His brows rose in amusement at her use of irreverent slang for Lathrop's death, but his attitude toward the duel was as casual and matter-of-fact as her own. "Lathrop got some maggot into his head about defending Emily's honor and putting a stop to all the rumors about her, by challenging one of her alleged lovers to a duel. I will never understand why the poor old man chose me from amongst a legion of viable candidates."

"Whatever method he used, it's obvious age had addled his mind."

Stephen eyed her curiously. "Why do you say that?"

"Because your skill with pistols, and your skill on the dueling field, are both rather legendary."

"Any child of ten could have won a duel with Lathrop," Stephen said, ignoring her praise of his abilities. "He was so old and frail he couldn't steady his own pistol or hold it level. He had to use both hands."

"And so you let him leave Rockham Green unscathed?"

Stephen nodded. "I felt it would be impolite of me to kill him, under the circumstances."

"Considering that he forced the duel on you in the first place, by calling you out in front of witnesses, it was very kind of you to pretend to miss your shot, in order to spare his pride."

"I did not pretend to miss my shot, Helene," he informed her, and then he pointedly added, "I deloped."

To delope constituted an apology and therefore implied an admission of guilt. Thinking he might have some other explanation for standing twenty paces from his opponent and deliberately firing high into the air instead of at Lord Lathrop, she said slowly, "Are you saying you really were Emily Lathrop's lover? You were actually guilty?"

"As sin," Stephen averred flatly.

"May I ask you one more question, my lord?"

"You can ask it," he specified, struggling to hide his mounting impatience with her unprecedented and unwelcome preoccupation with his private life.

In a rare show of feminine uncertainty, she glanced away as if to gather her courage, then she looked up at him with an embarrassed, seductive smile that he might have found irresistible had it not been immediately followed by a line of questioning so outrageous that it violated even his own lax standards of acceptable decorum between the sexes. "What was it about Emily Lathrop that drew you to her bed?"

His instant aversion to that question was completely eclipsed by his negative reaction to her next. "I mean, was there anything she did with you-or for you-or to you, that I do not do when we're in bed together?"

"As a matter of fact," he replied in a lazy drawl, "there was one thing Emily did that I particularly liked."

In her eagerness to discover another woman's secret, Helene overlooked the sarcasm edging his voice. "What did she do that you particularly liked?"

His gaze dropped suggestively to her mouth. "Shall I show you?" he asked, and when she nodded, he bent over her, bracing his hands on either side of her pillow so that his waist and hips were only inches above her head. "You're absolutely certain you wish to take part in a demonstration?" he asked in a deliberately seductive whisper.

Her emphatic nod was playful and inviting enough to take the edge off his annoyance, leaving him caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "Show me what she did that you particularly liked," she whispered, sliding her hands up his forearms.

Stephen showed her by putting his right hand firmly over her mouth, startling her with a "demonstration" that matched his smiling explanation: "She refrained from asking me questions like yours about you or anyone else, and that is what I particularly liked."

She gazed back at him, her blue eyes wide with frustrated chagrin, but this time she did not fail to notice the implacable warning in his deceptively mild voice.

"Do we have an understanding, my inquisitive beauty?"

She nodded, then boldly attempted to tip the balance of power into her favor by delicately running her tongue across his palm.

Stephen chuckled at her ploy and moved his hand, but he was no longer in the mood for sexual play or for conversation, and so he pressed a brief kiss on her forehead and left.

Outside, a wet gray fog blanketed the night, broken only by the faint eerie glow of lamplights along the street. Stephen took the reins from the relieved footman and spoke soothingly to the young pair of matched chestnuts who were stamping their hooves and tossing their manes. It was the first time they had been driven in the city, and as Stephen loosened the reins to let them move into a trot, he noted that the curb horse was extremely skittish in the fog. Everything unnerved the animal, from the sound of his own hooves clattering on the cobbled streets to the shadows beneath the streetlamps. When a door slammed off to the left, he shied, then tried to break into a run. Stephen automatically tightened the reins, and turned the carriage down Middleberry Street. The horses were moving at a fast trot and seemed to be settling down a bit. Suddenly an alley cat screamed and bolted off a fruit cart, sending an avalanche of apples rumbling into the street. At the same time the door of a pub was flung open, splashing light into the street. Pandemonium broke loose: dogs howled, the horses slipped and bolted frantically, and a dark figure staggered out of the pub, disappeared between two carriages drawn up at the curb… and then materialized directly in front of Stephen's carriage.

