His mind sheered away, for it was painful to remember how he had betrayed his deepest beliefs. But the people he had wronged had forgiven him freely. It was time to stop flagellating himself and look to the future.

Which brought him back to the subject of a wife. His expectations were not unrealistic. While he was no paragon, he was presentable, well-born, and had a more than adequate fortune. He also had enough shortcomings that any self-respecting female would itch to improve him.

He wasn't looking for a grand passion. Christ, that was the last thing he wanted. He was incapable of that kind of love; what he had thought was a grand passion had been a warped, pathetic obsession. Instead of seeking romance, he would look for a woman of warmth and intelligence who would be a good companion. Someone with experience of life. Though she must be attractive enough to be beddable, great beauty was not necessary. In fact, based on his experience, stunning looks were a liability. Thank God he was past first youth and the idiotic susceptibility that went with it.

Personality and appearance were easy to assess. More difficult, but more vital, she must be honest and unflinchingly loyal. He had learned the hard way that without honesty, there was nothing.

Since this corner of Wales had few eligible females, he must go to London for the Season. It would be pleasant to spend a few months with no goal but pleasure. With luck, he would find a comfortable woman to share his life. If not, there would be other Seasons.

His reverie was interrupted by a knock. When he called permission to enter, his butler entered with a travel-stained pouch. "A message has arrived for you from London, my lord."

Michael opened the pouch to find a letter sealed with the signet of the Earl of Strathmore. He broke the wax with anticipation. The last time Lucien had sent such an urgent message, it had been a summons to join an intriguing rescue mission. Perhaps Luce had come up with something equally amusing to liven the late winter months.

Levity vanished when he scanned the terse lines of the message. He read it twice, then got to his feet. "Make sure Strathmore's messenger is properly taken care of, and tell the cook I might not be back for dinner. I'm going to Aberdare."

"Yes, my lord." Unable to restrain his curiosity, the butler asked, "Is there bad news?"

Michael smiled without humor. "Europe's worst nightmare has just come true."

His mind was so full of the news that Michael scarcely noticed the chilly mist as he rode across the valley to the grand mansion that housed the Earls of Aberdare. When he reached his destination, he dismounted and tossed his reins to a groom, then entered the house two steps at a time. As always when he visited Aberdare, he felt a sense of wonder that once again he could breeze into Nicholas's home as casually as when they had been schoolboys at Eton. Three or four years earlier, such ease had been as unthinkable as the sun rising in the west.

Since Michael was virtually a member of the family, the butler sent him directly to the morning room. He entered to find Lady Aberdare sitting beside a magnificently carved crib that held her infant son, Kenrick.

Michael smiled at the countess. "Good day, Clare. I gather that you can't bear to let Viscount Tregar out of your sight."

"Hello, Michael." Her eyes twinkled as she extended her hand. "It's very lowering-I feel exactly like a mother cat standing guard over her kittens. My friend Marged assures me that in another month or two, I shall become more sensible."

"You're always sensible." He kissed her cheek with deep affection. By her mere existence, Clare was an example of all that was good and true about womankind. Releasing her hand, he glanced into the crib. "Incredible how tiny fingers can be."

"Yet he has an amazing grip," she said proudly. "Give him a chance to demonstrate it."

Michael leaned over the crib and gingerly touched the baby's hand. Kenrick gurgled and locked his miniature fist forcefully around Michael's fingertip. Michael found himself unexpectedly moved. This minute scrap of humanity was living proof of Clare and Nicholas's love, with his father's wickedly charming smile and his mother's vivid blue eyes. Named for his paternal grandfather, Kenrick was a bridge from past to future.

There might have been a child of Michael's, who would have been almost five now…

Unable to bear the thought, he gently disengaged his finger and straightened. "Is Nicholas home?"

"No, but he should be back anytime now." Clare's brows drew together. "Has something happened?"

"Napoleon has escaped from Elba and landed in France," Michael said flatly.

Clare's hand went to the crib in an instinctive gesture of protection. From the doorway, there came the sound of a sudden intake of breath. Michael turned to see the Earl of Aberdare, his dark hair beaded with moisture from riding in the mist.

