While her coachman remained with the carriage, Catherine entered Ralston cottage’s modest foyer.

“Good afternoon, Baxter,” she greeted Genevieve’s imposing butler, tilting back her head to meet his obsidian gaze. “Is Mrs. Ralston at home?”

“The mistress is always at home for you, Lady Catherine,” Baxter announced in his deep, gravelly voice. Relieved, Catherine surrendered her velvet bonnet and cashmere shawl to Baxter’s ham-sized hands.

No matter how many times she saw him, Baxter’s sheer height and breadth never ceased to amaze Catherine. He stood at least six inches over six feet, and his impressive muscles strained the confines of his formal black attire. His proportions, combined with his bald head, not to mention the tiny gold hoops adorning his earlobes, or the fact that he tended to answer questions with a monosyllabic growl, lent him a most intimidating air. Certainly no one encountering Baxter would ever suspect that he loved flowers, clucked over Genevieve’s brood of cats like a mother hen, and baked the most delicious scones Catherine had ever tasted. He guarded Genevieve and her menagerie as if they were the crown jewels, and referred to Genevieve as “the one wot saved me.”

Catherine knew they’d known each other in Genevieve’s “former” life-the one she’d lived before settling in Little Longstone, and she was thankful Genevieve had a strong friend to help her. And protect her. Baxter’s hands alone looked as if they could pulverize rock, and, according to Genevieve, they had on more than one occasion. Catherine prayed they would not need to know such violence again.

Baxter escorted her to the drawing room, then retreated. Five minutes later, Genevieve entered the room, her beautiful face alight with pleasure. A pastel green muslin gown adorned her lush figure, and her pale blond hair was arranged in the simple chignon she favored, a style that highlighted her pansy blue eyes and full lips. At two-and-thirty, Genevieve’s complexion remained creamy, and even the faint lines etched around her eyes and on her forehead could not detract from her beauty.

“What a lovely surprise,” she said, crossing the blue-and-cream Axminster rug with her slow, measured steps. “I thought you’d be too weary after your journey to visit today.”

As was her custom, Genevieve blew her a kiss in greeting, touching her lips to her gloved fingertips. Catherine returned the gesture, her heart pinching with sympathy for her friend at her misshapen hands that even the heavy gloves could not hide. In all the years they’d been friends, Catherine had never seen her friend’s hands bare.

“I had to come,” Catherine said. “There is something we must discuss.”

Genevieve gave her a sharp-eyed look. “What happened to your lip?”

“That is part of what we need to discuss. Come, let us sit.”

Once they were seated on an overstuffed brocade settee, Catherine told her friend about the shooting.

“Dear God, Catherine,” Genevieve said, her eyes filled with concern. “What a horrifying ordeal. How do you feel now?”

“A little achy and sore, but much improved. The wound was superficial.”

“How fortunate. For all of us.” Her expression grew fierce. “Hopefully the scoundrel who did this will be apprehended. When I think about what might have happened with a stray shot… you, or anyone else at the party, could have been seriously injured. Or killed.” A delicate shudder shook her frame. “An absolutely horrifying accident. I’m so relieved you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“As am I. But…”Catherine drew a deep breath. “Actually, I’m not convinced that it was an accident.” She quickly told Genevieve about the conversation she’d overheard just prior to the shooting, concluding with, “I’m praying it was indeed just a random incident, but I’m frightened. Afraid that it might have been specifically directed at me. That someone, perhaps this investigator, has discovered my connection to Charles Brightmore. And if that is so…”

“Then I would be in danger as well,” Genevieve said slowly, her expression turning to one of deep sorrow and regret. “Oh, Catherine. I am so sorry that your involvement with me, with my book, has placed you in this untenable situation. This must be stopped. Immediately. I shall travel to London tomorrow to speak with our publisher and instruct Mr. Bayer to reveal that I am Charles Brightmore.”

“You shall do nothing of the kind,” Catherine said firmly. “That would only serve to place you in more imminent danger and destroy your reputation.”

“My dear, do you think that matters when compared to your life? I can always leave and resettle elsewhere. You have Spencer to think about.”

“You will not leave here,” Catherine insisted. “You need the warm waters for your hands and joints as much as Spencer does.”

“There are other warm springs in England. In Italy.” She looked down at her hands and her lips tightened.

