He felt with surprise an unexpected surge of pride and sentimentality suddenly, remembering that this was his childhood home, and there was a time he'd been happy here, when he was younger, when things had been different.

Perhaps his mother had been right to press so hard to bring him home. Perhaps it was time to put the past behind him and mend what had been shattered and broken. If it could be mended. He was not sure that it could.

The coach drove across the cobbled court and pulled to a halt at the front entrance. A liveried footman came dashing down the wet steps carrying an umbrella, his buckled shoes splashing through puddles. He opened the door of the coach and lowered the step, then held the umbrella up for Devon, who emerged at last from the dark confines.

He would have liked to take a moment to gaze up at the enormous portico above the grand entrance and the sculptures on the clock tower, but the rain was coming down too hard, pounding on the ground and hissing like a beast while the wind gusted and threatened to pull the umbrella inside out.

"Welcome back, my lord!" the footman shouted into his ear.

What was it about the rain that made people think they needed to shout? "Thank you. It's good to be back."

It was partly true, at least.

He started up the stairs with the footman at his side holding the umbrella for him, but as soon as they passed through the open door and entered the grand hall, the servant was gone, and Devon's mother, the duchess, was striding toward him with a smile.

He stopped. She was as beautiful as ever with her golden hair swept into an elegant twist, her form-fitting gown the color of a ripe peach, the long, trained overskirt caught up at the sides and draped with pleats in the front. She was almost fifty, but possessed the slender, attractive figure of a woman half her age, and an ivory complexion few women could rival.

She crossed the hall to him. "Oh, my dear, you are home at last." She rushed to him and took his hands in hers. Her eyes sparkled. She seemed too excited to breathe.

Devon bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. "How wonderful to see you, Mother," he said. "You look exquisite. More lovely than ever, if that is possible."

She raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. "I see my son has not lost his charm. I'll wager those American girls were very sorry to see you board that ship back to England." He shook his head, and she slapped him playfully on the arm. "Don't be modest, Devon. You know I'm right. Oh, I thought this day would never come."

Another set of heels came clicking across the marble floor. It was his half sister, Charlotte. "Devon!" His mother had to step back to clear the way as she dashed straight into his arms. "At last! You're here!"

"Yes, Charlotte," he replied. He was pleased the past year with all its painful emotional heartbreak over her fiance had not broken her spirit as well. She was still as boisterous as ever. He held her away from him. "Let me get a look at you." Charlotte was golden-haired like their mother, and equally as lovely with deep blue eyes, long lashes, and a flawless complexion. "What a beauty you have become."

She smiled. "And you are still the same handsome heartbreaker you were before you left. I must admit, however, I am surprised you did not come home with a rich American wife."

A wife? Him?

"It's been in all the papers lately," she explained, "about Lord Randolph Churchill marrying the Jerome girl from New York just last week. Did you hear about it?"

"Of course. The New York papers printed every detail of the engagement."

"They say she's very beautiful."

"I am sure she is, and I hope some day to meet her." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag. "My only wish at the moment, however, is to see you, my dear sister, wearing the gift I brought you."

"Oh, Devon." She reached for the bag. "What is it?"

"Open it and find out."

She slid her fingers into the drawstring opening, withdrew a pearl bracelet, and held it up to the light. "It's stunning. Help me put it on?" She handed it to him, and he wrapped it around her slender wrist, then fastened the silver clasp. "It's perfect."

"I have something for you, too, Mother," he said, "but it's wrapped up in one of my trunks."

"You didn't have to, Devon. Your presence here in the house again was the only gift I wanted."

He noted a slight melancholy in her voice, a weariness in her eyes, and recalled a similar look on her face the day he had left, when the family had seemed to split apart at the seams with heartbreak and hostility.

"Is Vincent here?" he carefully asked.

She lowered her eyes and shook her head. "No. He is still in London. I'm very sorry."

He watched her for a moment. "No need to apologize, Mother. I didn't expect him to be here."

Blake's voice sounded from the saloon. "Devon, you're back!"

