daughter smelt of lilies of the valley.

Next Charlotte visited the Dowager. She felt guilty not telling her what had happened to her necklace, even though the Dowager did not bring up the subject. Their chat consisted of light topics, including which flowers were presently blooming in the garden, and the latest news from London as reported in the newspaper. As she was leaving the Dowager's sitting room, the old lady asked Charlotte to bring her a shawl. As instructed, Charlotte went into the clothes press, and when she opened the door and overwhelming scent of lavender assailed her. She gasped. “Are you all right, dear?” “Yes. I just could not help but notice the scent of lavender in here.” “It's from a sachet my daughter-in-law made. She makes them in her still room. Lovely, is it not? It has roses, heliotrope and lavender, but the lavender dominates, I think. Blending flowers and herbs is a pastime for Minerva, and to give her credit, it is something she does rather well.” Charlotte took another sniff. There was lavender all right, but it was not the same scent she had smelled last night. She was certain of it. Or was she? Was she merely protecting this old lady whom she liked so much? To be perfectly honest, she was not sure. When three o'clock came she was waiting on the front steps. She felt very fine in the new pink carriage dress the Dowager had ordered for her, with its deep flounces and cherry ribbons. There were cherry ribbons on the poke bonnet she wore, and also on the long, slender handle of the parasol she carried. Two carriages were already pulled up to the door; Lord Peter was handing Alicia into his curricle, while Geordie waited by another curricle and pair from the Randolph stables. Alicia, becomingly attired in a light willow green, looked suitably excited. The Duchess stood on the steps also; apparently accepting with good grace the inclusion of Geordie and Charlotte on the outing. “It is such a beautiful day,” Peter was saying to her, “that I could not resist suggesting to Alicia that we make an excursion to the local ruins. I mentioned the outing to Geordie, and he and Charlotte consented to join our party. We should be back before dinner, Your Grace.” “See that you are, Peter,” said the Duchess. Charlotte could see the Duchess was partially mollified at seeing her son intended to drive Alicia in his curricle, while she and Geordie were to follow. She was most impressed with Lord Peter's deviousness. He was proving to be a worthy co-conspirator after all. As they stood by the waiting carriages, Cyril and Lady Wickersham came strolling up the drive. “What is this?” said Cyril jovially. “An outing? Lady Wickersham, do you fancy a drive?” Charlotte's heart sank. It would ruin everything if they came along. Lady Wickersham gave one quick shrewd glance at Charlotte's face, and smiled briefly. It was remarkable, thought Charlotte, how pretty she was when she smiled. “I think not, Mr. Cholmondeley. In truth, I am feeling rather fatigued. But you go if you wish.” “Oh no,” he said quickly. “I would much rather stay. It is such a warm day—do you not think? I merely thought you might be amused by a drive.” “I doubt a drive would amuse me,” she said dryly. She had her hand on his arm when Lord Wickersham came down the steps. He took one look at his wife with Cyril and a look of bleakness came into his eyes. It was only there a second, then it flickered out and he advanced with his usual aloof good manners.

“Ah, my lady, I wondered where you were. I see I need not have bothered, for you are being well entertained.” “Richard,” she began. “Do not expect me at dinner, Your Grace,” he addressed his mother. “I am going into Bath. I expect to be back quite late, if indeed I do not stay over.” He bowed to the company, and walked back into the house. Lady Wickersham gave a tiny sigh that Charlotte saw rather than heard. She saw Charlotte watching her, and smiled. “I hope you enjoy your drive, Miss Cholmondeley. It is a beautiful afternoon, and you are so young.” She gave Charlotte a quick hug, and turned back to the house with Cyril. Charlotte stood there for a moment, unable to move. For when she was briefly in Lady Wickersham's arms it was the fragrance of sweet lavender that enveloped her. The exact same scent that was in her room last night. It was unmistakable. **** Charlotte did not get a chance to communicate her discovery at once to Peter. Instead, she had to put up with a brooding Geordie as they drove in the open curricle along the pleasant country lanes. He seemed disinclined to talk. He kept his eyes focused on the curricle bearing Peter and Alicia, a few hundred yards ahead. Peter's distinctive blue curricle, with its pair of perfectly matched greys, was setting a spanking pace. “You handle the ribbons quite well, Geordie,” she ventured. “I had the impression you disliked anything to do with horses.” “I do,” he replied. “Sneaky, vicious beasts in my opinion. But a fellow has to know how to drive a carriage. If he doesn't, he's likely to be cut out in all sorts of ways by his friends.” He said this darkly, with his eyes fixed on Peter's equipage up ahead. Charlotte decided it was time to utterly frank, so there would be no possibility of a mistake later. “Geordie, are you in love with Alicia?” He looked startled. Then he burst out passionately, “Yes, upon my soul, I am! She is the dearest, fairest creature in all the world!” He pulled on the reins as he spoke, and the horses shied. Charlotte grabbed the side of the curricle, and thought twice about continuing such an emotionally-laden discussion with the volatile Geordie. But she had to be completely sure before she completed the execution of her plan. “And do you know if she loves you?” Again his hand jerked convulsively on the reins. “I believe she does, though she is much too good to encourage me when my suit is hopeless! Her mother would never allow her to marry me, as I have neither fortune nor a title. No, Lady Beaumont's sights are set on our Peter. A much better catch!” “Is Peter interested, do you think?” He swiveled his head to look at her sharply. At the sudden motion the horses veered across the road

towards a ditch. Charlotte offered up a silent prayer. “How could he not be interested? She would make any man an ideal wife! Beautiful, gentle, refined—” Charlotte felt she should interrupt this litany of Alicia's virtues, if only to calm Geordie down and get his attention back on his driving. She gave his gloved hand a pat. “Do not fret, Geordie. I believe Alicia would be much happier with you than with Peter, and is not happiness better than a title?” “Tell that to Lady Beaumont,” replied Geordie glumly. “Sometimes you have to help people get accustomed to certain ideas. I am sure Lady Beaumont will come around eventually.” “What are you talking about, Charlie?” “Oh, nothing. I was merely musing on how things often work out for the best. Even when we least expect it.” Geordie was no longer paying her any heed. His attention was riveted once more on the distant curricle. The horses plodded along, straight down the middle of the lane. Charlotte sat back and smiled. This was one muddle, at least, that would soon be straightened out. They drove on for about couple of hours when Charlotte saw the Peter's curricle turn off the lane. They followed and proceeded a few miles down a very rutted road. It ended on a rise, overlooking what appeared to be an extensive pile of stones at the base of the hill. Geordie pulled his curricle over, and helped her down. They walked over to where Peter and Alicia stood. “Here are the local ruins,” said Peter cheerfully. “It was a monastery at one time, before the Dissolution and good old Henry got his hands on everything. Anyone care to explore the remains?” “Oh, it looks so very romantic,” breathed Alicia, her eyes shining. “I would love to see more of it.” “Good, good,” said Peter heartily. “Geordie, old man, why not give her the grand tour.” “Do you mean it?” said Geordie, suddenly animated. “Certainly. Take your time. There's all sorts of ancient rubbish in there to sigh over.” Geordie took Alicia's arm with alacrity. She blushed, and dimpled prettily. Charlotte wished she could dimple like that on command. The happy couple took a step, and then Geordie turned around guiltily. “I say, Charlie, would you like to come?” “Heaven's no!” she said, amused by the relief on his face her reply engendered. “I have seen old stones before. I believe I will stay and keep Peter company.” She watched them till they were out of sight behind the ruins. Then she turned. Peter had gone back to the carriages, and was tending the horses. She went over to him. “Have you arranged it?”

