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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

England, March, 1816

When the sun came out from beneath dense clouds, Izzy Daventry threw her shawl over her shoulders and set off from the manor across meadows that were still slick from the last downpour. Within moments, the collection of children commonly known as Izzy's Urchins gathered around her, warbling like the first larks of spring, eager to see what adventure she had prepared for the day.

She had plenty of time before her father arrived from Town. Even though he was expected by supper, Izzy knew her miscreant parent well. At his best, he wouldn't arrive before midnight. And even at that, he would need no more than the mere mention of some Arthurian manuscript unearthed in Wales, and he would be off in that direction, forgetting he had ever meant to come home.

Today, she proclaimed to her followers, was the first day of polliwog season. With the practiced eye of an expert polliwog hunter, Izzy paced along the bank, searching for a quiet pool with the characteristics for the proper breeding of tadpoles. Finding her spot, she set the children to searching the water.

"There's some!" said Tom Watkins, whose eagerness always delighted her. "Oh, Izzy! There's lots of 'em! Look here!"

"Ye're s'posed to call her Miss Daventry, ye nodcock!" Jake Watkins gave his younger brother a shove. "Move over, ye hog, ye're takin' all the room!"

"Jake, mind your manners," Izzy scolded, knowing she had little effect on the boy. Yet when the younger girls came closer, even Jake made room. With a manly huff of authority born of a ten-year-old's greater knowledge and advanced years, Jake pointed out the elusive creatures that paddled about by their tails.

Izzy chuckled quietly to herself as she listened to Jake's explanation of tadpole development, a verbatim account of the one she had given the previous year. She was proud of her urchins, and of all the learning she had squeezed into them between their chores and gleaning. She could never hope to equal the schoolmaster they desperately needed, but she taught what she knew, be it reading or polliwog-watching.

Tommy, in his enthusiasm, leaned closer to the water. Her suspicions aroused, Izzy frowned, then spotted Jake preparing to give Tommy a shove. Izzy grabbed his arm and shook her head at the boy, who looked only slightly chagrined. Jake wasn't a cruel child, only one whose mischief was unending. Nor would he think of the danger the icy water posed to his brother.

Intent upon the tadpoles, Tommy had not noticed. He looked up at Izzy, his blue eyes shining. "Can I have some, Izzy? I mean, Miss Daventry? I could get a jar somewheres."

"No, Tommy, they'll die if you take them away."

"How come they like it in there, Izzy?" asked Judith. "The water's so cold. I wouldna like it."

"That's 'cause ye're a girl," snorted Jake. "And ye're forgetting to call her Miss Daventry."

Izzy noted Jake's manly swagger and the haughty way he demanded respect for her, as if in so doing he acquired some respect for himself. The boy had learned just about everything she knew to teach him, and needed to move on. It was a shame his keen mind would have no opportunities for scholarship, but perhaps she could persuade her father to find him an apprenticeship.

She turned back to Judith. "As they have never been anywhere else, Judith, I doubt they know the difference. And if you put them in warm water right away, they would probably die."

"Honest?"

From upstream, Izzy heard sharp shrieks, and turned toward the commotion. Beside the rocky bank of the roiling stream stood Hank Trumble, who raised something into the air above Daisy Samples, while the little girl jumped helplessly after it. It was nothing uncommon for young boys to tease smaller girls, but wherever Hank Trumble went, he took trouble with him, often more than mere teasing. Frowning, Izzy raised her skirts to step around the muddy bank and marched toward the squabble.

"Give her back, Hank!" cried the girl. "Hank, don't ye dare! She's mine! Give her back!"

Hank dangled Daisy's yellow kitten tantalizingly close, just beyond her grasp, as Daisy jumped and clawed at her tormenter. As he spotted Izzy and her troop, Hank's face brightened with malicious glee and he flung the kitten into the stream.

With a scream, Daisy dashed toward the water, but Izzy lunged, snatching Daisy by her arm before she jumped in.

"Hold her, Jake." She pushed Daisy to the boy.

"My kitty!" the girl screamed, fighting against Jake's grip.

Izzy couldn't let Daisy go into the water. The fragile child would be swept off her feet instantly.

Tossing a glare at Hank, Izzy kicked off her slippers and stepped into icy water that tugged at her ankles as she groped along the slippery stones. She focused on the yellow kitten, alternately sinking and bobbing as the current swept it closer to Izzy, over the rocks, down into a deep pool, throwing it up again. Exhausted, the little creature hardly struggled, and soon would cease its fight. Izzy lunged against the numbing water. In one stroke, she scooped up the kitten.

Cheers rose from the banks.

Then the kitten remembered its terror. With renewed strength and desperate wails, the squirming mass of thrashing claws hooked its razor talons into her soaked dress and the skin beneath, and climbed her like a tree.

She clenched the cat against her chest, and fumbled her bare, frozen toes along the precarious bottom, reminding herself she did this for Daisy, who was obviously more deserving than this ungrateful wretch.

Suddenly squeezing out of her grip, the kitten clambered up Izzy's sodden dress to her shoulder, shredding both fabric and skin as it climbed her hair. Grimly, she pinned the yowling kitten to her scalp and plowed her numb feet through the icy water, at last reached the calm shallows. The very second she reached Jake's outstretched arm, she peeled the screeching cat from her bedraggled hair and tossed it to him.

Her ordeal at last at its end, Izzy just stood, shivering, letting the soft mud ooze between her toes. Only one more step to dry land. Trembling, she shifted one foot. She slipped, shrieking, tumbling backwards, and landed on her backside in the mud.

Izzy glanced about her in the furtive hope that no living soul above the age of ten had witnessed her fall, and breathed a sigh of relief on seeing none but the gaggle of children surrounding her. At least children could be bribed into silence.

They, however, were giggling. She suspected it would take more than the usual amount of bribery this time.

"Don't ye know how to wade in a creek, Miss Daventry?"

Izzy looked up to Jake's cheeky grin. "I suppose you think you could have done better, with a wildcat peeling your skin off, Jake Watkins."

"No, ma'am. Not at all." Jake gallantly extended his hand to help her out of the mud.

"Thank you, Jake." Izzy rose from the mud, shivering. "Daisy, wrap the kitten in my shawl. I'd mislike learning it died from the cold after all this effort."

"Shall I help ye home, Miss Daventry?" Jake asked. His smirking mouth was so wide, Izzy thought she could probably drive a hay wain through it.

"I shall deal with that, myself. Please see that Daisy gets home without Hank bothering her."

With a cheerful nod, Jake ran off after Daisy.

Izzy trembled so fiercely, she could hardly walk. Clenching her shuddering jaw so tight it hurt, she plodded, one frozen foot in front of the other, to the top of the hill and Daventry Manor.

The closest door was near the stables. She didn't see anybody around, and hoped that meant no one saw her. With luck, she could reach the steps and be up them before anyone was the wiser. If word got out, she would never live this down.

She gathered her remaining strength and hurried to the terrace door and turned the knob. As she pushed, the door pulled away from her hand. There stood Tibbets, his eyes bulging with more than their customary dismay.

"A small accident, Tibbets," she replied to his stunned silence, and rushed past him before he could recover his composure and suggest she not drip on his finely polished floors.

Tibbets followed after her, wringing his hands. "Miss Daventry, perhaps you should avoid going through the foyer."

