AVAILABLE FILE FORMATS: HTML for the standard computer, PDF for Adobe Reader, Rocket for the Rocket and REB1100, MS Reader for the PC and Pocket PC, FUB for eBookMan, Mobipocket for Palm Pilot, Pocket PC, and eBookMan, and KML for hiebook

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

In Which a French Monseigneur is an English Milord
Paris, 1735

Clutching a crumpled paper with an address on it, London solicitor Cornelius Gleason straightened his coat and knocked at the elegant door of a fine mansion in the Rue de le Roi, Paris. When a butler opened it, the solicitor handed him a calling card, saying, "Good morning! Cornelius Gleason to see -- " He paused, uncertain. His law firm had discovered Robert Amberley's current address, but knew nothing of his social status, economic situation, or present identity. Perhaps Amberley was not the master of the house. What if he were a servant? A footman or a groom? His fortunes could have gone in any direction in the ten years since he had disappeared.

Chattering impatient French, the butler tried to close the door. Unable to speak his language, Gleason planted a firm foot in the entryway and spoke English all the louder. "Robert Amberley! I must speak to Robert Amberley! I have come all the way from London to..."

"Robert Amberley?" The butler raised an eyebrow.

"Yes! Oui! Robert Amberley!" Mr. Gleason's voice grew more frantic. "He is also known as Robin Amberley!"

The Frenchman shook his head. "Il n'est pas ici. C'est l'hôtel de Châteaugris."

Gleason pushed against the door. "Now look here! I know that Robert Amberley lives here!"

Disturbed by the noise, a gentleman emerged from the depths of the house, his full-skirted, blue velvet coat gleaming as a diamond nestling in his lacy cravat winked in the sudden sunlight. Lace fell over his slim, white hands and a black velvet riband secured his unpowdered auburn locks. Glancing at Gleason, he addressed a curt French query to the butler.

The butler's answer ended with 'Robert Amberley' and the gentleman's eyes locked with Gleason's for a long, tense moment. He gave a sudden command to the butler and disappeared through a pair of carved oaken doors. The butler bowed Gleason into the house, collecting his hat and gloves.

He was ushered into a library. Books covered most of three walls, but the fourth was comprised of tall windows that looked out onto a garden. At the far end of the room, overstuffed leather armchairs clustered before an empty fireplace.

Bowing, Gleason introduced himself. Standing by a desk at the near end of the room, his host answered him in perfect English. "Please be seated, Mr. Gleason. I would know what business you have with Robert Amberley."

Gleason sank into a chair by the desk. "Is he in your employ, Monsieur?"

"Etiénne de Châteaugris," the gentleman supplied, seating himself. "If you tell me your purpose, I will tell you if Monsieur Amberley can see you." He waited, studying the solicitor.

"Well, milord, well," Gleason licked his lips. "The fact of the matter is Lord Amberley's... the Marquis of Norelton's grandfather is -- dead."

The gentleman stilled, his granite grey eyes boring into the solicitor's soul. Then he leaned forward abruptly. "I am Robert Amberley, Mr. Gleason. Do you come all the way from England merely to tell me that my brother, Clayton, has succeeded to the title?"

Gleason's eyes widened as he glanced at his fine surroundings.

"No, Mr. Gleason, I've not done badly for a penniless, cast-off younger son," Amberley said. "When did my grandfather die?"

"Almost a year ago, Your Grace," Amberley's eyes grew wide at the news that he was now a duke, "but your brother died two years before him, leaving you the heir. My firm has been looking for you since the marquis's death."

"Clay too!" Amberley's voice softened. "What happened?"

"A carriage accident, Your Grace."

"And the duke?"

Gleason shook his head. "The marquis's death devastated His Grace. When you could not be found, his grief turned to madness. Often, when he was alone in a room, he would rail at you as if you were with him. He said that you -- " The solicitor halted, flushing.

"I can easily imagine what His Grace had to say about me!" Amberley said.

"Then, suddenly, His Grace stopped talking altogether," Gleason said. "He just sat for hours, staring at nothing. Finally, he summoned me to Lynkellyn Castle to make out a new will. He died three days later."

"So I am now the Duke of Lynkellyn!" The new peer laughed. "I'll wager that didn't set well with Grandpapa. I don't suppose he settled any of the estate debt after I left?"

"No, Your Grace," Gleason said.

"No, of course, he didn't!" Amberley shook his head. "The Lynkellyn holdings have been mortgaged to the hilt for three generations, but even though his fortune was vast, my grandfather couldn't see past his own tight-fistedness to remove that embarrassment."

Gleason flushed. "His Grace felt that since the ducal lands were entailed, the mortgages need not be discharged in haste. He also believed the debts should be paid with the ducal rents rather than his personal fortune."

"Ah, yes! His personal fortune! The whip that drove us all!" Amberley's eyes glittered with contempt. "I suppose my cousin Giles inherited that money? The old duke would have left him the title and estates, too, if it had been possible."

"No."

"No?" Amberley's brows rose.

"No, Your Grace. Along with all the titles, honors, and estates you naturally inherit, the late duke also left you his personal fortune, provided you meet the terms of his will."

"Which are?"

"That you be married to a lady of good family within one year of His Grace's death; said year to end at midnight on March 28, 1735, the anniversary date of the late duke's demise. Also, that you produce a child from this union within two years of His Grace's death."

The ticking of the mantle clock filled the room for some time. "And if I don't meet these stipulations?" Amberley finally asked.

"Ah! Then the deceased's entire personal fortune goes to your cousin, Lord Mountheathe."

Amberley stared out the window, silent for a full minute. "How much money is involved?"

"An income of one hundred thousand pounds per annum, stocks, bonds, a large amount of real estate, a shipping firm... I would venture to suggest, Your Grace, that if you are not already married..."

"I am not."

"Then you had better wed quickly. It only lacks a fortnight until the anniversary of His Grace's death. If you do not hurry, everything will go to Lord Mountheathe."

