1 CHAPTER ONE

LONDON 1848

AUTUMN

Finding one person in a city of nearly two million was a formidable task. It helped if that person's behavior was predictable and he could usually be found in a tavern or gin shop. Still, it wouldn't be easy.

Leo, where are you? Miss Amelia Hathaway thought desperately as the carriage wheels rattled along the cobbled street. Poor, wild, troubled Leo. Some people, when faced with intolerable circumstances, simply ... broke. Such was the case with her formerly dashing and dependable brother. At this point he was probably beyond all hope of repair.

"We'll find him," Amelia said with an assurance she didn't feel. She glanced at the Gypsy who sat opposite her. As usual, Merripen showed no expression.

One could be forgiven for assuming Merripen was a man of limited emotions. He was so guarded, in fact, that even after living with the Hathaway family for fifteen years, he still hadn't told anyone his first name. They had known him simply as Merripen ever since he had been found, battered and unconscious, beside a creek that ran through their property.

When Merripen had awakened to discover himself surrounded by curious Hathaways, he had reacted violently. It had taken their combined efforts to keep him in bed, all of them exclaiming that he would make his injuries worse, he must lie still. Amelia's father had deduced the boy was the survivor of a Gypsy hunt, a brutal practice in which local landowners rode out on horseback with guns and clubs to rid their properties of Romany encampments.

"The lad was probably left for dead," Mr. Hathaway had remarked gravely. As a scholarly and forward-thinking gentleman, he had disapproved of violence in any form. "I'm afraid it will be difficult to communicate with his tribe. They are probably long gone by now."

"May we keep him, Papa?" Amelia's younger sister Poppy had cried eagerly, no doubt envisioning the wild boy (who had bared his teeth at her like a trapped wolverine) as an entertaining new pet.

Mr. Hathaway had smiled at her. "He may stay as long as he chooses. But I doubt he will remain here longer than a week or so. Romany Gypsies—the Rom, they call themselves—are a nomadic people. They dislike staying under one roof too long. It makes them feel imprisoned."

However, Merripen had stayed. He had started out as a small and rather slight lad. But with proper care and regular meals, he had grown at a near-alarming rate into a man of robust and powerful proportions. It was difficult to say exactly what Merripen was: not quite a family member, not a servant. Although he worked in various capacities for the Hathaways, acting as a driver and jack-of-all-trades, he also ate at the family table whenever he chose, and occupied a bedroom in the main part of the cottage.

Now that Leo had gone missing and was possibly in danger, there was no question that Merripen would help find him.

It was hardly proper for Amelia to go unaccompanied in the presence of a man like Merripen. But at the age of twenty-six, she considered herself beyond any need of chaperonage.

"We shall begin by eliminating the places Leo would not go," she said. "Churches, museums, places of higher learning, and polite neighborhoods are naturally out of the question."

"That still leaves most of the city," Merripen grumbled. Merripen was not fond of London. In his view, the workings of so-called civilized society were infinitely more barbaric than anything that could be found in nature. Given a choice between spending an hour in a pen of wild boars or a drawing room of elegant company, he would have chosen the boars without hesitation.

"We should probably start with taverns," Amelia continued.

Merripen gave her a dark glance. "Do you know how many taverns there are in London?"

"No, but I'm certain I will by the time the night is out."

"We're not going to start with taverns. We'll go where Leo is likely to find the most trouble."

"And that would be?"

"Jenner's."

Jenner's was an infamous gaming club where gentlemen went to behave in ungentlemanly ways. Originally founded by an ex-boxer named Ivo Jenner, the club had changed hands upon his death, and was now owned by his son-in-law, Lord St. Vincent. The less-than-sterling reputation of St. Vincent had only enhanced the club's allure. A membership at Jenner's cost a fortune. Naturally Leo had insisted on joining immediately upon inheriting his title three months ago.

"If you intend to drink yourself to death," Amelia had told Leo calmly, "I wish you would do it at a more affordable place."

"But I'm a viscount now," Leo had replied nonchalantly. "I have to do it with style, or what will people say?"

"That you were a wastrel and a fool, and the title might just as well have gone to a monkey?"

That had elicited a grin from her handsome brother. "I'm sure that comparison is quite unfair to the monkey."

Turning cold with increasing worry, Amelia pressed her gloved fingers to the aching surface of her forehead. This wasn't the first time Leo had disappeared, but it was definitely of the longest duration. "I've never been inside a gaming club before. It will be a novel experience."

"They won't let you inside. You're a lady. And even if they did allow it, I wouldn't."

Lowering her hand, Amelia glanced at him in surprise. It was rare that Merripen forbade her to do anything. In fact, this may have been the first time. She found it annoying. Considering that her brother's life might be at stake, she was hardly going to quibble over social niceties. Besides, she was curious to see what was inside the privileged masculine retreat. As long as she was doomed to remain a spinster, she might as well enjoy the small freedoms that came with it.

Neither will they let you inside," she pointed out "You're a Roma."

"As it happens, the manager of the club is also a Roma."

That was unusual. Extraordinary, even. Gypsies were known as thieves and tricksters. For one of the Rom to be entrusted with the accounting of cash and credit, not to mention arbitrating controversies at the gambling tables, was nothing short of amazing. "He must be a rather remarkable individual to have assumed such a position," Amelia said. "Very well, I will allow you to accompany me inside Jenner's. It's possible your presence will induce him to be more forthcoming."

"Thank you." Merripen's voice was so dry one could have struck a match off it.

Amelia remained strategically silent as he drove the covered brougham through the highest concentration of attractions, shops, and theaters in the city. The poorly sprung carriage bounced with abandon along the wide thoroughfares, passing handsome squares lined with columned houses and tidily fenced greens, and Georgian-fronted buildings. As the streets became more lavish, the brick walls gave way to stucco, which soon gave way to stone.

The West End scenery was unfamiliar to Amelia. Despite the proximity of their village, the Hathaways didn't often venture into town, certainly not to this area. Even now with their recent inheritance, there was little they could afford here.

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Glancing at Merripen, Amelia wondered why he seemed to know exactly where they were going, when he was no more acquainted with town than she. But Merripen had an instinct for finding his way anywhere.

They turned onto King Street, which was ablaze with light shed from gas lamps. It was noisy and busy, congested with vehicles and groups of pedestrians setting out for the evening's entertainment. The sky glowed dull red as the remaining light percolated through the haze of coal smoke. Crowns of lofty buildings broke the horizon, rows of dark shapes protruding like witches' teeth.

Merripen guided the horse to a narrow alley of mews behind a great stone-fronted building. Jenner's. Amelia's stomach tightened. It was probably too much to ask that her brother would be found safely here, in the first place they looked.

"Merripen?" Her voice was strained.

"Yes?"

"You should probably know that if my brother hasn't already managed to kill himself, I plan to shoot him when we find him."

"I'll hand you the pistol."

Amelia smiled and straightened her bonnet. "Let's go inside. And remember—I'll do the talking."

An objectionable odor filled the alley, a city-smell of animals and refuse and coal dust. In the absence of a good rain, filth accumulated quickly in the streets and tributaries. Descending to the soiled ground, Amelia hopped out of the path of squeaking rats that ran alongside the wall of the building.

As Merripen gave the ribbons to a stableman at the mews, Amelia glanced toward the end of the alley.

A pair of street youths crouched near a tiny fire, roasting something on sticks. Amelia did not want to speculate on the nature of the objects being heated. Her attention moved to a group—three men and a woman—illuminated in the uncertain blaze. It appeared two of the men were engaged in fisticuffs. However, they were so inebriated that their contest looked like a performance of dancing bears.

The woman's gown was made of gaudily colored fabric, the bodice gaping to reveal the plump hills of her br**sts. She seemed amused by the spectacle of two men battling over her, while a third attempted to break up the fracas.

" 'Ere now, my fine jacks," the woman called out in a Cockney accent, "I said I'd take ye both on—no need for a cockfight!"

"Stay back," Merripen murmured.

Pretending not to hear, Amelia drew closer for a better view. It wasn't the sight of the brawl that was so interesting—even their village, peaceful little Primrose Place, had its share of fistfights. All men, no matter what their situation, occasionally succumbed to their lower natures. What attracted Amelia's notice was the third man, the would-be peacemaker, as he darted between the drunken fools and attempted to reason with them.

He was every bit as well dressed as the gentlemen on either side ... but it was obvious this man was no gentleman. He was black-haired and swarthy and exotic. And he moved with the swift grace of a cat, easily avoiding the swipes and lunges of his opponents.

"My lords," he was saying in a reasonable tone, sounding relaxed even as he blocked a heavy fist with his forearm. "I'm afraid you'll both have to stop this now, or I'll be forced to? He broke off and dodged to the side just as the man behind him leaped.

The prostitute cackled at the sight. "They got you on the 'op tonight, Rohan," she exclaimed.

Dodging back into the fray, Rohan attempted to break it up once more. "My lords, surely you must know"—he ducked beneath the swift arc of a fist?that violence"?he blocked a right hook?never solves anything."

"Bugger you!" one of the men said, and butted forward like a deranged goat.

Rohan stepped aside and allowed him to charge straight into the side of the building. The attacker collapsed with a groan and lay gasping on the ground.

His opponent's reaction was singularly ungrateful. Instead of thanking the dark-haired man for putting a stop to the fight, he growled, "Curse you for interfering, Rohan! I would've knocked the stuffing from him!" He charged forth with his fists churning like windmill blades.