“Everything is taken care of. Do you wish to join them?” “Let us not. It is such a beautiful afternoon! I believe I would prefer to sit with you on that grassy knoll, and enjoy the light breeze.” He smiled. “I would like that. Very much.” They sat and talked. Peter described his childhood at Randolph House, while Charlotte took off her gloves and made long chains from the small daisies that grew wild in the grass. “I learned to do this when I was a little girl,” she said shyly in response to Peter's inquiry. She used her thumb to make a slit in the daisy's stem, and threaded the stem of another flower through it. “Want to try it?” He laughed. The afternoon sun warmed them as they both worked on different ends of a long chain. Charlotte learned that Peter's childhood had been a lonely one, much as hers had been. He told her of his lands in Devon, and described the estate and its tenant farmers with such detail that she could see how involved he was with it. This was not the frivolous Lord Peter, the Buck, the Corinthian, up to every rig and row, that she had assumed. Though he was not precisely a romantic hero, he was a thoughtful, intelligent man with sharp sense of humor. She thought of him married to someone like Alicia. Although she did not like the thought of him espoused, she could see him clearly as someone's husband. He would be conscientious in all he cared for, from his tenants to his lands and his household; an attentive husband, and a good father. Stubborn and complex, but real, also. He was a real person, not a dashing work of fiction. More complicated, yes, but infinitely more appealing. His hand closed on hers. “I believe our chain is done,” he said softly. She looked into his grey eyes, and thought she could see her future mirrored there. This must be what love feels like, she thought, as a queer pain stabbed her heart. “Charlie,” said Peter, moving nearer. “There is something I need to tell you.” “Yes,” she said with an effort to sound normal. For some reason she felt as though she could not breathe. He put his hand under her chin. “I have not been entirely honest with you,” he began. His eyes held hers, while she held her breath. She could not even think. His head moved nearer. “Peter! Charlie! Where are you?” Geordie's voice, unusually boisterous, intruded. Reluctantly Charlotte pulled back, and Peter stood up. “Over here!” As they approached Charlotte could see they were uncommonly happy. Alicia was giggling, and Geordie kept his arm firmly around her shoulders as a big grin split his face. “I am going to do it!” he announced. “And it is you who has given me the courage, Charlie! I am going to face Lady Beaumont, and tell her I plan to marry her daughter. I may not have a fortune, but I have a tidy income, and a sizable inheritance from my uncle may even come my way some day. There is plenty to keep a wife and family.” Alicia blushed. Geordie smiled at her fondly.

“She has consented to make me the happiest of men, and that is all that matters.” “What about her parents’ objections?” asked Peter interestedly. “I was under the impression they were rather hoping to repair the family fortunes with her marriage.” “I convinced her she need not be sacrifice our happiness for that. Her father will only lose the blunt, anyway. He is a hopeless gamester, Peter. You know how it is with that sort.” Peter coughed delicately. “But if they refuse their permission?” “Then we will elope,” said Alicia unexpectedly. “We shall not let them stop us, shall we, Geordie?” she added breathlessly. “No, my dear. Nothing shall stop us now.” He pumped Peter's hand. “I hope this doesn't come as too much of a blow. I love her, you see.” “Of course I see, you sapskull,” said Peter good-naturedly. “The only one who did not see was you. I thought you would never muster your forces and go after the objective, old man.” “You do not mind?” Geordie asked anxiously. It was clear from the expression on his face, Charlotte thought, that Geordie could not believe Peter was anything but heart-broken at losing the chance to marry Alicia. “I will recover,” said Peter with a smile. “I wish you both every happiness.” “Thank you.” Geordie was momentarily overcome by Peter's nobility. He shook his hand once more. “We must go now. There is not anytime to lose. I am going to face Lady Beaumont tonight, right after dinner!” Alicia looked up at him admiringly. “Go then, and good luck to you both!” said Peter. “Hold, Geordie! Would you like to take my curricle? It will be much faster.” Geordie grinned. “What, me handle those beasts? Do you want me to break our necks? No thank you, old man, I'll stick with these nags. Those prime goers of yours are too spirited for my blood.” “Just see you keep a steady hands on the reins,” called Charlotte, remembering the ride up. “Do not distract him, Alicia, or you will wind up in the ditch!” “Not a chance of it,” declared Geordie. “I would never endanger such precious cargo.” He gave Alicia's arm a tender squeeze. “Oh, please, have a care for my delicate sensibilities!” said Peter. “Geordie, you romantic devil, just take Alicia back to Randolph House. Charlie and I will follow you presently.” Charlotte gave Alicia a quick hug. “I am very happy for you both. Please invite me to the wedding. Even if it is in Scotland!” Alicia laughed, and went with Geordie to the curricle. He handed her into it as though she were a piece of fine china. Charlotte smiled, and sighed as she waved them off. When they were almost out of sight, her senses, clouded by a deep sense of satisfaction, cleared, and she grabbed Peter's arm. “Peter, their curricle! We do not want it to break down now!”

“I quite agree. It will be far better for them now and in their future relationship with the Beaumonts if Geordie takes charge of the situation and wins her hand fairly.” “But the accident we planned...” “Have no fear. It will not happen. About the accident ... well, perhaps we should discuss it as we travel.” He took Charlotte's hand and walked her over to his curricle. He helped her get in, then jumped up himself and took the reins. “About the accident,” he said, as he settled in his seat. “I have not been entirely honest with you.” “What do you mean?” “It was such a bird-witted idea, Charlie! Inviting scandal like that. I do not believe you really thought it through very carefully.” “You mean you did not arrange an accident, like we planned?” “Certainly not. I am not entirely lacking in wit.” He stood up, shifting his weight suddenly. There was a sickening crack, followed by a sharp splintering noise. The back of the curricle dropped abruptly. Charlotte felt Peter's strong arms encircle her as they fell hard to the ground. “Charlie, are you all right?” “Fine, I think,” she said, checking herself gingerly. “Oh! But I would not be at all surprised to find I have collected a few bruises.” “What the devil!” Peter jumped out of the wreckage and inspected the wreckage of the curricle. “It seems I was wrong, Charlie,” he said after a moment. “This axle has been neatly sawed halfway through. It was bound to break before the end of our excursion this afternoon.” “So—” “So a carriage accident was staged after all. For my curricle. We survived it, but unless a miracle occurs we will not be able to get back to Randolph House tonight.” “You mean—” “Precisely. As you so fondly anticipated, there has been an accident, and someone will probably be compromised as a result. Only I very much fear, dear Charlie, that someone is you!” Chapter Thirteen Charlotte clutched her throat. This could not be happening, not again! Hadn't she had enough disasters of this sort to deal with already? “You must be jesting.” Peter shrugged. “I wish I were. There is little chance we will make it back to Randolph House tonight.” “But we still have the horses. Can they not get us back?”

“That depends entirely on how good you are at riding bareback.” She chuckled, diverted for a moment from their predicament. “If I could ride bareback I daresay I would be in London performing at Astley's, instead of being here with you at an abandoned ruin with no transportation as the sun is setting!” Peter cocked an eye skyward. “Oh, I do not know about that. I would hazard a guess that we have at least four or five hours before the sun actually sets. Middle of summer, you know.” “In that case, I believe our only recourse is to set out on foot.” She stood up and shook out her skirts. “Unfortunately, I am not dressed for walking,” she said ruefully, looking at her thin slippers. “Nor I,” he replied cheerfully, taking off his jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “However, I do not think either of us would relish the thought of spending the night here in the ruins. Let us walk, and see if we cannot reach a farmhouse or a village by nightfall.” “What about the horses?” He thought for a moment. “We shall have to take them with us,” he announced. “If we leave them tethered here, they will be without food or water till we return, which may not be until tomorrow.” “That would be most cruel,” Charlotte agreed. “You are a kind master.” “I endeavor to assure that no creature under my protection is unnecessarily harmed. Which is why I intend to see no harm comes to your reputation as a result of this evil work.” Charlotte groaned. “Please, Peter, I pray you, do not once again compare me to a horse! I well remember the equine allusions in your discussion of my ‘spirit’ and how best to handle it. I really do not think I could bear the simile a second time.” He laughed, and untied the horses from the equipage. He tipped his hat to the back of his head, stuffed his gloves into his coat pocket and hitched his coat over his shoulder. With his other hand he held the reins of both horses. Charlotte unfurled her parasol, and set it at a jaunty angle over her head. Then they set off down the road, and, except for the horses, they appeared for all the world as though they were merely embarking on a pleasant afternoon stroll. They walked a few moments in companionable silence. Birds flitted among the hedgerows, and for a few moments the only sounds they heard were birdsong and the steady clop-clopping of the horses plodding down the lane. They really were in a desperate situation, Charlotte reflected. Peter was right when he said she would be compromised if they could not make it back to Randolph House tonight. So why was she enjoying herself, walking alongside him in the lazy afternoon sunshine, as if she hadn't a care in the world? She glanced at her companion, and saw him lost in thought. He caught her glance and smiled. It lit his whole countenance, and warmed her deep inside. There was not a farmhouse or a village in sight. The soles of her slippers would not last much longer on the brutal rocks and ruts of the lane, and she was beginning to feel thirst and the first pangs of hunger. But dire as their straits were, she could not bring