Resting his elbows on his desk, the duke pressed his fingertips together. "Lady Luck has been exceedingly kind to me in the last few years, Mr. Gleason, and I have sufficient funds for my needs. I doubt that, considering my grandfather's stipulations and the time constraint, I shall be claiming my legacy. Giles shall have it! And why not, pray? He's taken all else from me!" Bitterness tinged Lynkellyn's voice.

Gleason rose and reached into his pocket. "Here is my card," he said, bowing. "If Your Grace should change your mind, send word to my firm. I must witness your wedding."

"très bien. Won't you stay for luncheon, Mr. Gleason? 'Tis good to hear an English voice again."

"No, Your Grace, I'm sorry, but I cannot. I sail for home tonight and I've still got some personal commissions to which I must attend."

The solicitor had almost reached the door when Amberley halted him. "One more question, s'il vous plâit, Mr. Gleason. How did your firm find me?"

"'The merest chance, Your Grace. A month ago, the Earl of Malkent saw you riding in the Bois de Boulogne. His companion did not know you or your direction, but recognized your horse as one his neighbor had sold the day before. We received your direction from the Comte de Montville who sold you the horse. Good day, Your Grace." Mr. Gleason bowed and was gone.

For a long time after Gleason left, Amberley sat in his sunny library, black and bitter regrets crawling through his mind. Visions of Mountheathe's smirking features taunted him and he leaped up to pace, all the frustration and resentment he thought he had banished after ten years consuming him again as if he had left England only yesterday.

Giles had stolen or ruined every good thing in his life. His name was irreparably blackened; his youth wasted wandering the sewers and stews of the world; the love and respect of his family lost forever. After all he had suffered at Mountheathe's hands, he would be damned if he let that lying cur have the Amberley fortune as well!

The butler entered. "The Marquis de Valiére requests an audience, Monseigneur."

"You may admit the marquis," Amberley said. "He'll be staying for luncheon."

A few minutes later de Valiére entered the library, grinning as he held out his hand. "Etiénne! It has been an age."

"Georges!" Amberley clasped his hand, smiling. "Pray be seated. Will you have a brandy?" Without waiting for an answer, the duke filled two glasses and handed one to de Valiére. "You'll stay for luncheon, of course."

"I never pass up a free meal, Etiénne. You know that!" Still smiling, the marquis took a seat. "So, mon ami, what new scandal has tantalized Paris while I have been buried in the country?"

The butler announced luncheon soon after and the gentlemen sauntered into the dining room without a lull in their conversation. Over the soup, however, Robin began to brood once more upon Gleason's visit and his features hardened.

"Is anything amiss, Etiénne?" Georges asked, lowering his spoon. "You seem -- distracted."

"I've had a most unpleasant morning," Lynkellyn said, shoving his soup away.

"I apologize if I intrude, mon ami. You have only to say 'Georges, be gone!' and I will vanish!"

"I welcome your company, Georges," Robin said, signaling the butler to clear the table and serve the second course. "'Tis just that, well, I have had disturbing news from home."

"Oui?" Georges raised a brow. His friend had always been curiously reticent about his background and family.

Amberley served himself from a platter of chicken. "Georges, do you consider me a close friend?"

"One of my closest." Georges said as he accepted the platter.

"Would you go with me to England?"

Piling chicken onto his plate, De Valiére looked up in surprise. "England? Pourquoi?"

"I shall explain in the library after luncheon. We have too many ears here," Amberley said, glancing at the servants. "If, after you have heard me out, you still count yourself my friend, we will talk more of England."

Later, in the library, the gentlemen settled into comfortable chairs, port in hand. The room was silent for several minutes as Amberley decided how to begin. He swirled the last of the wine in his glass, then tossed it down and sprang from his chair to pace across the patches of sunlight that dappled the parquet floor. "First of all, Georges, I'm an Englishman, not a Frenchman..."

"How can that be, Etiénne? What about your houses, your lands, your title, and, most of all, mon ami, your manner!"

Amberley searched Georges's face. "My title I made up out of whole cloth. I acquired my wealth through gambling and deceit. As to my manner, I have a gift. I can assume any nationality, any social class I wish. I've been Italian, Spanish, Austrian, Hanoverian even a gypsy! I know a dozen languages and cultures, for I've been part of all of them at one time or another."

"Then -- then you are an adventurer! A charlatan!" Georges could hardly credit his own conclusions.

"Oui, mon ami. That is exactly what I am." Amberley gazed out at the garden, frowning. "I've engaged in countless unsavory occupations -- actor, gambler, highwayman, pirate, mercenary, pick-pocket, also a whoremaster." He was silent for a moment, his eyes bleak. With a flutter of his hand, he swept his memories away. "Naturellement, I prefer to live like a gentleman when I can and my luck has been extraordinary these last few years. I've accumulated a respectable fortune and, until this morning, I had thought to settle here in France."

"I cannot believe what I am hearing! You are, perhaps, amusing yourself at my expense, Etiénne?"

"I only wish I were," Robin said, pouring more wine, "and the name is Robert Amberley. I had a visit from an English solicitor this morning. He told me that my brother and grandfather are dead and that I am now the Duke of Lynkellyn."

"I am more confused than ever, mon ami! How -- why has all this come about?"

"How?" Amberley laughed. "Through my kinsman's scheming lies and my grandfather's doting blindness." He tossed off his port, grabbed the decanter, and refilled both their glasses. "My cousin Giles, my older brother Clayton and I, orphans all, grew up in Grandpapa's household at Lynkellyn Castle. Grandfather absolutely adored Giles, his favorite for reasons I have never fathomed and he showed great affection to Clay who always said 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and kept his own counsel in a way I never could, but the old duke and I argued constantly."

"At nineteen, Giles and I went to London for a little Town bronze. The reigning beauty among that Season's debutantes was Valeria Ashwell. We both courted her, but she accepted an offer of marriage from the Earl of Malkent. When their betrothal was announced, I declared my heart shattered and foreswore women forever! Forever lasted about a day and a half.

