Unfortunately, that image, while helpful on the one hand, brought the source of her deeper unease into stronger focus. No matter how she tried, she couldn't escape the conclusion that for all his vaunted strength of character, for all his apparent family feeling, even despite his Cousin Clara's belief, Devil was turning his back on his dead cousin. Sweeping his death under the proverbial rug, presumably so it wouldn't interfere with his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure.

She didn't want to believe it, but she'd heard him herself. He'd stated that Tolly had been killed by a highwayman or a poacher. Everyone believed him, the magistrate included. He was the head of the family, one step removed from a despot; to them and the ton, what Devil Cynster, duke of St. Ives, stated, was.

The only one inclined to question him was herself. Tolly hadn't been shot by a highwayman, nor a poacher.

Why would a highwayman kill an unarmed young man? Highwaymen ordered their victims to stand and deliver; Tolly had carried a heavy purse-she'd felt it in his pocket. Had Tolly been armed and, with the impetuosity of youth, attempted to defend himself? She'd seen no gun; it seemed unlikely he could have flung it far from him while falling from the saddle. A highwayman did not seem at all likely.

As for a poacher, her devilish host had narrowed the field there. Not a shotgun, he had said, but a pistol. Poachers did not use pistols.

Tolly had been murdered.

She wasn't sure when she had reached that conclusion; it was now as inescapable as the dawn.

Honoria sat up and thumped her pillow, then fell back and stared into the night. Why was she so incensed by it-why did she feel so involved? She felt as if a responsibility had been laid upon her-upon her soul-to see justice done.

But that wasn't the cause of her sleeplessness.

She'd heard Tolly's voice in the cottage, heard the relief he'd felt when he'd realized he'd reached Devil. He'd thought he'd reached safety-someone who would protect him. In the cottage, she would have sworn Devil cared-cared deeply. But his behavior in ignoring the evidence of Tolly's murder said otherwise.

If he truly cared, wouldn't he be searching for the murderer, doing all he could to catch him? Or was his "caring" merely an attitude, only skin-deep? Beneath that facade of strength, was he truly weak and shallow?

She couldn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it.

Honoria closed her eyes. And tried to sleep.

Chapter 6

It was an illusion-all an illusion-a typically arrogant sleight of hand. The scales fell from Honoria's eyes late the next morning, right in the middle of Tolly's funeral.

The crowd attending was considerable. A short service had been held in the church in the grounds, a stone building ringed by ancient trees shading monuments to Cynsters long gone.

Then the pallbearers-Devil and his cousins-had carried the coffin to the grave, set in a small clearing beyond the first circle of trees. Contrary to her intention to merge with the crowd, Honoria had been partnered first by Vane, who had given her his arm, thus including her in the family procession to the church, then later claimed by Amanda and Amelia, who had steered her to the grave, admitting they were acting on Devil's orders. A funeral was no place to make a stand. Resigned, Honoria had capitulated, accepting a position behind the twins at the graveside.

It was then the truth struck her.

The males of the family lined the other side of the grave. Directly opposite stood Tolly's brothers, Charles, with Simon beside him. Devil stood next to Simon; as Honoria watched, he placed a hand on Simon's shoulder. The boy looked up; Honoria witnessed their shared glance, that silent communication at which Devil excelled.

Vane stood next to Devil; behind and around them stood a solid phalanx of male Cynsters. There was no doubt of their connection-their faces, seen all together, held the same unyielding planes, their features the same autocratic cast. They numbered six, not counting Simon and Charles, both set apart, one by age, the other by character. Between the six, hair color varied, from Devil's black to light chestnut; eye color, too, differed. Nothing else did.

There was enormous strength in the group facing her-powerful, masculine, it emanated from them. Devil was their leader yet they were a group of individuals, each contributing to the whole. Elsewhere about the grave, grief was amorphous. The grief of Tolly's male cousins held purpose, melding into a cohesive force, directed, focused.

Focused on Tolly's grave.

Honoria narrowed her eyes. People were still shifting, finding places in the crowd; both Amelia and Amanda were tense. Honoria leaned forward and whispered: "Tell me the names of your older male cousins."