Hardly the time to be fastidious, she grumbled to herself, and trudged toward the stairs. "I know I am dripping, Tibbets, and I assure you, I am most sorry for the mess, but I am in a bit of a hurry at the moment."

"But, Miss Daventry, you really should..."

Muttering, Izzy slogged over the freshly polished pink marble toward the grand staircase in the foyer, which was much closer to her chamber than the servant's stairs Tibbets no doubt wished she would use, but she was too cold to care.

Just as she passed her father's study with its door ajar, she began to recognize something unusual in the high pitch of Tibbets' voice. And in her desperate haste to be warm again, she barely realized the significance of that open door as she rounded the corner from the corridor to the grand foyer, and collided, face first, with the handsomest man she had ever seen.

He was also the most shocked gentleman she had ever seen. As he backed away, his horror-stricken eyes tracked over her dripping hair, muddy gown, downward all the way to her wet, bare feet, and widened even further at the brown streaks of mud freshly garnishing the dazzling white breeches of his Coldstream Guards uniform. Jaw agape, he stared at her as if he'd just witnessed the destruction of England and all that was English.

Izzy had never thought of herself as beyond the pale. But now, as she stared down at her fingernails and realized there was indeed mud beneath them, she suspected that she had likely just been labeled as such. She glanced about, seeking support, but her father, for once caught without words, only stared. So did both of the men in his company.

She decided to make the best of it. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to a very proper angle. "Good afternoon, Papa, so nice to see you and your guests. You'll excuse me?"

With a wobbly smile, she turned and walked away with dubious grace, belatedly recalling the probable condition of her clothing when viewed from a posterior angle.

"You'll straighten yourself for supper, girl!"

Papa's voice carried to her as she took to the stairs, one absurdly elegant step at a time, until she was certain she was beyond their sight. Then she fled down the corridor to the safety of her chamber.

***

"Devil take it, what was that?" The words were out before Tristan could stop them. Although the girl was already up the stairs and gone, the image stuck in his mind of soaked, mud-streaked muslin clinging indecently, revealing just about every asset the girl had. Particularly the upper ones.

"Not sure," said his father, whose own gaping jaw seemed to be just recovering. "Been using her for trout bait, Daventry?"

For the first time since Tristan had met Daventry in London the day before, the man was struck dumb. That fact, coupled with the word 'Papa' from the creature's own lips, likely meant Tristan had just been given his first view of Daventry's only child. And knowing what he now knew of Daventry, he couldn't imagine why he'd always pictured the girl as a lady.

"A minor mishap, no doubt," Daventry said at last. "Girl's a bit prone to them."

"I'd say. She is a bit damp," Trowbridge admitted.

"Damp?" Tristan said, frowning at the brown streaks on his uniform. "Undress whites do have an uncanny affinity for mud, but I never expected a mud puddle to sprout legs and personally hunt me down."

"Now Tris, no call to be so particular. Ain't as if you never saw mud, what with the Peninsula and all."

"That was the Peninsula, and we lived in mud there. This is supposed to be England, where one may expect some form of gentility." Bloody Hell. He had spent four hours in a coach with his drunken father and equally drunken Daventry, both men two sheets to the wind and ready to hoist the third hours before they reached Daventry's country seat. And now, here was Daventry's incomparable hoyden of a daughter, trouble if ever he had seen it, when all he wanted was peace. This visit was turning into a nightmare. It was almost enough to send him back to Waterloo.

He squeezed his eyes closed to shut out the sudden rush of bloody images. No, never that. Never again.

Tristan hadn't wanted to come at all, but he'd had no choice, for Daventry had been his father's lifelong closest friend. Even after Daventry had left India to assume his deceased brother's title, the two had continued their crusty debates over Camelot and King Arthur by mail, month after month, year after year. Those letters had been the highlights of his father's life.

He should have known Daventry would be as exasperating as his own father. How else could they be such fast friends? Like his father, completely irresponsible. Although somebody ran this manor with obvious efficiency, it certainly wasn't Daventry. Nor had the man shown the slightest sensitivity to his daughter, who had clearly suffered a mishap and must be frozen to the bone.

Perhaps Daventry simply knew the girl well enough not to give encouragement to her hoydenish ways.

No, he was probably right the first time. The man didn't have the sense to notice. Tristan shuddered, but he gritted his teeth, determined to be polite.

At least, it was to be a short visit, surely short enough that he could manage to conceal his problem from this strange family. Nothing had happened for some time, and for all he knew, perhaps wouldn't again. And if his own father had not been sufficiently sober to notice something was wrong with his son, he could hope Daventry and his daughter were no more observant. With any luck, he'd soon be safely back in his own London town house, and none the wiser. A solution had to come about sometime.

***

Izzy burst through her chamber door and slammed it behind her, gasping as if she had been chased by a bear. Marie, pausing in her puttering about, lifted her eyebrows, shook her head, called for a hot bath and began stripping the ruined dress from Izzy's body. As Marie appraised the garment that she held by her fingertips at as great a distance as she could manage, Izzy felt chagrined in a way her father could never provoke.

"A pity," said Marie, and tossed the sodden rag into a corner of the dressing chamber.

Izzy wrapped a woolen blanket about her and huddled in the yellow chintz wing chair by the fire grate, waiting the eternity it took for the halftub to be filled. Then she slipped into the gloriously warm water.

"'Tis a handsome young man his lordship's brought home," said Marie, patiently working the tangles from Izzy's wet hair while Izzy soaked.

"I didn't notice," she answered, knowing Marie would see through the lie. "I didn't take the time for introductions."

"Made a cake of yourself, did you?" Marie yanked the tangled strand, emphasizing her point.

There was no fooling Marie. "It matters little, as I'm already promised to Mr. Landerholme."

"He's a mite better prize than that Mr. Landerholme, I'm thinking."

Izzy frowned at Marie's usual lack of enthusiasm for her choice. "Mr. Landerholme is the second son of an earl, you know."

"Might as well be the twentieth."

Izzy held her tongue. She and Donald had been promised to each other since they were children, and she would happily accept him even if he had no chance of inheriting the title.

"Whatever were you about this time, miss?"

There was no point in ignoring her maid's questions, for Marie would learn anyway. So she explained about the polliwog expedition and Hank Trumble's cruel stunt.

Marie shook her head again, no doubt weary of reminding Izzy that proper ladies did not go hunting for tadpoles. "The cat left you some awful marks, it did. We'll have a time finding a dress to hide them. Mayhap, the robin's egg blue."

Izzy grimaced as she studied the evenly spaced rakings the kitten had made in its desperate climb up her body.

"Could've been dangerous, miss. The stream's awful high."

"Oh, nothing would have happened to me, Marie. The water is not all that deep, except in a few holes, and I know where those are." Where the trout are, she thought privately, but this was no time to mention that other favorite improper activity. Marie looked with special disfavor on Izzy's fishing, particularly when she noodled with her fingers instead of using a pole.

Marie huffed. "That Hank Trumble's as worthless as his father. Your father should get rid of the both of them."

For all that Marie had a sharp tongue and was about as respectful as a puppy that had outgrown its mother, she was a caring person. Izzy tried to remember that. "Unlikely, as long as Papa finds Trumble useful in the stables," she replied. "And he does quite well with Rapscallion."