"But Giles left my pitiful theatricals in the dust. One night, well into his second bottle, he ranted that Miss Ashwell was his and she would never wed anyone else. He swore he would kill any man who took her from him. Alas, I dismissed his ravings as mere drunken boasts. No one was ever so wrong!

"The next day, when I went around to Giles's lodgings, he was out. Standing in the street, I read the note he had left me and my blood chilled. He intended to force Miss Ashwell to Gretna Green. I rushed to the lady's house, but a footman told me the family was out.

"Determined to catch Giles, I raced to my lodgings for traveling money, then guided my mount north out of London, knowing that since Gretna Green and Lynkellyn Castle lay along the same route, I would have no trouble using my grandfather's name to procure fresh horses. Worried, I rode through the night and all the next day, inquiring after the fleeing pair at every inn along the way. At dusk, I finally had news of Giles at a small inn not generally frequented by gentlemen. I was mere hours behind him and the landlord said his companion was ill. Ignoring hunger and fatigue, I gulped down a quick tankard of ale while changing mounts and pressed on into the second night.

"At dawn, I arrived at the Crown and Thistle, an inn some ten miles from Lynkellyn Castle. While I was questioning Tulley, the landlord, I glimpsed Giles crossing the taproom and rushed after him into a private parlor, demanding to see Miss Ashwell.

"Furious, Giles cursed me for interfering, then drew his sword and lunged at me. I barely unsheathed in time to parry. My blade rasped against his as I blocked his attack and we began to duel in earnest.

"My mind and body sluggish from lack of food and sleep, I hadn't a chance of victory. My weapon grew heavier, my responses slower with every move. Above our ringing swords, we heard noise of new arrivals in the taproom. My grandfather's voice drifted back to us and then Lord Malkent's. Giles's blade whipped in and out, testing my defenses. Clay's voice sounded nearby and the door opened just as Mountheathe's blade pierced my shoulder. Starving, exhausted, and in agony, I collapsed."

Amberley swallowed half a glass of wine, then gulped down the other half. He fell into a chair, closing his eyes against the pained memory. "Eager to preserve his worthless skin, Giles told our grandfather the greatest tangle of lies ever uttered! While I lay unconscious, he accused me before my family and Lord Malkent of drugging Miss Ashwell and spiriting her away to a forced wedding in Gretna Green. Giles had kept Miss Ashwell sedated during the journey and when she finally revived, she could remember nothing except that, on leaving Lady Ford's house with Giles, she had become ill and fainted. Giles claimed that I took her from him at gunpoint and that it was he who had chased me across England night and day."

"To avoid a scandal, Grandpapa arranged to have Tracy and Valeria married quietly at Lynkellyn Castle the next morning. Nevertheless, the tale leaked out with a little help, sans doute, from Giles. Consequently, I was not received anywhere."

"And did you not tell your grandfather the truth?" Georges asked.

"I tried, but he didn't believe me. No one did. You see, I was a wild, rakehelly young buck while Giles was, to all outward appearance, a sober, worthy gentleman. Grandpapa would hear nothing against him. My protestations of innocence only incensed the old duke. Furious that I would not confess my 'crime', he disowned me! Gave me an hour to pack my belongings and be gone. Mon Dieu! That awful day!" His hands shaking, Amberley poured more wine.

Georges sipped his port. "And Lord Mountheathe's letter?"

Amberley gave a bitter laugh. "Lost! Somewhere on the road between London and Carlisle. So much for proving my innocence!" Sighing, he slumped in his chair. "I've told you more than I've ever told anyone else, Georges. Do you still consider yourself my friend?"

"More than ever."

Brown eyes met grey. Amberley saw neither pity nor contempt in Georges's gaze and was satisfied. "In my youth, my friends called me 'Rogue Robin' because of my wild escapades," he said after a long silence. "I've not heard myself styled thus since." His jaw clenched. Calming his temper with a deep breath, he smiled. "What say you to England, then?"

"I still don't understand why you must go. I should think it would be a distressing experience, considering..."

"It will be! But along with the ducal lands that are my legal inheritance, my grandfather, enigmatic to the end, left me his personal fortune, which I shall have if I meet certain stipulations. I must be married to a lady of good family, to Grandpapa that meant aristocratic family, naturellement, within one year of his death and produce a child from that union within two years."

Georges gave a low whistle. "And if the conditions are not met?"

Lynkellyn's laughter cracked like breaking glass. "That's the cream of the jest, mon ami! The anniversary of Grandpapa's death is only a fortnight away. If I do not have a properly blue-blooded bride within that time, the entire fortune, a hundred thousand pounds a year, goes to that blackguard, Mountheathe. I don't need the money. I can live comfortably on my winnings for the rest of my life, but I'll be damned if I let Giles Bridland profit from his treachery again." All the anger, pain, and resentment that Robin had masked for so many years was suddenly naked in his smoldering eyes. "Will you come to England and help me find a wife, Georges? I must be a married man by the twenty-eighth of March."

"But already it is March thirteenth. Even if you leave tomorrow, the journey will take at least a sennight, Etiénne -- Robin, I mean. You'll only have seven days in which to find a lady, woo her, and wed her. Why do you not court a Parisienne?"

"If I fail in this venture, I want to be able to return to Paris as the Chevalier de Châteaugris. If I marry a French lady, all of Paris Society will know of my new title and my previous deception. Living here would become unbearable."

"But you've only a fortnight, Robin! C'est impossible!"

"Nothing is impossible, mon ami. I'm sure there must be one gentlewoman in England who would not object to marrying a hundred thousand pounds a year and a ducal coronet, slightly tarnished."

"très bien," Georges sighed. "When do we go?"

Robin sat down at his desk to write. "We'll travel to Calais in the morning. I'll have a packet waiting for us there."

"Then I'll take my leave to prepare for the journey. Will I see you at the Comtesse de la Tournaise's ball tonight?"

"Most assuredly." Lynkellyn's eyes fell to his letter. "And Georges...to Paris I'm still the Chevalier de Châteaugris, n'est-ce pas?"

"Certainement. I will find my own way out. Until this evening, mon ami."