Rohan evaded a left cross and deftly flipped him to the ground. He stood over the prone figure, blotting his forehead with his sleeve. "Had enough?" he asked pleasantly. "Yes? Good. Please allow me to help you to your feet, my lord." As Rohan pulled the man upward, he glanced toward the threshold of a door that led into the club, where a club employee waited. "Dawson, escort Lord Latimer to his carriage out front. I'll take Lord Selway."

"No need," said the aristocrat who had just struggled to his feet, sounding winded. "I can walk to my own bloody carriage." Tugging his clothes back into place over his bulky form, he threw the dark-haired man an anxious glance. "Rohan, I will have your word on something."

"Yes, my lord?"

"If word of this gets out—if Lady Selway should discover that I was fighting over the favors of a fallen woman—my life won't be worth a farthing."

Rohan replied with reassuring calm. "She'll never know, my lord."

"She knows everything," Selway said. "She's in league with the devil. If you are ever questioned about this minor altercation..."

"It was caused by a particularly vicious game of whist," came the bland reply.

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"Yes. Yes. Good man." Selway patted the younger man on the shoulder. "And to put a seal on your silence? He reached a beefy hand inside his waistcoat and extracted a small bag.

"No, my lord." Rohan stepped back with a firm shake of his head, his shiny black hair flying with the movement and settling back into place. "There's no price for my silence."

'Take it," the aristocrat insisted.

"I can't, my lord."

"It's yours." The bag of coins was tossed to the ground, landing at Rohan's feet with a metallic thud. "There. Whether you choose to leave it lying on the street or not is entirely your choice."

As the gentleman left, Rohan stared at the bag as if it were a dead rodent. "I don't want it," he muttered to no one in particular.

"I'll take it," the prostitute said, sauntering over to him. She scooped up the bag and tested its heft in her palm. A taunting grin split her face. "Gosh, I've never seen a Gypsy what's afraid o' blunt."

"I'm not afraid of it," Rohan said sourly. "I just don't need it." Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

She laughed at him and slid an openly appreciative glance over his lean form. "I 'ates to take something for noffing. Care for a little knock in the alley before I goes back to Bradshaw's?"

"I appreciate the offer," he said politely, "but no." She hitched a shoulder in a playful half shrug. "Less work for me, then. Good evenin'."

Rohan responded with a short nod, seeming to contemplate a spot on the ground with undue concentration. He was very still, seeming to listen for some nearly imperceptible sound. Lifting a hand to the back of his neck again, he rubbed it as if to soothe a warning prickle. Slowly he turned and looked directly at Amelia.

A little shock went through her as their gazes met. Although they were standing several yards apart, she felt the full force of his notice. His expression was not tempered by warmth or kindness. In fact, he looked pitiless, as if he had long ago found the world to be an uncaring place and had decided to accept it on its own terms.

As his detached gaze swept over her, Amelia knew exactly what he was seeing: a woman dressed in serviceable clothes and practical shoes. She was fair skinned and dark haired, of medium height, with the rosy-cheeked wholesomeness common to the Hathaways. Her figure was sturdy and voluptuous, when the fashion was to be reed-slim and wan and fragile.

Without vanity, Amelia knew that although she wasn't a great beauty, she was sufficiently attractive to have caught a husband. But she had risked her heart once, with disastrous consequences. She had no desire to try it again. And God knew she was busy enough trying to manage the rest of the Hathaways.

Rohan looked away from her. Without a word or a nod of acknowledgment, he walked to the back entrance of the club. His pace was unhurried, as if he were giving himself time to think about something. There was a distinctive ease in his movements. His strides didn't measure out distance so much as flow over it like water.

Amelia reached the doorstep at the same time he did. "Sir—Mr. Rohan—I presume you are the manager of the club."

Rohan stopped and turned to face her. They were standing close enough for Amelia to detect the scents of male exertion and warm skin. His unfastened waistcoat, made of luxurious gray brocade, hung open at the sides to reveal a thin white linen shirt beneath. As Rohan moved to button the waistcoat, Amelia saw a quantity of gold rings on his fingers. A ripple of nervousness went through her, leaving an unfamiliar heat in its wake. Her corset felt too tight, her high-necked collar constricting.

Rushing, she brought herself to stare at him directly. He was a young man, not yet thirty, with the countenance of an exotic angel. This face had definitely been created for sin... the brooding mouth, the angular jaw, the golden-hazel eyes shaded by long straight lashes. His hair needed cutting, the heavy black locks curling slightly over the back of his collar. Amelia's throat cinched around a quick breath as she saw the glitter of a diamond in his ear.

He accorded her a precise bow. "At your service, Miss..."

"Hathaway," she said precisely. She turned to indicate her companion, who had come to stand at her left. "And this is my companion, Merripen."

Rohan glanced at him alertly. "The Romany word for 'life' and also 'death.'"

Was that what Merripen's name meant? Surprised, Amelia looked up at him. Merripen gave a slight shrug to indicate it was of no importance. She turned back to Rohan. "Sir, we've come to ask you a question or two regarding?

"I don't like questions."

"I am looking for my brother, Lord Ramsay," she continued doggedly, "and I desperately need any information you may possess as to his whereabouts."

"I wouldn't tell you even if I knew." His accent was a subtle mixture of foreignness and Cockney, and even a hint of upper class. It was the voice of a man who kept company with an unusual assortment of people.

"I assure you, sir, I wouldn't put myself or anyone else to the trouble, were it not absolutely necessary. But this is the third day since my brother has gone missing?

"Not my problem." Rohan turned toward the door.

"He tends to fall in with bad company?

"That's unfortunate."

"He could be dead by now."

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"I can't help you. I wish you luck in your search." Rohan pushed open the door and made to enter the club.

He stopped as Merripen spoke in Romany.

Since Merripen had first come to the Hathaways, there had been only a handful of occasions on which Amelia had heard him speak the secret language known to the Rom. It was heathen-sounding, thick with consonants and drawn-out vowels, but there was a primitive music in the way the words fit together.

Staring at Merripen intently, Rohan leaned his shoulder against the door frame. "The old language," he said. "It's been years since I've heard it. Who is the father of your tribe?"

"I have no tribe."

A long moment passed, while Merripen remained inscrutable in the face of Rohan's regard.

The hazel eyes narrowed. "Come in. I'll see what I can find out."

They were brought into the club without ceremony, Rohan directing an employee to show them to a private receiving room upstairs. Amelia heard the hum of voices, and music coming from somewhere, and footsteps going to and fro. It was a busy masculine hive forbidden to someone like herself.

The employee, a young man with an East London accent and careful manners, took them into a well-appointed room and bid them wait there until Rohan returned. Merripen went to a window overlooking King Street.

Amelia was surprised by the quiet luxury of her surroundings: the hand-knotted carpet done in shades of blue and cream, the wood-paneled walls and velvet-upholstered furniture. "Quite tasteful," she commented, removing her bonnet and setting it on a small claw-footed mahogany table. "For some reason I had expected something a bit... well, tawdry."

"Jenner's is a cut above the typical establishment. It masquerades as a gentlemen's club, when its real purpose is to provide the largest hazard bank in London."

Amelia went to a built-in bookshelf and inspected the volumes as she asked idly, "Why is it, do you think, that Mr. Rohan was reluctant to take money from Lord Selway?"

Merripen cast a sardonic glance over his shoulder. "You know how the Rom feel about material possessions."

"Yes, I know your people don't like to be encumbered. But from what I've seen, Romas are hardly reluctant to accept a few coins in return for a service."

"It's more than not wanting to be encumbered. For a chal to be in this position?

"What's a chal?"

"A son of the Rom. For a chal to wear such fine clothes, to stay under one roof so long, to reap such financial bounty... it's shameful. Embarrassing. Contrary to his nature."

He was so stern and certain of himself, Amelia couldn't resist teasing him a little. "And what's your excuse, Merripen? You've stayed under the Hathaway roof for an awfully long time."

"That's different. For one thing, there's no profit in living with you."

Amelia laughed.

"For another..." Merripen's voice softened. "I owe my life to your family."

Amelia felt a surge of affection as she stared at his unyielding profile. "What a spoilsport," she said gently. "I try to mock you, and you ruin the moment with sincerity. You know you're not obligated to stay, dear friend. You've repaid your debt to us a thousand times over."

Merripen shook his head immediately. "It would be like leaving a nest of plover chicks with a fox nearby."

"We're not as helpless as all that," she protested. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of the family ... and so is Leo. When he's sober."

"When would that be?" His bland tone made the question all the more sarcastic.

Amelia opened her mouth to argue the point, but was forced to close it. Merripen was right—Leo had wandered through the past six months in a state of perpetual inebriation. She put a hand to her midriff, where worry had accumulated like a sack of lead shot. Poor wretched Leo—she was terrified nothing could be done for him. Impossible to save a man who didn't want to be saved.

That wouldn't stop her from trying, however.

She paced around the room, too agitated to sit and wait calmly. Leo was out there somewhere, needing to be rescued. And there was no telling how long Rohan would have them bide their time here.

"I'm going to have a look around," she said, heading to the door. "I won't go far. Stay here, Merripen, in case Mr. Rohan should come."

She heard him mutter something beneath his breath. Ignoring her request, he followed at her heels as she went out into the hallway.

"This isn't proper," he said behind her.

Amelia didn't pause. Propriety had no power over her now. 'This is my one chance to see inside a gaming club—I'm not going to miss it." Following the sound of voices, she ventured toward a gallery that wrapped around the second story of a huge, splendid room.

Crowds of elegantly dressed men gathered around three large hazard tables, watching the play, while croupiers used rakes to gather dice and money. There was a great deal of talking and calling out, the air crackling with excitement. Employees moved through the hazard room, some bearing trays of food and wine, others carrying trays of chips and fresh cards.