Sitting before her dressing table, Izzy watched in her usual amazement as the expert flicks of Marie's wrist coaxed a delicate fringe of dark curls in just the perfect places to turn her into some approximation of a lady. Izzy would have been satisfied merely to tie her hair back at her neck, allowing the curls to flow down her back. But proper ladies did not leave their hair loose, and she had a strong desire to amend the impression she had previously given her father's guests. The modest neckline of the robin's egg blue dress, however, did not quite cover the tiny scratches, and all Izzy's tugging could not complete the job.

"A fichu, or a shawl, perhaps," Marie suggested.

Izzy sighed. "No." There would be no explaining that she was only occasionally a reckless hoyden, who this time had the best of justification for her actions. She would, therefore, not explain herself at all.

Marie drew her lips tight, looking patient. "Very well, miss. Try not to make a cake of yourself again."

Izzy quelled a sudden desire to bury herself beneath the covers on her bed. But she breathed in slowly, reminded herself that she was to be an elegant lady tonight, and walked with regal grace down the corridor to the grand staircase that led down to the manor's foyer.

At the sound of slippers on the smooth marble steps, Tristan glanced up, then away. Almost as fast as the recoil of a cannon, his head snapped back again. Devil take it! Could that be the same creature that had dripped her way through here barely an hour before?

The Creature descended in fluid motion, her hand trailing along the brass rail, a pile of dark curls framing her delicate face. Too slender for his taste, yet he couldn't stop staring at the assets he had previously noticed, which were further enhanced by her simply cut blue gown, a gown the exact color of her eyes. He had never seen eyes quite that color before.

Those mesmerizing eyes met his with an overt appraisal that set him back as much as her stunning transformation. Brassy chit. Uncontrolled heat rose in his cheeks as her gaze raked over him. With all the dignity he could muster, Tristan bent over her extended hand, debating just how much deference such a creature was to be given. Lady, hoyden, baron's daughter? He hesitated in mid-bow, perhaps a shade sooner than was proper.

Izzy bit her lip, feeling like she was dying inside. Doubtless the gentleman recalled at the last second the mud that had previously been lodged beneath her nails. It was to his credit that he did not altogether fling away her hand, but merely flared his nostrils and dropped it rather precipitously.

She winced at the introductions. She should have known. Viscount Trowbridge, her father's life-long friend, balding, red-faced, and round as a ball. And son, Captain Tristan Trowbridge. Tall as his father was round, with dark hair and a devastatingly handsome face with features that ought to be chiseled into Carrara marble.

Just her luck. Not just any old viscount. Good Old Trowbridge, her father always called him, who had been her papa's boon companion in his India days, equally as obsessed with King Arthur and Camelot. Papa had talked so incessantly about the man over the years that Izzy felt she should have recognized him on sight.

She'd done it this time. Effuse apologies would only make things worse. She just mumbled her gratitude at finally meeting the man after all these years.

"Now, there's a gel for you," said the viscount, chuckling. "Cleans up nicely, Daventry. Pretty thing, ain't she, Tris?"

Izzy flinched. She had envisioned a bit more gentility from a viscount, but then, what else would she expect of a friend of her father's? After all, neither of the two men had ever expected to be anything more than soldiers.

The younger man's cheeks reddened again and he gave a grudging nod, while his father prattled on. She accepted the older man's arm to lead her into dinner, and sat across from the younger Trowbridge, who glared fiercely whenever she caught his eye. Her transformation had obviously not impressed him.

"Thought we'd go up into the Dales, check out the Pendragon Castle," said the viscount as he inspected his already empty wine glass. The footman promptly noted its lack and filled it.

"No, no, no," Daventry said. "Waste of time. We've been there, ain't that so, Izzy, my dove?"

Izzy opened her mouth, but closed it as Papa continued.

"Lots of caves thereabouts, though," said Papa. "Tales of Arthur's Hill everywhere. Seems every dale has its hidden hill with the king and his knights slumbering away."

"That many tales, there's got to be something."

Papa gave a dismissing shake of his head. "Ain't nothing but a grand pile of rocks, no older than the Angevins."

Trowbridge frowned and upended his goblet. "A shame."

"Didn't expect much from something so obvious," said Papa, and drained his own. "No telling when some fool took it into his head it was Arthur's. But the fishing's good, thereabouts. Izzy's idea, that. Made the trip worthwhile, after all."

The captain's eyelids lifted. "Fishing. More commonly a man's activity, is it not? Or has England changed in my absence?"

It was the delicate suggestion of a sneer in his voice that raised her ire. Her lips stretched thinly over her teeth, but Izzy said nothing. Watching the wicked glint that was forming in his eyes, she suspected she knew the content of his next question, and that he was debating whether or not to give it voice. Had she been fishing this afternoon?

The urge seized her to explain not only the manly art of fishing, but the exact process of noodling- precisely how to dangle one's fingers into the water so as to resemble tasty worms. But no. Let him draw his own conclusions.

Now they were discussing Glastonbury Tor. She had been there, too. Papa insisted it must be King Arthur's burial site, but Trowbridge wouldn't hear of it. And just how Offa's Dike got into the discussion, she wasn't sure. This could go on all night. Izzy knew perfectly well the whole argument was outrageous, but that didn't bother the two old sots a bit, as glass after glass of wine slid down their gullets and fueled their debate.

The young captain quietly studied the dregs of wine he swirled within his goblet, sipping only occasionally. A strange mixture of horror and boredom lurked in his dark eyes. They had a common dilemma. Perhaps she should give him another chance.

"You are with the Coldstream Guards, Captain?"

His gaze shot up from the goblet as if she had stomped on his toe. "Yes." Nothing more.

The elder Trowbridge, eyes suddenly keen despite his wine, grinned and thrust out his chest. "Fought at Waterloo," he announced. "Peninsula, too."

"Indeed?" she responded. At least the older fellow would talk. "I understood the duke of Wellington had very few Peninsula veterans with him in Belgium."

"There were exceptions," the captain man grumbled.

Ah. He could talk. "I see. You recall the battle, then?"

He met her question with a silent scowl.

"Was at Hougoumont," the viscount interjected, and chortled proudly. "Got himself cut up a bit."

The captain glared with fury at his father.

"I am sorry," she said, feeling a sudden stab of empathy, both for the wounds and the father's blatant broadcasting. "I understand the casualties were very high at Hougoumont."

"They were higher at La Haye Sainte," the man replied tersely. His jaw had a hard set to it.

Indeed, she thought, as the soldiers at La Haye Sainte had almost been annihilated. "Yes, of course. I did not mean--"

"It is hardly a fit subject for the table, Miss Daventry."

Izzy stared, speechless. He was scolding her for the topic? She had not raised it. She had merely made a polite inquiry about his career.

"Tris, there's no call to be abrupt," his father scolded, unexpectedly alert.

Izzy gritted her teeth and forced a smile. "It is quite all right, my lord, it is not at all the thing. But I do hope you are enjoying your return home, Captain."

He looked as if it was the most inane remark he had ever heard. Izzy opted for silence. He was certainly not the most congenial man she had ever met.

She returned to the quiet observation of the viscount who was of such importance to her father, having developed a preference for that man over his son. Izzy focused on the droning debate and ignored the silent, imperious toad who sat across from her.

Something was wrong here. Something just a shade too typical of her father. She would have bet all the horses in the stable her father and Good Old Trowbridge were up to something.

Captain Trowbridge stole a wary glance at Izzy, then quickly looked away to re-engage with his fork. Did he, too, suspect something was in the air?

Beyond the window, the last light of day faded as Izzy watched the parade of courses and picked delicately at her plate. While their two offspring sat like hostages, the two older men launched into full-fledged drinking, grew louder, words slurring, and slowly slipped back into the distant past.

