“What makes you say that?” he asked, frowning.

“Your mother said it this morning,” she said. “Kit, sometimes we just see things from the wrong perspective. Because you quarreled with the Earl of Redfield three years ago, and because he banished you, you cannot conceive of the idea that perhaps he loves you, that perhaps he wants your happiness.”

A peace offering? Or the autocratic assumption that a son, even one who was almost thirty years old, was subject to one’s will, with no right to feelings or preferences of his own? Two vastly different perspectives indeed.

Up ahead the main path continued its gradual curving rise toward the high point north of the house. But there was another path, narrower, steeper, and stonier, that branched off sharply to the right. It led to the top of a wooded hill and a ruined tower, which looked ancient but was in reality just another folly. Kit turned Lauren onto the steep path and slid his arm clear of hers so that he could grasp her hand the better to assist her in the scrambling climb. She gathered up the front of her skirt with her free hand and labored onward, as dignified as ever.

“Kit,” she asked, “was it a whole year after you returned to the Peninsula before your brother died?”

“Almost exactly,” he said. “He caught a chill. There was a solid week or so of torrential autumn rain and the river flooded close to some cottages, marooning their occupants and threatening to drown them all. They were not our own laborers, but Jerome rode to the rescue anyway. There were not enough boats, so he did a great deal of swimming and saved a number of lives. No one died, as it happened—except him, two weeks later.”

“Oh,” she said. “He was a hero, then.”

“Absolutely.” A damned hero, who had not even lifted his fists to defend himself before Kit broke his nose and had not fought back afterward. A bloody hero, who had not even waited for Kit to come home again before dying. A shining hero, who had stranded his brother on this side of the grave without first shaking his hand and making peace with him.

“Where is he buried?” she asked.

“In the family plot in the churchyard, I suppose,” he said abruptly. And no, he answered silently though she did not ask, he did not know exactly where. And no, he had no intention of visiting the grave. Ever. It had been a damned fool thing for Jerome to do, recklessly risking his life like that and losing it. He had not written one letter all that year to his brother in the Peninsula. Not one. Neither had Kit written to him, of course. The first word he had had from Alvesley after his banishment was the black-bordered letter addressed in his father’s hand.

He had walked out beyond the camp after reading it, out into open countryside, and he had howled at the empty sky and shaken his fists at the cruel, invisible God. And then, even though it was less than two hours since he had returned from one exhausting mission, he had volunteered for another. He had not stopped for sleep or even for food. Not even for a shave. In action lay some hope of control over this malevolent thing called life. And perhaps—though improbably—forgetfulness.

“Oh,” Lauren said breathlessly, stopping on the path, her feet firmly planted on a large, flat stone. “This is steep.” She turned to look back the way they had come. They were surrounded by trees, but the main path was visible far below and through the tree branches beyond it some of the brightly colored flowerbeds of the parterres.

“Catch your breath for a moment,” he said.

He wished they were back in London. He wished he had his own bachelor rooms to return to and his clubs to attend and his friends to spend his days and nights with. And Lauren to tease. It had been a mistake to come home, to believe that it would be possible to do if he brought a wife, or even a temporary betrothed, with him to somehow insulate himself from all that had set him adrift from his family and his boyhood self three years ago.

Jerome was dead and could never be brought back. And Syd . . .

“Why were your brother and Lady Freyja still not married after a whole year of being betrothed?” Lauren asked.

At first he had assumed that they had married, that Freyja was Jerome’s widow. It was only after he was back in England and had sold out that he learned the truth. He had been puzzled—and deeply shocked.

“I have no idea.” He shrugged. “A banished son is not fed a great deal of family information, you know.”

They resumed their climb. Lauren’s breathing was labored and her cheeks flushed. Her thin slippers must find the going rough underfoot. But she uttered no word of complaint. She was quiet dignity personified, he thought, and felt an unexpected wave of affection for her. He chuckled aloud at the memory of the wonderful setdowns she had dealt first Ralf and then Freyja. He had been very much afraid that like a lion with a mouse they would be able to devour her whole and spit out the remains.

