Eagerly Horace set out on his errand, taking short, quick steps that were closely reminiscent of a duck crossing an icy pond. Intent upon this moment of glory, he reasoned as he went that if the lady would like one bottle, she might better appreciate two or even three.

Marelda’s eyes took on a feral gleam as a whole series of thoughts enraptured her. Her love of money had not been satiated by the small fortune her sire had bequeathed to her, but here was a resource she had not considered before and one well worth tapping. The Titch family had money enough to balance out the faults of the little man, and Horace did seem incredibly pliant to her wishes. Hardly like that devil, Ashton, who had always been difficult to manage. She was so taken with the prospect of gaining greater wealth, it seemed only a few brief moments before the door of the tavern opened again and the short man teetered out, his arms filled with a large cloth sack. His rapid gait brought him to her carriage without delay, and after swinging the door open, he deposited the offering at her feet.

“Enough for a fortnight or more, Miss Rousse.” He spread the top of the bag to display four bottles. “Your…uh…uncle should not go wanting during his visit.”

“Why, Mr. Titch, I do declare. I believe you have put me in your debt and richly so. Would you like to ride with me? Perhaps I can drop you somewhere.”

“The ride itself would be my pleasure, Miss Rousse, and anywhere you choose to drop me would be fine.” He gestured down the street to a black man who sat atop a waiting conveyance. “My carriage will follow.” Hoisting himself aboard, Horace settled into the seat facing her, rather awed at being in her company.

Marelda waved her handkerchief to indicate the group of men he had left. “I hope I’m not taking you away from some important discussion with your friends.”

“Important enough to rouse fear in the hearts of every man, woman, and child in Natchez if they knew the truth. What we need now is some sort of action.”

“My goodness, it sounds frightfully important.” She fluttered her lashes to convey her bemusement. “What truth do you speak of, Mr. Titch?”

“Why, the truth about those half-wits escaping from the madhouse!”

Marelda was genuinely surprised. “Someone escaped from the asylum?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Horace was impressed with his own ability to enlighten her. “The madhouse burned, and several inmates walked away. At this very moment they’re roaming completely free around the countryside, and there’s no telling what sort of danger we might be in.”

“But when did all this happen?”

“The same night we were all at Belle Chêne awaiting Ashton Wingate’s return.”

Marelda leaned back in her seat and stared at him while her mind worked in a slowly turning cycle. Ashton had said Lierin might have escaped from a burning house, and here was news that the madhouse had gone up in flames. Was it a coincidence? Or a stroke of luck for her? She almost laughed as she mentally rubbed her hands in glee. Perhaps she had found a safe way to have her revenge after all.

Marelda assumed an expression of worry and concern as she focused her regard on the stubby little man. “Do you suppose that girl Ashton brought home might have come from the madhouse?”

Horace’s bushy brows shot up in surprise. He hadn’t even considered the wench. “Why, I suppose she could have….”

“Ashton says that she’s his long-dead wife come back alive, but how can anyone believe that?” Marelda could almost see the man’s mind gulping down the tidbits she fed him. “How can she be his wife when everyone knows Lierin Wingate died three years ago?”

“Why…why would Ashton say that she’s his wife when she’s really not?”

Marelda managed a concerned frown before she shrugged. “I would hate to be the one who said it, but you know how Ashton is about a pretty face. With him knowing she might be from the asylum and the girl saying she can’t remember, he’s probably giving that excuse to make things convenient for him.”

Horace stroked his chin thoughtfully. What the lady said might very well be true, but he would never dare confront Ashton and accuse him of lying. “I guess that’s one of ’em who’s found a safe nest.”

Marelda was aghast that he did not jump at the opportunity she was presenting him. “What do you mean?”

“No one’s going to interfere with Ashton,” he said simply.

“But the girl might have escaped from the madhouse!” Dissatisfied by his lack of zeal, she threw his words back at him. “We could all be in danger!”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until she does something before we can take her from Belle Chêne.”

“Does what?” Marelda had to curb her mounting irritation with the man. “You mean kill someone?”

“Or hurt somebody.” It would take something drastic to prompt him to move against the man, and he could imagine there were others who felt the same way.

“I shall not be able to sleep a wink!” she declared, but those who knew her were cognizant of the fact that after a few toddies, the mighty Mississippi could change its course and sweep her house away without her being aware of it. “I could be murdered in my bed by that woman, and there’d be no one to rush to my defense!”

“I’d gladly lend you my protection, Miss Rousse,” Horace offered magnanimously. “In fact, if it would make you feel better, I can come by ’most every day…or…ah…evening and…ah…make sure that you are safe.”