herself to feel much panic or anxiety. She was with him, and that made her content. “Charlie, did you tell anyone of your plans concerning Geordie and Alicia?” “Only you.” “I wonder if anyone overheard us.” She gripped his arm. “Peter, is there any chance this was an accident?” “None at all. What we experienced was no accident. It was meant to happen.” “But who would want to do that to us?” “Precisely what I have been pondering, my dear. And it occurs to me that you and I were perhaps not the intended victims. Remember, everyone saw me hand Alicia into my curricle. When I planned the outing and told my mother of it, I said only that I was taking Lady Alicia to view the ruins. I made no mention of you and Geordie. And when my mother did see you were coming along, she asked me most particularly who would be riding in which carriage.” “Peter! You do not think your own mother gave orders for your curricle to be tampered with! Why, that is monstrous!” “I know. Almost beyond belief. But I know the Duchess, Charlie. She dearly loves to get her own way, and is seldom thwarted. She is determined I marry Alicia, but I have given her no assurances I will comply with her wishes. This may have been her way of setting the seal on my matrimonial fate.” Charlotte thought a moment. “I can still scarcely credit your theory, Peter. It seems such a desperate act.” “Do you really think so? I confess, I see it as more of a petulant one.” “Whatever the case, if your mother did indeed contrive to compromise you and Alicia, she will not be very pleased to see Alicia and Geordie come happily back tonight, and know that you are stranded with me.” He laughed. “By Jove, what a scene she will make! I almost wish I could be there to witness it.” “It is certain she will send someone out immediately for us,” Charlotte added slowly. “Indeed, I had not given the matter much thought, but I expect you are right. Does that sadden you, Charlie?” She felt herself blush. “I have no wish to cause anyone anxiety, Peter, or concern about our safety. It is just that this is so ... pleasant. I do not quite know how to say this, but you are the only person I have ever known with whom I can converse freely. You are a very comfortable sort of person in that respect, Peter. I can tell you anything without fear of ridicule or judgment.” He smiled tenderly at her. “Even if I do call you bird-witted?” “I do not believe you really mean it,” she said simply. “When you speak in that way I know you are merely suffering from exasperation. I find you still wonderfully easy to be with.” “I see. And you fear that if we are rescued...” he prompted.

“The Duchess will surely send me away now. If it is as you say, and she will go to lengths such as these to marry you to Alicia, her next step will be to make sure neither I, Geordie, nor even Cyril get in the way of her accomplishing that goal. Just the fact that we have been alone together this long is sure to send her into a towering rage.” Her hand flew to her mouth as she recollected herself. “Forgive me, Peter, I did not mean to speak of your mother so.” “It is quite all right. As a matter of fact, I cannot find fault with anything you have said. And if you are worrying about offending my sensibilities by trampling on my maternal bond...” He shrugged. “I doubt there is one to trample. As I described to you earlier, I was raised by governesses and tutors, Charlie. I scarcely ever saw either of my parents while I was growing up, and I believe I did not hold much interest for them. It has only been recently, when it looks as though I may be needed to produce a ducal heir, that I have garnered much parental attention.” Charlotte thought of her own childhood. Though she, too, was raised by nursemaids and governesses, her experience had not been as bleak as what Peter related. Her parents had been involved, perhaps too involved sometimes, in her day-to-day life. She was aware that her experience was the exception, and Peter's upbringing was more typical among the upper classes. Yet still she felt the life Peter described sounded lonely for a little boy. They were at the end of the lane now, and had to make a decision which way to turn. Peter stopped, and rubbed his chin in thought. “Left, I believe.” he announced. “But did we not approach the lane from the right when we arrived?” “Yes, but it is my recollection that we will find a village sooner if we travel down this road.” “What if we were to simply wait here for the Duchess's grooms to come for us?” “That could take hours. And I am near famished. If we find a village, we will find a good inn to stable the horses and be able to obtain something to eat. I would hope our grooms would have enough sense to look for us there. But even if they do not, perhaps we can hire a post chaise.” Charlotte laughed. “By all means, let us go, then. I hope I know better than to argue with your stomach, my lord.” The sun was just beginning to dip towards the horizon when they found a small inn on the outskirts of a village. Peter got an ostler to stable the horses, and then went in search of the innkeeper. Charlotte waited in a private parlor for him to return. He was not long. “Well, the horses are being cared for, and I bespoke us a hearty dinner, but there is no chaise to be had for hire. This is not a coaching inn; it is too far off the main road, and it is not as well equipped. They keep two yellow bounders here, and unfortunately both are in use. The innkeeper expects one in tomorrow morning, however.” Charlotte sat down. “We cannot spend the night here, Peter!” “We may have to,” he answered grimly. “I told them you were my sister, and we may be requiring two chambers tonight if our party has not met us by then.” “But we have no luggage with us. That must look extremely odd.”

“I explained we had to set out quickly on our journey, and had a carriage accident. The innkeeper and his wife were most sympathetic. I told them all our clothing and other needs will be supplied when we get to our ancestral home. I also related how we are hoping to be met here when our absence is noted, but we cannot be sure that will happen. If need be, we will hire a chaise and continue on our journey tomorrow morning. It may interest you to know we have a beloved grandfather who is dying, and we have been summoned to his bedside.” Charlotte shook her head in admiration. “That is very good, almost as good as something I could concoct. But it still leaves us here stranded.” She clasped her hands and stared at the empty hearth. “Oh well, at least this time I do not have to serve as your valet,” she said, trying to rally. “Do you think the innkeeper believed you?” “I paid him enough to make him believe anything. It is a good thing I thought to bring some blunt along this afternoon.” There was a discreet knock on the door, and a serving girl entered with a bowl of soup. With a sigh of satisfaction, Peter sat Charlotte down at the table and seated himself next to her. Soup was followed by fish, a roast fowl, some mutton, bread and cheese, and a salad. Peter drank a rich burgundy with the meal, while Charlotte sipped some lemonade. “Really, this is much better than I expected to find in such an out-of-the-way place,” he said contentedly. “Why are you not eating, Charlie?” “Oh, I cannot imagine! It could be because we are in the middle of a brewing scandal broth. When I think of what the Duchess will say when we get back to Randolph House...” “Oh, do not trouble yourself over that. I assure you, I will not let you suffer as a result of this mishap. Besides, if what I suspect is true, and she had a hand in our accident, I doubt she will have the nerve to reproach us too strongly. With her cooperation, we may be able to avoid any talk of impropriety at all.” “And the innkeeper? What if he tells people about your supposed sister?” “We will not give him any cause for talk. You will simply retire to your bedchamber after we are through here. I took some pains to assure that your bedchamber is as far away from mine as possible.” “Perhaps if we wait a bit longer, the grooms will come.” “Perhaps.” They waited another hour, slowly finishing their meal, then sitting by the open window to chat. Charlotte strained her ears for the least sound of an approaching carriage. It was completely dark outside, with no moon to light a traveler's way. “I believe we cannot put it off any longer, Charlie. I will direct the innkeeper to ready those rooms now.” “Peter, I fear we may not be able to emerge from his one unscathed.” He crossed over to her and took her by the shoulders. The lightness of his grip was belied by the intensity in his eyes. “As I told you, Charlie, I will not let any harm come to you or your reputation. I care far too much—” He turned away and did not finish his sentence. He released her, quickly turned away and left the room to summon the innkeeper.