But strength did not always show itself in boldness and physical action alone, he was discovering.

“What is funny?” she asked.

“Nothing is funny,” he replied. “Just joyful. It is July and a hot, sunny day. We are in a country that enjoys peace within its borders. We are young and in good health and surrounded by the beauties of nature.” His mood swung from depression to exuberance, and he tugged at her hand. “I want to show you something.”

“That tower?” she asked breathlessly, glancing upward. “I suppose it has one of those steep, winding stone staircases leading to the top, does it? And you are going to insist that I climb it. I would really rather not. Going up is always relatively easy. Coming down is sheer terror.”

“Not the tower.” He pointed. “The best view to be had is not from the top of the tower, you see.”

She stopped and looked, still laboring for breath. “Oh, no,” she said firmly. “No, Kit. I have never in my life climbed a tree. It looked dangerous when Gwen and Neville used to do it, and it looks dangerous now. Besides, it would be a childish thing to do. We are quite high enough for a view, thank you very much. I can see the roof of the house quite clearly from where we stand. I am not—I am absolutely, definitely not climbing that tree.”

It took all of ten minutes to reach the branch he had in mind. It was not as high up the ancient oak tree as he had often climbed as a boy, but it was definitely higher than the tower, and it was a broad, sturdy limb. It was easily reached by numerous perfectly safe foot- and handholds. But each move, particularly the first one that took them off the ground, had to be coaxed out of Lauren. He went up behind her, one arm linked about her waist, but she would not allow him literally to carry her up.

“I will do it myself, thank you,” she told him curtly the only time he tightened his hold and would have hoisted her upward when she seemed to be paralyzed with indecision. “This is not what I meant at Vauxhall, Kit. There is nothing remotely enjoyable about this.”

“But it is memorable, you must admit,” he said into her ear with a chuckle. “Swimming in your shift and climbing trees all on the same day. You are in sore danger of becoming a notorious hoyden.”

The branch was as broad as many of the trunks of lesser trees.

“You could not fall off if you tried,” he said not quite truthfully as he sat down on it, settled his back against the trunk, and drew her down to sit between his spread legs, her back against his chest, his arms protectively about her waist.

“I do not intend to try,” she assured him. “Kit, how are we ever going to get down?”

He could feel her heart thumping against his hand. She was overwarm and panting from the climb—and from fear too, he guessed. He noticed that her gaze did not move downward by even a single degree. She pressed her head back hard against his shoulder—her bonnet had been abandoned at the foot of the tree.

“Trust me,” he said against her ear.

“Trust the man famous or infamous for all sorts of reckless and foolish exploits?” she said, closing her eyes. “Trust the officer mentioned in several official military dispatches as a particularly daring spy?”

“But I came back from every mission in one piece,” he said.

Her heartbeat was beginning to slow to normal. She was beginning to relax. She was half reclined along the tree branch, her legs slightly bent, her feet flat. They were long, slender legs, clearly outlined by the flimsy muslin of her dress. Her feet were slim, her ankles trim. It was strange what a change an acquaintance with someone could bring to one’s perceptions. Lauren Edgeworth seemed far more youthful to him now than she had appeared when he first saw her. And less classically beautiful and more femininely pretty.

“If you can ever persuade yourself to open your eyes,” he said, “you will see that the view has made the climb worthwhile.”

“ Nothing could do that,” she assured him. But she opened her eyes and looked.

It really was an impressive vista. There was a clear view over the treetops to the stream and the parterre gardens, which from here could be viewed in all their geometric precision, and the eastern front of the house. But they were high enough to see far more than that. There were the cultivated, tree-dotted lawns surrounding the house, the river with the lake in the distance, the deer forest and the spire of the village church, the hills in the opposite direction, farmland in the far distance.

A feast for the eyes and the other senses too. There were birds singing. There was a suggestion of coolness in the slight breeze. And there were bars of sunlight and shade across their bodies from the branches and the sun, which was descending in the late afternoon sky. There were the heavy smells of heat and vegetation and . . . a soft, fragrant soap.