"'Member when your boy was born," said Daventry, punctuating his slurred words with a throaty chuckle.

"Oh that was a day, wa'n't it?" responded the viscount, just as jolly. "'Member when this little one come into the world, too," he added, and threw a hazy look in Izzy's direction. "We used to talk about marryin' 'em off t'each other, too. 'Member that, Daventry?"

"Was a grand scheme, too, wa'n't it? I say, Trowbridge, there's a thought! Could still do it, couldn' we? M'girl's old enough. So's the boy."

Izzy gaped at the captain across the table, who stared back in open dismay. She'd best do something, fast. "Papa, perhaps you've had a bit too much--"

But Papa continued, oblivious to his daughter. "Be a good match, wouldn' it, Trowbridge? Just imagine, my little girl a viscountess. Got a good portion, y' know. Had an aunt left her a size-sizea--lots o' money, too."

Good Old Trowbridge nodded slowly, with a grand and somewhat exaggerated attempt at a meditative scowl. "'S'true." He continued the overblown nodding of his head. "Suit well, I'd think. Make a grand pair. Let's do it."

"Suit well! You cannot be serious, father!" shouted the younger Trowbridge.

"'S'all right, boy. You'll come around," said the viscount, his words sliding together like they were greased. "'S'for the best, y'know. Time you settled down. Yes, tha's the trick, Daventry! Jus' what m' boy needs. Let's do it!"

Izzy's eyes grew huge. Her jaw gaped open so far she could not force it shut.

Across from her, Captain Trowbridge had precisely the opposite problem, for his jaw clenched so tightly that if he'd had a spoon in his mouth, he would have bitten off the bowl.

CHAPTER TWO

Captain Trowbridge leapt up from his chair so fast, he knocked it backward. But the two old soldiers continued bantering, belching, and chortling as if neither offspring was even in the room.

Izzy knew better than to argue with her father when he was in this state. Far better to out-maneuver him. Her most obvious ally should be the young man across the table, but he glared futilely at his own drunken parent, not even noticing her attempts to get his attention. So she would have to do it the hard way, and summon the alliance of the old buddies against him.

She summoned up her calmest voice. "Well, father, while you and Lord Trowbridge have your cigars, Captain Trowbridge and I shall take a stroll in the garden."

The captain's dark eyebrows shot upward.

Izzy glanced at him, hoping he'd comprehend. "Since we are clearly not overly fond of each other, Captain Trowbridge, we surely have things we must discuss if we are to suit at all."

"Superb idea, my gel!" said the viscount as he sloped back in his chair and chortled into his goblet. "Take the boy to the garden. Good idea, don' y' think, Daventry?"

Papa answered with a contrary chuckle of his own, in just that odd way that told Izzy he was not as cupshot as he pretended to be. Something was definitely afoot.

Izzy hurried around the table. She reached for the captain's arm, which he jerked away.

"Come along," she whispered. "We shall not win this war on their battlefield, where they have all the weapons."

His dark eyes flashed with defiance and fury. Yet he didn't resist as Izzy nearly shoved him out of the dining room, shutting the doors behind them. Izzy hurried him down the marble-floored corridor and out the French doors to the terrace.

"Just a minute," he demanded, stopping abruptly. "This is quite far enough! Do not think for a moment I am going to be caught in a dark garden with you."

Izzy hooked his arm anyway and tugged. "It is not far enough by half. They are not nearly as foxed as they would have us believe, and are no doubt watching every move we make. I shall not be satisfied until we are completely beyond earshot."

"I should not be surprised if you are in collusion with the two of them." But he raced along beside her.

"Do not flatter yourself, sir. I am as anxious as you to avoid this proposed union. But we shall get nowhere by quarreling. It is useless to argue with a drunk, and as they are obviously two of a kind, I thought you would know that."

A flicker of concession softened the distrust in his eyes. "Well, I'll certainly grant you that much."

"And since this is no whim of the moment as they would have us believe, it is also not something they will forget in the morning."

He shook his head. "Surely it is. They have not seen each other in years."

"Oh?" She glanced at the man as she picked up the pace. "Have they told you that? Your father returned from India almost a year ago."

The young man stiffened.

"And if our fathers are such fast friends, why have we not met in all these years?"

"I have been abroad, you know."

"But you did return from the Peninsula last year, did you not? The Coldstream Guards came home in July, I believe."

She saw him swallow. "Your point, Miss Daventry?"

"Perhaps you have not considered the amazing coincidence of our names?"

"Our names? If you refer to that absurd nickname of yours, I am certain there is no relationship at all." A small shudder occurred along with a minor flare of his nostrils. "It sounds like--" He clamped his mouth shut suddenly as if shutting off his thought. "Whyever would you allow such a silly name?"

Izzy flashed a blistering glance over her shoulder as she quickened her pace to lead him through the formal garden, following the moonlit gravel path as it wound like a silver ribbon up the hill toward the Grecian folly.

"Precisely what I am trying to tell you, Captain. Has it not occurred to you that I use the nickname in preference to a much more ridiculous given name?"

"Is your Christian name not Melisande?"

She nodded, and sped along the crunching gravel to the steps of the folly. She sighed her relief, knowing they were at last out of sight of the expanse of dining room windows.

"By itself, bad enough," she replied, mounting the steps. "But that is only my first name. Why might one be nicknamed Izzy, do you suppose?"

The captain hesitated, then followed, squinting one eye suspiciously at her. "Isabel?" he guessed.

"Not even close."

"Isadora?"

She shook her head.

"Perhaps some form of Elizabeth? Lizzy? Izzy? Though, I warrant I've not heard of such."

Izzy shook her head again, flashing a look of exasperation. "I see you have not got the point at all."

"What, then?"

"Isolde. You remember Isolde, do you not? Tristan's lover, if you will recall the Arthurian legends of which our fathers are so fond."

Captain Trowbridge stopped cold and stared. His jaw dropped open. His eyes pinched to match his painful groan.

"It is no accident, sir," she said. "Nor will they be satisfied with mere marriage. We are expected to recreate the legend and fall irrevocably, romantically in love. I'll wager they have schemed for this day for twenty years."

The captain leaned his head back far enough to count the stars before he finally snagged a disgusted breath. "And I'll wager my father was the ringleader. I suppose we should be grateful we were not named Lancelot and Guinevere."

"Indeed, as Guinevere was unfaithful."

"As was Isolde."

"And Tristan a philanderer, or just possibly too harewitted to tell one woman from another. But never mind our namesakes. What are we going to do? Not that I have great objection to you personally, but I already have an arrangement."

"An arrangement? What sort of arrangement?"

Izzy caught the faintest hint of a sneer in his tone, but ignored it. "A perfectly proper one. While 'tis not a formal betrothal yet, Mr. Landerholme and I have intended to marry since we were children, and I am quite sure he means to ask for me as soon as he has secured a living."

"A living? You'd marry a parson?"

"You may scoff if you wish. It will not bother me. He is the second son of an earl, and a perfectly proper gentleman."

"And I am not?" He sneered.

Izzy felt her nose wrinkling. "I made no such comparison, but since you have brought up the subject, I am compelled to admit I do find you uncommonly rude. Mr. Landerholme would never be so insulting."

Something odd kindled in his eyes, then just as quickly died. Had the man not even recognized his own objectionable behavior?