Remaining half-hidden behind a column, Amelia surveyed the crowd from the upper gallery. Her gaze alighted on Mr. Rohan, who had donned a black coat and cravat. Even though he was attired similarly to the club members, he stood out from the others like a fox among pigeons.

Rohan half sat, half leaned against the bulky mahogany manager's desk in the corner of the room, where the hazard bank was managed. He appeared to be giving directions to an employee. He used a minimum of gestures, but even so, there was a suggestion of showmanship in his movements, an easy physicality that drew the eye.

And then?somehow... the intensity of Amelia's interest seemed to reach him. He reached up to the back of his neck, and then he looked directly at her. Just as he had done in the alley. Amelia felt her heartbeat awaken everywhere, in her limbs and hands and feet and even in her knees. A tide of uncomfortable color washed over her. She stood immersed in guilt and heat and surprise, red-faced as a child, before she could finally gather her wits sufficiently to dart behind the column.

"What is it?" she heard Merripen ask.

"I think Mr. Rohan saw me." A shaky laugh escaped her. "Oh, dear. I hope I haven't annoyed him. Let's go back to the receiving room."

And risking one quick glance from the concealment of the column, she saw that Rohan was gone.

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Chapter Two

Cam pushed away from the mahogany desk and left the hazard room. As usual, he couldn't leave without being stopped once or twice ... there was an usher, whispering that Lord so-and-so wished to have his credit limit raised ... an underbutler asking if he should replenish the sideboard of refreshments in one of the card rooms. He answered their questions absently, his mind occupied with the woman awaiting him upstairs.

An evening that had promised to be routine was turning out to be rather peculiar.

It had been a long time since a woman had aroused his interest as Amelia Hathaway had. The moment he had seen her standing in the alley, wholesome and pink-cheeked, her voluptuous figure contained in a modest gown, he had wanted her. He had no idea why, when she was the embodiment of everything that annoyed him about Englishwomen.

It was obvious Miss Hathaway had a relentless certainty in her own ability to organize and manage everything around her. Cam's usual reaction to that sort of female was to flee in the opposite direction. But as he had stared into her pretty blue eyes, and seen the tiny determined frown hitched between them, he had felt an unholy urge to snatch her up and carry her away somewhere and do something uncivilized. Barbaric, even.

Of course, uncivilized urges had always lurked a bit too close to his surface. And in the past year Cam had begun to find it more difficult than usual to control them. He had become uncharacteristically short-tempered, impatient, easily provoked. The things that had once given him pleasure were no longer satisfying. Worst of all, he'd found himself attending to his sexual urges with the same lack of enthusiasm he was doing everything else these days.

Finding female companionship was never a problem?Cam had found release in the arms of many a willing woman, and had repaid the favor until they had purred with satisfaction. There was no real thrill in it, however. No excitement, no fire, no sense of anything other than having taken care of a bodily function as ordinary as sleeping or eating. Cam had been so troubled that he'd actually brought himself to discuss it with his employer, Lord St. Vincent.

Once a renowned skirt-chaser, now an exceptionally devoted husband, St. Vincent knew as much about these matters as any man alive. When Cam had asked glumly if a decrease in physical urges was something that naturally occurred as a man approached his thirties, St. Vincent had choked on his drink.

"Good God, no," the viscount had said, coughing slightly as a swallow of brandy seared his throat. They had been in the manager's office of the club, going over account books in the early hours of the morning. St. Vincent was a handsome man with wheat-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Some claimed he had the most perfect form and features of any man alive. The looks of a saint, the soul of a scoundrel. "If I may ask, what kind of women have you been taking to bed?"

"What do you mean, what kind?" Cam had asked warily.

"Beautiful or plain?"

"Beautiful, I suppose."

"Well, there's your problem," St. Vincent said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Plain women are far more enjoyable. There's no better aphrodisiac than gratitude."

"Yet you married a beautiful woman."

A slow smile had curved St. Vincent's lips. "Wives are a different case altogether. They require a great deal of effort, but the rewards are substantial. I highly recommend wives. Especially one's own."

Cam had stared at his employer with annoyance, reflecting that serious conversation with St. Vincent was often hampered by the viscount's fondness for turning it into an exercise of wit. "If I understand you, my lord," he said curtly, "your recommendation for a lack of desire is to start seducing unattractive women?"

Picking up a silver pen holder, St. Vincent deftly fitted a nib into the end and made a project of dipping it precisely into an ink bottle. "Rohan, I'm doing my best to understand your problem. However, a lack of desire is something I've never experienced. I'd have to be on my deathbed before I stopped wanting—no, never mind, I was on my deathbed in the not-too-distant past, and even then I had the devil's own itch for my wife."

"Congratulations," Cam muttered, abandoning any hope of prying an earnest answer out of the man. "Let's attend to the account books. There are more important matters to discuss than sexual habits."

St. Vincent scratched out a figure and set the pen back on its stand. "No, I insist on discussing sexual habits. It's so much more entertaining than work." He relaxed in his chair with a deceptive air of laziness. "Discreet as you are, Rohan, one can't help but notice how ardently you are pursued. It seems you hold quite an appeal for the ladies of London. And from all appearances, you've taken full advantage of what's been offered."

Cam stared at him without expression. "Pardon, but are you leading to an actual point, my lord?"

Leaning back in his chair, St. Vincent made a temple of his elegant hands and regarded Cam steadily. "Since you've had no problem with lack of desire in the past, I can only assume that, as happens with other appetites, yours has been sated with an overabundance of sameness. A bit of novelty may be just the thing."

Considering the statement, which actually made sense, Cam wondered if the notorious former rake had ever been tempted to stray.

Having known Evie since childhood, when she had come to visit her widowed father at the club from time to time, Cam felt as protective of her as if she'd been his younger sister. No one would have paired the gentle-natured Evie with such a libertine. And perhaps no one had been as surprised as St. Vincent himself to discover their marriage of convenience had turned into a passionate love match.

"What of married life?" Cam asked softly. "Does it eventually become an overabundance of sameness?"

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St. Vincent's expression changed, the light blue eyes warming at the thought of his wife. "It has become clear to me that with the right woman, one can never have enough. I would welcome an overabundance of such bliss—but I doubt such a thing is mortally possible." Closing the account book with a decisive thud, he stood from the desk. If you'll excuse me, Rohan, I'll bid you good night."

"What about finishing the accounting?"

"I'll leave the rest in your capable hands." At Cam's scowl, St. Vincent shrugged innocently. "Rohan, one of us is an unmarried man with superior mathematical abilities and no prospects for the evening. The other is a confirmed lecher in an amorous mood, with a willing and nubile young wife waiting at home. Who do you think should do the damned account books?" And, with a nonchalant wave, St. Vincent had left the office.

"Novelty" had been St. Vincent's recommendation?well, that word certainly applied to Miss Hathaway. Cam had always preferred experienced women who regarded seduction as a game and knew better than to confuse pleasure with emotion. He had never cast himself in the role of tutor to an innocent. In fact, the prospect of initiating a virgin was distinctly off-putting. Nothing but pain for her, and the appalling possibility of tears and regrets afterward. He recoiled from the idea. No, there would be no pursuit of novelty with Miss Hathaway.

Hastening his pace. Cam went up the stairs to the room where the woman waited with the dark-faced chal. Merripen was a common Romany name. Yet the man was in a most uncommon position. It appeared he was acting as the woman's servant, a bizarre and repugnant situation for a freedom-loving Roma. So the two of them, Cam and Merripen, had something in common. Both of them worked for gadjos instead of roaming the earth freely as God intended.

A Roma didn't belong indoors, enclosed by walls. Living in boxes, as all rooms and houses were, shut away from the sky and wind and sun and stars. Breathing in stale air scented with food and floor polish. For the first time in years Cam felt a surge of mild panic. He fought it back and focused on the task at hand—getting rid of the peculiar pair in the receiving room.

Tagging at his collar to loosen it, he pushed at the half-open door and entered the room.

Miss Hathaway stood near the doorway, waiting with tightly leashed impatience, while Merripen remained a dark presence in the corner. As Cam approached and looked into her upturned face, the panic dissolved in a curious rush of heat. Her blue eyes were smudged with faint lavender shadows, and her soft-looking lips were pressed into a tight seam. Her hair had been pulled back and pinned, dark and shining against her head.

That scraped-back hair, the modest restrictive clothing advertised her as a woman of inhibitions. A proper spinster. But nothing could have concealed her radiant will. She was ... delicious. He wanted to unwrap her like a long-awaited gift. He wanted her vulnerable and na**d beneath him, that soft mouth swollen from hard, deep kisses, her pale body flushed with desire. Startled by her effect on him, Cam made his expression blank as he studied her.

"Well?" Amelia demanded, clearly unaware of the turn of his thoughts. Which was a good thing, as they likely would have sent her screaming from the room. "Have you discovered anything about my brother's whereabouts?"

"I have."

"And?"

"Lord Ramsay visited earlier this evening, lost some money at the hazard table?

"Thank God he's alive," Amelia exclaimed. "—and apparently decided to console himself by visiting a nearby brothel."

"Brothel?" She shot Merripen an exasperated glance. '1 swear it, Merripen, he'll die at my hands tonight." She looked back at Cam. "How much did he lose at the hazard table?"

"Approximately five hundred pounds." The pretty blue eyes widened in outrage. "He'll die slowly at my hands. Which brothel?"

"Bradshaw's."

Amelia reached for her bonnet. "Come, Merripen. We're going there to collect him."

Both Merripen and Cam replied at the same time. "No."