"Until this evening." Amberley's mind was already on travel details, but he raised his head with a slight smile. "And I thank you, mon vieux, for standing with me rather than against me."

"Any time." Georges bowed and was gone.

***

"Mr. Gleason! You are returned from Paris at last. I vow I had almost given you up!" Lady Amaryllis Blayne said as the solicitor bowed to her on the threshold of her salon.

"Rough weather delayed my journey, my lady. I must confess I did not care for the Channel crossing either way."

Amaryllis ushered him to a seat and settled on a divan across from him. She leaned forward, twisting a pale gold ringlet. "How was my cousin?"

"In excellent health, Your Ladyship."

"He -- he has enough to eat, then, and a place to live?"

"He has amassed a comfortable fortune, my lady, and lives in a manner befitting a man of his station."

Relief flickered in her eyes. "'Tis only that I worried lest he should have sunk." She drew herself up sharply. "When is His Grace coming home?"

"I don't know, my lady. I assumed that, when I found him, I would be throwing a rope to a drowning man, but His Grace expressed very little interest in his legacy."

"Is he willing to let Giles have it, then, without a fight? I cannot credit it! The moment that creature gets his hands on Grandpapa's money, he'll usurp Lynkellyn Castle and all the other ducal estates. He'll run them into the ground just as he has his own lands."

"The Lynkellyn holdings are already heavily mortgaged, my lady."

"Well, Giles will find some way to make the situation worse! The man is a bounder!"

"My lady!" said the shocked solicitor. "Lord Mountheathe is highly esteemed and respected! His philanthropy is legendary!"

Amaryllis grimaced. "I've known Giles since he was in short coats. He excels at hiding the most reprehensible deeds behind that angelic facade he's created. I have seen things, heard things, but I am a lady, sir. Suffice it to say that I would prefer to see Robert Amberley take his rightful place in Society."

"But, my lady, during our search for His Grace, we discovered that he may have been involved in some extremely questionable activities."

"Robin was always a hero to me, my good man! Even when we were children, he protected me. Why, one spring when my cousins were visiting Manleigh Hall, he -- " Amaryllis blushed.

It had happened at her fourteenth birthday party. All the guests were playing hide-and-seek in the woods and she was hiding behind a large tree when Giles found her. She tried to run away, but he grabbed her, pressing her against the tree with his body. The rough bark scraped and bruised her skin as he tore at her dress and slobbered kisses all over her face. She screamed, fighting and begging to be released.

Suddenly Robin rushed into the clearing, demanding that Giles free her. Giles glared at his cousin with undisguised venom as Robin took a menacing step toward him, fists clenched. With a grimace of disgust, Giles shoved Amaryllis to the ground and strode away, leaving Robin to escort her back to the Hall.

She thrust the memory away, her voice shaking a little as she addressed Gleason. "Robin was always there when I needed him right up until that dreadful day. I cannot believe it of him! I simply cannot! I never have and I never will!"

"But, my lady, the facts, the circumstances in the case prove his guilt!"

"Facts may be twisted and circumstances misinterpreted, Mr. Gleason. Robin never betrayed my trust and I shall befriend him, no matter what the cost. You may tell him that if you see him again!"

"Your ladyship must realize that, having found your cousin and apprised him of the current situation, my firm can do nothing more," Gleason said. "His Grace must decide whether he will claim his inheritance or not."

Amaryllis twisted one yellow curl in vexation. "Oh, I wish I'd been there when you talked to him. I'd have dragged that wretched boy home by his ear!"

***

Lynkellyn and de Valiére spent four harrowing days on the road, halting briefly for meals and sleep. With the coachman springing the horses at every opportunity, they arrived in Calais on the seventeenth of March, one day ahead of schedule.

Over supper that night, Robin told Georges that once they arrived in England, they would dock at Harwich and travel by coach one more day to Brackenwell Hall, a small estate he owned in Essex.

"We're not going to London?" Georges tore at a bit of chicken with his fork.

"I'd have the devil's own luck finding a wife in London, mon ami. My name, face, and reputation are too well known. No! I shall search among the country misses and hope my title and fortune will impress while my blackened character languishes in anonymity. With any luck, a veritable horde of spinster gentlewomen will live in the vicinity of Brackenwell Hall in Essex."

"This Brackenwell Hall, what sort of place is it?"

"Je ne sais pas. I won the estate at cards in Vienna and I've never actually been there." Robin served himself from a dish of glazed carrots. "Since I've been administering the place by correspondence, I've brought the deed with me, lest my ownership comes into question."

"I see that you are prepared for everything."

Robin smiled. "Everything but marriage and fatherhood, Georges."

After an unusually calm Channel crossing the next day and a quiet night at the Pelican in Harwich, the gentlemen left for Brackenwell Hall in a hired coach just after dawn. The carriage stopped in Sudbury for a noon meal and turned into the tree-lined drive of Brackenwell Hall at sunset.

Facing north toward the Stour River, the red brick mansion nestled amidst a lush park like a ruby on green velvet. The house boasted a white marble portico with a flat roof that sheltered stairs leading to a set of polished oak doors.

The coach pulled up to the entrance and the gentlemen alighted. An elderly butler waited to greet them and take their wraps. The servant, expecting a Frenchman with dark hair and eyes, bowed to the marquis, who more closely resembled that image, and said, "Your Grace!"

"Non! He is your master." De Valiére indicated Amberley with a wave of his hand.

The butler turned toward Robin and bowed a second time. "Forgive me, Your Grace. My name is Carter. I head the staff here. Dinner may be served at Your Grace's pleasure."

"The Marquis de Valiére and I would like to change our clothes and rid ourselves of our travel dirt. We will dine at half past six. Pray show us to our chambers. Have our valets arrived with our baggage yet?"

"They are already in your rooms, unpacking, Your Grace."

"Bon! After dinner, I would like to see both you and the steward with the household and estate accounts in the library. This place does have a library, does it not?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I shall be happy to show you the library at your pleasure," Carter said a little huffily. "If you will follow me to your chambers, Your Grace?"