Stephen's warning shout came too late.

2

Leaning heavily on his cane, the ancient butler stood in the shabby drawing room and listened in respectful silence as his illustrious visitor imparted the news that the butler's employer had just met an untimely demise. Not until Lord Westmoreland had finished his tale did the servant permit himself to show any reaction, and even then, Hodgkin sought only to reassure. "How very distressing, my lord, for poor Lord Burleton, and for you as well. But then-accidents do happen, don't they, and one cannot blame one's self. Mishaps are mishaps, and that's why we call them that."

"I'd hardly call running a man down and killing him a 'mishap,' " Stephen retorted, with a bitterness that was directed at himself, not the servant. Although the early morning accident had been much the fault of the drunken young baron who'd bounded into the street in front of Stephen's carriage, the fact was that Stephen had been holding the reins, and he was alive and unharmed, while young Burleton was dead. Furthermore, it seemed that there was no one to mourn Burleton's passing, and at the moment, that seemed a final injustice to Stephen. "Surely, your employer must have some family somewhere-someone to whom I could explain personally about the accident?"

Hodgkin merely shook his head, distracted by the dire realization that he was suddenly unemployed again and likely to remain so for the rest of his life. He'd obtained this position only because no one else had been willing to work as butler, valet, footman, and cook-and for the absurdly small wages Burleton was able to pay.

Embarrassed by his temporary lapse into self-pity and his lack of proper decorum, Hodgkin cleared his throat and hastily added, "Lord Burleton had no close living relatives, as I-I said. And since I've only been in the baron's employ for three weeks, his acquaintances aren't really known to-" He broke off, a look of horror on his face. "In my shock, I forgot about his fiancee! The nuptials were to take place this week."

A fresh wave of guilt washed over Stephen, but he nodded, and his voice became brisk and purposeful. "Who is she and where can I find her?"

"All I know is that she's an American heiress the baron met when he was abroad, and that she's to arrive tomorrow on a ship from the Colonies. Her father was too ill to make the voyage, so I presume she's either travelling with a relative or, perhaps, with a female companion. Last night, Lord Burleton was commemorating the end of his bachelorhood. That's all I know."

"You must know her name! What did Burleton call her?"

Caught between nervousness at Lord Westmoreland's terse impatience and shame at his own deteriorating memory, Hodgkin said a little defensively, "As I said, I was new to the baron's employ, and not taken into his confidence. In my presence, he… he called her 'my fiancee,' or else 'my heiress.' "

"Think, man! You must have heard him refer to her name at some time!"

"No… I… Wait, yes! I do recall something… I recall that her name made me remember how very much I used to enjoy visiting Lancashire as a boy. Lancaster!'' Hodgkin exclaimed in delight. "Her surname is Lancaster, and her given name is Sharon… No, that's not it. Charise! Charise Lancaster!"

Hodgkin was rewarded for his efforts with a slight nod of approval accompanied by yet another rapid-fire question: "What about the name of her ship?"

Hodgkin was so encouraged and so proud that he actually banged his cane upon the floor with glee as the answer popped into his mind. "The Morning Star!" he crowed, then flushed with embarrassment at his boisterous tone and unseemly behavior.

"Anything else? Every detail could be helpful when I deal with her."

"I do recall some other trifles, but I shouldn't like to indulge in idle gossip."

"Let's hear it," Stephen said with unintended curtness.

"The lady is young and 'quite a pretty little thing,' the baron said. I also gathered that she was rather madly in love with him and wanted the union, while it was the baron's title that was of primary interest to her father."

Stephen's last hope that this marriage was simply one of convenience had died at the news that the girl was "madly in love" with her fiance. "What about Burleton?" he asked as he pulled on his gloves. "Why did he want the marriage?"