“Oh, would you, Horace?” Smiling warmly, she reached over and placed her gloved hand upon his. “You are a true friend indeed.”

Now that it had received some nourishment, Mumford Horace Titch’s infatuation with Marelda burgeoned well out of proportion. With the excuse he had provided for himself, he came to visit her as soon as he was assured that he would not intrude upon her uncle’s visit, reluctantly letting a week go past before he approached her door. The maid let him in and looked him over with some skepticism before she showed him into the parlor, there bidding him wait until she had informed her mistress of his presence. Though the mantel clock showed less than two hours before midday, Horace, in his diligence to his newly acquired duties, had failed to consider that the lady was a late riser. A silver coffee service was brought to help him while away the time, and he drummed his fingers nervously on the porcelain cup as the clock ticked away the minutes. He was on his second cup of the dark bitter brew when Marelda finally came into the parlor, but the wait proved worthwhile, at least on his part. Her robe seemed hastily donned, and the thin gown worn beneath it displayed enough of her bosom to make the strong coffee go to his head.

“My most humble apologies, dear lady!” Horace stammered and came to his feet, nearly spilling the cup of steaming liquid into his lap. “I did not mean to disturb your sleep.”

Marelda leisurely crossed the room and, pouring herself a draft, sweetened it with several spoonfuls of sugar and lightened the color with a liberal dribble of cream before noting that her guest’s face was a reddish hue. His eyes seemed to bulge as they remained locked on her carefully arranged décolletage. Since his breaking point appeared imminent, she casually presented her back as she sipped from her cup.

“You mustn’t give it another thought, Mr. Titch. It’s just that I hadn’t expected anyone at this…um…hour.” She gazed lazily at the mantel clock, favoring him with a full view of her left profile, which she considered her best. “Had I any clue whatsoever that you’d really be coming to attend to my welfare, I would have prepared myself better.” This was hardly the truth, but she ignored the inaccuracy and enjoyed the effect her state of dishabille was provoking in the short, pudgy man.

“Please,” she murmured graciously, waving a hand to the settee from which he had risen, “make yourself comfortable.” As he obeyed, she took a seat in a chair directly opposite him, letting him have a glimpse of an ankle before pulling her robe together.

Horace’s head was still filled with swelling bosom, sleepy dark eyes, and ruby lips when this latest blast brought a light beading of perspiration upon his upper lip. He stretched his neck and twitched it to ease the sudden tightness of his cravat.

“I…that is…I mean, if we are going to be friends now, uh…“mister” sounds so…um…formal. Maybe…” He couldn’t quite put such a bold proposal into words, and was relieved when the lady seemed to understand.

“Of course.” She sipped from her cup and eyed him over its edge. “You may call me Marelda, and I”-she leaned forward and smiled seductively-“shall call you…Mumford.”

It took a decidedly strong effort on his part to tear his eyes from her gaping gown and meet her gaze. It was terribly difficult to suggest that this beautiful creature could displease him in any way. “I…uh…” Openly sweating now, he ran a finger beneath his collar, feeling in dire need for a breath of cool, fresh air. “My…um…middle name is Horace, and I…”

“But, dahling,” she pouted prettily, “I rather like Mumford, or even…”

Horace almost cringed as he sensed it coming.

“…Mummy!”

“I…er…Horace is my favorite.” His voice grew very small as he dared disagree with this delectable demoiselle. “My mother and Sissy always called me Mummy, and the other boys…” The memory of some of their taunts was simply too painful to express. He sat erect on the edge of the divan and stared at the buckles of his shoes while he fumbled with his cup and struggled to find a way to change the subject.

“Of course, my dear.” Marelda set her cup aside and rose. “It shall be whatever you wish.”

Horace scrambled to his feet as she stepped very close to him, and her sweet lavender fragrance set his brain swirling.

“You can see that all is well here and that I am in no danger,” she stated matter-of-factly. She ran a hand down her side, smoothing the velvet robe to emphasize her words while noting how his eyes followed the gesture. “Since the hour is close to noon, I really must be getting dressed and seeing to lunch.” The cook had better be well along with the latter, she thought. She was not a breakfast person unless she was visiting the Wingate estate, and she almost shuddered when she considered the hours those people kept. “Was there something else you wanted? Have you found out any information about that woman at the Wingates’?” Marelda took him by the arm and began leading him toward the door, casually pressing her breast against him. “I’ll bet you anything she’s one of those who escaped from the madhouse. Why else would she show up in a nightgown the very same night? It’s really a shame someone doesn’t at least bring that to Ashton’s notice.” He’s taking a great chance with her living there. Suppose, if you might, that she set the fire at the madhouse, and she’s just waiting the chance to torch Belle Chêne.”