He felt a swell of pleasure at the sound, then strode forward to shake his brother's hand, noting that the young man he had left behind three years ago had matured. At twenty-six, his looks had not changed much-he was still tall and dark and broad-shouldered-but something in the way he carried himself was different. He had always been a calming influence in the family, but now, he seemed to know it. He appeared relaxed and confident, and Devon felt certain that whatever problems had arisen while he was gone, they had been kept well in hand.

"Good God, man," Blake said, pumping his hand firmly and squeezing his elbow. "You've been in the sun. You look like a pirate."

Devon laughed. "I spent every possible minute up on deck during the crossing, which I am sure you would have done, too, had you been there. This rain…." He turned to direct his comment at Charlotte and their mother. "Will it ever stop?"

"We are all wondering the same thing," Blake replied, then his voice took on a twinge of resignation. "But the weather is a taboo subject around here. Isn't that right, Mother?"

She nodded. "Yes, it is."

Devon narrowed his gaze, looking at each of them in turn.

He faced his brother again. "You have all worked very hard to drag me home from America, and I can see you are itching to tell me something. Accompany me to the library, if you will, Blake. You know how I hate being kept in the dark."

Blake's face clouded over with uneasiness. He took a deep breath and let it out. "Indeed, there is much to discuss, and there is no point putting it off. The library it is, then. Is it too early in the day for a brandy?"

"Not by my watch," Devon replied. "Judging by the look of dread on your face, something tells me I'm going to need it."

"So here it is in a nutshell," Blake said, his voice somber as he handed a glass to Devon. "It's Father. I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he appears to be…Well, there is no polite way to put it. We all believe he is…" He paused a moment and took a drink. "Father is going mad."

Devon accepted the glass without looking at it, because it was all he could do to keep his eyes steady on his brother. "Mad, you say."

"Yes, mad. Rattled in the brain, nutty as a fruitcake, cuckoo, loony, out of his tree…"

Devon held up a hand. "I get the picture, Blake. Has the physician been summoned?"

"Yes, a few times over the past few months, but he assures us Father is in perfect health."

"But you believe otherwise," Devon said, watching his brother carefully as he sipped his brandy. "Did you tell this to the doctor?"

"Of course. Mother and I both have, but whenever he comes to perform an examination, Father is perfectly lucid and explains everything quite sensibly, so the doctor thinks we are overreacting, and that we simply do not understand his eccentric disposition." Blake strode across the room to the desk in front of the window and leaned back upon it. "Dr. Lambert's a bloody brownnoser if you ask me. He's been the family physican for thirty years and he expects something from Father in the will, no doubt. He doesn't want to cross him." His voice grew resigned. "Father is sixty-nine now, Devon. He is not going to live forever."

Devon gazed down at the brandy in his glass. "I am aware." He took a slow sip. Outside the window, the rain came down harder, driving against the panes. "But tell me of his behavior. What evidence do you have to support your suspicions?"

Blake's dark brows lifted-as if he had a whole list of examples, but didn't know where to begin.

"About six months ago, he began to have trouble sleeping. Now, every night, he gets up and wanders the dark corridors for hours in his nightshirt and slippers. He often talks to himself and speaks about our ancestors and what he knows about their lives."

Devon went to the sofa and sat down. For a long moment, he considered what his brother was describing to him.

"I admit," he said, "that this is disturbing to hear, but perhaps the doctor has a point. You said yourself that Father is sixty-nine now. This sounds to me like nothing more than the eccentricities of old age. He is simply reminiscing about the past. Perhaps that is why the doctor is not overly concerned."

His brother took another sip of brandy. He looked tired all of a sudden and shook his head.

"You seem disappointed," Devon said, as a small twinge of displeasure nipped at his mood. "Were you expecting that I would come home and simply wave a hand and make the problem disappear?"

When his brother gave no reply, Devon studied his expression carefully, then leaned back against the sofa cushions. "Or perhaps you are remembering that I am not the hero everyone always imagined me to be."