“I did not ‘assume’; I thought we were going to be honest with each other.”

She stood up, snapped open her fan and plied it vigorously. “As honest as you are about your relationship with Lord Minshom?”

“Hold on a moment, you can’t just change the subject like that and expect me to respond.”

“I’m not changing the subject. You questioned my honesty; I’m simply repaying the favor.”

Anthony rose too, making Marguerite aware that their argument had gotten out of hand and was attracting a fair amount of interest.

“I will tell you anything you want to know about that man in private.”

She sighed. “And look, our argument has come full circle. We’re back to Lord Minshom again.”

“So we are, and that’s exactly what he probably intended, isn’t it?”

They stared at each other for a long moment and then Marguerite headed for the door. In the deserted hallway, Anthony caught up with her and grabbed her hand. “Please don’t let him come between us.”

Marguerite eased her hand out of his grasp and placed it flat on his chest. She had to stop Anthony from following her. She had to make it impossible for him to come to her room that night.

“He can only do that if we give him the power to hurt us. Rather than worrying about me, perhaps you should be concerned about yourself.”

“In what way?”

“You told me you hated everyone protecting you, but as soon as Lord Minshom confronted you, you tried to get away from him.”

“I was trying to protect you! Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”

“So you say, but I’m not the one who is afraid of him, am I?”

Anthony stepped back, the harsh angles of his face stark against the blazing blue of his eyes. “You think I’m a coward, don’t you? The kind of man who hides behind a woman’s skirts.”

Marguerite held her ground, aware that she was hurting him. But she had no choice. Hopefully Anthony would still be prepared to listen to her when she was able to tell him the truth. And what she was saying was true; she really didn’t understand his relationship with Minshom.

“I think you fear him, though I’m not sure why.”

“But you’re not interested in allowing me access to your room tonight to explain myself. You’re more worried about what Charles will think of you taking a lover than in sorting things out with me.”

Marguerite simply stared at him as panic gripped her and paralyzed her thoughts. What could she say?

Anthony bowed. With all the good humor stripped from his face, he resembled his older half brother.

“I’ll bid you good night. But perhaps I’m not the only one being contrary. If you’re too afraid to offend the Lockwood family, why on earth did you decide to bring me down here with you? What happened? Did you lose your nerve or am I suddenly not good enough anymore?”

He turned on his heel and headed back down the hall toward Charles’s oak-paneled library, where the roar of male conversation already resonated. Marguerite stared after him. The urge to follow and slap his face for his outrageous suggestions was so strong she had to clench her hands into fists. She was trying to protect him from Minshom, didn’t he see that? Didn’t he understand that the last thing she wanted to do was drag him into a situation that might not even happen?

She ran up the stairs and all the way to her bedroom, her heart thumping in her chest. Perhaps she wouldn’t bother to hear him out about Lord Minshom after all. Perhaps she’d ignore him for the rest of the visit and flirt with Charles to annoy Amelia instead.

She slowly opened her fingers to reveal the folded paper Minshom had pressed into her palm, took off her gloves and opened the note. It told her to meet him at the south gatehouse at midnight. Marguerite glanced at the clock on her mantelpiece. It was already past eleven and, if she remembered correctly, the gatehouse was at least a ten minute walk from the house.

She’d have to change, put on more serviceable boots and something warmer than the thin silk of her blue evening dress. She glanced uncertainly at the servant’s bell. Would she be able to get out of her dress without assistance? She didn’t want to waste time explaining her sudden need to change her dress to a maid or, even worse, have Anthony hearing her next door and coming in to help her undress.

Luckily, the small puffed sleeves slid easily off her shoulders and allowed her to wiggle around and gain access to the buttons at the back of the bodice. After a few contortions, she managed to get the dress off and find something plainer and warmer in her closet.

After another quick glance at the clock, she pushed her feet into stout walking boots and grabbed her hooded cloak. Hardly daring to breathe, she checked the connecting door between her suite and Anthony’s was locked and headed for the door.