As the gentlemen started up a long staircase behind Carter, Robin turned to Georges, speaking in his usual French. "I fear I must leave you to your own devices this evening, mon ami. Business calls and if I can get through it tonight, I shall have one less thing to occupy my mind while I muddle through this marriage affair. That shall require all my attention and I must needs go quickly. I only have nine days left."

Chapter 2:

In Which His Grace Courts a Bride and Steals a Kiss

"What next, Robin? How will you begin your quest for a bride?" George asked over luncheon the following day.

Robin smiled, sipping his wine. "This afternoon, mon ami, we shall call on the neighbors. Hunting, as it were." He took a paper from his coat pocket and looked at it. "Carter gave me a list of the better families in the neighborhood. Out of eleven families, six know or are connected with mine in some way, if memory serves. They may not receive me at all. The other five - Reverend Stanfield and his wife, Sir Archibald Forbin and his lady, Lord Arledale, Mr. and Mrs. Weymouth and Lord and Lady Saddewythe -- are all unknown to me. Perhaps I am unknown to them. We shall see."

Robin decided to visit his former friends first, thus, he confessed to Georges, getting the worst over at the beginning. At each home, the Lynkellyn carriage waited while the gentlemen were announced. At two houses, they were politely requested to leave; at two others, the residents were not at home; and at two of them, Robin received threats of physical insult in response to his calling card.

Having rejected Lynkellyn's neighborly overtures, Viscount Wranham had sent word to all the gentry in the district, warning them against Rogue Robin and his sordid past. Consequently, amongst those families who did not know Amberley, the Forbins and the Weymouths were not at home and although a reserved Lord Arledale welcomed him, the man was a bachelor and of no use to the duke.

As the coach lurched away from Arledale House, Georges glanced anxiously at Robin who sprawled on the seat across from him. Amberley's jaw jutted forward, his lips compressed into a hard, angry line and his fists clenched in his pockets. Although his eyes were hooded, cold steel glinted from beneath those dark lashes.

"Don't worry," said the marquis, "We'll find someone, Robin."

Amberley swallowed an angry retort, saying only, "Who is next?"

Georges looked at the list. "Vicar and Mrs. Stanfield."

"At least, they should receive me," Robin said. "I am responsible for the vicar's living. It wouldn't do to offend me."

As expected, Vicar Stanfield and his lady received the gentlemen with every evidence of welcome, despite an alarming note from Wranham Chase only minutes before they arrived. When Robin discovered that the Stanfields were older and childless, he chafed at the bit, yearning to be gone, but good manners compelled him to stay the socially required twenty minutes.

Having also received Lord Wranham's message, Lord and Lady Saddewythe were in some disagreement over the prospect of a visit from Lynkellyn. Lord Saddewythe did not wish to receive him, but Lady Winifred nursed a secret desire that her dearest Pamela might be a duchess before her first Season had even begun. Insisting that a duke could not be anything but respectable, her ladyship carried the day.

As his carriage bowled up the drive to Saddewythe Manor, Robin wearily watched the landscaped park pass outside his window. "I will be very glad when all this is over, mon ami," he said. "Already it's a curst bothersome bore."

"Let us hope your new wife is not 'bothersome', Robin."

"It makes no difference if she is. I shall contrive, in that case, not to tarry overlong in her company." Suddenly all the duke's languor ebbed. He sat up abruptly, his eyes widening as he stared out the window. "Mon Dieu!"

A little girl skipped into the path of the speeding carriage as it rounded a curve in the drive. The coachman sawed at the reins, endeavoring to turn the horses. The vehicle shook and rattled as the confused, frightened team reared and plunged.

At the last possible minute, a blur of blue and black hurtled across the drive, pushing the child to the side of the road and scrambling madly after her.

The coachman got his team under control a little farther down the drive and stopped. The passengers alighted, rushing back to the child and her rescuer; a young woman clad in a patched and ill-fitting blue wool dress.

The woman's mobcap lay forgotten in the middle of the dusty drive. Having escaped both cap and pins, her long ebony hair tumbled about her shoulders in a maze of silken curls as she knelt beside the child. "Truly, Miss Honor!" she scolded, helping the girl to her feet and brushing off her clothes. "I begged you to stay with the rest of us. Your mother will not allow us another picnic if she hears about this, as I know she will, from the visitors in the coach. Really! It is too vexing!"

"I'm sorry, Cothy, but the flowers over here are ever so much prettier -- Oh!" Honor fell silent. She stared over Cothy's shoulder in awe, a finger stealing into her mouth.

The woman turned to find the gentlemen standing directly behind her. Her eyes widened and she paled.

Robin was looking at the child. "I trust the young lady has sustained no injury?"

"No, sir. Thank you for asking, sir." The woman curtsied, then returned her attention to the girl. "You may go to the garden and join the others, Honor, and do contrive to stay out of trouble."

Honor ran across the drive, disappearing through the trees. The woman watched her go, then, visibly steeling herself, turned back to the gentlemen. Curtsying again, she focused her eyes on the sapphire that nestled in the lace of his grace's cravat.

His gaze lingering upon her bowed head, Robin wondered if the midnight tresses dancing down her back were as soft as they appeared to be. Quelling the urge to fondle them, he said, "And you, Miss -- er -- may I be permitted to know your name?"

"Miss Lucia Cothcourt, sir. I am Miss Honor's governess. I pray you will pardon Miss Honor, sir. She is adventurous and will go wandering off if..."

"Have you taken any injury, Miss Cothcourt?" Robin interrupted, a faint caress in the deep timber of his voice.

Startled, she looked up at him and he glimpsed a pair of magnificent blue eyes before they were swiftly lowered again. "No, sir."

Lynkellyn's glance took in a torn skirt and ripped sleeves. He turned her hands palms up. Georges gasped when he saw the bloody gashes the sharp rocks had cut into them.

Blushing a deep red, Miss Cothcourt jerked her hands out of the duke's and shoved them behind her back. "Indeed, sir, I thank you for your concern, but I must return to the children." Curtsying, she scooped up her cap and ran across the drive, following Honor's path into the woods.