His mobile features uncharacteristically still, Nicholas said, "Any word on how the French people are receiving him?"

"Apparently they are welcoming him back with wild acclaim. There's an excellent chance that within the next fortnight, King Louis will run for his life and Bonaparte will be sitting in Paris and calling himself emperor again. It isn't as if Louis has endeared himself to his subjects." Michael pulled the letter from his pocket. "Lucien sent this."

Nicholas read the letter with a frown. "In a way, it's a surprise. In another way, it seems utterly inevitable."

"That was exactly how I felt," Michael said slowly. "As if I'd been waiting to hear this news, but hadn't known it."

"I don't suppose the allied powers will accept this as a fait accompli and let Napoleon keep the throne."

"I doubt it. The battle must be fought once more." Michael thought of the long years of war that had already passed. "When Boney is defeated this time, I hope to God they have the sense to execute him, or at least exile him a good long way from Europe."

Clare looked up from the letter, her gaze level. "You're going to go back to the army, aren't you?"

Trust Clare to guess a thought that had scarcely formed in Michael's mind. "Probably. I imagine that Wellington will be recalled from the Congress of Vienna and put in charge of the allied forces that will be raised to oppose Napoleon. With so many of his crack Peninsular troops still in America, he's going to need experienced officers."

Clare sighed. "A good thing Kenrick will be christened in two days. It would be a pity to do it without his godfather. You'll be here that long, won't you?"

"I wouldn't miss the christening for anything." Michael smiled teasingly, wanting to remove the concern from her eyes. "I only hope that lightning doesn't strike me dead when I promise to renounce the devil and all his works so I can guide Kenrick's spiritual development."

Nicholas chuckled. "If God was a stickler about such things, every baptismal font in Christendom would be surrounded by charred spots."

Refusing to be distracted, Clare said in a tone that was almost angry, "You're glad to be going to war again, aren't you?"

Michael thought about the tangle of emotions he had felt on reading Lucien's letter. Shock and anger at the French were prominent, but there were also deeper, harder-to-define feelings. The desire to atone for his sins; the intense aliveness experienced when death was imminent; dark excitement at the thought of practicing again the lethal skills at which he excelled. They were not feelings he wanted to discuss, even with Clare and Nicholas. "I've always regretted that I was invalided home and missed the last push from the Peninsula into France. It would give a sense of completion to go against the French one last time."

"That's all very well," Nicholas said dryly. "But do try not to get yourself killed."

"The French didn't manage it before, so I don't suppose they will this time." Michael hesitated, then added, "If anything does happen to me, the lease of the mine will revert to you. I wouldn't want it to fall into the hands of outsiders."

Clare's face tightened at his matter-of-fact reference to possible death. "You needn't worry," he said reassuringly. "The only time I was seriously wounded was when I wasn't carrying my good-luck piece. Believe me, I won't make that mistake again."

Intrigued, she said, "What kind of lucky piece?"

"It's something Lucien designed and built at Oxford. I admired it greatly, so he gave it to me. In fact, I have it here." Michael pulled a silver tube from inside his coat and gave it to Clare. "Lucien coined the word 'kaleidoscope,' using the Greek words for 'beautiful form.' Look in that end and point it toward the light."

She did as he instructed, then gasped. "Good heavens. It's like a brilliantly colored star."

"Turn the tube slowly. The patterns will change."

There was a faint rattle as she obeyed. She sighed with pleasure. "Lovely. How does it work?"

"I believe it's only bits of colored glass and some reflectors. Still, the effect is magical." He smiled as he remembered his sense of wonder the first time he had looked inside. "I've always fancied that the kaleidoscope contains shattered rainbows-if you look at the broken pieces the right way, eventually you'll find a pattern."

She said softly, "So it became a symbol of hope for you."

"I suppose it did." She was right; in the days when his life had seemed to be shattered beyond repair, he had found comfort in studying the exquisite, ever-changing patterns. Out of chaos, order. Out of anguish, hope.