"I too have plans." he said, more evenly. "Although I had not intended to marry so soon, I have made my intentions clear to Lord Morrowton's daughter, Patricia."

"Perfect. Then why don't you proceed with that, and rescue us both from this bumblebroth?"

"It isn't at all that simple. She is not of an age to marry without her parents' consent, and my father disapproves. I have been seeking something more roundabout."

Izzy almost wanted to laugh at the way the man folded his arms as if he needed to protect himself from her. Yet she understood, feeling much the same way. She folded her own arms in response. "Of course he disapproves, since he has other plans for you. I suppose he would cut you off without a farthing."

"No, but he is in a position to create misery."

"But surely there is an income from your commission."

"There is, and I have a small competence from my grandfather as well, but the commission barely covers necessary expenses. I would have no choice but to resign and find a more profitable occupation. A tricky business, you see. But I intend not to be leg-shackled to someone I did not choose."

Her nose wrinkled again. "Yes, surely a horrible fate."

For some reason, he laughed. "But unless father's feathers were ruffled, once the deed was done, he'd accept it. I am his heir, and his estate is entailed, although he threatens from time to time to will all his unentailed property to a distant cousin who he dislikes. But it matters little since Miss Morrowton's father would never oppose him."

She nodded glumly. "If only one of us accomplishes the fact, it will do the thing for both. But Mr. Landerholme cannot marry without a living, and he is dependent upon my father for that. I cannot see what we can do."

Izzy pressed her fingers to her lips. "My father is like yours, I think. He'd relent rather than lose his only child, but to defy him openly would be folly. Once he has his back up, he's too stubborn to back down. If they've planned this for so long, then their hearts are set. 'Tis a hard thing for a man to give up a lifelong dream."

"Nevertheless, they should make their dreams for themselves, not for us."

"Oh, I quite agree, but that changes nothing."

The two of them, arms folded alike, gazed out over the dark expanse of parkland beyond the folly, contemplating their common doom. But Izzy was not accustomed to letting her father get the best of her, and did not mean to let him win this time.

"There has to be a solution," the captain said.

Surely, then, the arrogant captain was equally as good at dodging his manipulative father's will.

"Only if we can outwit them, sir," she replied, "and we shall not do that if we do not work together. But I cannot imagine how. Wouldn't it be marvelous, though, if we could manage a double wedding? Convince them we've changed our minds, and that Mt. Landerholme and Miss Morrowton have likewise fallen in love? Then, switch places at the altar?"

He laughed. An uncommonly enticing twinkle lit his deep blue eyes as moonlight glistened in his dark hair. Izzy caught her breath.

"A clever thought," he agreed. "But of course, it would never work."

"Why?" Izzy knew it wouldn't. But she had long been accustomed to playing devil's advocate to her father's grand theories of knights and kings.

"Very simply, it would not be legal. Neither you nor Miss Morrowton is of age, so marriage without your fathers' consent would not be valid."

She shrugged. "Well, it was but a silly thought."

Captain Trowbridge grasped her arm and turned her to face him. Something wicked gleamed in his eyes. "Not so silly. It still does leave Gretna Green."

"All the way across England? Surely they'd catch us first."

"They'd not even chase us if we planned it well."

What was he thinking? Then the idea dawned in her mind and brightened like the morning sun. "Oh! If we combine my idea with yours! As they would be thinking you and I had eloped..."

"And your Mr. Landerholme had eloped with my Miss Morrowton. They wouldn't follow because they would believe they were getting what they wanted. But once in Scotland, we would exchange partners, and return, married where our hearts desire."

"Marvelous. But it would take much careful planning."

"Scheming, rather." He grinned. "In the grand tradition taught by our fathers, which we have both learned well. Unfortunately, we shall have to become rather fond of each other if we are to convince them."

Folding her arms, Izzy mulled over the proposition. "Not just yet, though. We shall have to come upon it gradually. If we should suddenly emerge from our walk, arm-in-arm like lovers, they would immediately suspect conspiracy."

"I suspect I could not manage that, anyway." Yet despite the mild hostility of his statement, he smiled at her, a smile so beautiful she thought her heart would stop. Then she remembered his generally sour disposition. She would far prefer a sweet heart to a handsome face.

They returned along the path with only the crunching of the gravel and song of a nightjar breaking the silence. When they reached the stone pavers of the formal garden, the tinkling splash of the fountain joined in.

Just beyond the light of the lanterns on the terrace, Izzy spun around and stopped. "Oh, this will not do at all," she said.

Instantly, his brow wrinkled. "Why not?"

"Oh, I did not mean it will not work, merely that we must not yet pretend civility with each other. We must contrive to fight spiritedly, at least until we arrange for Mr. Landerholme and Miss Morrowton to meet. Then, when they happen to develop a tendre for each other, we must then be most upset and seek consolation in each other. It will seem much more the thing, don't you think?"

Izzy led him back up the stone steps to the terrace within view of the dining hall window.

With a piqued frown, he followed her. "I suppose. It would require considerable time for Miss Morrowton to be in Landerholme's company."

"Ah, are you jealous already, sir?" Izzy teased. "But Mr. Landerholme is most trustworthy."

His brows flipped minutely. "A perfectly proper gentleman, you said. However, I believe I should put my faith in Miss Morrowton, rather than in some man I have never met, parson or no."

"I resent, sir, that you imply my Mr. Landerholme is not to be trusted. I have never found him to be in the least forward."

"No man is to be trusted, Miss Daventry," he said dryly. "Surely you have been apprized of that fact."

"Then, may I also presume I am not safe in your company?"

"I assure you, you are quite safe. I have not the slightest interest in you."

His remark stung like a smart slap, but she pretended she felt nothing. "Then we are agreed, especially as I find nothing of particular interest in you. And as I am quite certain we shall be thrown together again quite soon, we have no need to make all our plans at the moment. I shall write to Mr. Landerholme immediately. But for now, I am afraid I must slap your face."

"What--?" Captain Trowbridge jerked back, too late to fend off the hand that cracked fiercely against his cheek.

"Terribly sorry, sir, but quite necessary for our audience. It is the most likely thing I would do, under such extreme circumstances. Excuse me now, but I believe I should next stalk away with my utterly wounded dignity."

Even in the dim lantern light, she could see the red mark on his cheek, and his eyes blazed just as fierily. "Please do, for if there were even the remotest chance that I might be forced to marry you, I'd wring your neck now and save myself a great deal of trouble."

"Excellent," she said, her voice somewhat silkier than she had intended, but her carefully schooled face showed only intense ire, displayed for her father's benefit. "Rest assured, sir, there is not the remotest chance."

Izzy drew herself up tall and whirled on her toe, to flee the garden in a haughty stomp.

***

"Perfect, lass," said Daventry. Glowing with triumph, he watched his outraged daughter's progress across the terrace.

"Perfect, is it?" protested Trowbridge. "They hate each other! How will you make a love match from this?"

"I know my Izzy," said Daventry, beaming. "She loves the sparks as much as she does the flames."

***

"That's another reason," Tristan grumbled as he watched the little termagant, hips swinging in her indignant stride away from him. His hand rose to cup the flaming cheek. A wave of hot humiliation flooded him, flushing the rest of his face.

Devil take it! He'd do it! Anything to avoid a union with that spoiled hoyden. Obviously, the girl was perfectly at ease in such manipulations. No doubt kept that sot of a father wrapped about her finger, and would do the same for any husband.

