"Yes, isn't she. But her mother is a charming woman whom I see all too seldom."

Half an hour later when the carriage entered Hyde Park, Noelle was forced to agree with Constance's assessment of Angela Welby. She was a woman of intelligence and humor who could not quite hide her distaste for the frivolities of her daughter.

Catherine had no sooner arranged her skirts around her than she began questioning Noelle about Quinn. Which particular parties would he be attending during the next week? Was it true about the duel? Had the Baroness von Furst actually threatened suicide if he left her again? Noelle turned aside each question firmly, and Catherine soon lapsed into sullen silence, leaving Noelle free to join in the more stimulating conversation of Constance and Angela Welby.

Patches of sunlight flickered pleasantly over the women as the carriage clipped around the perimeter of the park, passing under the October trees, which were awash with leaves of rust and gold. They nodded to acquaintances, chatted comfortably. Noelle felt some of the awful tension within her ease.

"Dorian! Isn't that your cousin riding toward us?"

The excitement in Catherine's shrill voice pierced the peace of the moment, and Noelle's heart made a sickening lurch. Not yet, she thought desperately, I'm not ready to face him. Please, let it be someone else.

Reluctantly she looked toward the man approaching them astride a great ebony stallion. It was unmistakably Quinn. Noelle had never seen anyone dressed for riding as he was. Shunning the proper formal riding attire of the English, he was, instead, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled just below his elbows, and dark brown trousers. Soft leather boots hugged his calves. He was coatless and hatless, sitting in an oversize saddle. It was outrageous, inappropriate, and infinitely attractive.

"Mr. Copeland!" Catherine's hand shot up into the air. "Mr. Copeland!"

"Don't shout so, Catherine," her mother said.

But the admonition came too late. The driver stopped the carriage as Quinn reined in the powerful stallion and nodded to Constance and the Welby women. "Good morning, ladies." Then his eyes fell on Noelle, his expression inscrutable. Was he looking for some signal from her, an acknowledgment of what had passed between them? Or had he dismissed the entire incident as unimportant?

Noelle willed herself to return his gaze unflinchingly, giving nothing away herself.

"I see you have not given up your barbaric style of riding," Constance sniffed.

"Sorry to offend you, Constance." He grinned. "But I'd feel ridiculous sitting on one of those handkerchiefs you people call saddles."

"How can you object to it, Mrs. Peale?" Catherine cooed, tilting her parasol so that only the most flattering light fell on her face. "I think the saddle is beautiful."

"It's a working saddle, Miss Welby. We Americans stole it from the vaqueros of Mexico." The stallion tossed his mane and pawed restlessly at the ground. Quinn patted the animal's massive neck, quieting him. "Easy, Pathkiller."

"Pathkiller? Such an unusual name," Mrs. Welby offered.

"It was the name of a great Indian chief."

Catherine had no intention of letting the conversation get away from her. "You're obviously a fine judge of horses, Mr. Copeland. He is a magnificent animal. Perhaps you might be interested in seeing my new mare. I hope I don't sound immodest if I tell you she is truly exceptional."

Noelle watched to see how Quinn would react to Catherine's transparent maneuvering, but he merely smiled politely.

"I look forward to it." He turned to Noelle. "Would you care to join us, cousin?"

"I wouldn't think of intruding on your outing," Noelle replied evenly.

Catherine quickly jumped in. "Poor Dorian. And we would so love to have had you. You did not know, Mr. Copeland, that she does not ride?"

"No, I didn't. We've never had an opportunity to discuss any of my cousin's shortcomings, Miss Welby, only her talents." This time his expression erased any doubt Noelle might have had. Quinn had not forgotten last night any more than she had.

Chapter Nineteen

Damn it, Simon thought as he took a swallow of weak coffee, why can't the British made a good, strong cup of coffee? It was one of the few disadvantages of living in England.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under his desk and gazing with satisfaction at the warm wood and leather of his library. He felt at home here in Northridge Square and over the past few months had come to understand that he did not want to return to Cape Crosse. He would miss the luxuries of English life, his clubs, the slower pace of the London office. Perhaps it was true that America was still a young man's land. And now, with Quinn located, there was no reason why Simon should have to return permanently to Cape Crosse.