"I want to see for myself if he's all right," she said calmly. "I very much doubt he is." She gave Merripen a frosty stare. "I'm not returning home without Leo."

Half amused, half alarmed by her force of will, Cam asked Merripen, "Am I dealing with stubbornness, idiocy, or some combination of the two?"

Amelia replied before Merripen had the opportunity. "Stubbornness, on my part. The idiocy may be attributed entirely to my brother." She settled the bonnet on her head and tied its ribbons beneath her chin.

Cherry-red ribbons, Cam saw in bemusement. That frivolous splash of red amid her otherwise sober attire was an incongruous note. Becoming more and more fascinated, Cam heard himself say, "You can't go to Bradshaw's. Reasons of morality and safety aside, you don't even know where the hell it is."

Amelia didn't flinch at the profanity. "I assume a great deal of business is sent back and forth between your establishment and Bradshaw's. You say the place is nearby, which means all I have to do is follow the foot traffic from here to there. Goodbye, Mr. Rohan. I appreciate your help."

Cam moved to block her path. "All you'll accomplish is making a fool of yourself, Miss Hathaway. You won't get past the front door. A brothel like Bradshaw's doesn't take strangers off the street."

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"How I manage to retrieve my brother, sir, is no concern of yours."

She was correct. It wasn't. But Cam hadn't been this entertained in a long time. No sensual depravities, no skilled courtesan, not even a room full of unclothed women, could have interested him half as much as Miss Amelia Hathaway and her red ribbons.

"I'm going with you," he said.

She frowned. "No, thank you."

"I insist."

"I don't need your services, Mr. Rohan."

Cam could think of a number of services she was clearly in need of, most of which would be a pleasure for him to provide. "Obviously it will be to everyone's benefit for you to retrieve Ramsay and leave London as quickly as possible. I consider it my civic duty to hasten your departure."

Chapter Three

Although they could have reached the brothel on foot, Amelia, Merripen, and Rohan went to Bradshaw's in the ancient barouche. They stopped before a plain Georgian-style building. For Amelia, whose imaginings of such a place were framed with lurid extravagance, the brothel's facade was disappointingly discreet.

"Stay inside the carriage," Rohan said. "I'll go inside and inquire as to Ramsay's whereabouts." He gave Merripen a hard look. "Don't leave Miss Hathaway unattended even for a second. It's dangerous at this time of night."

"It's early evening," Amelia protested. "And we're in the West End, amid crowds of well-dressed gentlemen. How dangerous could it be?"

"I've seen those well-dressed gentlemen do things that would make you faint to hear of them."

"I never faint," Amelia said indignantly.

Rohan's smile was a flash of white in the shadowed interior of the carriage. He left the vehicle and dissolved into the night as if he were part of it, blending seamlessly except for the ebony glimmer of his hair and the sparkle of the diamond at his ear.

Amelia stared after him in wonder. What category did one put such a man in? He was not a gentleman, nor a lord, nor a common workingman, nor even fully a Gypsy. A shiver chased beneath her corset stays as she recalled the moment he had helped her up into the carriage. Her hand had been gloved, but his had been bare, and she had felt the heat and strength of his fingers. And there had been the gleam of a thick gold band on his thumb. She had never seen such a thing before.

"Merripen, what does it mean when a man wears a thumb ring? Is it a Gypsy custom?"

Seeming uncomfortable with the question, Merripen looked through the window into the damp night. A group of young men passed the vehicle, wearing fine coats and tall hats, laughing among themselves. A pair of them stopped to speak with a gaudily dressed woman. Still frowning, Merripen replied to Amelia's question. "It signifies independence and freedom of thought. Also a certain separateness. In wearing it, he reminds himself he doesn't belong where he is."

"Why would Mr. Rohan want to remind himself something like that?"

"Because the ways of your kind are seductive," Merripen said darkly. "It's difficult to resist them."

"Why must you resist them? I fail to see what is so terrible about living in a proper house and securing a steady income, and enjoying things like nice dishes and upholstered chairs."

"Gadji," he murmured in resignation, making Amelia grin briefly. It was the word for a non-Gypsy woman.

She relaxed back against the worn upholstered seat. "I never thought I would be hoping so desperately to find my brother inside a house of ill repute. But between a brothel or floating facedown in the Thames? She broke off and pressed the knuckles of her clenched fist against her lips.

"He's not dead." Merripen's voice was low and gentle.

Amelia was trying very hard to believe that. "We must get Leo away from London. He'll be safer out in the country... won't he?"

Merripen gave a noncommittal shrug, his dark eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts.

"There's far less to do in the country," Amelia pointed out. "And definitely less trouble for Leo to get into."

"A man who wants trouble can find it anywhere."

After minutes of unbearable waiting, Rohan returned to the brougham and tugged the door open.

"Where is he?" Amelia demanded as the Gypsy climbed inside.

"Not here. After Lord Ramsay went upstairs with one of the girls and, er ... conducted the transaction ... he left the brothel."

"Where did he go? Did you ask?

"He told them he was going to a tavern called the Hell and Bucket."

"Lovely," Amelia said shortly. "Do you know the way?"

Seating himself beside her, Rohan glanced at Merripen. "Follow St. James eastward, turn left after the third crossing."

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Merripen flicked the ribbons, and the carriage rolled past a trio of prostitutes.

Amelia watched the women with undisguised interest. "How young some of them are," she said. "If only some charitable institution would help them find respectable employment."

"Most so-called respectable employment is just as bad," Rohan replied.

She looked at him indignantly. "You think a woman would be better off to work as a prostitute than to take an honest job that would allow her to live with dignity?"

"I didn't say that. My point is that some employers are far more brutal than pimps or brothel bawds. Servants have to endure all manner of abuse from their masters-female servants in particular. And if you think there is dignity in working at a mill or factory, you've never seen a girl who's lost a few fingers from cutting broom straw. Or someone whose lungs are so congested from breathing in fluff and dust at a carding mill, she won't live past the age of thirty."

Amelia opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. No matter how much she wanted to continue the debate, proper women—even if they were spinsters—did not discuss prostitution.

She adopted an expression of cool indifference and looked out the window. Although she didn't spare a glance for Rohan, she sensed he was watching her. She was unbearably aware of him. He wore no cologne or pomade, but there was something alluring about his smell, something smoky and fresh, like green cloves.

"Your brother inherited the title quite recently," Rohan said.

"Yes."

"With all respect, Lord Ramsay doesn't seem entirely prepared for his new role."

Amelia couldn't restrain a rueful smile. "None of us are. It was a surprising turn of events for the Hathaways. There were at least three men in line for the title before Leo. But they all died in rapid succession, of varying causes. It seems that becoming Lord Ramsay causes one to become shortlived. And at this rate, my brother probably won't last any longer than his predecessors."

"One never knows what fate has in store."

Turning toward Rohan, Amelia discovered he was glancing over her in a slow inventory that spurred her heart into a faster beat. "I don't believe in fate," she said. "People are in control of their own destinies."

Rohan smiled. "Everyone, even the gods, are helpless in the hands of fate."

Amelia regarded him skeptically. "Surely you, being employed at a gaming club, know all about probability and odds. Which means you can't rationally give credence to luck or fate or anything of the sort."

"I know all about probability and odds," Rohan agreed. "Nevertheless, I believe in luck." He smiled with a quiet smolder in his eyes that caused her breath to catch. "I believe in magic and mystery, and dreams that reveal the future. And I believe some things are written in the stars ... or even in the palm of your hand."

Mesmerized, Amelia was unable to look away from him. He was an extraordinarily beautiful man, his skin as dark as clover honey, his black hair falling over his forehead in a way that made her fingers twitch with the urge to push it back.

"Do you believe in fate too?" she asked Merripen.

A long hesitation. "I'm a Roma," he said.

Which meant yes. "Good Lord, Merripen. I've always thought of you as a sensible man."

Rohan laughed. "It's only sensible to allow for the possibility, Miss Hathaway. Just because you can't see or feel something doesn't mean it can't exist."

"There is no such thing as fate," Amelia insisted. "There is only action and consequence."

The carriage came to a halt, this time in a much shabbier place than St. James or King Street. There was a beer shop and three-penny lodging house on one side, and a large tavern on the other. The pedestrians on this street had the appearance of sham gentility, rubbing elbows with costers, pickpockets, and more prostitutes.

A brawl was in progress near the threshold of the tavern, a writhing mixture of arms, legs, flying hats, and bottles and canes. Anytime there was a fight, the greatest likelihood was that her brother had started it.

"Merripen," she said anxiously, "you know how Leo is when he's foxed. He's probably in the middle of the fray. If you would be so kind?

Before she had even finished, Merripen made to leave the carriage.

"Wait," Rohan said. "You'd better let me handle it."

Merripen gave him a cold glance. "You doubt my ability to fight?"

"This is a London rookery. I'm used to the kind of tricks they employ. If you? Rohan broke off as Merripen ignored him and left the carriage with a surly grunt. "So be it," Rohan said, exiting the carriage and standing beside it to watch. "They'll slice him open like a mackerel at a Covent Garden fish stand."

Amelia came out of the vehicle as well. "Merripen can handle himself quite well in a fight, I assure you."

Rohan looked down at her, his eyes shadowed and catlike. "You'll be safer inside the vehicle."

"I have you for protection, do I not?" she pointed out. "Sweetheart," he said with a softness that undercut the noise of the crowd, "I may be the one you most need protection from."

She felt her heart miss a beat. He met her wide-eyed glance with a steady interest that caused her toes to curl inside her practical leather shoes. Fighting for composure, Amelia looked away from him. But she remained sharply aware of him, the relaxed alertness of his posture, the unknown pulse secreted beneath the elegant layers of his clothing.

