Mistress

CHAPTER FOUR

MARCUS HAD JUST HELPED HIMSELF TO A PORTION OF eggs from one of the trays on the sideboard when Bennet sauntered into the breakfast room the next morning.

" 'Morning, Marcus." "Good morning. Lovelace said you had returned to London. I wasn't expecting you." Marcus glanced at his brother, started to smile, and then blinked in astonishment. "Bloody hell. What happened to your hair?"

"Nothing happened to my hair." Bennet's handsome face twisted into an offended scowl. He went to the sideboard and busied himself lifting the lids of various serving trays. "This style is all the rage."

"Only among Byron and his crowd," Marcus surveyed his brother's elaborately tousled curls. Bennet's dark hair was normally quite straight, just as Marcus's was. "Remind your valet to he cautious with the crimping iron. He'll set fire to your head if he's not careful." "That is not amusing. Are there any muffins?" "Last tray on the end, I believe." Marcus carried his own heavily loaded plate back to the table and sat down. "I thought you intended to spend the entire month in Scotland with your friend Harry and his family."

Bennet kept his attention focused on the muffin tray. "I thought you were going to spend the month in Yorkshire."

"I changed my mind." "So did I."

Marcus frowned. "Did something happen to cause you to alter your plans?"

"No." Bennet concentrated intently on laying eggs out of another tray.

Marcus eyed his brother's back with an uneasy feeling. He knew Bennet A too well. Bennet had never kept secrets from him. Something was wrong.

Marcus had single-handedly raised Bennet since their mother's death eighteen years ago. True, Marcus's father had still been alive at the time, but George Cloud had taken no more interest in his youngest son than he had in his eldest. George preferred his hounds, his hunting, and his friends in the local tavern to the bothersome burdens of family life.

There had been no one else to see to the rearing of Bennet, so Marcus had taken on the responsibility, just as, at an even earlier age, he had assumed the responsibility of working the family farm.

The profits from the farm improved steadily over the years, thanks to Marcus's successful experiments with tools, fertilizers, plows, and breeding techniques.

George had used much of the increased income to purchase better hounds and jumpers. When Marcus's mother had timidly suggested that Marcus he allowed to attend Oxford or Cambridge, George had squashed the idea immediately. He was not about to deprive himself of the income produced by the best farmer in the district.

Occasionally George clapped Marcus on the back and chortled about having produced such a useful son. Once in a great whole he thought to hoist Bennet aloft in a gesture of casual affection.

Cloud frequently observed with some satisfaction that it was fortunate both of his sons had inherited his own excellent constitution. He pointed out that chronic ill health, such as Mrs. Cloud suffered, was a damnable nuisance. But that was the limit of his paternal involvement in his sons' lives.

Marcus's mother, whose medical complaints were generally of a vague nature and featured such symptoms as melancholia and fatigue, contracted a very real fever the year Marcus turned eighteen. She succumbed to it within a matter of hours. Marcus had been at her bedside, his two-year-old brother in his arms.

His father had been out fox hunting. Cloud had lived for nearly a year after his death, an event he had noticed more because it had interfered with his hunting plans than because of any great sense of loss. But eleven months after his long-neglected spouse had succumbed to the lung fever, he managed to break his own neck in a fall when his newest jumper failed to clear a fence.

Marcus was at work in the fields with his men the morning the vicar came to tell him that his father was dead. He had been studying the effectiveness of the modifications he had recently made in a new reaping machine.

He still recalled the curiously detached sensation he had experienced whole he listened to the vicar murmur words of condolence.

A year earlier he had wept alone after his mother's death. But on the morning of his father's demise he could not summon a single tear.

His principal emotion beneath the sense of detachment had been a brief, senseless anger.

He had not understood the reason for the inner rage, so he had quickly buried it somewhere deep inside himself. He had never allowed it to resurface.

Young Bennet seemed virtually oblivious to his father's absence. He'd focused all his attention and affection on the one person who was a true constant in his life, his older brother Marcus.

Marcus pushed the-memories aside and watched Bennet wander over to the breakfast table.

"Harry and I got bored in Scotland," Bennet offered. "We decided to return to London for the Season."

"I see." Marcus spread jam on a slice of toast. "I thought you had declared the Season a dead bore."

"Yes, well, that was last year." "Of course."

