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"I don't know," Francis sighed. "I just don't know."

His mother came over and laid a hand on his arm.

"I want you to know that I like your bride, Francis. She is not what I would have chosen for you, but she has a good heart and considerable courage. Don't let foolishness and pride come between you." She kissed his cheek and left.

Foolishness and pride. That was hardly relevant to the deepest kind of deception, but he was pleased his mother had mellowed. If he could salvage anything from his marriage, then there was hope.

And she was right. If he was to salvage anything from his marriage, he must lay bare the exact truth.

He left a message saying he would return for dinner at seven, then went out to check on the hunt for Ferncliff.

Approaching Belcraven House, he met Lucien on his way to Nicholas's and accompanied him there. He found Hal and Steve there, too, and in this location, the group included Blanche.

She said, "You haven't brought your wife? I wanted to meet her."

"Then you should call."

"Francis, have sense. When you're trying to conceal the poor girl's past, the last thing you want is someone as suspect as I."

"You'd be less suspect," said Hal without heat, "if you married me."

"Nonsense," said Blanche.

"And
you'd be able to visit the houses of our respectable friends."

"I doubt it. Francis's mother wouldn't welcome me, for a start."

"She's mellowing," said Francis. "I, too, think you should marry Hal, for what it's worth."

"We all do," said Nicholas, "but poor Blanche is too shy to commit herself."

Blanche threw him a scathing look, but Francis was amused. Nicholas had kept his distance from Hal's tussle to get Blanche to the altar; if he decided to take a hand, things could get interesting.

Nicholas's attention had shifted to Francis, however. "Why didn't you tell me Serena's brothers were trying to extort money from you?"

"From her," Francis corrected. "How did you find out?"

"She told Eleanor."

Francis flicked a look at Eleanor. "I wonder why."

Eleanor answered that. "I think, to explain why she wasn't in a state of delirious joy. Fm afraid I was into 'count your blessings.'"

"And she couldn't find any to count."

"No," Eleanor said gently. "She knows she has many, but she can't help but be concerned about the problems, too. I think it would be a kindness to remove them."

"Exactly what I had in mind," said Francis briskly. "I am determined to find Ferncliff and put the fear of the devil into the Allbrights." But he still didn't say anything about his suspicions of Serena.

"Excellent," said Nicholas. "Ferncliff isn't at Simmon's place."

Francis took a seat. "How did you find that out?"

"Sent Steve over. You should have remembered that the tyrant always had a soft spot for Steve. Soon mellowed enough to say that Ferncliff was out the day you invade his rooms and was warned not to return. By the way, both Simmons and Ferncliff seem to truly feel that you intend the man harm."

"Perhaps I do. What else can he expect when he goes around pestering my womenfolk?"

Stephen Ball spoke up. "Simmons, at least, believes Ferncliff an innocent victim. Ferncliff was up at Balliol with him, by the way. Simmons had no clear idea of the problem, but thought it was a personal matter between you and Ferncliff and entirely your fault. He is now confirmed in his opinion that the Rogues are villains. I was lectured on the text, '
Every man is like the company he keeps.'"
Wryly, he added, "In Greek."

"Personal matter? I've never even met the man!"

Nicholas said, "If Ferncliff really is into blackmail, he would hardly tell his old friend about it. Anyway, we're back to searching the urban haystack for a needle."

Francis knew he should tell them that Ferncliff seemed to be in the habit of hanging around his own garden, but he didn't. The Rogues had taken Serena to their hearts; he wouldn't reveal her duplicity unless he had to.

"So," said Nicholas to Francis, "what do you have planned for the Allbrights?"

"In my dreams, the torments of hell. But there's a limit, I suppose, to what I can do to my wife's brothers. Probably sheer weight of status should have them on the run. I intend to put the fear of the devil into them, and immediately."

"Crude but effective. Why don't you and Lucien handle it? You comprise the most weighty status we have to hand. You were definitely not the right team to send against Simmons, but should be perfect for the Allbrights. They're staying at the Scepter Inn, by the way. Since they are using their own names, that was easy enough to discover."

* * *

The Dowager Lady Middlethorpe had agreed to dine with her sister and the Countess of Cawle. She knew it was time to untangle the web of deceit she had woven and hoped they could help. She shuddered at the thought of revealing her foolishness to her sister and her friend, but the time of cowardice was past.

Cordelia hoped for advice, and perhaps some support, but she mostly hoped that her confession would serve as a rehearsal for the horrible task of revealing her foolishness—her wickedness, in fact—to her son and her lover.

She did not approach her dinner with a hearty appetite.

* * *

Alone in her bedroom in Hertford Street, Serena put the solitary daffodil in a vase, and it promptly became the focus of some maudlin thoughts. She had hated to see a flower destroyed, and yet there had been something exciting about her husband's steady hand and cool eyes as he had prepared the shot. The excitement was still with her, tingling her nerve endings, speeding her heartbeat, and making her hearing sensitive to any sound that might announce his return.

She wished she knew what Francis really felt toward her. When she'd agreed to this marriage, she had hoped for respect and kindness. Now, she longed for more.

The trouble with a good and well-bred man, however, was that it was hard to decide what was courtesy and what was emotion. He was always courteous, but when he retreated behind that icy manner, she wondered if Francis even liked her, never mind loved her.

If only they hadn't been plunged straight into this hectic life. It was necessary in order to avoid scandal, but it meant that their time alone together had been very limited. Not bed-time—though they had not often been together in a bed—but time to talk during the day. No wonder the idea of a honeymoon was so popular these days. Some privacy in order to become acquainted sounded delightful.