Charlotte's shoulder seemed to burn from where he had touched her. She had seen the yearning in his eyes, and was surprised to feel a similar response in herself. It was strange, but in all the times they had been in compromising positions, this was the only time she felt truly compromised in her heart. She spent a restless night, and was heavy-eyed at breakfast the next morning. Peter was already in the parlor by the time she got there, and he was finishing another hearty meal. “There is a post chaise waiting outside, Charlie. I have had our horses hitched to it. As soon as you have eaten we can leave.” “Do not delay on my account, Peter. I cannot face the thought of food right now.” She thought she detected a smirk on the face of the landlord as they left, but she could not be sure. Did he really believe they were brother and sister? Could her reputation be salvaged after spending a night unchaperoned in an inn with Peter? She remembered how blithely she had set off in her pageboy's clothes from London not long ago, and how impervious she had been to the appearance of impropriety. She felt so much older now. She was too aware that any scandal would reflect not only on herself, but on Peter and their respective families as well. “Well, Charlie, eager to get back?” asked Peter, when they were underway. She shuddered. “You must be jesting.” “Courage, my dear,” he said softly. “I would have thought you would want to return to clear up the mystery of the stolen gems, if for no other reason.” She stirred. She remembered, for the first time since it happened, the scent of lavender that enveloped her when Lady Wickersham had hugged her briefly. She was sure it was the same scent she had smelled before she was attacked. There was a mystery there, and one she did not want to share just yet with Peter. They had their own scrape to get out of. But when she got back, she intended to have a chat with the reserved Lady Wickersham. Perhaps then she would be close to exonerating herself from the charge of thievery. Not that her reputation wasn't blackened anyway from what had just transpired. Catching the real culprit who took the jewels could well be the last thing she would do at Randolph House before she was banished in disgrace. The sun was nearing its zenith when they pulled up along the graveled drive in front of Randolph House. A flustered groom came scurrying out from the stables to take the horses. Even the normally unflappable butler, Paxton, came running down the steps to greet them in great agitation. “Her Grace would like to see you at once in the morning room, my lord.” “Tell Her Grace we will be pleased to await her pleasure just as soon as we have had the opportunity to cleanse ourselves of our traveling dirt,” Peter replied calmly. He handed the butler his hat, whip and gloves, and taking Charlotte by the arm, proceeded up the stone steps. But despite their intentions, they never made it past the hall. “Peter!” The Duchess descended the stairs. “Where were you? I sent the grooms out after the accident, and they looked everywhere for you!” “Accident, Mother? How did you know there had been an accident?” She flushed a dull red. “Well, what else were we to think when you did not return with the others? I cannot tell you how shocked I was when Mr. Thorndike and Lady Alicia came back by themselves!

Lady Beaumont and I were near driven to distraction!” “So I would wager,” he replied cynically. “I am sure it was not at all what you expected. As to your grooms not finding us, they must be very dull fellows. We quite sensibly walked to the nearest inn, a distance of some five miles, I would presume.” The Duchess paled, almost comically. “An inn? You and Miss Cholmondeley spent the night together in an inn?” “We passed ourselves off as brother and sister. Really, there was not much else we could do, except sleep in a field.” “Separate chambers?” asked the Duchess in a constricted voice. Charlotte bristled. Peter seemed to sense her feelings, and tightened his grip reassuringly on her arm. “Of course,” he said, in a haughty tone. The Duchess gave a visible sigh of relief. “Then perhaps no harm was done. I trust you paid the innkeeper well, Peter?” “No harm done?” A gruff, incredulous voice came from behind them. “Did I hear you say there was no harm done? After my daughter spent the night unchaperoned in a common inn with your son?” “Father?” said Charlotte wonderingly. She turned around. “What are you doing here?” “Oh, my poor child,” said a woman, emerging from behind the man's back. “We were so worried about you! Even after we received your letter and your aunt wrote to reassure us about your safety, we just had to come and see for ourselves. Agatha told us you were here.” “After a bit of persuasion,” grunted her father. “Mother!” Charlotte managed to get out before she was crushed in a hug. “Poor child!” Her father stepped forward to embrace her, too. “I was ready to tan your hide, miss, running away like that, driving your mother nearly to distraction, and leaving me with Lord Satterly to appease. Not that he seemed to mind too much—probably considered himself fortunate not to be saddled with such a flibbertigibbet. I came here none too pleased to take you home, Miss Charlotte, and look what I find! You have been disgraced!” “So,” said the Duchess coolly, “I take it these people are your parents. I confess, I scarcely know what to believe, Miss Cholmondeley. You are such an inventive miss,” she added spitefully. “Cholmondeley!” growled the Baron. “She's no Cholmondeley. She's a Finbury, and not someone your son can just trifle with! I demand satisfaction for last night's work. By God, Randolph,” he said, turning to Peter, “name your seconds, boy, and I'll meet you at dawn with pistols for two!” Charlotte felt a jagged gasp rip from her throat, while the Baroness started to wail. “Paxton, you will remove this person at once!” shouted the Duchess while Paxton himself seemed paralyzed. In the midst of all the clamor Peter raised his hand, and silence descended. “There is no need for all this talk of duels, Lord Finbury,” he said with a lazy drawl. “I am quite prepared to satisfy your honor and marry your daughter.” The Duchess staggered backward on the stairs and started to scream. Lord Finbury appeared mollified,

and his wife hugged Charlotte. But Charlotte herself, most uncharacteristically and to the astonishment of everyone present, burst into tears and fled the room. Chapter Fourteen Charlotte went up to her room and cried till her eyes hurt. There was a tentative knock on the door, and her mother entered. “Charlotte,” she began, “I have had a word with your father. We need to know the truth. Has Lord Peter hurt you in any way?” “Hurt me?” Charlotte sat up in surprise. “Back at the inn last night. Did he ... did he try to have his way with you?” “What a ridiculous notion! Of course not. He behaved, as always, as a gentleman.” “We thought perhaps that was behind your extreme reluctance to consider marrying him. Naturally,” she added with a ghost of a smile, “if he had hurt you, your father would have been even more determined to kill him.” “Oh, it's not that, Mother.” She reached for a lawn handkerchief and rather inelegantly blew her nose. Her mother cleared her throat. “As I said, I have been talking to your father. The last thing either of us would want to do is force you into a marriage against your inclination. We tried that once, if you will recall,” she added wryly, “and we did not get very far, though you managed to get quite far away indeed. Nevertheless, seeing as we just arrived, we had no way of knowing the thought of marriage to Lord Peter Randolph was so repugnant to you. It has put us in a bit of a bind, your being compromised by him and all, but if we work at it I am sure we can come up with some story to explain your absence last night. The Duchess has promised most enthusiastically to help. So, if you are sure you cannot ever love him—” “But that is just it, Mother. I do love him. Far too much to compromise him into marrying me.” Her mother sat abruptly on the bed, her eyes wide. “You love him?” “Yes,” said Charlotte miserably. “Then what is the problem?” “You do not understand, Mother. He has been rescuing me from one scrape after another. You do not know the half of it. When I left London, I went disguised as a boy.” “A boy!” her mother echoed faintly. “I stowed away in Lord Peter's carriage, and there was an accident, and Lord Peter and Geordie ended up taking me to Bath, only we had to stay the night in an inn in Newbury, and since he thought I was a boy he had me attend him—” “Tell me you did not sleep in his chamber that night.” “I had to. On a pallet against the wall. But it was not until the next day they discovered I was a female.”

“I do not think I have the strength to hear that part of the tale.” “Well, immediately after that he decided nothing would do but he bring me to Bath, and when we discovered you were visiting Aunt Agatha—” “So, that boy was you,” interrupted the Baroness. “Really, Charlotte, that was not well done of you,” she added softly, her eyes moistening. “We were so very worried. It wasn't until we got your letter that I had any peace at all.” “I know,” said Charlotte, leaning forward to give her mother a hug. “To me it was all a big adventure. It was not until Peter brought me here, and Cyril came, that I began to understand a few things.” “Cyril?” Charlotte blushed. “Cyril Cholmondeley.” “Cyril? Not that puppy you were prating about before you ran away? Oh, I feared something like this may be at the root of the trouble! What was his role in this? And why did the Duchess call you Miss Cholmondeley?” “Well, when I first came here Peter told everyone I was Geordie's cousin, to explain my presence here, then later we had to change that to Cyril's sister—” “You are giving me a head-ache, Charlotte!” The Baroness put a hand on her forehead. “Perhaps you should just explain why it is that although you love Lord Peter you cannot marry him.” “Oh, can you not see, Mother? He has seen me go through so many silly starts, and in so many compromising situations, that I believe he feels he has to marry me, to salvage my reputation. For all my faults, I have never set out to ensnare a man, and I refuse to accept one now, who has been so thoroughly trapped.” She took a deep breath. “Yesterday's carriage accident was deliberate. Some one set out to create a compromising situation, only I do not think it was me who was supposed to be compromised. I cannot marry Peter as the result of deliberate trap, even if I was not the intended victim.” “He told us downstairs that he loves you.” “Well, of course he would say that!” said Charlotte impatiently. “He is not one to do things by half measures! Once he has decided to marry me, he will naturally put the best possible face on it. I know for a fact he would prefer a woman who is a lot more docile and less impulsive than I am.” “That's not what he said downstairs,” her mother insisted. She reached out and took both her daughter's hands in hers. “Now, I want you to heed me, Charlotte. There is no need for any heroic sacrifice on your part. Lord Peter loves you and is willing to marry you. This is good, since despite our best efforts it may be the whole countryside will soon be aware you spent the night with him in an inn.” “We were in separate bedchambers,” Charlotte objected. “You know as well as I that will make little difference to the tattle-mongers. I would not be at all surprised if news of this did not reach London soon. And if it your little escapade in boy's clothes were ever known...” “Lady Caroline Lamb did it,” said Charlotte defensively. “And her wild behavior eventually caught up with her, did it not? I'll thank you not to be using her as an example!” She sniffed. “No my dear, you should be grateful, not tearful, about Lord Peter's offer. It