Last year Bennet had been barely nineteen. He'd just come down from Oxford, full of a young man's enthusiasm for politics and poetry. He had been disdainful of the frivolousness of the Season. Marcus had gotten him into a club populated by other young men who were passionate about the new poets and the latest political theories. Bennet had seemed content.

Marcus had been quietly pleased to see that his brother was not the type to he swept off his feet by the superficial entertainments of the ton.

Oxford had done its job. Marcus had not sent Bennet to Oxford for an education. On the contrary, he had seen to his brother's schooling at home with the assistance of an excellent tutor and his own ever-expanding library.

A young man did not go off to either Cambridge or Oxford in order to study. He went there to obtain a social polish and to mingle with the young men with whom he would later do business for the rest of his life. He went there to form friendships with the scions of the best families, families from which he would eventually select a suitable wife.

Marcus had been determined that his brother would not he like him, a naive, rough-edged country squire who knew nothing of the world beyond life on a farm.

Marcus had paid a high price for his own lack of worldliness. He did not want Bennet to suffer the same fate. A man needed to shed his illusions and dreams as quickly as possible if he was to avoid becoming a victim in this life.

Marcus took a large bite of his toast. "Where did you go last night?"

"He and I both went to our club," Bennet said vaguely. "Then Harry suggested that we drop in on a few of the more interesting soirees."

"Which ones?"

"I don't remember precisely. The Broadmore hall, for one, I believe. And I think we stopped briefly at the Fosters' levee.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

Bennet met Marcus's eyes for an instant and then his gaze slid away. He shrugged. "You could say that'»

"Bennet, I've had enough of this evasiveness. If something is wrong, tell me."

"Nothing is wrong." Bennet glowered at him. "At least not with me."

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

"Very well, Marcus, I shall be blunt. I understand you made a spectacle of yourself last night."

"A spectacle?"

"Hell and damnation. They say you carried your new paramour out of the Fenwicks' ballroom in your arms, for God's sake. Talk about causing a scene."

"Ah, so that's the problem." Marcus's hand tightened on the handle of his knife. He cut into his sausage with grave precision. "Did I embarrass you?"

"Marcus, are you going to spend the rest of your life titillating Society with your bizarre behavior?"

"I did embarrass you." Marcus forked up a bite of sausage and chewed meditatively. "Try not to take it to heart, Bennet. Society has seen worse."

"That's hardly the point, is it?" Bennet slathered butter on his muffin. "The thing is, a man of your years should behave with some sense of propriety."

Marcus nearly choked on his sausage. "A man of my years?"

"You're thirty-six. You ought to have remarried years ago and settled down to the business of building your nursery.

"Bloody hell. From whence springs this sudden concern with my nursery? You know full well that I do not intend to remarry."

"What about your obligation to the title?"

"I'm quite content to see the title go to you."

"Well, I don't particularly want it, Marcus. It's yours and it should go to your son." Bennet scowled in obvious frustration. "It's only right and proper that you should see to your responsibilities."

"I perceive that my actions last night have, indeed humiliated you," Marcus said dryly.

"You must admit, it's a trifle awkward to have an older brother, a thirty-six-year-old unmarried earl, no less, who has no compunction about becoming the latest on dit.

"This isn't the first time."

"It's the first time that you've caused a scene in the middle of a fashionable ballroom."

Marcus cocked a brow. "How would you know? You've hardly spent any time at all in Society."

"Miss Dorchester told me as much," Bennet retorted, clearly goaded.

Marcus stared. "Juliana Dorchester?"

"I had the great privilege of dancing with her fast night," Bennet muttered.

"I see."

"Whenever you say 'I see' in that particular tone, it generally means you disapprove. Well, you had best not say anything unpleasant about Miss Dorchester to me, Marcus. She is a beautiful young lady with extremely refined sensibilities who would never dream of getting involved in a scandalous scene."

"This is Juliana Dorchester's second Season," Marcus said grimly. "She has to secure a husband this time around because the Dorchesters cannot afford a third Season for her. Do you comprehend me, Bennet?"

"You're trying to warn me off her, aren't you? Well, it won't work. She is an unrivaled paragon of womanhood and I shall he forever grateful that she allowed me into her presence last night."

"She is no doubt thanking her lucky stars right this minute that you took notice of her. She'll be plotting to appear in whatever ballroom you happen to show up in this evening."

"Damnation. She's not the type to plot anything. She's too innocent, too gentle, too sweet-natured to plot."

