"I did not invite that monstrous, ill-behaved creature into my home," were the first words Lady Royce said when the last servant bowed and shut the door behind him.

"I am sorry. I thought Daniel would be better off here than in the stews where I found him."

She raised her eyebrow, but a glimmer of a smile touched one corner of her mouth. "Your cousin is welcome, of course. And you." She broke off a bit of biscuit for the dog, who sat by her chair, gazing up adoringly. The countess, meanwhile, stared at Rex, then at yet another boyhood portrait hanging on the wall.

Rex said nothing, silently berating the dog for another act of treason.

His silence must have unnerved the countess, he thought, if anything could, for she set her cup down too hard, making a clatter. She cleared her throat, as if wondering where to begin. Start twenty-some years ago, he wanted to shout, but did not.

She looked at the portrait again. "I thought you appeared different the last time I saw you. Your nose…"

"A recent misadventure. It will have its own shape in a week, I assume. The scar on my cheek is permanent, but fading."

"And your leg?"

He tucked it back under him, instead of stretched out in front. "Quite well, thank you. Better every day."

She nodded, accepting that he would not share more than impersonal facts. "Thank you for bringing my godchild to me."

"It was my-" He almost said pleasure, but caught himself. "My honor to be of service." That did not sound right, either, reminding him of a stallion servicing the mares, but he could not retract the words.

The countess inferred no double meaning. "She is a lovely young woman. Wrongly charged, of course."

He gazed at the ruby-colored wine in his goblet, the color of dark lies. "You believe her innocent?"

"Naturally. I have known her since her birth, and her mother was one of my best friends since our own childhood. Amanda could no more shoot a man in cold blood than she could fly to the moon, no matter how deserving of it that man was. More importantly, do you believe she is innocent of the crime?"

She was not asking for his supposition, Rex knew, but his certain knowledge. "Yes."

"Ah, then you should have no trouble proving it."

"How, by telling people that I see blue when she speaks?"

She ignored the anger and frustration in his voice and tapped her lips in thought. "It just might do."

"What might do?" Not his declaration of insanity, surely.

"Why, your marrying her, of course. A handsome young viscount-at least I trust you will be more handsome once your nose is no longer so red and swollen-with a romantic scar and a limp well earned in bravery, to say nothing of a vast fortune, and a beautiful, well-bred young woman. The families have been connected for generations, and wholeheartedly approve. When the ton sees how happy I am over the match, they will trust in Amanda's innocence. I am known to be extremely particular in my acquaintances."

"I shall not marry her."

"After spending days-and nights-unchaperoned together? Of course you will. Nanny taught you manners. Your father taught you honor."

"She was ill, and there was no alternative. If you had been here to rescue her yourself, there would be no problem."

"I was too ill to travel, to my regret."

Rex could see the truth of that, and not just in her drawn features and pallid complexion. He changed the topic. "Shouldn't Amanda, Miss Carville, be here for this discussion? She knows my views and accepts them."

"She had a tray in her room. Now she is too busy getting ready to go out."

"Go out… where?"

"Why, on social calls, a stroll through the park at the fashionable hour, shopping perhaps. She has to be seen, and be seen unconcerned, to quell the gossip."

"She is accused of murder, not of tying her garters in public! You cannot counter such charges with a social sugarcoating."

"That's how much you know of polite society." The countess poured herself another cup of tea. "But you might be right. An engagement announcement would be better."

Rex scowled. "There will be no announcement, no betrothal, no match."

"You used to be such a charming little boy."

And she used to be a loving mother, until she left. Rex helped himself to more wine.

The countess added sugar and stirred her tea. "Do you think you can refute the charges?"

"I am going to try my damnedest."

"But you might fail?"

"I might."

"Then I shall make plans to take Amanda abroad. I know the war has affected travel, but ships leave daily. Surely one goes somewhere livable."

"You would help her escape?"

"I would save her life if you cannot."

"I suppose I should not be surprised. When things are not to your liking, you always run off, do you not?"