Not only that, she was too tall, while no bigger around than a girl half her height. In place of beauty, she was more elfin, with her odd, pointy ears and round aquamarine eyes.

Tristan and Isolde!

Two halves of a puzzle that fit like hand and glove! Tristan groaned. He disliked disappointing his father, who thought the sun rose and set upon his boy, but he'd be damned if he'd marry that shrew.

But as the fire on his cheek cooled, so did his rage. It hadn't been a personal slap, after all, merely one for the benefit of the audience. Of one thing, he was certain: the little termagant was shrewd.

And it had been a dramatic exit, worthy of Drury Lane itself. He'd have to compliment her on her skill. But on second thought, any proper lady would surely take that as insult. Well, perhaps he would then.

He winced at his own unfairness. He had to admit she did not deserve his harshness, despite her obvious faults. He had let his damnable tongue get away from him again. What had happened to him? He'd once been noted for his composure. He'd always been the captain who was known for never losing his temper. Now, rage seeped out like wine from a broken jug. Since Hougoumont.

You must accept the truth, sir. It is not your fault.

No. He wouldn't accept Marshall's theory. He was responsible for his own behavior, and he simply had to get control of himself. It was a bad habit, nothing else.

Tristan grabbed a deep breath and opened the French doors.

He sauntered into the study, where he endured his father's merciless teasing, then listened to a heated, drunken debate over mystical Arthurian origins. When he finally excused himself, neither of the two older men noticed his departure. He nodded to Tibbets, who waited, bleary-eyed, for Daventry to give in to the night. Tristan assumed the man was capable of seeing the drunks to bed.

Sleep was slow in coming. Each time he drifted off, an image came to him of the raven-haired elf in her obscenely clinging garment, followed by a succession of dreams in which he struggled to teach the little hoyden some decency, and then one in which he was teaching her something altogether different. He awoke heated, flushed.

By the time the first pink of morning crept through the crack between the draperies, he had wakened several times too often. He rose from the bed in a fit of irritation, rather than waste further hours in a fruitless quest for sleep.

Singularly silent, he allowed his valet more than usual sway over the choice of clothing, grumbling almost unintelligible replies to Marshall's queries and causing the man to give him a questioning look. But Tristan had been in Marshall's care for many years, even before the Peninsula campaign, and trusted him completely. Marshall knew his tastes to perfection.

And all his foibles. It was Marshall who knew those things Tristan hoped no other human would ever learn. He hardly deserved to be on the wrong side of Tristan's whiplash tongue.

"Have I always been this way, Marshall?"

"Sir?"

"Contentious. I do not think I used to be abrasive."

"No sir. But I do believe you are getting better. It takes time, you know."

Better. Tristan shook his head. If anything, he was getting worse. "It has nothing to do with the head injury, Marshall. A man simply has to control himself."

"As you say, sir. Enjoy yourself today, sir," Marshall said, his way of announcing he was satisfied with his task for the morning.

Tristan nodded absently as he departed the chamber, knowing all too well how unlikely that would be.

Resolving again to be more pleasant, he strode to the brass railed staircase that hugged the curve of the great foyer wall, and descended the shallow treads to the elegant pink marble foyer floor. At this same place the night before, he had watched in fascination as the transformed mudlark floated down, like a goddess descending on a cloud. But it had been the same little hoyden after all, dressed in the costume of a lady. Almost, not quite, real enough to believe.

He paused at the breakfast room door, silently pondering his inestimably poor luck. The hoyden was already awake and lying in wait. He should have known.

"Good morning, Miss Daventry. I see you are an early riser. I would have taken you for a slug-a-bed." Ah, yes. A marvelous entry. Certain to gain her good will.

She turned an acid smile on him. "A premature conclusion, Captain Trowbridge. This is the country, sir, and we have an unaccountable affinity for the sunshine, so that we attempt to rise while we may still see it. How is it you are about so early?"

"Soldiers are also accustomed to rising with the dawn, Miss Daventry. Perhaps you have heard of what we do?"

In reply, the girl's gaze raked a path across him before once again looking down at her plate.

"I see you do not approve. One more thing we do not have in common."

"Again a premature assumption, sir. Wars obviously must be fought, and I suppose somebody must fight them."

He gave her a metallic smile. "How kind of you to notice."

"Are we on stage, sir?" she asked with icy pleasantry. "If so, I am sure I can summon a better performance."

"One never knows, does one?" Tristan finished filling his plate and sat down across from Miss Daventry. For a short moment, her gaze locked with his, absorbing him in their marvelous aqua-blue hue, like summer skies. Startled, he quickly broke the contact and concentrated on the morning meal.

"Ah, I see," she replied. "The servants. You are right, of course, especially Tibbets. For all that he is a kind, dear man, he is utterly in the enemy camp."

This time, Tristan avoided looking up, and continued his careful attention to his meal.

"I expected you to stay up late with our fathers. I believe they did not retire for some hours after dark."

"Yes, I heard them." He had indeed been aware of that odd caterwauling common to soldiers who had drunk too much in good company. "I stayed about for a while. Left somewhere in the middle of a debate over whether Arthur was Welsh or Cumbric."

"And your opinion, Captain?"

"My opinion? Not one that matters, I assure you."

"But you have one."

There was an odd little sparkle in her eyes, one that spoke of intrigue and mischief that he wanted to avoid. But irritation was surfacing again. "I do. I believe Arthur was born, lived, and died in the fertile plain of Medieval imagination."

"Heaven forbid, you did not say so!"

"Surely, you jest. I would not be so foolish."

"Thank Heaven. I would not relish helping Tibbets clean up the remains."

He cocked his head and glanced her way, before remembering he had meant to avoid looking at her. He doubted she had ever cleaned up a mess in her life. The coddled chit likely had servants following her about to avert that very possibility, as they had no doubt done yesterday when she had come in from whatever pig-sty where she had been wallowing.

Well, he had really dug deeply for that one, hadn't he? That was about as uncharitable as he had ever been, and utterly unnecessary. He had just been provoked by the odd dreams of the night before. He would have never taken this elfin creature into his thoughts in such a way, had not the subject of marriage been broached. Ah, that was it. He was angry because she had kept him up all night.

He was not usually so petty.

Or was he? He must try harder. Habits could be broken. He reminded himself they must work together. "Miss Daventry, I am not at all sure the plan is viable."

She regarded him narrowly. "Why?"

"You must realize this scheme would damage the reputations of both ladies involved. An elopement itself is scandalous, but in the manner we propose, doubly so."

Her eyebrows raised, making her large aquamarine eyes seem even rounder. "Are you timid by nature, sir?"

"Not at all. But a gentleman must be careful of a lady's good name, even if she is not."

"And you hint that I am not," she said as her nostrils flared just the tiniest bit. "But you are right, sir, at least as it applies to this situation. You must keep in mind that otherwise you and I will be stuck with each other."

"Truly a fate worse than death."

"Certainly, if one's true love is given to another."

"Well, I would not wish to keep you from your parson, what was his name? Landerholme?"

"An excellent memory, Captain. I cannot say what he will think, however."

"Nor Miss Morrowton. She is a proper lady, not at all subject to odd fits and starts. I do not believe she will feel as you do."

Miss Daventry's nostrils flared again, so widely that if she had been a horse, he would have been wary of her bite. "Perhaps you should ask her. I suppose you would find it difficult to imagine your true love taking such a risk for your sake."