"She's plotting right this minute. Trust me." "How would you know?"

"She's Dorchester 's daughter and I know Dorchester. He's desperate to marry Juliana into money. And her mother wants a title in the family so badly she can taste it." Marcus pointed a fork at Bennet and narrowed his eyes. "You're a prime catch on the Marriage Mart, Bennet. You're rich and there's every expectation that you'll inherit the title. You must he on your guard."

Bennet flung down his napkin. "That's outrageous. Miss Dorchester is not the type to concern herself with money and titles."

"If you really believe that, then you are infinitely more naive than I thought."

"I am not naive. But neither am I as cold-natured and rigid and set in my ways as you are, Marcus. And I certainly don't hang about with outrageous females such as your Mrs. Bright."

"You will speak of Mrs. Bright with respect or you will not mention her name at all, is that understood?"

"She's your mistress, for God's sake."

"She is my very good friend."

"Everyone knows what that means. You have some nerve criticizing Miss Dorchester. Your Mrs. Bright could take a few lessons in decorum from her, if you ask me."

Marcus slammed his coffee cup down onto the saucer. "No one asked you."

The door of the breakfast room opened. Lovelace loomed. He had A small silver tray in one gloved hand.

"A message for you, m'lord. It just arrived."

Marcus frowned as he took the note from the tray. He read it quickly and silently.

M:

I must see you at once. Very urgent. The park. Ten o'clock. The fountain.

Yrs.

H

Marcus glanced at Lovelace. "Have Zeus saddled and brought around at nine-thirty. I believe that I shall ride in the park this morning."

"Yes, my lord." Lovelace backed out of the breakfast room

Who sent you the note?" Bennet asked. "A friend."

"Mrs. Bright, I expect."

"No, as a matter of fact, it's not from Mrs. Bright." Bennet's mouth tightened. "I've never seen you quite

so touchy about one of your paramours."

"She is my friend." Marcus tossed down his napkin and rose to his feet. "Do not forget that Bennet."

At five minutes before ten, Marcus rode Zeus, his heavily muscled black stallion, into the park. He took the graveled path that led toward the center of the vast wooded swath of green. It was the least traveled of the many paths.

Hannah, Lady Sands, was waiting for him in a small closed curricle. She was dressed in a dark maroon carriage gown' The high fluted collar accentuated the graceful line of her throat. Her lovely face was concealed beneath the veil of her stylish maroon hat.

"Marcus. Thank God you have come." She lifted her veil and gazed at him with stark, anxious eyes. "I have been beside myself for days. This morning, when I learned that you were back in Town, I sent my note at once. I feared you would not be free to see me on such short notice."

"You know that I am always available to you, Hannah." Marcus did not Eke the tense set of her delicate features or the shadows in her gray eyes.

Hannah was twenty-nine, married to the wealthy, likable Lord Sands and recently blessed with an infant son.

She had been widowed seven years ago. Her new marriage, which had taken place three years previously, had appeared to he a happy one. Marcus had been glad for her. He had thought her days of fear were behind her, but this morning he recognized the old haunted expression in her eyes.

"What is it, Hannah?"

"I am being blackmailed," she whispered. Her face crumpled in despair. "Oh, Marcus, someone knows everything."

Marcus did not move. "That's impossible."

"No, it's true." Tears formed in her eyes. "Oh, God, he knows, do you comprehend me? He knows how Spalding died. He knows that I killed him."

"Hannah, get hold of yourself. Are you telling me that someone has demanded money from you?"

"Yes. Five thousand pounds. I have already paid it. I was forced to pawn some earrings."

"Bloody hell."

"I fear there will he more demands."

"Yes." Marcus tapped his riding crop against his boot. "I think we can safely assume that there will be more demands. There always are when one is dealing with a blackmailer."

"Dear heaven, I am so afraid, Marcus."

"Hannah, listen carefully. When did you get the first demand?"

"Six days ago. I would have sent a message to you at once, but I did not know where you had gone. I only knew that you were out of Town for an extended period of time."

"I was at Cloud Hall." "I have been absolutely desperate. I haven't slept in days. Sands is becoming very concerned. He keeps asking me what is wrong. He wants me to summon a doctor. What am I going to do?"

"Nothing for the moment," Marcus said gently. "I shall deal with this."

"But what can you do? Marcus, did you hear me? This person knows that I… that I am a murderess."

