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'Struth.

Francis launched aimlessly into talk to pass the meal, only realizing after a while that he was speaking of the Rogues. Normally his mother would have stopped the topic with a caustic remark, for it had always infuriated her that he had formed such an attachment to the group, particularly to Nicholas Delaney. As Nicholas had said, it was extraordinary that she write to him, even if she thought Francis about to be slaughtered.

Now, however, she smiled vaguely, even making a few encouraging comments as he spoke of his friends. He decided on an experiment.

"Met Nicholas a few weeks back," he said. "In fine form now he's settled. I'm going to spend some time down there in the spring."

"I'm sure that will be very pleasant," she said with no hint of sarcasm.

"He's talking of a grand reunion. I thought we might hold it here."

"If you wish."

Francis began to wonder if it was his mother whose wits had been turned.

As soon as the meal was over and they were alone in the small drawing room, he said, "So, there have been no further messages from Ferncliff?"

"None at all." His mother poured him tea, but the spout knocked against the delicate china cup in a most untypical piece of carelessness.

"If he is mad he could be dangerous," Francis pointed out as he took the cup.

"All the more reason to ignore him, dear."

"That is foolish, Mother. If he is mad, he must be confined before he does further damage."

She looked up sharply. "Oh, no!"

"Why the devil not?"

"Language, Francis!"

He was on the verge of blistering her out of her slippers with his language, but controlled himself. "Why not?" he repeated.

She looked down and replaced her cup and saucer on the table. Francis saw that a few drops had been spilled into the saucer. By a shaking hand?

"Those places are so terrible, Francis," she said. "We hear such things. I would not want
anyone
to be confined in chains and filth."

"He is upsetting you, Mother," said Francis firmly. "I do not believe for one moment that the letters have ceased."

He put down his own cup and rose to his feet. "I think you are lying because you fear I will be hurt. Well, I am hurt. I am hurt by your lack of faith in me. I'm a grown man. I'm a dead shot with a pistol and well able to take care of myself with my fists. I no longer need to be protected."

She was staring up at him in astonishment, and not a little apprehension. "Francis... I did not..." He saw her collect herself. "There have been no more letters." But her eyes shifted.

"Good God, Mother!" he exploded. "Do I have to have your mail searched?"

"No, Francis, please! It is not worth all this pother."

"Of course it is. You look haggard. This man is hurting you, and who knows to what lengths he will go?"

She suddenly hid her face with her hands. "Francis, please. You are hurting me more than he."

"For heaven's sake!"

She looked up, even more haggard. "I ask you to forget all about this. It is causing me terrible distress. You may not want me to be afraid for you, but I am a mother and cannot help it. Leave it, please, and get on with your courting of Lady Anne."

"I cannot attend to one with the other outstanding."

She stared at him in genuine astonishment. "What has one to do with the other?"

Francis realized that the answer was, nothing. Except Serena, whom he would not have met if he had not been on the road to Weymouth. He had a vision of his life if uninterrupted. He would be engaged to Anne and everything would be orderly.

But what in God's name would have happened to Serena if he had not befriended her? The possibilities chilled his soul.

"Well, Francis?" Lady Middlethorpe insisted. "What possible connection is there? Lady Anne has reason to be hurt by your neglect."

"I'm not neglecting her. I stopped at Lea Park yesterday fully intending to speak to her, but she has chicken pox. They wrote here with the news."

"Oh, of course. How could I have forgotten? How is she?"

You have forgotten, thought Francis, because your mind is tied in knots trying to save me from Ferncliff. "She will be fine, but I must give her time to recover. I thought I'd do a little hunting first."

"Francis, no!"

"Good Lord, Mother, Anne isn't going anywhere. I've spent the last month traipsing around the country after your demented tutor..."

"Not mine."

Francis ignored that. "...and I fancy a week or two enjoying myself with my friends. Is that so terrible?"

Lady Middlethorpe seemed suddenly very weary. "Very well. I'm sorry this business has cut up your peace and put you so out of temper, Francis, but I did tell you from the first to leave it be. If you must hunt, I suppose you must." She rose to her feet. "Do write a note to Lea Park, though, to explain your absence."

With that, she left the room, drooping reproachfully.

Francis stared down at the fire, aware that he
was
out of temper, which was very unusual for him. He should trust his mother's good sense. He should put the matter of Ferncliff out of his mind. He should send more money to Serena and reaffirm the fact that he had no personal interest in her. He should write a letter to Lea Park making his intentions perfectly clear.

Then, when he came back from the Shires, he'd have no choice but to talk to the duke and settle his marriage.

As a plan of action, it had no flaw at all.

But he didn't follow any of it.

* * *

Once Christmas was over, Lady Middlethorpe waved Francis on his way with a smile that hid deep misgivings. Her life seemed to be sinking further and further into a mire of deception. Her wanton foolishness had made her miserable; now it appeared that she had thrown Francis's life into turmoil.