solves all your problems. And if you do indeed love him, as you say, it makes the situation better still. Silly goose,” she added affectionately, “you have nothing to be sad about!” Charlotte decided not to contradict her mother. She had already tried to describe how she felt. She made one last effort to explain the complexity of her situation. “The Duchess hates me,” she ventured. Her mother raised her eyebrows. “And why is that?” “I am not who she had in mind for her son. That, and the fact that my name keeps changing. Also, she believes I was responsible for the loss of some of her jewels.” The Baroness looked alarmed, but Charlotte forestalled her. “It is all nonsense, of course. But she does seem to regard me with a particular sense of injury.” “Does Lord Peter believe you had anything to do with the missing jewelry?” asked her mother shrewdly. “No, he knows I did not.” “Then you have nothing to concern yourself about. From what I have seen of that young man, he strikes me as someone who can deal very well with his mother. Though I must confess, I do not like the woman above half myself!” The Baroness left with the conviction that everything was solved, all obstacles to the union of Peter and Charlotte cleared. Charlotte stared out the window, and ran a hand through her pillow-disheveled curls. She had tried to make her mother understand, but she had not been successful. Charlotte was not even sure she could understand. The conviction she felt of her love for Peter was still overwhelming. She knew it was unlike anything she had ever experienced or imagined. The thought of somehow forcing him to marry her, no matter how willing he professed to be, made every fiber of her being recoil with distaste. She knew if she married him under these circumstances she would wonder the rest of her life if he had married her freely or simply to avert a scandal. After all, was it not he who had argued back in Newbury that marriages had little to do with love? And did he not say, with great scorn recently, that no one had ever died of love? Her love made her feel vulnerable, and insecure. She worried about Peter, and what the impact of a forced marriage would be on him, much more than she thought of herself and what she wanted. And the more she pondered, the more only one solution presented itself. She would have to leave. She had cousin living in France, and she would apply to her mother for assistance in coming up with the fare for the packet to Calais. This time she would not just disappear into the night. She would not hurt her parents like that again. But she was determined to go. And she planned to make her mother vow not to tell Peter where she had gone. Leaving was absolutely the best solution for all concerned. Peter would undoubtedly be relieved, the Duchess would rejoice, and the Duke would be glad to have peace reign once more in his household. The only ones who might be adversely affected would be Geordie and Alicia—once she left the Duchess would certainly renew her campaign to wed Peter to Alicia. Her heart ached at the thought of Peter marrying someone else, and it also ached for the pain Geordie would feel should he lose Alicia. She shook her head resolutely. They would have to work out their problems without her. She knew she must leave. But there was one last detail to take care of before she could go. She would not leave being

thought of as a thief. She got off the bed, straightened her gown, pulled a comb through her disarrayed hair, and went in search of Lady Wickersham. **** She found Lady Wickersham in the garden. Charlotte looked around for Cyril, or the Marquis, but discovered Lady Wickersham was quite alone. “Good afternoon,” she said as she approached. Without waiting for a reply, she sat on the stone bench next to Lady Wickersham. The Marchioness's signature scent of sweet lavender, which Charlotte had come to know so well, wafted towards her. The Marchioness paused from the book she was reading. “Good afternoon, Miss—heavens, I do not quite know what to call you.” “Finbury. That is my real name.” “I do not quite understand.” “That is not surprising. It is a long and somewhat convoluted story.” Charlotte gave what she hoped was a disarming smile. The Marchioness's eyes strayed back to her book. “Lady Wickersham,” Charlotte began. “Do you recall all the fuss the Duchess made about her missing ruby bracelet?” “When she had our rooms searched?” said the Marchioness in a bored tone. She kept her eyes on her book. “Of course. I found the emotions she displayed quite fatiguing.” “Do you also recall the necklace I showed everyone?” “A rather gaudy thing. I should not think it was in your usual style.” “It was not even mine. I borrowed it from the Dowager.” Lady Wickersham's hand shook slightly. She dropped it and the book to her lap. She looked at Charlotte. “Tell me, my dear Miss Finbury, why am I the recipient of these confidences?” “Because I know you took the bracelet and the necklaces,” Charlotte blurted. “You crept into my room and took the necklace from my dressing table. I smelled your lavender scent before you struck me.” “Are you saying you actually saw me in your chamber?” “No,” Charlotte admitted. “But I did smell the sweet lavender. It was unmistakable. And you are the only one who wears it. I know. I checked.” “Forgive me, Miss Finbury, but this is totally absurd! To accuse me on the basis of a scent which is quite unexceptional—” “It is not just that, Lady Wickersham. I, too, searched your chamber. I know, it was a shocking thing to do, but, you must understand, I was being accused of theft, and I had to find some way to clear my

name. I saw the jewel box with the false bottom, and the empty pouch inside. I could tell the bracelet had been in it. What with the lavender, and the unique way it smells on you, as well as the jewel box, I am certain it was you who took the bracelet and the necklace. What I do not understand is why.” The Marchioness continued to look indignant for a moment. Then her face crumpled. “You do not understand, Miss Finbury, because you cannot,” she whispered. “How could you know what it is like to be trapped in a loveless marriage? To see the scorn and contempt on your husband's face every day, month after month, year after year? To have to bear his silent reproach, in addition to his mother's quite vociferous reproaches, because you have not produced an heir? I have often thought I should go quite mad.” “But why take the jewels? They are destined to be yours one day anyway. Was it for money? Why would you need it? Surely you have enough of your own.” The Marchioness gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I have nothing that is not parceled out to me by my husband and accounted for by him. And as for waiting for the jewels! I do not seriously expect to succeed my dear mother-in-law as Duchess. I doubt I could stay the course. I took the jewelry— hideous things!—purely and simply so I could sell them. My intention is to use the money to escape, to go the Continent. When I have been there long enough perhaps the Marquis will be able to obtain a divorce, and eventually marry a wife more suited to his position.” Since the Marchioness’ plan was uncomfortably similar to her own, Charlotte was silent for a moment. She could not deny, however, the nagging feeling she had that this was all quite wrong. “Did you ever care for the Marquess?” she ventured. “Care for him! Child, I love him! I have loved him since I was a girl. The day I was betrothed was the happiest day of my life.” “Then how could you possibly want to leave him?” Lady Wickersham sighed. “It has all gone so terribly wrong. He is so cold and aloof these days. I fear I have been a great disappointment to him.” Charlotte frowned, and absent-mindedly wrapped a short curl around her finger. “Was it ever thus with you two? Even when you were first married?” “When we were first married we took an extensive wedding trip. Paris, Switzerland, Italy, the Alps.” “Oh,” Charlotte breathed. “That sounds so romantic.” “Not really. We traveled with the Duchess. She had friends she wanted to visit.” “You took your mother-in-law on your wedding trip?” Charlotte was incredulous. “Your husband allowed that? I must say, Lady Wickersham, that was very poor-spirited of him. It must have ruined everything.” The Marchioness smiled wryly. “I will admit, it did rather put a damper on things.” “How could he!” “Oh, my dear, you do not really know the Duchess, do you? It was not a case of Richard allowing or not allowing his mother to come with us. She simply made up her mind she was coming, and that was that.