"Hush, Hannah. Calm yourself. You did not murder Lynton Spalding. What you did was done in self-defense. Do not ever forget that."

"No one will believe it. What will Sands say if he ever learns the truth?"

"I suspect that your husband would be far more understanding about this than you believe," Marcus said. It was not the first time he had tried to talk Hannah into telling Sands the truth about her first husband's death. But Hannah was adamant in her refusal to do so.

"I dare not tell him, Marcus. He would never he able to accept the knowledge that he is married to a woman who had actually killed her first husband. How would you deal with such a revelation if you were in his shoes?"

Marcus shrugged. "Knowing what I do about Spalding and his treatment of you, I would congratulate you on being such an excellent shot."

Hannah gave him a stricken look. "Please, I beg you, do not tease me."

"I'm not teasing you. It's the truth. I think you underestimate your new husband."

"I know him better than you do. He thinks I am a paragon. I simply cannot tell him the truth."

"Apparently the blackmailer knows that, too," Marcus observed. "Interesting."

"What are you going to do?" "I believe that I shall have a long talk with someone who appears to know more about this situation than I had realized."

"What on earth are you saying?" Hannah wailed. "Marcus, you must not tell anyone about any of this."

"Do not concern yourself. I shall not give away your secret. But I do intend to seek a few answers to some questions I neglected to ask last night."

"I don't understand."

"lt appears I was somewhat hasty. I did something I rarely do: I leaped to a conclusion." Marcus steadied the prancing Zeus. "I thought I was being treated to a very inventive banbury tale, you see."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. It's a long story and I do not have time to tell it at the moment. Rest assured that I shall look into this matter at once, Hannah. And do not pay another penny in blackmail without consulting me first, do you understand?"

"Yes." Hannah's elegantly gloved fingers tightened on the reins. "I am so relieved to be able to talk to you about this. I was going mad."

"It will be alright, I promise you."

Hannah smiled mistily. "That is what you said the night you helped me dispose of Spalding's body."

"And I was right, was I not?"

She gave him an odd look. "You kept my secret but at a great cost to yourself. You know very well that there are still those who say that you murdered Spalding in cold blood in order to gain control of the investment pool."

Marcus smiled. "No one could ever prove that he was not killed by a footpad, and that was all that mattered. Gossip does not bother me, Hannah. I am accustomed to it."

Her mouth curved wryly. "Sometimes I think that nothing bothers you." She hesitated. "I read the morning papers. I could not help but see the gossip about a certain exhibition at the Fenwicks' ball last night."

"Did you?"

Hannah gave him a quizzical look. "Come now, Marcus. You and I are old friends. You can confide in me. We both know that you are not the type to become besotted with any female. Did you actually carry Mrs. Bright out of the ballroom in your arms?"

"She fainted." "You have never gotten involved with anyone who made.scenes, Marcus. You are infamous for demanding absolute discretion from your paramours."

"Mrs. Bright is not my paramour," Marcus said coldly. "She is my very good friend. She fainted and I made certain that she got some fresh air so that she could recover. That was all."

Hannah sighed. "You're in a strange mood today." She reached up to tug her veil down over her face. "Forgive my intrusion. Your connection to Mrs. Bright is entirely your affair."

"I must he on my way. I told Sands that I was shopping this morning."

Marcus gentled his tone. "Try not to worry unduly about the blackmailer, Hannah. I shall look into the matter."

"Thank you." She gave him another sad smile. "I am very fortunate to count you as my friend." She flicked the reins and drove off down the graveled path.

Marcus studied the sparkling fountain for a long while and then he turned Zeus's head and rode back toward the western entrance of the park.

"But he's supposed to be dead," Zoe, Lady Guthrie, wailed. "Why isn't he?"

"Hush, Aunt Zoe." Iphiginia cast a quick glance about at the uncrowded showrooms of Hornby and Smith, Upholsterers. Fortunately, no one appeared to have overheard Zoe's lament. "I cannot say, but it's an encouraging development, don't you think?"

"It confuses the issue, if you ask me," Zoe declared. Amelia, dressed in one of the dull bombazine gowns

she favored, nodded in agreement. "Your aunt is quite right. This whole thing is a great tangle. I do not like it."

"Please keep your voices down, both of you. Someone will hear you." Iphiginia glanced anxiously around the showroom again.