Robin stared after her, certain that face, those eyes, were familiar. Unable to summon any clear memories of such features from his past, he shrugged and walked back to the coach with Georges.

When the gentlemen reached Saddewythe Manor, Lady Saddewythe received them with apparent good will, eagerly introducing them to her daughter, Pamela. Robin bowed over her hand and accepted an invitation to tea.

As he balanced his cup and discussed Pamela's upcoming London Season, Robin studied the young lady. Pamela was a lovely blonde; about eighteen, Robin judged, and without education, save for drawing-room accomplishments. Life with her would be absolute boredom, but then he thought of Giles and his mouth hardened.

"Don't you think so, Your Grace?" Lady Saddewythe inquired.

"Pardon, my lady?"

"I was saying that Pamela will be unrivaled among the London belles, as pretty as she is. It will be a lucky man who weds her!"

"I'm certain she will take the ton by storm!" Robin smiled.

"Oh, do you think so, Your Grace?" Pamela leaned forward, her eyes shining. "I can hardly wait! Beautiful dresses and parties and riding in Hyde Park! It will be ever so grand!"

"When shall you be going to Town, Miss Saddewythe?" Lynkellyn asked.

Lady Saddewythe interrupted. "We leave on Saturday, March twenty-eighth, if all goes well, Your Grace; that is, of course, assuming Pamela has not already accepted an offer." As she gave Robin an arch smile, a sudden movement captured his attention. Lord Saddewythe, who had, until that moment, sat silently in a corner chair, was glaring at his wife.

Amberley rose. "I'm certain Miss Saddewythe will have a fine Season. Perhaps I shall see all of you there, my lady, my lord?" His gaze shifted to his glowering host.

"I'm sure you will, Your Grace!" Lady Winifred simpered as the others followed Robin's lead and stood. The gentlemen were saying their farewells when she blurted out, "Your Grace! My Lord! We would be honored if you would dine with us tomorrow night. We keep country hours, I fear. Six o'clock?"

Robin's eyes flickered toward Pamela as he bowed. "I shall be delighted, my lady. Georges?"

The marquis dutifully accepted.

As the gentlemen settled into the coach for the journey back to Brackenwell Hall, Georges grinned. "Well, mon ami, what was the point of that little comedy? 'Twas all I could do to keep from laughing."

"I must act the beau if I am to please my future in-laws, héin?"

"Mon Dieu! You are not going to marry that girl? That Pamela Saddewythe? She would bore you to death in a day and in one of your tempers, you would devour her!"

"It may have escaped your notice, Georges, but I must marry within nine days and there is but one eligible girl of good family available to me within a twenty mile radius of Brackenwell Hall. Therefore, I must wed that girl."

"Nonsense, Robin! There are two."

"Two?"

"The governess. Mademoiselle -- er -- comment s'appele la femme -- Cothcourt! Oui!"

"Oui!." Lynkellyn nodded. "Papa Saddewythe does not appreciate me as he should and will doubtless cause me a deal of trouble. If Miss Saddewythe proves too difficult a prize, I shall offer for Miss Cothcourt. A spinster governess would welcome any husband. A ducal coronet should totally overwhelm her."

"The woman has courage," Georges said. "That's more than we know of Miss Saddewythe."

The next morning, Robin sent a letter to Gleason in London, announcing his arrival in England. He asked the solicitor to travel to Brackenwell Hall at his earliest convenience with a special license and family histories of the Saddewythes and Lucia Cothcourt.

That evening, Robin found himself sitting beside Miss Pamela at the Saddewythe's dinner table. She smiled at him over her soup. "I trust your drive over here was uneventful, Your Grace?"

"I only pray that your journey to London passes as serenely, Miss Saddewythe." Robin dropped a pinch of salt into his soup and smiled.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Your road cuts through Epping Forest, does it not? I've heard tales of highwaymen along that route, but I daresay you will be safe enough in the daylight."

"Did you ever meet a highwayman?" Her eyes widened as she spooned soup into her mouth.

"Once, outside Vienna. I shot him."

The unfortunate highwayman was forgotten as Pamela sighed dreamily, "Vienna! It must have been wonderful!"

"Do you like to travel, Miss Saddewythe?"

"I don't know. I've never been anywhere, but I daresay I wouldn't want to leave England for very long. All those foreigners!" she said with a moue of distaste and a fine disregard for the marquis's feelings. "Still, a few weeks on the Continent would be delightful!"

"Paris is beautiful at this time of year," Robin said, his eyes holding hers. "Indeed, I was rather sorry to leave it...until now." Pamela blushed with pleasure.

"You were in Paris, Your Grace! Tell us about it!" Lady Saddewythe cried from across the table, forgoing formal manners in such a small group.

Lynkellyn smiled. "Perhaps Monsieur le Marquis should tell you about Paris. He knows the city far better than I do. I'm certain the ladies would like to hear about the king's new palace at Versailles, Georges."

All eyes turned to de Valiére. "Oh, yes! Do tell us about the gowns the French ladies wear at court, my lord!" Pamela said.

Georges endeavored to give his listeners a sense of the beauty and history of his beloved Paris, only to be drawn again and again into a discourse on parties, balls, and gowns. De Valiére's attempts to speak of anything else were met with blank stares and barely concealed boredom.

"Fashion is all very well," he said, exasperated, "but what about art, music, and literature?"

"Oh, I am not at all bookish, my lord!" Pamela said. "Mama says too much learning is not becoming in a young lady."

Shaking his head, Georges glanced at Robin and muttered, "Mon Dieu!"

Lady Saddewythe signaled Pamela to rise. "Well, gentlemen, enjoy your port, but don't linger overlong. Pamela and I are very dull without company." Curtsying, the women strolled from the room.

The gentlemen needed little encouragement to rejoin the ladies. Having presided over dinner in stony silence, Lord Saddewythe had as little to say over the port. The younger men found his surly glower disconcerting and were relieved when he rose almost immediately to follow his wife.