The twins glanced at her, then across the grave. Amelia spoke first. "Vane's next to Devil, but you know him."

"That can't be his real name."

"His real name's Spencer," Amanda whispered. "But don't ever call him that."

"The one behind Devil is Richard-he's called Scandal. He's Devil's brother."

"And the one behind Vane is his younger brother, Harry. They call him Demon."

"Demon Harry?"

"That's right." Amanda nodded. "The one next to Vane is Gabriel."

"His real name's Rupert-he's Uncle Martin's eldest son."

"And I suppose the one behind Gabriel is Lucifer?" Honoria asked. "His brother?"

"That's right-he's really Alasdair."

Straightening, Honoria spent one minute wondering how they'd come by their pseudonyms-one question she was not about to ask the twins. She looked across the grave at those six male faces, and saw them clearly. No force on earth would stop them bringing Tolly's murderer to justice.

Being Cynsters, they could be counted on to avenge Tolly's death. Also being Cynsters, they would ensure their womenfolk, their elders and juniors-all those they considered in their care-were not disturbed or touched by such violence. Death and vengeance was their province, the home fires for the rest.

Which was all very well, but…

The last prayer was said; earth struck the coffin. Tolly's mother sagged in her sisters-in-law's arms; her husband hurried to her side. Amelia and Amanda tugged at Honoria's hands. Reluctantly, she turned from the grave-from the tableau on its opposite side.

Charles and the older Cynsters had left, but Simon, Devil, and the five others remained, their gazes still locked on the coffin. Just before she turned, Honoria saw Simon look up, into Devil's face, a question in his wide eyes. She saw Devil's response, the tightening of his hand on Simon's shoulder, the quiet promise he bent his head to give.

She had no doubt of the substance of that promise.

In company with the twins, Honoria crossed the lawns, musing on her situation. She would send for her brother Michael tomorrow, but he would take some days to reach her. Those days could be useful.

She needed to see justice done; she had a duty to avenge innocence-that was doubtless why Tolly's face haunted her. Impossible to send adult Cynster males to avenge innocence; their vengeance would be fueled by their warriors' reasons-the defending of their family, their clan. She would be the defender of innocence-she had a role to play, too.

She'd been looking for excitement, for adventure and intrigue-fate had landed her here. Far be it from her to argue.

The wake was a crush. Many of the bucks and bloods who had come up from London stayed for the final scene. In half an hour, Honoria had been introduced to more dangerous blades than she'd thought to meet in a lifetime. Luckily, her inclusion within the family group had sent a clear message; she was not troubled by any of the visitors.

The twins again took to their instruments; the crowd filled the music room and the drawing room and overflowed onto the terrace.

While chatting with Cynster relatives and tonnish family acquaintances, Honoria kept a careful eye on Devil and his five accomplices. A pattern was soon apparent. Devil stood in the drawing room, his back to the open terrace doors; the others roamed the crowd, every now and then either stopping by Devil's side quietly to impart some information or catching his eye.

She could do nothing to intercept that silent communication; as for the other, however… Honoria focused on Lady Sheffield, her present interrogator.

"Of course," her ladyship intoned, "this distressing business will delay matters somewhat."

Deliberately vague, Honoria raised her brows. "Indeed?"

Lady Sheffield eyed her consideringly. "Three months of mourning-that makes it December."

"Winter," Honoria helpfully observed. She smiled at Lady Sheffield, and gave her something for her pains. "Pray excuse me, ma'am-I must speak with Webster."

With a smile, she glided to the door, quite certain how her words would be interpreted. In the hall, she wove through the knots of guests. Plates piled with tiny sandwiches sat waiting on a sideboard; picking one up, she proceeded through the music room and onto the terrace.

Reaching the spot immediately behind Devil's back, she took up her position, her back to the drawing room. The sandwiches on her plate instantly attracted suitable cover.

"Lady Harrington," an older lady introduced herself. "Know your grandfather well, miss. Haven't seen him for a while. Daresay he's keeping well?"

"I daresay," Honoria replied, keeping her voice low.

"Hurst knows nothing, nor does Gilford."