They watched as Merripen waded into the chaos of brawling men, sorted through a few of them. Before a half minute had passed, he unceremoniously hauled someone out, easily deflecting blows with his free arm. "He's good," Rohan said in mild surprise. Amelia was overwhelmed with relief as she recognized Leo's disheveled form. "Oh, thank God."

Her eyes flew open, however, as she felt a gentle touch at the edge of her jaw. Rohan's fingers were nudging her face upward, his thumb brushing the tip of her chin. The unexpected intimacy sent a little shock through her. His flame-bright gaze had seized hers again.

"Don't you think you're being a bit overprotective, chasing your grown brother across London? He's not doing anything all that unusual. Most young lords in his position would behave the same."

"You don't know him," Amelia said, sounding shaken to her own ears. She knew she should pull away from his warm fingers, but her body remained perversely still, absorbing the pleasure of his touch. "It's far from usual behavior for him. He's in trouble. He? She broke off.

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Rohan let a gentle fingertip follow the shining trail of her bonnet ribbon to the place where it tied beneath her chin. "What kind of trouble?"

She jerked away from his touch and turned as Merripen and Leo approached the carriage. A rush of love and agonized worry filled her at the sight of her brother. He was filthy, battered, and grinning unrepentantly. Anyone who didn't know Leo would assume he hadn't a care in the world. But his eyes, once so warm, were dull and wintry. His formerly fit body was paunchy, and the visible portion of his neck was bloated. There was still a long way to go before Leo was in total ruins, but he seemed determined to hasten the process.

"How remarkable," Amelia said casually. "There's still something left of you." Plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve, she strode forward and tenderly wiped sweat and a smear of blood from his cheeks. Noticing his unfocused gaze, she said, "I'm the one in the middle, dear."

"Ah. There you are." Leo's head bobbed up and down like a string puppet's. He glanced at Merripen, who was providing far more support than Leo's own legs were. "My sister," he said. "Terrifying girl."

"Before Merripen puts you in the carriage," Amelia said, "are you going to cast up your accounts, Leo?"

"Certainly not," came the unhesitating reply. "Hathaways always hold their liquor."

Amelia stroked aside the dirty brown locks that dangled like strands of yarn over his eyes. "It would be nice if you would try to hold a bit less of it in the future, dear."

"Ah, but sis ..." As Leo looked down at her, she saw a flash of his old self, a spark in the vacant eyes, and then it was gone. "I have such a powerful thirst."

Amelia felt the smart of tears at the corners of her eyes, tasted salt at the back of her throat. Swallowing it back, she said in a steady voice, "For the next few days, Leo, your thirst will be slaked exclusively by water or tea. Into the carriage with him, Merripen."

Leo twisted to glance at the man who held him steady. "For God's sake, you're not going to put me in her custody, are you?"

"Would you rather dry out in the care of a Bow Street gaolkeeper?" Merripen asked politely.

"He would be a damn sight more merciful." Grumbling, Leo lurched toward the carriage with Merripen's assistance.

Amelia turned to Cam Rohan, whose face was inscrutable. "May we take you back to Jenner's, sir? It will be tight quarters in the carriage, but I think we can manage."

"No, thank you." Rohan walked slowly around the carriage with her. "It isn't far. I'll go on foot."

"I can't leave you stranded in a London rookery."

Rohan stopped with her at the back of the carriage, where they were partially sheltered from view. "I'll be fine. The city holds no fears for me. Hold still."

Rohan turned her face up again, one hand cradling her jaw while the other descended to her cheek. His thumb brushed gently beneath her left eye, and with surprise she felt a smudge of wetness there.

"The wind makes my eyes water," she heard herself say unsteadily.

'There's no wind tonight." His hand remained at her jaw, the smooth band of the thumb ring pressing lightly against her skin. Her heart had begun to thump until she could hardly hear through the blood rush in her ears. The clamor of the tavern was muted, the darkness thickening around them. His fingers slid over her throat with stunning delicacy, finding secreted nerves and stroking gently.

His eyes were above hers, and she saw that the golden-hazel irises were rimmed with black. "Miss Hathaway ... you're quite certain fate had no hand in our meeting tonight?"

She couldn't seem to breathe properly. "Qu-quite certain."

His head bent low. "And in all likelihood we'll never meet again?"

"Never." He was too large, too close. Nervously Amelia tried to marshal her thoughts, but they scattered like spilled matchsticks ... and then he set fire to them as his breath touched her cheek.

I hope you're right. God help me if I should ever have to face the consequences."

"Of what?" Her voice was faint.

"This." His hand slid to the back of her neck and his mouth covered hers.

Amelia had been kissed before. Not all that long ago, as a matter of fact, by a man she had been in love with. The pain of his betrayal had cut so deep, she had sworn never to allow any man close to her again. But Cam Rohan hadn't asked her consent or given her any chance to protest. She stiffened and brought her hands to his chest, exerting pressure against the hard surface. He seemed not to notice her objection, his mouth subtle and insistent. One of his arms slid around her, lifting slightly as he pulled her against the solid contours of his body.

With each breath she drew in a deeper scent of him, the sweetness of beeswax soap, the hint of salt of his skin. The supple power of his body was all around her, and she couldn't stop herself from relaxing into it, letting him support her. More kisses, one beginning before another had quite finished, moist and intimate caresses, secret strokes of pleasure and promise.

With a soft murmur—foreign words that fell pleasantly on her ears—Rohan took his mouth from hers. His lips wandered along the flushed curve of her neck, lingering on the most vulnerable spots. Her body felt swollen inside her clothes, the corset cinching around the desperate pitch of her lungs.

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She quivered as he reached a place of exquisite sensation and touched it with the tip of his tongue. As if the taste of her were some exotic spice. A pulse awakened in her br**sts and stomach and between her thighs. She was filled with a dreadful urge to press against him, she wanted to fight free of the layers and layers of smothering fabric that made up her skirts. He was so careful, so gentle?The crash of a bottle on the pavement jolted her from the haze.

"No," she gasped, now struggling.

Rohan released her, his hands steadying her as she fought for equilibrium. Amelia turned blindly and staggered toward the open door of the carriage. Everywhere he had touched, her nerves stung with the desire for more. She kept her head low, grateful for the concealment of her bonnet.

Desperate for escape, Amelia ascended to the carriage step. Before she could climb in, however, she felt Rohan's hands at her waist. He held her from behind, trapping her long enough to whisper near her ear, "Latcho drom."

The Romany farewell. Amelia recognized it from the handful of words Merripen had taught the Hathaways. An intimate shock went through her as the heat of his breath collected in her ear. She didn't, couldn't, reply, only climbed into the carriage and awkwardly pulled the mass of her skirts away from the open doorway.

The door was closed firmly, and the vehicle started forward as the horse obeyed Merripen's guidance. The two Hathaways occupied their respective corners of the seat, one of them drunk, the other dazed. After a moment Amelia reached to untie her bonnet with trembling hands, and discovered the ribbons were hanging loose.

One ribbon, actually. The other...

Removing her bonnet, Amelia regarded it with a perplexed frown. One of the red silk ribbons was gone except for the tiny remnant at the inside edge.

It had been neatly cut.

He had taken it.

Chapter Four

One week later, all five Hathaway siblings and their belongings had removed from London to their new home in Hampshire. Despite the challenges that awaited them, Amelia was strongly hopeful their new situation would benefit them all.

The house in Primrose Place held too many memories. Things had never been the same since both Hathaway parents had died, her father of a heart ailment, her mother of grief a few months afterward. It seemed the walls had absorbed the family's sorrow until it had become part of the paint and paper and wood. Amelia couldn't look at the hearth of the main room without remembering her mother sitting there with her sewing basket, or visit the garden without thinking of her father pruning his prized Apothecary's Roses.

Amelia had recently sold the house without compunction, not for lack of sentimentality but rather an excess. Too much feeling, too much sadness. And it was impossible to look forward when one was constantly being reminded of painful loss.

Her siblings hadn't offered a word of objection to selling their home. Nothing mattered to Leo—one could tell him the family intended to live in the streets, and he would have greeted the news with an indifferent shrug. Win, the next oldest sister, was too weak from prolonged illness to protest any of Amelia's decisions. And Poppy and Beatrix, both still in their teens, were eager for change.

As far as Amelia was concerned, the inheritance couldn't have come at a better time. Although she had to admit, there was some question as to how long the Hathaways would manage to retain the title.

The fact was, no one wanted to be Lord Ramsay. For the previous three Lord Ramsays, the title had been accompanied by a streak of singular ill fortune capped by untimely death. Which explained, in part, why the Hathaways' distant relatives had been quite happy to see the viscountcy go to Leo.

"Do I get any money?" had been Leo's first question upon being informed of his ascendancy to the peerage.

The answer had been a qualified yes. Leo would inherit a Hampshire estate of limited acreage and a modest annual sum that wouldn't begin to account for the cost of refurbishing it.

"We're still poor," Amelia had told her brother after poring over the solicitor's letter describing the estate and its affairs. "The estate is small, the servants and most of the tenants have left, the house is shabby, and the title is apparently cursed. Which makes the inheritance a white elephant, to say the least. However, we have a distant cousin who may arguably be in line before you—we can try to throw it all off on him. There is a possibility that our great-great-great-grandfather may not have been legitimate issue, which would allow us to apply for forfeiture of the title on he grounds of?

"I'll take the title," Leo had said decisively.

"Because you don't believe in curses any more than I do?"

"Because I'm already so damned cursed, another one won't matter."