A few minutes after the gentlemen entered the drawing room, Miss Cothcourt led the Saddewythe nursery party through the door. "I hope you and the marquis will not mind a visit from the children, Your Grace. They always come down after dinner," Lady Saddewythe said, "and since we consider you practically a member of the family," Lord Saddewythe bristled visibly at this "I thought you would like to meet everyone. This is Arabella and Derrick; Philip and Terrence; and this is little Honor." Each child nodded. "And, of course, Miss Cothcourt, their governess." Eyes on the floor, Lucia sketched a small curtsy.

"I am pleased to meet you." Robin gave them a solemn bow.

"Children, be seated," their mother commanded. "Pamela is going to play for us."

Quite grown up at sixteen, Arabella found a chair quietly. Her three younger brothers made faces at each other and fought over the seats until Miss Cothcourt called them to order with a gentle reproof. The governess sat in the back of the room near the door and a sleepy Honor climbed onto her lap.

Lord Saddewythe retreated to the far side of the room, fixing a dour eye on the assembly while his lady, ignoring him, settled beside de Valiére.

As Pamela took her place at the harpsichord, Lynkellyn stood beside her, turning her pages of music. After playing two pieces, she rose with a little smile and curtsied to the applauding audience.

"Well," Lady Saddewythe beamed as Robin and Pamela sat down, "that was lovely, dear. Now, Your Grace, if you should not dislike it, Arabella shall recite for you." Arabella stood and faced the group. Focusing her eyes on a spot above everyone's head, she launched into an epic.

His attention wandering, Robin's bored gaze soon found the governess, cradling a sleeping Honor on her lap. She wore an outmoded grey satin evening gown, her hair hidden primly beneath a white linen cap. Envisioning those luxuriant ebony curls rioting about her shoulders as they had yesterday, he knew a sudden desire to tear off that lacy prison, freeing her cascading tresses to his caress.

When she became aware of his scrutiny, he smiled at her. Fixing him with an icy stare, she nodded distantly. His smile broadened, his bold gaze lingering on the swell of her breasts above her stomacher before traveling lazily over the rest of her. She blushed and turned away to scold Derrick for talking.

Robin studied her face, admiring the amethyst eyes shielded by sweeping dark lashes, the long, straight nose, and the chin lifted in unconscious pride. But it was her mouth set him afire.

When she called Derrick's name, her quivering lips, moist and ripe and rosy as a sweet red wine, stirred him with sudden swelling lust. Her lips puckered against her long white finger in a plea for silence and, hot and hungry, he dug his nails into his chair's velvet arms. When she mouthed 'Hush!', her tongue danced between her ivory teeth and he wanted that sweet tongue to dance with his, to waltz across every inch of his body until he went mad with pleasure.

The drawing room audience was clapping as Arabella curtsied, her recitation apparently over. Robin reluctantly tore his eyes from the governess to join the applause. Then Lady Saddewythe insisted that Pamela and Arabella sing a duet. As the girls began their performance, Robin risked another glance at Lucia.

The governess had quietly risen and was carrying Honor toward the door. Thrilled at his unexpected luck, Robin waited a few minutes, then followed her. Georges glanced up, but no one else noticed his exit.

Robin was standing alone in the entry hall when Lucia, having put Honor to bed, reached the head of the stairs. She saw him as she began her descent and her eyes widened in wary surprise. When she reached the floor, she curtsied, murmuring, "Your Grace!" before hurrying past him.

"Miss Cothcourt!" Robin followed her into the corridor that led to the drawing room. "Miss Cothcourt!" He caught her wrist and pulled her back to him so that she was imprisoned between him and the wall. His voice was honeyed as he turned her palm upward. "Why in such haste, Miss Cothcourt? I merely wish to inquire whether your hands are healing properly. It would be a pity for an inflammation to set in."

"My hands do very well; thank you," she said, eyes downcast. "Lady Saddewythe will be wondering where I am, Your Grace. Allow me to pass, if you please."

"Ah, but I do not please." Robin's eyes gleamed with a predator's triumph. "I've a fancy for your company yet awhile."

He leaned his body into hers, his chin grazing the lace of her cap. He frowned, whipping the cap off her head. "Why the devil do you wear this monstrosity? It does not become you."

A few wisps of hair escaped from a thick coil of ebony braids as she grabbed for the cap with her free hand. "Please do not do this, Your Grace! I shall lose my position!"

"I could offer you a better one," he whispered, his lips nuzzling her ear. She stiffened and tried to leave, but he held her fast. "Why fade away in a dreary old schoolroom when you could be a grand lady dressed in satins and brocades, commanding your own servants? All you have to do is accept my protection. All you have to do is please me!" His breath, hot and ragged, caressed her ear. His tapered fingers stroked the smooth white column of her throat.

Anger danced in her eyes. "Let me go, Your Grace!" She tried to yank her wrist out of his hand, but he only tightened his grip.

"Well, well! An ember does burn beneath all that ice." His voice was deep and unsettlingly intimate as he captured her other hand. "Shall I fan it into a flame, ma chérie?"

"Your Grace, please -- " She endeavored to twist away from him as he pressed closer against her. With one large hand holding both her wrists like a vise, he dropped the offending cap and embedded the fingers of his other hand in the thick black mass of her hair, jerking her head back.

Her struggles grew fiercer. He pushed his body harder against hers and pinned her to the wall, relishing the feel of her breasts crushed against his chest. His mouth swooped down on hers and he forced his tongue between her protesting lips to explore the sweet warm velvet inside.

Her resistance slowly subsided as he deepened his kiss and she moaned softly, trembling in his arms. His pulse pounding and his manhood painfully swollen, his body screamed to possess her. He slid his hand out of her hair to stroke the mounds of silken flesh that quivered above her stomacher. His shaking fingers brushed the neckerchief she wore for modesty and yanked it away to tug futilely at her lacings.

Desperate to have her, he reached into his coat pocket for his dagger, intending to sever the cords. As his hand curled around the cold, hard hilt, an icy blast of reason cleared his lust-fogged brain.