"Now you are being presumptuous, Miss Daventry."

"Perhaps." She pushed back her chair and rose. "Well, I must be going, Captain, as I have plans for the day. I do wish you well. If you have any needs, I am sure Tibbets will help you."

"Oh? Would you be going swimming again, Miss Daventry?" Now, why in the world had he said that? If he thought himself petty before, just how did he classify that remark?

Miss Daventry raised her chin so high, she succeeded in looking down her narrow little nose at him, despite his far greater height. "Perhaps I will, Captain. Would you care to join me? The water is so brisk and bracing this time of year."

His blood raced. Perhaps that was why. She flashed a mighty saber of a response.

But it was distance from her that he needed. "I thought of a morning ride, if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of the stable."

"Certainly, as I am going that way." She pivoted around and strode off as if she expected him to follow like a puppy.

He did, though hardly in a puppy-like fashion. "Did you plan to ride this morning?"

"Later, perhaps. I have other plans at the moment."

Miss Daventry marched out into the corridor toward the manor's rear entrance, but Tristan's long-legged stride easily kept up with her.

"A lady waits for a gentleman to offer his arm, Miss Daventry."

"Indeed, she does, sir," she replied, and only the barest corners of her lips tipped upward before she again turned away from him as if he had said nothing at all.

She strode into the stable and halted the first groom in sight. "Trumble, please saddle the white mare for the captain. I believe she is gentle enough for his needs. And Rapscallion for me. But the side saddle this time, please. I would not wish to offend the gentleman's fine sensibilities."

It was twice of enough. "Do not trouble yourself, Trumble," Tristan responded. "I shall choose my own mount. That bay will be fine." Tristan turned toward the bay gelding, which looked to be the friskiest of the lot.

"But you cannot!" Miss Daventry replied, startled. "That's Rapscallion! He's mine!"

At last, he'd got the best of her! "Then, I thank you for the loan of your fine animal. And you, my little mudlark, may ride the white mare. Do try not to get her too dirty." Tristan pitched the blanket across the gelding's back, and quickly smoothed it into place.

The little termagant pursed her lips tightly before speaking. "Very well," she said. "I suppose one must appease even the most rag-mannered guest. I shall proceed with my original plans, as I had intended to walk. The mare will not be necessary, Trumble." Miss Daventry flipped her long cascade of hair back over her shoulder as she spun around and stalked from the stable.

"Got nasty habits, that'n," said Trumble.

"Who, the mudlark?"

Trumble let out an ugly snicker. "Nay, I'm meanin' the horse, sir. A fine jumper, he is. Lord Daventry says he shoulda named him Pegasus, 'cause he'd fly if he could. If he sees a fence, and thinks ye won't take it, he'll take it wi'out ye."

"Have I been suckered, then, Trumble?"

"Mayhap." Darkness glinted in the sharp eyes.

"We shall see, then," he replied.

In a short while, Tristan had Rapscallion out of the stable, and headed toward the open field. Against the fresh new green of the fields, Miss Daventry's white dress was like a bright beacon as she descended the hill on the lane leading to the village.

He regretted now that he had made their quarrel public, for Trumble seemed to be the kind of man who would gleefully use it to her disadvantage. Likely, spread the rumor that Captain Trowbridge of the Coldstream Guards found her both uncharming and unladylike. Once again he had let his sharp tongue loose.

Of course they must conspire to spat, but that last had been no conspiracy, and he knew it. Sometimes the words just tumbled out on their own, when he did not even know they were there.

What had happened to the self control he prized so much?

What was wrong with him, anyway?

CHAPTER THREE

Rapscallion jumped the first fence as if he had taken wings. Tristan would have given a great deal to have such a horse in the Peninsula. He frowned and dismissed the thought.

He made the circuit around the small lake with its willows and beeches, and followed the path farther down into the valley to the village. Close to the town pump, he again saw Miss Daventry, wearing a shawl she had not been wearing earlier, in conversation with several women and a small girl. She laughed and shook her head as the small girl offered up her kitten for holding. Perhaps she didn't like cats.

As he passed the small group, he tipped his hat, and she responded with a closed smile stretched tightly over her teeth. The excited chatter hushed, and the small child with the kitten watched him with solemn brown eyes.

He rode on, following the path along the stream. Although not as high as it had been when his father's carriage had crossed it the previous day, the water still rushed and tumbled over smooth boulders, here and there swirling, dropping, and falling into dark, churning pools.

At the water's edge, he saw an odd object, and dismounted to investigate. A pair of brown slippers, nondescript and well worn, tossed haphazardly beside the bank. He had a fair suspicion as to whom they might belong.

If she had fallen into the stream, she would hardly have taken time to remove her slippers. Then she had deliberately gone into the water. And how in damnation did she justify that?

Tristan remounted with the soft slippers in his hand and continued his ride. The longer he could remain away from Daventry Manor, the better he would like it.

She saw him.

She had intended to retrieve her slippers from the stream bank when she finished her business with the Samples family, but Daisy had to come first. Izzy had worried most of the night how the child would fare if she lost her precious kitten.

It surely had not taken him the space of a thought to discern who owned the slippers, and no doubt he considered himself empowered to return them, along with a lecture of some sort. Did the man live to humiliate her? Perhaps he'd become bored after fighting Napoleon and had come to stake out a new enemy.

She did not like him. Did not at all. He could well be the handsomest man on the face of the earth, and she would not like him one whit better. And she had not the slightest intention of explaining herself to him. The tropic regions would freeze over and England turn to desert first.

She was greatly relieved when she arrived home and found Captain Trowbridge had not yet returned from his ride. Whatever he was doing was no concern of hers.

***

What Captain Trowbridge was doing, however, was of great concern to him, for he was lying flat on his back trying hard to remember how he had gotten there. As the hazy gray cloud faded away, he raised his head. Then the pain struck, slicing like a saber slash. He knew better than to rise to his feet just yet, or he'd be back on the ground, flat. Best to wait until the fluctuating bands of dull color faded.

As he forced himself to sit, the familiar throb of black and gray washed through his head. Holding his head between his hands he felt a knot, damp with fresh blood, directly over his scar from Quatre Bras.

He remembered. He'd been riding that bay gelding, which was now nowhere about. Blast the luck. If the horse had hung around, he might have remounted and ridden back with none the wiser. The little harridan would make great fun of this one.

"Captain! Oh, my goodness! What has happened?"

His cursed luck was holding.

"Captain, are you all right? Rapscallion came home without you, and we are all out looking for you!" Miss Daventry ran up and knelt beside him. "Oh, Captain, you've a cut on your head!" She reached to touch his scalp.

"Don't!" he shouted. His hand shot up to block hers and shoved it away.

Grimacing, she withdrew her hand and sat back on her heels. "Very well, Captain. You may tend to it yourself." She held out a handkerchief to him.

He barely mumbled something he hoped expressed gratitude, touching the handkerchief to the spot where the pain centered.

"Not too bad," he said, examining the small blotch of blood on the white linen. "I cannot say I was not warned, Miss Daventry. Trumble did say Rapscallion has a habit of jumping fences without his rider."

"Yes, he is notorious in that respect. However, I thought you would be up to it, or I would have mentioned it, myself. I do apologize."

"It is not in any way your fault, Miss Daventry."

Hearing a cacophony of human voices approaching, Tristan gathered his strength and rose to his feet, pleasantly surprised by his ability to stay on them. He was equally surprised that no one else seemed to have actually seen him lying on his back.