Having never been to the southern county of Hampshire before, all the Hathaway siblings—with the exception of Leo—craned their necks to view the scenery.

Amelia smiled at her sisters' excitement. Poppy and Beatrix, both dark-haired and blue-eyed like herself, were filled with high spirits. Her gaze alighted on Win and stayed for a moment, taking careful measure of her condition.

Win was different from the rest of the Hathaway brood, the only one who had inherited their father's pale blond hair and introspective nature. She was shy and quiet, enduring every hardship without complaint. When scarlet fever had swept through the village a year earlier, Leo and Win had fallen gravely ill. Leo had made a complete recovery, but Win had been frail and colorless ever since. The doctor had diagnosed her with a weakness of the lungs, caused by the fever, that he said might never improve.

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Amelia refused to accept that Win would be an invalid forever. No matter what it took, she would make Win well again.

It was difficult to imagine a better place for Win and the rest of the Hathaways than Hampshire. It was one of the most beautiful counties in England, with intersecting rivers, great forests, meadows, and wet heath lands. The Ramsay estate was situated close to Stony Cross, one of the largest market towns in the county. Stony Cross exported cattle, sheep, timber, corn, a plenitude of local cheeses, and wild-flower honey?rich territory, indeed.

"I wonder why the Ramsay estate is so unproductive?" Amelia mused as the carriage traveled alongside lush pastures. "The land in Hampshire is so fertile, one almost has to try not to grow something here."

"But our land is cursed, isn't it?" Poppy asked with mild concern.

"No," Amelia replied, "not the estate itself. Just the titleholder. Which would be Leo."

"Oh." Poppy relaxed. "That's fine, then."

Leo didn't bother responding, only huddled in the seat corner looking surly. Although a week of enforced sobriety had left him clear-eyed and clear-headed, it had done nothing to improve his temper. With Merripen and the Hathaways watching over him like hawks, he'd had no opportunity to drink anything other than water or tea.

For the first few days Leo had been given to uncontrollable shaking, agitation, and profuse sweating. Now that the worst of it was over, he looked more like his old self. But few people would believe Leo was a man of eight and twenty. The past year had aged him immeasurably.

The closer they came to Stony Cross, the lovelier the scenery was until it seemed nearly every view was worth painting. The carriage road passed tidy black-and-white cottages with thatched roofs, millhouses and ponds shrouded with weeping willows, old stone churches dating back to the Middle Ages. Thrushes busily stripped ripe berries from hedgerows, while stonechats perched on blossoming hawthorns. Meadows were dense with autumn crocus and meadow saffron, and the trees were dressed in gold and red. Plump white sheep grazed in the fields.

Poppy took a deep, appreciative breath. "How bracing," she said. "I wonder what makes the country air smell so different?"

"It could be the pig farm we just passed," Leo muttered.

Beatrix, who had been reading from a pamphlet describing the south of England, said cheerfully, "Hampshire is known for its exceptional pigs. They're fed on acorns and beechnut mast from the forest, and it makes the bacon quite lovely. And there's an annual sausage competition!"

He gave her a sour look. "Splendid. I certainly hope we haven't missed it."

Win, who had been reading from a thick tome about Hampshire and its environs, volunteered, "The history of Ramsay House is impressive."

"Our house is in a history book?" Beatrix asked in delight.

"It's only a small paragraph," Win said from behind the book, "but yes, Ramsay House is mentioned. Of course, it's nothing compared to our neighbor, the Earl of Westcliff, whose estate features one of the finest country homes in England. It dwarfs ours by comparison. And the earl's family has been in residence for nearly five hundred years."

"He must be awfully old, then," Poppy commented, straight-faced.

Beatrix snickered. "Go on, Win."

" 'Ramsay House,'" Win read aloud," 'stands in a small park populated with stately oaks and beeches, coverts of bracken, and surrounds of deer-cropped turf. Originally an Elizabethan manor house completed in 1594, the building boasts of many long galleries representative of the period. Alterations and additions to the house have resulted in the grafting of a Jacobean ballroom and a Georgian wing.'"

"We have a ballroom!" Poppy exclaimed.

"We have deer!" Beatrix said gleefully.

Leo settled deeper into his corner. "God, I hope we have a privy."

It was early evening by the time the hired driver turned the carriage onto the private beech-lined drive that led to Ramsay House. Weary from the long journey, the Hathaways exclaimed in relief at the sight of the house, with its high roofline and brick chimney stacks.

"I wonder how Merripen is faring," Win said, her blue eyes soft with concern. Merripen, the cook-maid, and the footman had gone to the house two days earlier to prepare for the Hathaways' arrival.

"No doubt he's been working ceaselessly day and night," Amelia replied, "taking inventory, rearranging everything in sight, and issuing commands to people who don't dare disobey him. I'm sure he's quite happy."

Win smiled. Even pale and drained as she was, her beauty was incandescent, her silvery-gold hair shining in the waning light, her complexion like porcelain. The line of her profile would have sent poets and painters into raptures. One was almost tempted to touch her to make certain she was a living, breathing being instead of a sculpture.

The carriage stopped at a much larger house than Amelia had expected. It was bordered by overgrown hedges and weed-clotted flower beds. With some gardening and considerable pruning, she thought, it would be lovely. The building was charmingly asymmetrical with a brick and stone exterior, a slate roof, and abundant leaded-glass windows.

The hired driver came to set out a movable step and assist the passengers from the vehicle. Descending to the crushed-rock surface of the drive, Amelia watched as her siblings emerged from the carriage. "The house and grounds are a bit unkempt," she warned. "No one has lived here in a very long time."

"I can't imagine why," Leo said. "It's very picturesque," Win commented brightly. The journey from London had exhausted her. Judging from the slump of her narrow shoulders and the way her skin seemed stretched too tightly over her cheekbones, Win had little strength left.

As her sister reached for a small valise that had been set by the carriage step, Amelia rushed forward and picked it up. "I'll carry this," she said. "You are not to lift a finger. Let's go inside, and we'll find a place for you to rest."

"I'm perfectly well," Win protested as they all went up the front stairs into the house.

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The entrance hall was lined with paneling that had once been painted white but now was brown with age. The floor was scarred and filthy. A magnificent curved stone staircase occupied the back of the hall, its wrought-iron balustrade clotted with dust and spiderwebs. Amelia noticed that an attempt had already been made to clean a section of the balustrade, but it was obvious the process would be painstaking.

Merripen emerged from a hallway leading away from the entrance room. He was in his shirtsleeves with no collar or cravat, the neck of the garment hanging open to reveal tanned skin gleaming with perspiration. With his black hair falling over his forehead, and his dark eyes smiling at the sight of them, Merripen cut a dashing figure. "You're three hours behind schedule," he said.

Laughing, Amelia pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and gave it to him. "In a family of four sisters, there is no schedule."

Wiping at the dust and sweat on his face, Merripen glanced at all the Hathaways. His gaze lingered on Win for an extra moment.

Returning his attention to Amelia, Merripen gave her a concise report. He had found two women and a boy at the village to help clean the house. Three bedrooms had been made habitable so far. They had spent a great deal of time scrubbing the kitchen and stove, and the cook-maid was preparing a meal?Merripen broke off as he glanced over Amelia's shoulder. Unceremoniously he brushed by her and reached Win in three strides.

Amelia saw Win's slight form swaying, her lashes lowering as she half collapsed against Merripen. He caught her easily and lifted her in his arms, murmuring for her to put her head on his shoulder. Although his manner was as calm and unemotional as ever, Amelia was struck by the possessive way he held her sister.

"The journey was too much for her," Amelia said in concern. "She needs rest."

Merripen's face was expressionless. "I'll take her upstairs."

Win stirred and blinked. "Bother," she said breathlessly. "I was standing still, feeling fine, and then the floor seemed to rush up toward me. I'm sorry. I despise swooning."

"It's all right." Amelia gave her a reassuring smile. "Merripen will take you to bed. That is? She paused uncomfortably. "He will convey you to your bedroom."

"I can manage by myself," Win said. "I was just dizzy for a moment. Merripen, do put me down."

"You wouldn't make it past the first step," he said, ignoring her protests as he carried her to the stone staircase. And as he walked with her, Win's pale hand lifted slowly around his neck.

"Beatrix, will you go with them?" Amelia asked briskly, handing her the valise. "Win's nightgown is in here—you can help her change clothes."

"Yes, of course." Beatrix scampered toward the stairs. Left in the entrance hall with Leo and Poppy, Amelia turned in a slow circle to view all of it. "The solicitor said the estate was in disrepair," she said. "I think a more accurate word would have been 'shambles.' Can it be restored, Leo?" Not long ago—though it seemed a lifetime—Leo had spent two years studying art and architecture at the Grand Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris. He had also worked as a draftsman and painter for the renowned London architect Rowland Temple. Leo had been regarded as an exceptionally promising student, and had even considered setting up a practice. Now all that ambition had been extinguished.

Leo glanced around the hall without interest. "Barring any structural repairs, we would need about twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds, at least."

The figure caused Amelia to blanch. She lowered her gaze to the pockmarked floor at her feet and rubbed her temples. "Well, one thing is obvious. We need the advantage of wealthy in-laws. Which means you should start looking for available heiresses, Leo." She flicked a playful glance at her sister. "And you, Poppy—you'll have to catch a viscount, or at the very least a baron."

Her brother rolled his eyes. "Why not you? I don't see why you should be exempt from having to marry for the family's benefit."

Poppy gave her sister a sly glance. "At Amelia's age, women are far beyond thoughts of Romance and passion."

"One never knows," Leo told Poppy. "She may catch an elderly gentleman who needs a nurse."