If she had not summoned Francis back in November, he would be safely betrothed to Anne. He had said as much. Now she sensed a reluctance in him. In addition, he was now headed for the hunting field where men not infrequently died. She would have forbidden it if she had been able, but such days were past. In fact, recent events seemed to have brought about an alarming change in her son.

He was now clearly beyond her command.

And what was she to do about Charles? Lady Middlethorpe returned to her boudoir, eyeing the silk-covered chaise with both dislike and longing. She unlocked a drawer and removed a bundle of letters. Francis had been correct in thinking that there had been more. She read the latest, which had arrived but days before her son.

Your young firebrand seems to be pursuing me all over the country, Cordelia! I have had to go to ground in a damnably out-of-the-way place to get any peace. He's even been to my family seeking news of me. You had better talk sense to him or I will stop avoiding him. If he's intent on shooting me, on his head be it, and on yours.

Another lie. She had been so desperate to prevent a meeting between Francis and Charles that she had told Charles her son intended to shoot him on sight.
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."

The situation was growing so dangerous. She should have had the courage to tell Francis the truth, but how could she?
My dear boy, I have been lying to you from the start and vilifying an innocent man. Not only is Charles Ferncliff not a blackmailer, he is the man I allowed to...

She glared at the offending chaise as if her sin were all the fault of the piece of furniture. Then she wandered over and trailed a hand over the slightly nubby silk, remembering the feel of it against her skin.

She and George had never made love anywhere except in a bed. Oh, it had been very nice, but there had been none of the dreadful rapture edged with danger....

She snatched her hand away. "Stop it!" she hissed to the chaise. "
Stop it!"

She grabbed the miniature of her husband that she kept on her desk and held it to her heart, then moved it away so she could look at the gentle face of the man she had so deeply loved. Dear George. How could she have betrayed him? He had been such a good man, and Francis was like him in so many ways.

Lady Anne was a very lucky young woman.

Chapter 7

On his way to Melton Mowbray and the hunting season, Francis had to pass quite close to Summer St. Martin. He could think of any number of reasons to stop, not the least of them being to visit his favorite aunt, but he did not. It would be too dangerous to his equilibrium to see Serena again.

Arabella had sent a couple of witty letters, both of which conveyed the clear impression that the two women were rubbing along surprisingly well, and that Serena was healthy and happy. The only solid piece of information in the letters was that Serena's brothers had cheated her out of three thousand pounds left by her husband. Francis gained the clear impression that he was supposed to do something about that. Heaven only knows what.

He was pleased by the obvious accord between the women, but a little surprised. Was Serena Allbright really contentedly putting up preserves, mending sheets, reading novels, and taking long country walks?

If she was, he thought with sudden alarm, he'd go odds all the males of the area were gathering around Patchem's Cottage like tomcats round a queen in heat. He almost did then make the detour to claim his siren, but he forced himself onward.

He was going to marry Anne Peckworth. Serena Allbright, with her beauty and courage, vulnerability and erotic expertise, was no longer any concern of his.

Let her take a bucolic lover if she wished.

* * *

Francis was not far out in his reckoning. Serena's appearance in Summer St. Martin had certainly created a stir... a stir that Arabella Hurstman watched with interest.

She was as intrigued by her guest as was Francis, and as unsure about the future. The idea of a girl of fifteen being forced into any marriage appalled her, but marriage to such a man as Matthew Riverton... Well, there should be a law against such things, and Arabella was considering various ways of making sure there would be.

But, innocent victim or not, eight years of such a marriage must have an effect. Arabella had learnt that much of Serena's sultry appearance was misleading, but she certainly couldn't be considered any kind of innocent. The question was, was her mind damaged beyond hope of normality?

Arabella was sure she had detected feelings between the beautiful young woman and her favorite nephew. She would like nothing better than to see them amount to something, but only if Serena was capable of being a loving, decent wife.

Each day brought reassurance. Serena behaved like a perfect lady.

A point in her favor was that she made absolutely no attempt to attract. In fact, her plain, high-necked dresses and severe hairstyle seemed to be attempts to mute her appeal.

It could be that the young woman had a complacent knowledge that she had no need to make efforts, but Arabella didn't think so. She had seen enough pretty girls making the most of their looks and throwing out lures to know that such a course would be unusual. No, one would have to say that Serena had no desire to attract male attention or admiration and was doing her best to fade into the background.

It didn't work, of course, but Arabella could not hold that against her.

Patchem's Cottage had suddenly become of great interest to the young men of the area. In fact, any location where Serena happened to be—in the church, visiting the poor, or in the tiny village shop—immediately became a lodestone for men as if a bell had rung.

It was all perfectly safe, for in the village, under the eyes of people who had known them all their lives, none of the men was going to take one step out of line.

So, if Serena was a lady, what did the future hold?

Cordelia's letters implied that Francis was showing interest in one of Arran's daughters, but in that case, what was he doing befriending a sultry creature like Serena? A marriage to Matthew Riverton's widow could not compare to an alliance with the Arrans. In fact, thought Arabella with a chuckle, it would doubtless turn Cordelia's hair gray.