There was nothing we could do. And as a new bride, I certainly did not feel I could raise any objections.” “I do not care what you say, I still think it was cow-hearted of him, in the extreme!” “Well, it does not really matter now,” she said tiredly. “This time I will be going by myself.” “Do you not think,” said Charlotte earnestly, leaning forward, “that the Marquess will miss you? I have seen him looking at you, Lady Wickersham, if you will pardon my observation. I cannot believe he is as indifferent towards you as you say.” “He does not love me, Miss Finbury.” “Please, call me Charlotte.” “All right, then, Charlotte. And you may call me Margaret.” She smiled wanly. “But it is true, I assure you. Richard married me because his mother told him to. And now that I have failed in the one task assigned to me, to produce a future duke, he has no regard for me at all. None whatsoever. Believe me, it is better for all concerned that I leave.” For a moment the only sounds that could be heard were the chickadees in the tree overhead. Charlotte looked at the pale face of the Marchioness, and saw the suffering and sad dignity. She had a suspicion that all was not as Lady Wickersham perceived. She also had the growing conviction that for Lady Wickersham, running away would not solve anything. Unlike her own case, of course, where going to the Continent was the only sensible course of action. No, the Marchioness needed to stay in England, and resolve this question of the extent of her husband's affection for her once and for all. But how could she convince her of that? “So, are you determined to leave?” “Yes,” said Lady Wickersham calmly. “Is Cyril going with you?” “Cyril!” The Marchioness sounded genuinely shocked. “Whatever gave you that idea?” “Well, I have seen the two of you together quite a bit. I thought perhaps you were in love with him.” For the first time she had met her Charlotte heard Lady Wickersham laugh. An uninhibited shout of mirth. “Me, in love with Cyril!” she said, wiping her eyes. “Why, he is nothing but a halfling. A coxcomb! Richard is worth two of him!” At the mention of her husband's name, she sobered. “I am sorry, my dear, if I have offended you. I seem to recall now that Cyril is a particular friend of yours.” “Particular friend of mine? No, not all,” said Charlotte blushing. “Good,” said Lady Wickersham shrewdly. “I feel you are much better suited to my brother-in-law. And if I do not mistake, he would agree with me as well.” She cleared her throat. “From what I have heard, there is a match in the offing, is there not?” Charlotte felt her cheeks flame even hotter. “I am not sure what you may have heard, if you know of our carriage accident, or Peter's rash proposal of marriage. But I can assure you, no marriage will take place. I will not let it be said that I trapped him into marriage.”

“And why should you care?” “Because, because—” “Because you love him,” the Marchioness finished simply. “I have seen the signs, which I know well.” Charlotte's eyes filled with tears, which she brushed angrily away. “Peter offered for me out of a sense of honor, and the Duchess is very angry indeed. I cannot marry him like this. I just cannot.” The Marchioness studied her for a moment. “Ah, Charlotte, our stories are not so very different, are they? I can see very clearly that you are being foolish, yet my own situation is murky to me.” She was quiet another minute. “Would you like me to tell the Duchess it was I who took her horrid bracelet?” “No,” said Charlotte, surprising herself. “I would not wish that on anyone.” The Marchioness smiled. “You have a kind soul, Charlotte. I will tell you what I will do. I will write Richard and the Duchess a letter from Calais. I will tell them then that it was I who pawned the jewelry, and where it is so they can redeem it if they, for some unfathomable reason, wish to repossess the ugly things. I will see to it that your name is cleared.” “Of thievery, at least.” said Charlotte glumly. “There are many more stains on my reputation, I fear.” The Marchioness laughed gently. “Nothing irredeemable, I am sure. I am sorry, by the way, if I hurt you that evening. My intent was to merely knock you aside so I could take the necklace and leave.” “Then you know not your own strength, my lady.” “I hope you are right,” she said, standing up. “For I fear I will be in need of all the strength I can muster.” “You will not reconsider?” “No,” she said sadly. “My marriage is over. I love my husband too much to stay married to him like this.” A lot of people would find that statement contradictory, Charlotte reflected, yet she knew exactly what Margaret meant. She watched Lady Wickersham cross the lawn, saw the innate elegance of her, and the sadness she bore. Charlotte sighed. She had hoped to make a clean break of it. But she found she could not leave the situation like this. With a pang she realized she could not go this time to Peter to concoct a scheme to get the Marquess and his wife in harmony with each other. She would have to do this alone. Fortunately, she had full confidence in her abilities. She would fix things for Lord and Lady Wickersham. And then she would leave. Chapter Fifteen Charlotte took a walk around the extensive Randolph gardens to give herself time to think. She had to do something to prevent Margaret from making a huge mistake. But what? The Marchioness was determined to go. Charlotte would have to do something drastic to stop her. By this time she had wandered far from the house, to the edge of an ornamental pool. She looked back to the vast house. It was so large, she thought idly, that it probably had rooms she had never even seen... Inspiration struck her so hard she almost sat down. That was it! Geordie had told her when she first laid eyes on the house that there was a priest's hole, where the Randolph ancestors had hid priests from

Cromwell's men. He also said something about a secret passage, too. Now, if she could just get him to show her where it was ... a plan started to form in her brain. She went directly back to the house and encountered Geordie, who was returning from a morning ride. “If you are looking for Peter,” he began. “No, I am not,” she assured him hastily. “I am looking for you. Geordie, do you suppose you could show me a secret passage in the house?” “Why do you want to know?” he asked suspiciously. “Just curiosity, mainly,” she said, trying to look guileless. “I was telling my mother about it, and I realized I have never seen a secret passage. It sounds so romantic!” Geordie chuckled. “You females are so sentimental. There is nothing in the least romantic about it, I guarantee you! It is dark, smelly, and cold.” “Oh, please, Geordie! We will be leaving soon, and it will be my last opportunity.” “Why not you ask Peter to show you? He knows the house better than I do.” “He is attending his mother at the moment,” she said, hoping that was not too much of a lie. “I just want to see where it is.” “All right. No harm in that, I suppose.” He took her into the house, into the library. A maid was dusting the books, and she scurried out at the sight of them. “Over here,” he said. “Behind this bookcase.” They walked over to where a massive mahogany bookcase rested against the wall. Geordie eyed it with respect. “It is a great deal of work to move this bookcase, Charlie. Take my word for it, there's a door behind it, the entrance to a passage.” “And where does the passage lead?” “Out to the garden. There is another door in the wall, covered with ivy.” “Where? Could you show me?” Geordie was looking mulish. “Please?” “Oh, all right. But I was rather hoping to catch Alicia after breakfast.” “She often goes for stroll in the garden. If she is not out there, I will find her and send her out to you. Please, Geordie. I have to see where this passage ends.” They went out to the garden, around to the back of the house. Without the barest hesitation Geordie went to an ivy-covered spot, and lifted the trailers of the vine to reveal a rusty doorknob. Charlotte rushed up to it. “Is it open?” “Ought to be, once I lift the latch.” “Oh, please, can we look in?”

With a good-natured groan Geordie lifted the iron bar and opened the door. Charlotte looked in, but all she saw was a black hole. “It is so very dark! Can one breath in there?” “Oh, yes, plenty of air, or so I should think. It is not a sealed passage. But the air is rather stale. When we were boys, Peter and I used to play in there all the time. I remember lots of spiders,” he added, looking for a reaction on her face. She shuddered. “Close the door. I have seen enough.” And it's just perfect, she added to herself. **** Charlotte had already decided she would need to avoid Peter if she were going to be strong in her resolve not to allow a forced marriage between them. She knew there was a danger that one look at his dear face, one entreaty from him, could cause her reason to dissolve and her will to crumble. She was absolutely determined not to allow his sense of honor to entrap him into marriage. So she spent the rest of the day avoiding him and trying to arrange a private word with Margaret. She pleaded a headache, and asked to have her meals in her room, a request to which the Duchess was only too happy to comply. When everyone else was preparing for dinner, she slipped down the hall to Lady Wickersham's chamber. “Margaret,” she breathlessly when she had gotten inside the room, and the abigail had been dismissed. “There is something I must show you. It will make everything easier for you.” “What sort of miracle could that be?” “A secret passage! It leads out of the library and into the garden. It means you can leave the house without attracting any notice.” “I could do that merely by leaving early in the morning before anyone is up,” said the Marchioness practically. “Oh, but this is much better. Do come down tonight and at least see it! We can examine it when no one is about. Say, at two o'clock. Everyone should be in bed by then. I will come by and knock on your door.” “But that is in the middle of the night!” “I know, but the Duke and your husband often stay up late. We would not want to risk their seeing us, would we?” The Marchioness paled. “But Charlotte—” “This is perfect, Margaret. You could pack your belongings and leave them there till you are ready to leave. No one knows about this passage. I found it quite by accident! I doubt even the Dowager remembers it exists.” “All right, my dear, if you will be so insistent! I will come with you tonight and take a look. Who knows, perhaps I will find it useful, after all.” After Charlotte had seen the Marchioness she went back down the hall a few doors and tapped softly on the Marquess's door. “Enter,” came his brief command. She took a deep breath. Once more she was skirting the edges of propriety, seeing him in his chamber