She set her cup aside and reached for a handkerchief as her eyes filled with tears. Rex looked away, lest he be swayed by her distress. Nanny had wiped his eyes, not this woman sitting across from him.

Lady Royce gathered her composure, tucking the delicate handkerchief away and feeding Verity another biscuit. "I thought you would understand by now."

"I understand that I gave my parole for Amanda's appearance. I pledged my honor, if honor means anything to you."

"Stop this nastiness. You were a child when I left. You are acting like a child now and I will not tolerate it."

He stood.

"Where are you going?"

"We have nothing to say."

"I have a great deal to say. Are you mature enough to listen?"

He stepped toward the door.

"You owe me a hearing, dash you!"

Rex whistled for his dog, who came, looking back regretfully at the biscuits. "I brought your goddaughter to you."

"I gave you life."

Rex could only return to the center of the room. He did not sit, but stood, Verity at his feet. He stared up at the happy little boy in the portrait over the mantel.

Lady Royce stared at him, as if trying to see that child she once held. Then she took a deep breath and began. "Your father and I married for love, you know. His parents had another young lady in mind for him, but he chose me. I was in alt, over the moon in love with him. We married and then… and then, I found him not to be the person I thought he was. He was… different."

"He could see the truth, or hear it, in his case."

"Yes. That was disconcerting enough, as you might imagine. What kind of man was this, touched by the gods, or touched in the head?"

"I have wondered myself."

She nodded and went on. "I thought he should have told me before we wed, to be fair. But there were more secrets he left for me to discover on my own. Royce had a mistress before we married." She held up a hand to ward off his interruption. "I know many men do. And yes, he swore he ended the affair when he knew I was the woman he wished to share his life with. Yet he kept seeing her. People were eager to share that tittle-tattle with me."

Rex drew in a quick breath. That did not sound like the man he thought his father to be, either.

"Oh, he said they were merely friends, and he had 'obligations' to her. I tried to be understanding, but he was my husband, soon to be the father of my child! I was young and yes, I was jealous. Horribly, crushingly, corrosively jealous. When I demanded he cease all connection with the woman, he refused. I retaliated."

"By having an affair?"

"By throwing myself into the social whirl of London, flirting with every man I met. I was quite the belle, and your father was furious. Worse, he kept asking who I danced with, why did I go off alone, what buck paid morning calls while Royce was at court, and how long did he stay? I knew I could not lie, of course. And why should I? I had nothing to be ashamed of. Your father insisted I retire in the country, with the excuse of your imminent birth. A Royce should be born in his ancestral home."

"They all have been, as far as I know."

She sipped at her tea, then made a face at the lukewarm beverage. "I thought matters would be better once you were born, with his dark hair and blue eyes, thank goodness. He adored you. Who would not, such a beautiful, cheerful baby? We were happy once more, a real family. Royce's work with the justice system took up much of his time, even in the country, and soon he began to question me about the neighbors, their houseguests, the curate who came to tea. He knew the truth, of all people, yet he was never satisfied. I felt I was on trial, for some future crime I might commit. I… feared he was insane, and I began to fear him. I could not bear to see our love turn into a struggle, so I went to London, where I had friends."

"Without me."

"You think I should have taken his heir? His very joy? He would never have hurt you, and I had no legal grounds. And… and I did not know how to deal with your questions, your intelligence."

"My knowing the truth from a lie?"

She bit her lip, as if to hold back more tears. "You were different from other children, as he was different from other men. I could not even tell you about the fairies dancing in the meadow, or Father Christmas, not without your looking at me sadly, as if I had broken your trust. Still, I thought he would follow me. He said he loved me, and I believed him, despite the other woman, despite my not having your gift of truth-seeing. I would have welcomed him, for I never stopped loving him or believing we could be happy, if he only learned to trust me. He came to town to press Parliament for legal reform; he did not come for me. We lived in the same house, but we seldom spoke."

"Why did he not bring me with him?"

"I begged him to, but he would not send for you. I think he did not want you in Town to hear gossip of his other connection. Or see that we lived as near strangers. You went away to school soon anyway."