The proprietors hovered behind a counter at the rear of the shop. Mr. Smith was a broad, plump man garbed in a shocking pink waistcoat and the latest style of pleated trousers. Hornby, gaunt, stooped, and balding, was wearing a paisley printed waistcoat. It contrasted sharply with his purple coat.

Hornby gazed longingly down the length of the shop at where Iphiginia, Zoe, and Amelia stood together around a pattern book. He was clearly waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He had been rebuffed twice already, but Iphiginia knew that he was on the verge of making another attempt to offer his assistance.

The walls of the long room were lined with drawings and designs that purported to offer suggestions for decorating one's residence in the latest fashion. Samples of the newest styles in chairs and tables were arranged in a row down the center of the room.

Pattern books containing drawings of lavishly decorated interiors for every room in the home were set out on several tables.

Iphiginia, Zoe, and Amelia were making a show of studying a design for a combined library and statuary hall. But the real reason they had all met at Hornby and Smith's this morning was to discuss the latest developments in the crisis.

"Obviously the blackmailer was lying about having murdered Masters," Iphiginia said. "He was attempting to frighten you, Aunt Zoe, so that you would meet his demands."

"He succeeded. To the tune of five thousand pounds," Zoe muttered. "It is really too much. I finally regain control of my own money after all these years of watching Guthrie fritter it away on horses and women, and what happens? Some nasty blackmailer happens along and tries to take it away from me again."

"I understand, Aunt Zoe. We shall identify him and put a stop to this, I promise you," Iphiginia murmured sympathetically.

She was very fond of her aunt and had every intention of doing her best to free Zoe from the blackmailer's clutches.

At forty-five, Zoe was an energetic, vivacious woman with a flair for the dramatic. Her hair, once the same tawny shade as Iphiginia's, was attractively streaked with silver. She had the cleanly etched profile that characterized all the women on the Bright side of the family.

Twenty-five years earlier Zoe had not only been quite striking, she had also been an heiress. The handsome portion her doting parents had settled on their only daughter had attracted the eye of Lord Guthrie. No one had discovered until too late that Guthrie was nearly penniless. By the-n Zoe was married and her husband had gained legal control of her portion.

Having secured the money he had coveted, Guthrie promptly lost interest in his new bride. Fortunately, he had not been a complete idiot. He had managed to avoid squandering all of Zoe's inheritance. He had, however, gone through the income and had started to make serious inroads on the capital before conveniently suffering a stroke.

As Zoe had once said to Iphiginia, it was typical of Guthrie that, even in the act of departing this mortal plane, he had managed to humiliate her. He had died in a brothel.

Zoe let it be known far and wide that the only benefit she had ever received from marriage was her lovely daughter, Maryanne. She was thrilled with Maryanne's recent betrothal to the handsome and, as Zoe had taken care to ascertain, wealthy Sheffield.

During the long years of her unhappy marriage to the obnoxious Guthrie, Zoe had taken comfort in her liaison with Lord Otis. Otis had been devoted to her from the moment they had been introduced. He had never married. The fact that he was Maryanne's real father, however, had been a deep, dark secret until the blackmailer had somehow discovered it.

Maryanne, a charming, warmhearted young lady, was exceedingly fond of Otis. She treated him as though he were a favored uncle. Otis doted on her.

After the death of her husband, Zoe had, in the manner of so many of Society's widows, finally come into her own.

The first thing she had done was gather together what remained of her inheritance. She had invested the whole of it in Iphiginia's first property speculation venture, Morning Rose Square.

When the initial income from that investment had been realized last year, Zoe had promptly settled a handsome portion on Maryanne. She and her daughter had both set about replacing all the drab, unstylish gowns in their wardrobes with new clothes fashioned by elegant modistes who possessed French accents. When all was in readiness, Maryanne was launched on Society. The offer from Sheffield had come shortly after Maryanne's first ball.

Zoe's mouth tightened as she studied the illustration of the combined library and statuary hall. "Otis says there very likely will be more demands, and soon. He claims blackmailers are like leeches. They usually return time and again until they have succeeded in bleeding their victims dry."

Iphiginia shuddered. "Mat a ghastly analogy. From what I have heard, he is right." She frowned over the frustration in the pattern book, her mind on her aunt's problem. "It is unfortunate that Masters thinks the entire matter is merely an amusing jest."

"Are you certain that he did not believe you?" Zoe asked.

"He made it quite clear that he thinks I invented the tale in order to explain my masquerade to him."