like this. But it had to be done. The Marquess was in process of tying his cravat, with the help of his valet. “Miss, ahem, you must pardon me, but I have lost track of your current surname.” “Finbury.” “Finbury. What brings you here to see me?” “Excuse me, my lord, for this unexpected visit, but I have information of a very confidential nature to impart to you.” “Is that so?” he said, with a frown and his eyebrows raised. “Thompson, you may go. I will finish by myself.” “Very good, my lord.” The valet left with an almost imperceptible sniff in Charlotte's direction. “Now, Miss Finbury,” said the Marquess, in a bored tone as he continued to tie his cravat, “what is so important that you felt it necessary to come and see me in my chamber?” “I realize this is somewhat irregular, my lord. But I thought you would want to know. It is about your wife.” The Marquess's hand slipped in the knot he was tying. Without a word he removed the cravat, threw it to the floor and picked up another piece of snowy starched linen. “You might have spared yourself the trouble of this interview,” he said in a haughty voice. “I do not discuss my wife with people I barely know.” She winced, but struggled on. “I thought you should know,” she continued doggedly, “that the Marchioness is planning to run away tonight.” The Marquess made a slight noise in his throat. He discarded the cravat he had been working on, and picked up still another. He kept his eyes focused on the looking glass, and did not look at Charlotte. “That is absurd. Where would she go? She has no funds.” “She is going to Calais. She got the money by pawning the Duchess's ruby set, as well as the necklace I showed everyone.” The Marquess dropped his hands, letting the cravat hang, and steadied himself on the edge of the table. “Is she so very desperate?” he asked softly. “She is miserable, my lord. She believes you do not love her, and that you would be happy to be rid of her so you could find yourself another woman who would give you an heir.” The Marquess was silent for several minutes. Charlotte thought he would like her to leave, but she had still to impart the most important bit of information. “Do you know her plan?” said the Marquess at last. “Yes,” Charlotte nodded firmly. “Are you aware of the secret passage in the library?”

He nodded. “Peter and I used to play there as boys.” “Good. She plans to use it. She will come down tonight at two o'clock. She made me promise to help her.” She cleared her throat. “I was thinking, if you wanted to talk to her, perhaps you could be waiting in the passage for her.” “I will be in the library,” he said grimly. “Oh, no,” said Charlotte. “If she sees you she will merely leave. It would be better if you were already in the passage, waiting for her.” For all his well-bred aplomb, the Marquess was shaken, Charlotte could see. “Are you certain...” he said. “Yes,” Charlotte replied firmly. “If you want to speak to her, it will have to be tonight, in the passage. I will make sure she is down no earlier than two. I would suggest you get there before us, and have the passageway door open.” “But won't she think...” “I will tell her I arranged to have the bookcase moved and the door open.” “All right,” he said heavily. “I will be there. But I scarcely know what to say.” “Let her know the true state of your affections,” said Charlotte. “She deserves to know that at least, instead of guessing. Be waiting for her tonight, in the passage. It may be your only chance to see her before she goes. And be sure to leave plenty of time to move that bookcase!” He gave the ghost of a grin. “I remember that bookcase, Miss Finbury. And how heavy it is. I will see you later.” He picked up another cravat from the pile of the table. “And Miss Finbury,” he added, as Charlotte was opening the door, “thank you for coming to me.” Charlotte went back to her room, well satisfied. Now, if only everything else in her plan would go as smoothly! **** “In here,” Charlotte whispered, leading a reluctant Lady Wickersham into the library. “I left the door open. You can see right into the passage.” “It looks so dark,” said the Marchioness nervously. Charlotte tried to be patient. “That is why we have candles. Now let us go and explore it.” “I am not so sure, now, that this a good idea, Charlotte.” She shrank back. “This is perfect for your escape. At least examine it. It is not as bad as it looks, really. I have been in it a hundred times,” she added blithely. “At least take a look.” “Oh, all right.” She crossed the threshold, and emitted a tiny shriek. “Spiders! I thought I saw spiders.” Charlotte, who had feared it was the Marquess that Lady Wickersham had seen before she could get well into the passage, let out the breath she had been holding. “Nonsense,” she said bracingly. “In the shadows everything looks like spiders. Let us go further.” The Marquess had to be in here, she thought to herself. The door was open, just as they had planned.

But how far into the passage was he? She hoped they would discover him soon. She had to admit, this was somewhat frightening. They took several more steps, until they were deep into the passage. Their candles were ineffectual against the inky blackness surrounding them. “Hello, Margaret,” came a quiet voice in the darkness. Even though Charlotte had been expecting it, the sudden sound of his voice sent shock waves jolting through her. She thought for a moment her heart would burst right through her ribs. The Marchioness screamed and dropped her candle. “I did not mean to alarm you,” said the Marquess apologetically, as he picked up her candle and re-lit it with the aid of a tinder-box he had brought with him. “Are you surprised to see me?” “Yes,” said Lady Wickersham faintly, her hand still at her throat. She turned to face Charlotte. “How could you do this to me?” she asked in anguish. “I thought you should at least talk to him before you left for good. You are both behaving like the veriest gudgeons! Anyone can see you care for each other. I thought if you could just talk, perhaps any misunderstandings between you might be cleared up.” “It is no use,” said the Marchioness in a low voice. “It is too late for us.” “Margaret,” said the Marquess softly. He came and stood very near to her, which was not difficult to do in the cramped passage. He gently took her candle and set it down on the floor. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me there is no love left between us? Has it come to that? For if it has, I have no reason to live any longer.” “Richard?” she said wonderingly, looking into his eyes. “Could it be possible that you still care for me, after everything that has happened?” “How could you ever doubt it?” He crushed her into an embrace. Charlotte noted with satisfaction that the Marchioness showed no signs of struggle. She watched them for a moment, embracing amid the shadows and flickering candlelight of the narrow passage, and felt a deep satisfaction. Then aware she was no longer needed or even attended to, she backed out of the passage. Emerging into the library, she closed the door to the passage and moved a heavy chair (she could not manage the bookcase) into position, the edge of chair wedged under the doorknob. She rubbed her hands in satisfaction as she surveyed her work. “And just what are you up to now, Charlie?” Once again she nearly jumped out of her skin. In fact, she was surprised her heart, jolted so badly once already, was even still beating. “Peter! You almost frightened me to death! How did you know I was down here?” He strode across the room, and placed the wick of his candle to the flame of hers to light it. He looked amused. “You are not the only one capable of intrigue around here, you know. When I observed you so