Amelia was tempted to skewer them both with the tart observation that she had already been in love once, and she would not care to repeat the experience. She had been pursued and courted by Leo's best friend, a charming young architect named Christopher Frost, who, like Leo, had been articled to Rowland Temple. But on the day he had led her to believe a proposal was forthcoming, Frost had ended the relationship with brutal abruptness. He said he had developed feelings for another woman, who conveniently happened to be Rowland Temple's daughter.

It was only to be expected of an architect, Leo had told her with grim remorse, outraged on behalf of his sister, sorrowful at the loss of a friend. Architects inhabited a world of masters and disciples and the endless pursuit of patrons. Everything, even love, was sacrificed on the altar of ambition. To be otherwise was to miss the few precious opportunities one might have to practice the art of design. Marrying Temple's daughter would give Christopher Frost a place at the table. Amelia could never have done that for him.

All she had been able to do was love him.

Swallowing back her bitterness, Amelia glanced up at her brother and managed a rueful smile. "Thank you, but at this advanced stage of life, I have no ambitions to marry."

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Leo surprised her by bending to brush a light kiss on her forehead. His voice was soft and kind. "Be that as it may, I think someday you'll meet a man worth giving up your independence for." He grinned before adding, "Despite your encroaching old age."

For a moment Amelia's mind chased back to the memory of the kiss in the shadows, the mouth slowly consuming hers, the gentle masculine hands, the whisper at her ear. Latcho drom...

As her brother turned to walk away, she asked with mild exasperation, "Where are you going? Leo, you can't leave when there's so much to be done."

He stopped and glanced back at her with a raised brow. "You've been pouring unsweetened tea down my throat for days. If you have no objection, I'd like to go out for a piss."

She narrowed her eyes. "I can think of at least a dozen polite euphemisms you could have used."

Leo continued on his way. "I don't use euphemisms."

"Or politeness," she said, making him chuckle.

As Leo left the room, Amelia folded her arms and sighed. "He's so much more pleasant when he's sober. A pity it doesn't happen more often. Come, Poppy, let's find the kitchen."

With the house so stale and dust-riddled, the atmosphere was hard on poor Win's lungs, causing her to cough incessantly through the night. Having awakened countless times to administer water to her sister, to open the windows, to prop her up until the coughing spasms had eased, Amelia was bleary-eyed when morning came.

"It's like sleeping in a dust box," she told Merripen. "She's better off sitting outside today, until we can manage to clean her room properly. The carpets must be beaten. And the windows are filthy."

The rest of the family was still abed, but Merripen, like Amelia, was an early riser. Dressed in rough clothes and an open-necked shirt, he stood frowning as Amelia reported on Win's condition.

"She's exhausted from coughing all night, and her throat is so sore, she can barely speak. I've tried to make her take some tea and toast, but she won't have it."

"I'll make her take it."

Amelia looked at him blankly. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised by his assertion. After all, Merripen had helped nurse both Win and Leo through the scarlet fever. Without him, Amelia was certain neither of them would have survived.

"In the meanwhile," Merripen continued, "make a list of supplies you want from the village. I'll go this morning."

Amelia nodded, grateful for his solid, reliable presence. "Shall I wake Leo? Perhaps he could help?

"No."

She smiled wryly, well aware that her brother would be more of a hindrance than a help.

Going downstairs, Amelia sought the help of Freddie, the boy from the village, to move an ancient chaise out to the back of the house. They set the furniture on a brick-paved terrace that opened onto a weed-choked garden bordered by beech hedges. The garden needed reseeding and replanting, and the crumbling low walls would have to be repaired.

"There's work to be done, mum," Freddie commented, bending to pluck a tall weed from between two paving bricks.

"Freddie, you are a master of understatement." Amelia contemplated the boy, who looked to be about thirteen. He was robust and ruddy-faced, with a ruff of hair that stood up like a robin's feathers. "Do you like gardening?" she asked. "Do you know much about it?"

"I keeps a kitchen plot for my ma."

"Would you like to be Lord Ramsay's gardener?"

"How much does it pay, miss?"

"Would two shillings a week suffice?"

Freddie looked at her thoughtfully and scratched his wind-chapped nose. "Sounds good. But you'll have to ask my ma."

'Tell me where you live, and I'll visit her this very morning."

"All right. It's not far—we're at the closest side of the village."

They shook hands on the deal, talked a moment more, and Freddie went to investigate the gardener's shed.

Turning at the sound of voices, Amelia saw Merripen carrying her sister outside. Win was dressed in a nightgown and robe and swathed in a shawl, her slim arms looped around Merripen's neck. With her white garments and blond hair and fair skin, Win was nearly colorless except for the flags of soft pink across her cheekbones and the vivid blue of her eyes.

"... that was the most terrible medicine," she was saying cheerfully.

"It worked," Merripen pointed out, bending to settle her carefully on the chaise.

"That doesn't mean I forgive you for bullying me into taking it."

"It was for your own good."

"You're a bully," Win repeated, smiling into his dark face.

"Yes, I know," Merripen murmured, tucking the lap blankets around her with extreme care.

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Delighted by the improvement in her sister's condition, Amelia smiled. "He really is dreadful. But if he manages to persuade more villagers to help clean the house, you will have to forgive him, Win."

Win's blue eyes twinkled. She spoke to Amelia, while her gaze remained on Merripen. "I have every faith in his powers of persuasion."

Coming from anyone else, the words might have been construed as a piece of flirtation. But Amelia was fairly certain that Win had no awareness of Merripen as a man. To her he was a kindly older brother, nothing more.

The feelings on Merripen's side, however, were more ambiguous.

An inquisitive gray jackdaw flapped to the ground with a few tchacks, and made a tentative hop in Win's direction. "I'm sorry," she told the bird, "there's no food to share."

A new voice entered the conversation. "Yes there is!" It was Beatrix, carrying a breakfast tray containing a plate of toast and a mug of tea. Her curly dark hair had been pulled back into an untidy bunch, and she wore a white pinafore over her berry-colored dress.

The pinafore was too young a style for a girl of fifteen, Amelia thought. Beatrix was now at an age when she should be wearing her skirts to the floor. And a corset, heaven help her. But in the past year of turmoil, Amelia hadn't given much thought to her youngest sister's attire. She needed to take Beatrix and Poppy to a dressmaker, and have some new frocks made for them. Adding that to the long list of expenditures in her head, Amelia frowned.

"Here's your breakfast, Win," Beatrix said, settling the tray on her lap. "Are you feeling well enough to butter the

toast yourself, or shall I?"

"I will, thank you." Win moved her feet and gestured for Beatrix to sit at the other end of the chaise.

Beatrix obeyed promptly. "I'm going to read to you while you sit out here," she informed Win, reaching into one of the huge pockets of her pinafore. She withdrew a little book and dangled it tantalizingly. "This book was given to me by Philomena Parsons, my best friend in the entire world. She says it's a terrifying story filled with crimes and horrors and vengeful phantoms. Doesn't it sound lovely?"

"1 thought your best friend in the world was Edwina Huddersneld," Win said with a questioning lilt.

"Oh, no, that was weeks ago. Edwina and I don't even speak now." Snuggling comfortably in her corner, Beatrix gave her older sister a perplexed glance. "Win? You have the oddest look on your face. Is something the matter?"

Win had frozen in the act of lifting a teacup to her lips, her blue eyes round with alarm.

Following her sister's gaze, Amelia saw a small reptilian creature slithering up Beatrix's shoulder. A sharp cry escaped her lips, and she moved forward with her hands raised.

Beatrix glanced at her shoulder. "Oh, drat. You're supposed to stay in my pocket." She plucked the wriggling object from her shoulder and stroked him gently. "A spotted sand lizard," she said. "Isn't he adorable? I found him in my room last night."

Amelia lowered her hands and stared dumbly at her youngest sister.

"You've made a pet of him?" Win asked weakly. "Beatrix, dear, don't you think he would be happier in the forest where he belongs?"

Beatrix looked indignant. "With all those predators? Spot wouldn't last a minute."

Amelia found her voice. "He won't last a minute with me, either. Get rid of him, Bea, or I'm going to flatten him with the nearest heavy object I can find."

"You would murder my pet?"

"One doesn't murder lizards, Bea. One exterminates them." Exasperated, Amelia turned to Merripen. "Find some cleaning women in the village, Merripen. God knows how many other unwanted creatures are lurking in the house. Not counting Leo."

Merripen disappeared at once.

"Spot is the perfect pet," Beatrix argued. "He doesn't bite, and he's already house-trained."

"I draw the line at pets with scales."

Beatrix stared at her mutinously. "The sand lizard is a native species of Hampshire—which means Spot has more right to be here than we do."

"Nevertheless, we will not be cohabiting." Walking away before she said something she would regret later, Amelia wondered why, when there was so much to be done, Beatrix would be so troublesome. But a smile rose to her lips as she reflected that fifteen-year-old girls didn't choose to be troublesome. They simply were.

Lifting handfuls of her skirts to pull them away from her legs, Amelia bounded up the grand central staircase. Since they would not be receiving guests or paying calls, she had decided not to wear a corset that day. It was a wonderful feeling to breathe as deeply as she wished and move freely about the house.

Filled with determination, she pounded on Leo's door. '"Wake up, slugabed!"

A string of foul words filtered through the heavy oak panels.

Grinning, Amelia went into Poppy's room. She pulled the curtains open, releasing clouds of dust that caused her to sneeze. "Poppy, it's... achoo!... time to get out of bed."