Tonight, at least, they were to dine alone. Perhaps that would be an opportunity to grow closer.

She was wondering what to wear to dinner—whether fine or informal would be more effective for the mood she wanted to create—when a package was brought to her.

Serena recognized her brother's messy writing immediately and was tempted to throw the small package into the fire unopened. Her nerve wasn't strong enough, however. It felt like a box, for heaven's sake. What now?

She broke the seal. A letter formed a cover for a chased silver snuff box. She recognized it as one belonging to her first husband, but Serena couldn't imagine why Tom had sent it to her. It must be worth a few guineas at least.

She suspected an unpleasant surprise and so eased up the lid cautiously. The box was empty, even of snuff. Serena stared into the space, wondering what to make of it all, and then her eye was caught by the underside of the lid.

Dear Lord above!

Fitted into the inside of the lid was a meticulous miniature of one of the more disgusting pictures. Her mouth slackened with shock to think that when Matthew had sat in their drawing room, smiling at her as he took a pinch of snuff, he had also been ogling this picture of her in a compromising situation.

Oh, but if there was any justice, he was roasting slowly in the lowest pits of hell.

She remembered the original pose for this picture. Beehan had directed her to lie on a chaise on her stomach, head resting on her hands on the raised arm. She had seen the drawing when it was finished and it had been rather charming, as if she were a young girl having a pleasant daydream.

In the final product, however, she was naked except for some jewels—some of her own jewels. The chaise was shortened so that her knees were on the ground and a man was using her from behind. He held a whip in his hand and marks indicated that he had recently used it on her. She—no, the woman in the picture, for it was not her at all—was smiling out of the picture with the utmost contentment.

Serena used her nails to gouge the paper out of the box and hurled it into the fire. It caught and flared, then flew up the chimney, but her fear stayed leaden in her heart. What would happen if the world saw pictures like
that?

Quickly, she scanned the letter.

Serry, have you forgotten what's at stake here? Here's something to jog your memory. Destroy it if you want, there's more as you know. Seems a shame, though. Your husband might like this little box as a gift. I had to wear out two whores after I'd finished looking through all these pretty pictures.

Now, why not be sensible? We'll start with the jewels. Bring them to me at the Scepter Inn, Crown Square, and I'll give you half the pictures then and there. Cheap at the price.

If you don't pay before half past six this evening, the first ones will go to a printer I know. He's very keen to start engraving them.

Serena hurled the letter, too, into the flames, but that didn't destroy the threat. Pity of heaven, it was nearly five already!

She needed Francis. Where
was
he?

Why on earth hadn't he said where he was going?

Why on earth hadn't he told her
anything
about his plans to handle her brothers? He clearly had just ignored them, and this was the result!

She rang for a footman and scribbled a note asking Francis to return home immediately. She directed it to Belcraven House, as his most likely location.

Then she paced the room, praying that he be there.

In fifteen minutes the footman returned to say that he had failed to find the viscount. He offered to do the rounds of the clubs, but Serena dismissed him. That could take forever and she had little over an hour left.

While the footman had been gone, she'd had realized why the Scepter Inn sounded so familiar. It was where Charles Ferncliff was staying as Mr. Lowden. That gave her the germ of a plan, and now there was nothing for it but to act.

She was going to try to steal the pictures, but she'd take the jewels with her in case she had to stave off disaster by paying.

She ran to her room, grabbed the pouch from her drawer, and flung on her cloak. How on earth, though, was she to get to the Scepter Inn? It was already dark outside.

She returned downstairs and ordered Dibbert to find her a hackney. "Certainly, milady. You will require a footman to attend you, milady?" Though phrased as a question, it was more of a command.

"Yes, please," said Serena. A footman seemed like a very good idea. Francis had two, and she was pleased to see the bigger, stronger one appointed for the task. She wished she could tell him to bring a weapon if he had such a thing, but that would raise altogether too much alarm.

Darkness had already fallen, and as she rattled along in the musty vehicle, Serena was glad of the gaslights that illuminated much of this part of town. Surely nothing too terrible could happen in such well-lit streets.

The Scepter, she was pleased to find, was not far away and in a respectable location. The worst of her tension began to ebb. She entered the bustling inn, escorted by her footman, and asked for Mr. Lowden.

A maid directed her to number eight on the first floor. Serena told the footman to await her in the hall and headed for the stairs. She halted, however, at the sound of a familiar voice.

Will.

In the taproom?

Serena slipped back to peep into the low-ceilinged room. The ale-soaked air swirled with smoke, but she could make out Will at the bar downing a tankard and chatting. Was Tom there, too? That could suit her plans very nicely....

But he was nowhere to be seen.

More likely he was in his room awaiting her.

Since it didn't seem to be the custom here to take guests up to the rooms, she stopped a passing potboy and asked what room Sir Thomas Allbright and his brother had.

"Numbers eleven and twelve, ma'am."

Armed with this information, Serena climbed the stairs, wondering whether Will being in the tap helped or hindered her cause. Though Will was small beer compared to Tom, having him out of the way should be helpful.

She knocked on the door of number eight.

Mr. Ferncliff opened the door cautiously; at the sight of her, his eyes widened with shock. Serena slipped in quickly, not wanting to risk being seen.

"Lady Middlethorpe, what on earth are you doing here?"

Serena took in the room with alarm. In her limited experience, people staying at an inn took both a bedchamber and a private parlor, which also served as a dining room. Ferncliff, perhaps for reasons of economy, had not.