assiduously avoiding me today, I knew you must be up to something. Am I to assume you have trapped my poor brother and sister-in-law in that musty old passage?” “It is for their own good,” she said defensively. “I plan to let them out in a while. They are so silly they do even know how much they are in love. But they were coming along nicely when I left them.” she added smugly. “Then why the lock-up?” “I have to make sure,” she said seriously. “That Margaret is so impulsive she is likely to be on the next packet to Calais unless your brother thoroughly persuades her otherwise. She loves him, but thinks he would be best served without her.” “How very silly indeed,” he said softly, moving nearer. “It's hard to credit an intelligent woman could think like that.” “Why, yes,” said Charlotte, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “This business about an heir is absurd,” Peter continued. “I am persuaded it signifies little to my brother. Even so, I would not be at all surprised if the whole matter did not resolve itself if only the two of them were given sufficient time and opportunity. Do you not agree, Charlie?” “My sentiments exactly, my lord.” He shook his head. “I had not thought Margaret such a sapskull. After all, when a man has gone to the length of proposing to a woman, she should be able to deduce that he loves her, wouldn't you say?” “Not necessarily, my lord. It has been my observation that men will propose marriage for all sorts of reasons. To solidify an estate, to gain an inheritance, or even to protect a woman's reputation. You can never assume love figures in any of that.” She held her head up proudly, but felt a betraying tear trickle down her cheek. “Oh, Charlie,” said Lord Peter, setting his candle aside on the bookcase and gathering her into his arms. “My lovely, foolish little page-girl. I have loved you for so long now. I loved you with all my heart long before my head realized it. Once I thought all I wanted was a biddable, conformable wife, but that was before I knew what love was. Love is wild, impulsive and tempestuous, Charlie, just like you are!” He was holding her close, talking softly and stroking her hair. “When I saw you lying lifeless on the floor of your chamber, I thought I would go mad for fear you were hurt. That was when I realized how much a part of me you have become, and how very much I love you. I never want to lose you, Charlie. I want you with me always.” She gave a little sob of happiness. “Even though I am a complete disaster as a valet.” He laughed softly against her cheek. “Even so. I cannot imagine my life without you—it would be so very dull! In fact, I can see at last how it is a man could die for love! Oh Charlie, if you will not marry me now, I shall have to keep thinking of ways to compromise you till even you concede you must! This library ought to do for a start!” He kissed her, not briefly as he had before, but thoroughly, deeply, till she felt stirred down to her very toes. She lost all sense of time and place, all sense of herself and what was around her except for Peter. The nearness of his body against hers and the spreading warmth it engendered within her were the only

things in the universe that seemed real to her now. “Do you love me, Charlie?” he murmured after a while, his mouth against her hair. “Will you marry me?” “Oh yes,” she breathed. “Yes, Peter. A thousand times yes!” “Take my advice,” said a masculine voice from the doorway. They whirled around to see Lord and Lady Wickersham, smiling in each other's arms. “Marry her tonight. Take her to Gretna Green if you have to. That is one you want to see securely wed, my boy, before she can dream up any more schemes!” Charlotte could barely contain her amazement. “Lord Wickersham! Margaret! How ever did you get out of that passage! I bolted the door at the other end!” “So we discovered,” said the Marquess wryly. “Fortunately, I know of a few more exits. As I told you, I played in there often as a boy.” “Oh,” said Charlotte, crestfallen. “And I thought it was such a good plan.” The Marquess laughed, and his wife blushed prettily. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “It worked better than you could have expected.” “Then you are not going to the Continent, Margaret?” Charlotte asked hopefully. “Oh, I most certainly am. Only not alone, as I had originally planned.” “She is going with me,” said the Marquess proudly. “We are re-doing our wedding trip. Just the two of us this time. We may be gone quite a while,” he added, patting his wife's arm. Lady Wickersham blushed again, and looked up at him with love in her eyes. “That sounds so romantic,” said Charlotte wistfully. “Oh, I do not know about that,” said Peter with a wink to his brother. “Foreign travel can be dashed inconvenient. Hard to get a decent meal, not to mention very few people speak the King's English! But you can judge for yourself, Charlie, since I plan to take you to Italy and Switzerland on our wedding trip.” “Oh, Peter,” said Charlotte. “Let us be wed without delay!” There was a commotion outside the window. “What is going on?” said the Marquess. “It is nearly three o'clock in the morning, yet this house is livelier that it is at noon!” The front door opened, they heard sounds of a scuffle, and then hysterical screams. They rushed out to the hallway to see Geordie imprisoned in the grasp of a burly footman, Alicia next to him carrying a hatbox and muffled in a long cloak, and Lady Beaumont, standing nearby, screaming. “What is this ungodly racket?” said the Duke, coming down the stairs in his nightcap and dressing gown. “Good heavens!” said the Duchess, following him. “What is going on? Do shut up, you silly woman!” “Why, it is a regular party,” said Peter. Charlotte saw her parents emerge from their rooms onto the landing above.

“The only one missing is that Cholmondeley fellow,” said the Marquess, with a trace of acid in his voice, enough to show he had been resentful of Cyril's attentions to his wife. “Oh, he left earlier today,” said the Duchess impatiently. “Now tell me at once,” she spoke to the footman, “what is going on?” “I found this cove in the bushes, saving Yer Grace. So I ‘auled ‘im in.” “They were eloping,” screamed Lady Beaumont. “This, this nobody and my Alicia!” With a ferocious pull Geordie yanked himself out of the footman's grip, and straightened his clothes. “I am in love with Alicia, as you well know, Lady Beaumont. When you refused your permission for me to pay my addresses—” “It was my idea,” said Alicia, uncharacteristically bold. “He did not want to do it. I convinced him it was the only way, that you would never consent otherwise. The blame is mine.” She walked over and held Geordie's hand. “Alicia!” said her mother. “I am shocked. To think, that after all these years of tender care you would turn on me like this—” Obviously overcome, she raised her handkerchief to her lips. “Well, I am deeply displeased,” said the Duchess. “Mr. Thorndike, I expect you to leave this house at once.” “He will do nothing of the sort,” the Duke interrupted. Surprised he would say anything, everyone turned to him, and silence fell. “Thorndike seems a perfectly decent fellow, and it is clear the Beaumont chit and he want to be together. As far as I am concerned, he has my blessing, and I will think you an exceedingly foolish woman if you try to obstruct them, Lady Beaumont. You also, Madam, will not interfere!” he added, turning to his wife. “I have seen you persistently throw that chit in Peter's path, when it is plain as a pikestaff they have not the least interest in each other. Stay out of their affairs!” “Father,” said Peter, speaking up. “I would like your blessing on my marriage as well. Of course, I intend to marry Charlotte Finbury with or without it.” The Duke chuckled. “That's the spirit, boy! Never be afraid to fight for what you want. I like that Finbury chit, though she does rather give one a headache if you try to follow her too closely.” And with that, he turned around and went back up the stairs. “Well done, William!” said the Dowager, unnoticed in the corner. “It is about time someone said something along those lines. Congratulations, Peter. And Geordie. And I perceive, congratulations are in order for you as well, Richard and Margaret,” she added, her eyes twinkling. “But my jewels,” said the Duchess, stamping her feet in frustration. “I at least want justice done for that!” “For heaven's sake, Mother, you will get your jewels back,” said the Marquess impatiently. “I know exactly where they are. Now, if you do not mind, it is very late, and my wife and I would like to go to bed. Do not expect us down for breakfast.” He led a blushing Margaret up the stairs while everyone stared. Then Lady Beaumont recalled herself. “Up to bed with you, Miss,” she said to Alicia. “We will discuss this in the morning.” “But the Duke said—”

“I do not give a fig what the Duke said—” “We would be pleased to hold the wedding reception here,” the Dowager interrupted smoothly. “In fact, I insist on it.” Alicia smiled gratefully, and gave Geordie's hand one more squeeze before running up the stairs. Her mother followed her, disgruntled. Peter thumped Geordie on the back, while Geordie had the look of someone who could not believe his good fortune. One by one everyone left, till only Charlotte and Peter lingered on the stairs. “Charlotte,” called her mother. “I am waiting for you.” “I will be up in a minute, Mother,” she called. She started up the stairs, and then turned to Peter, unwilling to leave him. “You must admit, everything worked out most satisfactorily. It was a brilliant plan.” “It had its points,” Peter agreed. She hesitated a moment. “Are you absolutely sure you want to marry me? And that you are not just doing it because you believe I have been compromised?” “I assure you, I am not marrying you for that reason,” he answered solemnly. “I am marrying you to protect you from Society. I feel it is my duty, since I believe I am the best qualified to take care of you, and keep you out of trouble.” “Ooh, you—” she balled her hands up into a fists and started to pound lightly on his chest. He grabbed her hands and pulled her down from the stair above him and once again into his arms. “This is where you belong, Charlie,” he whispered in her ear. “We will compromise each other for the rest of our lives.” She lifted her mouth eagerly for his kiss, and his lips descended on hers. The clock in the hall chimed half past three, and outside the windows the chatter of birds heralded the first faint stirring of a summer dawn, but Charlotte was oblivious to all of it. For the first time in her life, what she was experiencing was far more wonderful than anything she could ever have imagined. “Charlotte, are you still down there? We are waiting for you. Charlotte! Charlotte...” The End

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eBook Info Identifier: Mackey-Lord-Peter Title:

Lord Peter's Page Creator: Maureen Mackey Publisher: Awe-Struck Rights: Copyright © 2000 Description: Romance. 66414 words long. Language: English Type: Novel Format: text/xml