The covers had been drawn completely over Poppy's Head. "Not yet," came her muffled protest.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Amelia eased the covers away from her nineteen-year-old sister. Poppy was groggy and sleep-flushed, her cheek imprinted with a line left by a fold of the bedclothes. Her brown hair, a warmer, ruddier tint than Amelia's, was a wild mass of tangles.

"I hate morning," Poppy mumbled. "And I'm sure I don't like being awakened by someone who looks so bloody pleased about it."

"I'm sorry." Continuing to smile, Amelia stroked her sister's hair away from her face repeatedly.

"Mmmn." Poppy kept her eyes closed. "Mama used to do that. Feels nice."

"Does it?" Amelia laid her hand gently over the curve of Poppy's skull. "Dear, I'm going to walk to the village to ask Freddie's mother if we can hire him as our gardener."

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"Isn't he a bit young?"

"Not in comparison to the other candidates for the position."

"We have no other candidates."

"Precisely." She went to Poppy's valise in the corner, and picked up the bonnet poised atop it. "May I borrow this? Mine still hasn't been repaired."

"Of course, but... you're going right now?"

"I won't be long. I'll cover the territory quickly."

"Would you like me to go with you?"

"Thank you, dear, but no. Dress yourself and have some breakfast—and keep a close watch on Win. She's in Beatrix's care at the moment."

"Oh." Poppy's eyes widened. "I'll hurry."

Chapter Five

It was a pleasantly cool, nearly cloudless day, the southern climate far milder than London. Amelia walked briskly through a fruit orchard beyond the garden. The tree branches were weighted with large green apples. Fallen fruit had been half eaten by deer and other animals, and left to ferment and spoil.

Pausing to tug an apple from a low-hanging branch, Amelia polished it on her sleeve and took a bite. The flavor was intensely acidic.

A honeybee buzzed close by, and Amelia jerked back in alarm. She had always been terrified of bees. Although she had tried to reason herself out of her fear, she couldn't seem to control the panic that overcame her whenever one of the dratted beasts was in the vicinity.

Hurrying from the orchard, Amelia followed a sunken lane that led past a wet meadow. Despite the lateness of the season, heavy beds of watercress flourished everywhere. Known as "poor man's bread," the delicate pepper-flavored leaves were eaten in bunches by local villagers, and made into everything from soup to goose stuffing. She would gather some on her way back, she decided.

The shortest route to the village crossed through a corner of Lord Westcliff 's estate. As Amelia passed the invisible boundary between the Ramsay estate and Stony Cross Park, she could almost feel a change in the atmosphere. She walked on the outskirts of a rustling forest, too dense for daylight to penetrate the canopy. The land was luxurious, secretive, the ancient trees anchored deeply into dark and fertile ground. Removing her bonnet, Amelia held it by the brim and enjoyed the breeze against her face.

This had been Westcliff's land for generations. She wondered what kind of people the earl and his family were. Terribly proper and traditional, she guessed. It would not be welcome news that Ramsay House was now occupied by an ill-mannered, red-blooded lot like the Hathaways.

Finding a well-worn footpath that cut through the forest, she disrupted a pair of wheatears, who flapped away with indignant chirps. Life abounded everywhere, including butterflies of almost unnatural color and beetles as bright as sparks. Taking care to stay on the footpath, Amelia picked up her skirts to keep them from dragging through the leaf litter of the forest floor.

She emerged from a copse of hazel and oak into a broad dry field. It was empty. And ominously quiet. No voices, no cheep of finches, no drone of bees or rattle of grasshoppers. Something about it filled her with the instinctive tension that warned of an unknown threat. Cautiously she proceeded up the gentle rise of the meadow.

Reaching the brow of a stunted hill, Amelia paused in bewilderment at the sight of a towering contraption made of metal. It appeared to be a chute propped up on legs, tilted at a steep angle.

Her attention was caught by a minor commotion farther afield... two men emerging from behind a small wooden shelter... they were shouting and waving their arms at her.

Amelia instantly realized she had stumbled into danger, even before she saw the smoldering trail of sparks move, snakelike, along the ground toward the metal chute.

A fuse1?

Although she didn't know much about explosive devices, she was aware that once a fuse had been lit, nothing could be done to stop it. Dropping to the sun-warmed grass, Amelia covered her head with her arms, having every expectation of being blown to bits. A few heartbeats passed, and she let out a startled cry as she felt a large, heavy body fall on hers... no, not fall, pounce. He covered her completely, his knees digging into the ground on either side of her as he made a shelter of his body.

At the same moment, a deafening explosion pierced the air, and there was a violent whoosh over their heads, and a shock went through the ground beneath them. Too stunned to move, Amelia tried to gather her wits. Her ears were filled with a high-pitched buzz.

Her companion remained motionless over her, breathing heavily in her hair. The air was sharp with smoke, but even so, Amelia was aware of a pleasant masculine scent, skin-salt and soap and an intimate spice she couldn't quite identify. The noise in her ears faded. Raising up on her elbows, feeling the solid wall of his chest against her back, she saw shirtsleeves rolled up over forearms cabled with muscle... and there was something else...

Her eyes widened at the sight of a small, stylized design inked on his arm. A tattoo of a black winged horse with eyes the color of brimstone. It was an Irish design, of a nightmare horse called a pooka: a malevolent mythical creature that spoke in a human voice and carried people away at midnight.

Her heart stopped as she saw the heavy rounded band of a thumb ring.

Wriggling beneath him, Amelia tried to turn over.

The strong hand curved around her shoulder, helping her. His voice was low and familiar. "Are you hurt? I'm sorry. You were in the way of?

He stopped as Amelia rolled to her back. The front of her hair had come loose, pulled free of a strategically anchored pin. The lock fanned over her face, obscuring her vision. Before she could reach up to push it away, he did it for her, and the brush of his fingertips sent ripples of liquid fire along intimate pathways of her body.

"You," he said softly.

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Cam Rohan.

It can't be, she thought dazedly. Here, in Hampshire? But there were the unmistakable eyes, gold and hazel and heavy lashed, the midnight hair, the wicked mouth. And the pagan glitter of a diamond at his ear.

His expression was perturbed, as if he'd been reminded of something he had wanted to forget. But as his gaze slid over her bewildered face, his mouth curved a little, and he settled into the cradle of her body with an insolent familiarity that temporarily robbed her of breath.

"Mr. Rohan?how?why?what are you doing here?"

He replied without moving, as if he were planning to lie there and converse all day. His infinitely polite tone was an unsettling contrast to the intimacy of their position. "Miss Hathaway. What a pleasant surprise. As it happens, I'm visiting friends. And you?"

"I live here."

"I don't think so. This is Lord Westcliff 's estate."

Her heart thundered in her breast as her body absorbed the details of him. "I didn't mean precisely here, I meant over there, on the other side of the woods. The Ramsay estate. We've just taken up residence." She couldn't seem to stop herself from chattering in the aftermath of nerves and fright. "What was that noise? What were you doing? Why do you have that tattoo on your arm? It's a pooka—an Irish creature—isn't it?"

That last question earned her an arrested stare. Before Rohan could reply, the other two men approached. From her prone position, Amelia had an upside-down view of them. Like Rohan, they were in their shirtsleeves, with waistcoats left unbuttoned.

One of them was a portly old gentleman with a shock of silver hair. He held a small wood-and-metal sextant, which had been strung around his neck on a lanyard. The other, black-haired man looked to be in his late thirties. He wasn't as tall as Rohan, but he had an air of authority tempered with aristocratic arrogance.

Amelia made a helpless movement, and Rohan lifted away from her with fluid ease. He helped her stand, his arm steadying her. "How far did it go?" he asked the men.

"Devil take the rocket," came a gravelly reply. "What is the woman's condition?"

"Unharmed."

The silver-haired gentleman remarked, "Impressive, Rohan. You covered a distance of fifty yards in no more than five or six seconds."

"I would hardly miss a chance to leap on a beautiful woman," Rohan said, causing the older man to chuckle.

Rohan's hand remained at the small of Amelia's back, the light pressure causing her blood to simmer.

Easing away from his distracting touch, Amelia raised her hands to the dangling front locks of her hair, tucking them behind her ears. "Why are you shooting rockets? And more to the point, why are you shooting them at my property?"

The stranger nearby gave her a sharp, assessing glance. "Your property?"

Rohan interceded. "Lord Westcliff, this is Miss Amelia Hathaway. Lord Ramsay's sister."

Frowning, Westcliff executed a precise bow. "Miss Hathaway. I was not informed about your arrival. Had I been aware of your presence, I would have notified you about our rocketry experiments, as I have everyone else in the vicinity."

It was clear that Westcliff was a man who expected to be informed about everything. He looked annoyed that the new neighbors had dared to move into their own residence without telling him first.

"We arrived only yesterday, my lord," Amelia replied. "I had intended to call on you after we settled in." Under ordinary circumstances, she would have left it at that. But she was still off balance, and there was no stopping the flow of comments from her own mouth. "Well. I must say the guidebook didn't warn adequately about the occurrence of rocket fire amid the peaceful Hampshire scenery." She reached down and whacked at the dust and bits of leaf that clung to her skirts. "I'm sure you don't know the Hathaways well enough to shoot at us. Yet. When we become better acquainted, however, I have no doubt you'll find ample reason to bring out the artillery."

Over her head, she heard Rohan laugh. "Considering our issues with aim and accuracy, you have nothing to fear, Miss Hathaway."

The silver-haired gentleman spoke then. "Rohan, if you wouldn't mind finding out where that rocket landed?

"Of course." Rohan took off at an easy lope.

"Agile fellow," the older man said approvingly. "Fast as a leopard. Not to mention steady of hands and nerves. What a sapper he'd make."

To be continued

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