He mumbled embarrassing explanations and rode back to the manor on the placid white mare, feeling like a child on a hobby horse. Miss Daventry rode beside him, looking like a solicitous nanny, but was blessedly silent. But he knew, even in that instant before he had stopped her, her fingers had traced the length of that scar across his scalp. She knew where he had landed, and knew without question that he had not been thrown while jumping. He had simply fallen off.

Now she would have her revenge. But she could not possibly realize just how damaging she could be.

Izzy watched as if she were not watching, as Captain Trowbridge mounted the stairs that took him up to his chamber on the second floor. She had been inclined to follow close behind him as he went up the two flights of stairs, but his reaction in the field had persuaded her he would resent it. She had no wish to humiliate him. Really, she did not.

The wound lay atop a very extensive scar that curved around his head as if it had been horrible and deep. Perhaps from a sword or saber? Surely that was the wound he had received at Waterloo last year. Something awful twisted inside her. How could any such blow not also be fatal?

Perhaps she was mistaken. But why would he refuse to let her tend it? It made no sense.

Of course, not much about him did make sense. And the good captain was not at all fond of her, and seemed to actually enjoy his role as her antagonist. Yet, his reaction had been quick and instinctive, as if to conceal something, rather than to avoid assistance.

However, Izzy was also aware of her own tendency toward melodrama, so perhaps she was simply being over-imaginative, and he merely disliked her thoroughly and wanted to have as little to do with her as he could. She could oblige him in that. She decided to return to her own concerns.

When the children came in the late afternoon, she led them out to the green expanse of the front park, and down the hill toward the copse with its fine new coat of tiny, bright leaves. Izzy gave into the temptation to run after them, thinking she might never have such great joy again, especially if she should end up marrying someone like the sourpuss captain. And a bird in the hand was always worth two in a bush, was it not?

She did not see Captain Trowbridge again until supper, and was grateful when he appeared, looking quite well, at ease and almost pleasant, sufficiently so for her to set aside that last hostility that had passed between them.

But something in his sly, sideways glance communicated that he was up to something. Izzy watched warily.

As the wine loosened tongues in the early evening, she noticed the conversation had drifted, or rather, had been subtly led by the captain to the subject of the current Season and the perplexing question of why Miss Daventry, who was nearly twenty and well above the customary age, was not currently dancing in the ballrooms of the ton.

"It don't signify, lad," said Daventry, whose words were occasionally interspersed with hiccups. "Girl don't need a Season. No need to set the mousetrap if she's already caught the mouse, if you get my meaning."

"Well, there's the end of it, then," replied the captain with a sniff that approached disdain. "Surely you realize a girl who aspires to be a viscountess must have her coming out. If she has not even been properly presented at court, she could not possibly go about in society. No one would receive her. I could never consider connecting myself to someone of no consequence."

He looked inordinately pleased with himself, as if he had finally dislodged his neck from the noose. And had she not glimpsed the conspiratorial gleam in his eyes the instant before his reply, Izzy would have taken him for a high stickler of the worst order. Excitement surged through her, even though she had not the slightest notion where he was taking this maneuver.

"Boy's right," the elder Trowbridge agreed. "Gel's got to have a proper Season if she's to be accepted. Got to acquire Town Bronze, so to speak. Can't see no other way, Daventry."

Papa squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, as if trying to figure how he had suddenly got himself in this pinch, and how in the name of Heaven he was going to get out of it. Izzy knew her father. The very sight of a ballroom caused him severe dyspepsia. His entire social repertoire consisted of cards and bottles, with an occasional fox hunt thrown in. Still, he'd snagged a great fish for his daughter, and was not of a mind to let it slip the hook.

Papa's brows furrowed deeply. "I ain't the kind to be leading my girl into Almack's," he protested. "Can't think of anyone who'd sponsor her. Her mother's kin is all gone. 'Course, she's got a tidy sum from 'em, don't you know."

"Well, that's it, then," said Captain Trowbridge. "I cannot possibly consent to this sham. We certainly have no one to offer, other than Aunt Cecile, and she would never do."

Izzy watched Captain Trowbridge's arrogant smirk, which was so perfectly formed she began to worry if it might be genuine. Surely he didn't think they would let him off the hook that easily!

"Peaches?" queried the father. "Now, there's a thought! Boy's bright, ain't he, Daventry?"

"Peaches?" Izzy queried. Whatever was the odd fellow up to?

The captain's eyes widened with horror. "You cannot be serious, father. It would be courting unmitigated disaster to mix Aunt Peaches with this unrepentant hoyden."

"Peaches?" Izzy asked again.

"'Course, my boy, I see your point, but it ain't that bad. Peaches always wanted a gel of her own to bring out, bless her heart. She'd love nothing better! I'll write her right away!"

"Peaches?" She was beginning to feel silly, but a quick flip of his eyebrows told her she was on the right track.

The younger Trowbridge was quickly on his feet, and his eyes blazed. "I will not consider it! There could be no worse choice in all of London! I am not willing to marry this outrageous little mudlark as it is, and now to top it, you mean to have Aunt Peaches sponsor her? We shall be the laughingstock of the ton!"

It was too much of enough, or would have been, had Izzy not already caught his drift. And her cue. She stood, dramatically shoving back her chair. "No, you will not, sir, for I have not the slightest intention of marrying you under any circumstances! Nor to be taken about Town in the company of a person with such a ridiculous name, which is no doubt an equal to her character. No, you shall not manage that, on top of your ill-bred tongue. I will not have it!"

"You will not? I'll wager you have never thought how the ton would receive a female scoundrel named Izzy?"

"It is at least a name with connection to reality, sir! In any case I shall not be taken to Town so that I may please an overblown horse's mouth such as you!"

"Now Izzy, m'dove," Papa coaxed, "don't overset yourself. You got to look at the practical side of it."

"Practical side of it? Surely, you jest, Papa. There is no practical purpose in so hideous a match!"

"Oddly, I find myself in perfect agreement with you, Miss Daventry!" retorted the captain with blazing eyes.

"Wonderful! Now, with that settled, I believe I prefer to keep the company of a good book. Pray, excuse me, sirs!" She spun majestically away from the table and stalked out of the dining room toward the staircase.

"Just a minute, Miss Daventry! We are not through!" shouted the Captain as he chased behind her.

"Oh, we are quite through, Captain. Nothing whatsoever remains to discuss!"

Izzy sped up the stairs with Captain Trowbridge hotly in pursuit. Not until she reached the first floor and looked down to be sure the audience was out of sight did she turn to him.

"Masterful, Captain," she said in a low voice.

The magnificent dark blue eyes that had flashed such fire just moments before sparkled wickedly. "You were born to tread the boards, Miss Daventry. But, 'horse's mouth'?"

She shrugged. "If the horseshoe fits, sir. It was perhaps a better choice than other anatomical parts might have been. Might I ask the purpose of this performance?"

"Tomorrow," he promised with a wide grin and a sultry hint to his voice that tingled her spine. "Ride down to the bridge below the village. Good night, Miss Mudlark. Be sure to slam your door."

"Very well, sir. And you, likewise. And, Captain, a piece of advice?"

"Yes?"

Izzy raked a studying gaze over him, then raised her nose to a perfectly haughty angle and graced him with a smile as sticky as honey.

"Take the white mare."

She slammed her door with a fierce bang. From across the corridor echoed another sound just like it.

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