“I’ve cursed these crippled hands so many times. They cost me my livelihood. The man I love…”A humorless laugh pushed past her lips. “After all, who wants a mistress with hands like these? No man wants to be touched with such ugliness. But never have I cursed them more than I do now. If I were physically capable to write, to hold a pen, I never would have enlisted your aid to author that cursed book.”

“Please do not say that. I wanted to help you. Writing the book, listening to your dictation, being involved, gave my life a sense of purpose that had been lacking for years. You think you took something from me, but just the opposite is true. You’ve given me more than I can ever repay.”

“As you’ve always given me, yet you cannot deny I’ve taken away your sense of safety, that this enterprise I involved you in has placed you in danger.”

“We can’t be certain that is true. Crime is rampant in London, and this very well could have been an accident.”

“Yet how will we determine that?” Genevieve asked. “We cannot simply wait until one or both of us is harmed. Or worse. This must be stopped. Immediately. I must speak with Mr. Bayer.”

“I beg you not to, at least for a day or two. There was a witness who can identify the culprit. My father promised to write to let me know if the perpetrator is caught. If he is, then our worries are for naught. Let us wait to hear from Father.”

Genevieve worried her lowered lip, then finally jerked her head in agreement. “Very well. However, if you haven’t heard from him by tomorrow evening, I am going to London the following day. In the meanwhile, we must do something to guarantee your safety. Baxter will see to it that no harm comes to me, but I fear that although Milton and Spencer are brave, they cannot offer you adequate protection should the need arise.”

“I have already taken care of that. My brother’s American friend, Mr. Stanton, accompanied me to Little Longstone and is remaining for a visit.”

“But is he capable of protecting you?” Genevieve asked in a dubious voice.

An image of Mr. Stanton carrying her in his strong arms flashed through her mind, and to her mortification, heat crept up her neck. “Er, yes. He is definitely capable.”

Genevieve’s gaze turned speculative, then she hiked up one perfectly arched blond brow. “Indeed? Well, I am vastly relieved. I recall you mentioning this Mr. Stanton, but only in the vaguest terms. What is he like?”

“Annoying and opinionated,” she answered without hesitation.

Genevieve laughed. “Darling, all men are that. Does he possess any good traits?”

Catherine shrugged. “I suppose if pressed to do so, I could think up one or two.” When Genevieve continued to wait with an expectant expression, Catherine looked toward the ceiling and blew out a resigned sigh. “He was apparently quite helpful after I was injured last evening. And, um, he does not have an unpleasant body odor.”

Something that looked suspiciously like amusement flashed in Genevieve’s eyes. “I see. Quick-wittedness and a commitment to personal cleanliness are indeed good traits in a man. Tell me, how precisely did he prove helpful after the shooting?”

Another wave of heat engulfed Catherine. “He applied pressure to the wound until the doctor arrived.”

“Excellent. Clearly he knows something about treating injuries.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, but please tell me the doctor didn’t examine you right there in the drawing room!”

“No.”Damnation, but it was warm in here. Knowing Genevieve would eventually worm the information from her, Catherine met her gaze squarely and said in her best noncommittal voice, “Mr. Stanton was kind enough to carry me to my father’s chamber so as to remove me from the prying eyes of the other guests.”

“Ah, a man of discretion as well,” Genevieve said with an approving nod. “And I take it you ascertained the fact that he does not possess an offensive body odor while he carried you.”

“Yes.”

“And obviously he possesses superior strength.”

Catherine shot her friend an arch look. “Are you implying that I weigh more than I should?”

Genevieve’s musical laugh rang out. “Of course not. I merely meant that only a strong man could carry a woman from the drawing room to the bedchamber-a journey that naturally requires navigating stairs-all while applying pressure to her wound. Very impressive. Does he possess any fortune?”

“I’ve never asked.”

Genevieve shook her head. “My dear, you must have some idea. How are his clothes?”

“Very fine. Expensive.”

“His residence?”

“Rooms on Chesterfield. I do not know their condition as, naturally, I’ve never visited.”

“A fashionable part of town,” Genevieve said with approval. “So far he sounds quite promising.”

“Promising? For what?”

Genevieve’s innocent expression resembled that of an angel. “Why as adequate protection for you, of course.”