He pulled out his pipe and thoughtfully packed the tobacco in the bowl, tamping it lightly with his index finger. A slow smile of satisfaction crept across his face. He had waited long enough for events to unfold by themselves. Now it was time to give the pot a small stir.

Quinn, dark hair still tousled from sleep, was tucking his unbuttoned shirt into fine-ribbed black corduroy trousers when he entered the library. "What the hell do you want so early in the morning? Tomkins said it was important."

"Another late night?"

Quinn yawned in response and slouched down into the leather chair at the front corner of Simon's desk.

"Women or cards?"

"Both, as a matter of fact." He rubbed one hand over his unshaven cheek.

"Coffee?"

At Quinn's affirmative grunt, Simon poured him a cup of the weak brew from a silver pot. Quinn took a swallow and grimaced.

"Why the hell can't this high-priced staff of yours learn to make coffee?"

"Because they don't want to."

Quinn set down his cup, abruptly putting an end to small talk. "Why did you send for me?"

"To give you this." A sheaf of papers slid across the polished walnut top. "It's a contract negotiating your return to Copeland and Peale."

Uninterestedly Quinn picked up the papers, barely glancing at the top page before he flipped the contract down on the desk. "Not interested."

Simon was not particularly surprised by Quinn's refusal, but he continued to press. "Take some time. Look over the contract. If there's something you don't like, make a counter proposal. You'll never get an offer like this from anyone else."

"I'll take my chances. Now, if that's all you wanted from me, I think I'll go back to bed." Quinn began to uncurl his lean frame from the chair.

"Wait!" It was time for the second part of his plan.

"What else, Simon?"

"I want you to stay out of the house tonight."

"Any particular reason?"

"I have a dinner engagement. Strictly business, so Dorian is remaining at home. I think it will be best for everyone if you spend the evening with your baroness. From what I understand, it shouldn't be much of a sacrifice."

"Why are you so anxious to get rid of me, Simon?"

Simon's pipe had gone out. As he relit it the smell of fine Virginia tobacco permeated the room. "Dorian has taken a strong disliking to you. I don't like to see her unhappy."

"She certainly has you by the leading strings, hasn't she?" Quinn drawled. "You're making a fool of yourself, Simon."

"Why don't you be honest," Simon said, cupping the warm pipe bowl in his hand. "You're fascinated with Dorian. A little hard on the pride, isn't it, when a beautiful young woman chooses the father over the son."

"Why are you baiting me?"

"Because I want you to face facts. Everything in this world can't be as you want it to be, and every woman in this world isn't yours for the taking."

Quinn's voice was heavy with sarcasm as he rose to leave. "I'll store that away with all your other fatherly advice."

When the door closed, Simon smiled to himself. He felt quite certain that Miss Dorian Pope would not be dining alone that evening.

It was already dusk when Noelle eased herself through the window and back into her bedroom. She hurried to make certain her door was still locked and then went to the nightstand and lit the lamp, casting cozy shadows about the room. Unfastening her dark cloak and shawl, she uttered a small sigh of relief. With each venture into Soho, she was challenging her luck, and she knew it. But this afternoon's trip had been worth the risk ten times over.

With trembling fingers, she pulled out a crisp piece of folded stationery from the pocket of her emerald dress and once again treated her eyes to the message that had been waiting for her at Bardy's:Highness,

The matter of which we spoke is progressing smoothly. I will be leaving for America soon and will contact you before I go regarding final arrangements.

Q.C.C.

Noelle laughed, mercurial quicksilver shimmering in the empty room. Finally she was going to be free, the fetters of the marriage that shackled her, broken. A vast ocean would separate her from the man to whom she was now so dangerously bound. She stripped off her pickpocket's disguise and pushed it to the bottom of her armoire; then, standing in her camisole, she reluctantly tore the note into three even strips and tossed ihem in the fire. The flames licked at the pieces and then devoured them.

Seating herself in front of her mirror, she shook out her hair and giggled at the reflection that laughed back at her. Dirt, kohl, and rouge covered every part of her skin. She dabbed at the mess with a thick lotion smelling of heliotrope and then went to the washstand and scrubbed her face. Only when all traces of Highness had disappeared did she ring for Alice to bring her bath.