Laughter and music rose from the rooms below, and cigar smoke mingled with brandy and perfume permeated the stuffy hallway. Marguerite drew her hood over her hair and went down the servants’ stairs, pausing at each landing to get her bearings before finding herself in a cold stone passageway beside the kitchen.

She took a deep breath and then tiptoed past the half-opened kitchen door and out into the gardens. It took her a few moments to adjust her vision to the dimness of the light, and then she set off, following the brick-edged path around the house and to the southern end of the park, where the smaller of the two lodges lay.

The beginnings of a frost glimmered on the pathway and the well-cut lawns and gilded the bare trees with silver. Marguerite shivered as she passed into a copse of trees hugging the edge of the ornamental lake and was swallowed into the shadows. Her hand closed around the small pocketknife her mother had given her for her eighteenth birthday. Not that she’d ever had to use it on anyone, but she’d been taught how to defend herself, something her mother considered every woman should know.

The lodge came into sight, its red brick solid and reassuring, as was the light in the window. Marguerite paused to gather her thoughts and calm her breathing. Minshom was far too astute to appear before without a plan or a show of confidence, even if it was put on. She continued up the brick path. Noting the side door was slightly ajar, she put her hand on it. She had to go through with this. She had to confront Sir Harry and lay her past to rest.


Anthony attempted another smile at one of Charles’s terrible jokes and took refuge in his glass of brandy. It was past midnight. Could he make his excuses and go to bed? Surely no one would miss him now, or, after seeing him argue with Marguerite, assume he was up to no good. He set his glass back carefully on the table, his fingers shaking. How much had he drunk? Would he even be able to make it up the stairs without assistance? He cleared his throat.

“Good night, all.”

Charles slapped him on the back, his drunken amiability in sharp contrast to his wariness at dinner.

“Good night, Sokorvsky. See you in the morning.”

Anthony took the candle from the footman stationed in the hall and walked slowly up the stairs. He paused at Marguerite’s door but saw no light under it. Had she gone to bed in a rage? He leaned in closer to the panels, tried to calm his breathing to listen for some sense of her, but he felt nothing.

He continued on to his room and pushed open the door. Unfortunately, Marguerite hadn’t chosen to jump into his bed either. With a sigh, he set the candle down and walked across to the roaring fire. He felt off-kilter, his past and his secretly longedfor future weighed in the balance, forced together into the unlikely scenario of a weekend in the country. Minshom could destroy him with one word, and yet Anthony couldn’t hate him as much as he wanted to. The man still had the power to excite him, to lead him on, to make him dread disclosure, yet desire it at the same time.

“Damn him.”

Anthony hunkered down on his haunches and stared into the flames. Did he really want Minshom to tell Marguerite his secrets? Would that somehow make it easier, to be forced to confess, to blurt out his worst desires under threat of pain and punishment? God, he despised himself sometimes. Marguerite was right to doubt him and his courage.

There was a knock at his door, and he got to his feet. A young maidservant bobbed him a curtsey, her smile nervous.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, may I help you?”

The maid juggled the pile of folded clothes she carried and hitched it higher on her hip. “I’m supposed to be looking after the lady in the next room. It’s the first time Cook has let me out of the scullery to see if I’d be any good at it, you see.”

Anthony tried not to look puzzled as he waited for her to continue.

“The thing is that I don’t know if the lady is still downstairs or if she’s gone to bed or . . . what.” The maid looked hopefully up at him.

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

She frowned. “Well, I don’t know if I should go in there or not. What if she’s asleep?”

“Have you asked Cook what to do?”

“I can’t. She’ll say I should know and that I’m just not ready to be an upstairs maid, but I am ready, I really am.”

Anthony patted the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sure you are, but I still don’t understand the problem. Why don’t you just pop your head quickly around the door and check if the lady is in bed, and then close the door again?”

The maid’s lower lip trembled. “Because the door is locked, and I can’t find the spare key.”

“Ah.” Anthony glanced at the door that connected his suite to Marguerite’s. How kind of the fates to smile on him in this particularly appropriate fashion. “Do you want to use the door in here?”

“If that’s all right with you, sir, and you won’t tell Cook that I interrupted you and lost the key and everything, sir.”