Zoe groaned. "What a disastrous affair this is. I still cannot credit that he has actually agreed to allow you to continue posing as his paramour."

"Well, he has agreed to it and we must be grateful. It will allow me to continue searching the studies and libraries of — the suspects."

"I'm beginning to think that it is all a waste of time," Zoe said. "Thus far you have learned nothing."

Iphiginia tapped one gloved finger lightly against the illustration. "I wouldn't say that. I have eliminated both Darrow and Judson from the list of those who might be the blackmailers."

Zoe sighed. "I don't know. It all sounds so vague." "We have nothing better to go on at the moment." Iphiginia broke off when she caught a flash of purple out of the corner of her eye. "Oh, hello, Mr. Hornby. We are still studying this illustration, as you can see."

"Of course." Hornby, unable to resist the temptation to encourage potential clients, sidled closer. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance?" He gave Iphiginia, Zoe, and Amelia an unctuous smile.

Iphiginia thought quickly. "This is a most unusual decoration above the fireplace in this design, Mr. Hornby."

Hornby beamed. "It is an exact copy of an ancient sepulchral ruin, madam. It gives the library a serious, weighty sort of atmosphere, quite suited to the characteristic use of such a chamber."

"I see," Iphiginia said. "Very interesting." Zoe peered more closely at the illustration. "What on earth are those odd creatures that support the lamps?"

"Sphinxes, madam. All the rage at the moment, you know. They go rather well with the Egyptian hieroglyphic wallpaper."

"Yes, of course."

Amelia frowned. "What is all this drapery hanging from the ceiling, Mr. Hornby

"Turkish tent hangings, madam. They provide an exotic air that will astound visitors."

"It certainly will," Iphiginia murmured. She surveyed the picture quite closely. "The room appears to contain a somewhat mixed collection of antique vases."

"All are exact copies of antiques in the Etruscan style, madam. Exceedingly fashionable."

Iphiginia elected not to point out that the vases were no more Etruscan in design than his paisley waistcoat. "Where do you plan to put the books?"

"The books?" Mr. Horn looked baffled. "It is a library, is it not?" Iphiginia said.

Horn assumed a politely superior air. "Madam perhaps is not aware that few people of fashion actually use a library for the purpose of reading these days."

Iphiginia concealed a smile. "Of course. I do not know what I was thinking to even mention books."

"Quite right, madam," Hornby said. "It is precisely the wish to avoid such decorating mistakes that brings persons of taste to a firm such as Hornby and Smith."

Amelia frowned. "Mr. Hornby, you are obviously not aware that Mrs. Bright is accounted an expert in matters of antique design."

Hornby's eyes widened. "Uh, no. No, I was not. Forgive me, madam. I had not realized."

Iphiginia waved aside his stammered apology. "Quite all right."

Her expertise in antiquities had been one of the most useful elements of her masquerade. Zoe had quickly fed the rumor mill with the news that the mysterious Mrs. Bright had a scholar's knowledge of the antique style, the latest fashion in home decoration.

Iphiginia had been an immediate success at every bag, as there was no shortage of people who wanted to discuss their decorating schemes with her. Maintaining a fashionable home was as essential as being au courant in one's dress.

Before Hornby could apologize further, the small bells over the shop door tinkled discreetly. A short round woman of middle years bustled into the showroom. She was a vision in several yards of flounced and ruffled white muslin.

Her gown was trimmed with a white spencer and she wore a massive white hat trimmed with huge white flowers. She carried a lacy white parasol and a snowy white reticule.

"Good grief,". Zoe muttered as she gazed in awe at the newcomer. "Lady Pettigrew looks like a giant snowball."

"It is not my fault," Iphiginia whispered. Amelia raised a brow. "It certainly is. They are calling it the Lady Starlight fashion. Any number of ladies are determined to wear it."

"Oh, Mrs. Bright," Lady Pettigrew sang out. "I thought I saw your carriage in the street. How fortunate. I have been most anxious to speak to you. Do you have a moment?"

"Good morning, Lady Pettigrew." Iphiginia had encountered the plump, vague, eccentric Lady Pettigrew at a number of social affairs. Although the woman's husband was on Iphiginia's list of potential blackmailers, Iphiginia was rather fond of Lady Pettigrew. "Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Lady Guthrie, and my cousin, Miss Farley."

"Delighted." Lady Pettigrew smiled benignly at Zoe and Amelia. "I assume you are seeking Mrs. Bright's opinion on a matter of classical taste and fashion, Lady Guthrie? That is precisely what I wish to do."

"As a matter of fact, I have asked Mrs. Bright to give me her advice on how to use antique vases to the best effect in my town house," Zoe said smoothly.

Lady Pettigrew beamed enthusiastically. "It is well known that Mrs. Bright is an authority on the archaeological style. I, myself, wish to consult with her about my Temple of Vesta."

That piqued Iphiginia's interest. "Are you constructing an antique temple, Lady Pettigrew?"

"Actually, I already possess one," Lady Pettigrew said, not without a touch of pride. "It is a wonderful old ruin located in a charming grove on the grounds of our country house in Hampshire."

"How old is it?" Iphiginia asked. "It was built about thirty years ago by Pettigrew's father. The thing is, I am not entirely certain it is accurate in every detail. I should very much like to restore it properly."

In spite of her more pressing concerns, Iphiginia was captivated by the prospect of examining the Pettigrew ruin. "As it happens, I made careful measurements and sketches of the ruin of a genuine Temple of Vesta while I was in Italy. I would he happy to compare them with your ruin, Lady Pettigrew. I might he able to offer some suggestions on how to produce a more precise copy."

"Wonderful, wonderful. I am giving a small house party next week. I shall send you an invitation. Our estate is only a day's journey from London."

"That is very kind of you. I should love to come." It was a perfect opportunity, Iphiginia thought jubilantly. The house party would give her a chance to search through Lord Pettigrew's country house library to see if he had black scaling wax and a phoenix seal concealed there. At the same time she would be able to view the Temple of Vesta. Two birds with one stone.

The shop chimes banged suddenly and with such force that one tiny bell shuddered, bounced, and fell to the floor. It emitted a tiny, stricken clang and then fell silent. Everyone turned toward the door as it opened. Marcus strode into the showroom. He was dressed for riding in a black coat, breeches, and gleaming ebony Hessians. He was bareheaded and his dark hair was windblown.

His amber eyes fixed instantly on Iphiginia with an expression of chilling intent. He started toward her, moving like a raw, dangerous force of nature through the samples of dainty drawing room furniture and the displays of fashionable drapery.

A deep sense of unease snaked through Iphiginia. Something was decidedly wrong, she realized. This was not the indulgent, casually amused man who had kissed her last night.

It was Lady Pettigrew who broke the taut, tense silence that had settled on the shop the moment Marcus appeared. She fluttered cheerfully.

"Masters," she exclaimed. "How good to see you. was just chatting with your close friend, Mrs. Bright."

"Were you, indeed?" Marcus did not take his eyes off Iphiginia. "I am about to have a chat with her myself."

Iphiginia blinked at the tone of his voice. She saw Amelia's eyes narrow.

Heedless of the undercurrents, Lady Pettigrew smiled brightly at Marcus and gave him a shrewd, knowing look. "I have invited her to attend a small gathering at my country house next week. Perhaps you would also care to visit? I know you are not overly fond of house parties."

"No, I am not."

"But you may be quite interested in this one, my lord." Lady Pettigrew arched one brow. "I'm certain you and Mrs. Bright would thoroughly enjoy a stay in the country. So much privacy available, you know."

It took Iphiginia a few seconds to comprehend Lady Pettigrew's subtle emphasis on the word privacy. When she did, she felt herself turn pink. Lady Pettigrew was making it clear to Marcus that he and his mistress would have ample opportunity for dalliance at her country house party.

Marcus's eyes moved reluctantly from Iphiginia to Lady Pettigrew's bouncy little snowball figure. "Very kind of you, Lady Pettigrew. I shall consider your invitation carefully."

Lady Pettigrew glowed with triumph. "I am delighted to hear that, my lord. I am most anxious to have Mrs. Bright examine my Temple of Vesta, you see. I wish to obtain her opinion on the archaeological exactness of my ruin."

Marcus gazed at Lady Pettigrew as though he had suddenly discovered that she were a rather curious archaeological object herself. " Temple of Vesta?"

"Surely you are acquainted with the style, my lord," Iphiginia murmured helpfully. "There is a very fine example in Tivoli. It is a lovely circular structure. The Vestal Virgins are said to have tended the sacred flame there."

"Virgins," Marcus said, "have never been a subject that was of much interest to me."