What the devil was he doing? If any of the Saddewythes found them together, there'd be no marriage to Pamela, no legacy, and, above all, no revenge upon Mountheathe.

He drew his hand out of his pocket and cupped Miss Cothcourt's breast outside her gown. His kiss gentled, gliding like sun-drenched silk over her lips. Bon dieu, but she was sweet!

Sensing that his hold upon her had eased, she began to struggle again and he reluctantly let her go. Stunned that a simple kiss could so completely steal away his reason, he searched her face for some explanation as he endeavored to calm his drumming heart and banish his throbbing desire.

She glared at him, her eyes flashing like lightning over the Caribbean. "You, sir, are the most shameless blackguard I have ever encountered! In other circumstances, I would -- " She stopped as if suddenly recollecting herself.

"You would what, Miss Cothcourt?" Amberley's wanton gaze roamed over her, lingering on the bounding swell of her breasts above her décolletage, then swinging up to challenge the fire in her eyes.

All at once that fire died. Curtsying meekly, she retrieved her belongings and arranged the neckerchief properly about her shoulders. Stuffing her ravaged tresses under the cap, she fled toward the drawing room while Robin stared after her, totally bewildered.

A few minutes later, he followed her into the room. Her eyes met his and slid past him, calmly, coldly indifferent. Such nonchalance in the face of their recent encounter provoked him, but, finding a seat, he hid his anger, pretending intense interest in the Misses Saddewythes' duet.

After the schoolroom party retired and Lucia saw the children to their beds, she went thankfully to her own little sanctuary. She locked her chamber door and lit a candle on her dressing table from the one she held in her hand. Struggling out of her gown, stays, and hoops, she donned a once exquisite silk dressing robe, now frayed and threadbare. Sitting at her dressing table, she hardly noticed her reflection in the cracked mirror as she removed the cap that had so offended the duke. Loosening what little hair remained braided after his grace's assault, she brushed it until the long ebony curls gleamed in the candlelight. When she heard a coach pass on the road outside her window, a tide of relief flooded her. The Duke of Lynkellyn was gone.

Braiding her hair with trembling fingers, she examined her encounter with the duke. With a single kiss, he had ripped away the mask of demure docility she had so carefully cultivated, banishing all thoughts of restraint or discretion from her brain. His kiss had been brazenly carnal without a hint of tenderness or affection in it, yet her lonely, love- starved heart had responded to him as if he were offering her eternal devotion. For a few breathless moments, she had yielded to him like the cheapest harlot, moaning her pleasure against his lips. As furious at her reaction to his advances as she was at him for kissing her, she had lashed out at him without consideration of the possible consequences. She had taken stupid reckless chances with her livelihood and security and she could not afford to let it happen again.

She stared critically at the mirror, wondering if she had invited Lynkellyn's attack. Her ebony hair, always tightly braided and hidden beneath a cap, was never allowed the immodesty of freedom. Her blue eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes and topped with delicate, arching brows, always stared demurely at the ground. She had draped a far too pleasing shape in loose, limp, faded old gowns and wound strips of cloth around her body to flatten her regrettably bountiful bosom. Thus, she had managed to avoid unwanted advances in the Saddewythe household, until now.

She decided, at last, that the fault for this evening's incident lay not with her, but with the duke. He was one of her own kind -- another unwanted, unloved soul without friends or family. When she had heard the gossip about him, his situation had touched her heart.

Perhaps, at the time of the abduction, he had truly loved the lady in question. But it no longer mattered. His eyes were hard and jaded, always wary, always suspicious, always searching for an edge. It was a look she had seen often enough in others of his ilk; even in her father's eyes. Such men took what they wanted with ruthless disdain, whether it be power or wealth or, Lucia blushed.

Yesterday, when she saw his grace in the drive, she was certain she had met him somewhere before. This evening she had finally remembered. It had been five years ago in Vienna. She was posing as a young Italian nobleman, the duke as an Austrian army officer. His hair was black, then, and he wore a less than flattering moustache, but those silver-grey eyes were unmistakable.

They played at piquet in a sordid little gaming hell and he won; not an astounding fortune, but enough to send her to the High Toby to recoup her losses so that she might have a decent dinner and sleep indoors that night.

She had the misfortune, however, to waylay her erstwhile opponent's coach just outside the city. The whole affair went terribly wrong and he shot her, leaving her sprawled, unconscious, in the road. She awoke sometime later, alone and in agony, and staggered away, half-dead, to find help. Infection set in and for weeks she writhed in fevered torment, battling for life.

Shuddering, she forced the past out of her mind and rose to shed her dressing gown. Dwelling upon the present, however, was no pleasanter. When she thought of the damage the duke could do to her fragile security should he recognize her, her blood chilled. Her aunt, Lady Laddon, had stressed that finding her this employment was an isolated act of kindness. No more aid would be forthcoming. If His Grace told Lady Saddewythe her inglorious history, she would be sacked without a reference and forced to return to her old life. An unbearable prospect!

Thankfully, he did not seem to know her and she hoped he would never see the flamboyant Italian of five years ago in the meek governess of the present. Nevertheless, she resolved to avoid him in future, lest his memory be stirred.

She prayed fervently that his interest in her was only a momentary fancy. Lady Saddewythe had already hinted at her aspirations regarding Pamela and the duke to Lucia and it would be disastrous if he should seek her out instead.

With a sigh, Lucia snuffed the candles and crawled into bed, falling into a fitful sleep full of nightmares, half dream, half memory, of exploding pistols and maddening kisses; of pain and passion and piercing silver eyes.

***

As Lynkellyn's coach left Saddewythe Manor, Georges stared into the darkness in his direction. "Well?"

"Mon ami?" Amberley lifted a brow.

"How did you find the governess?"

"Delightful, Georges! She struggles like a tigress!"

The carriage turned onto the main road and moonlight spilled into its interior, bathing the gentlemen's faces in soft, white light. Georges's eyes widened. "I don't take your meaning."

"I -- stole a kiss." Robin smiled. "A sweet, enticing confection that only left me hungry for more!"

"Mon Dieu, Robin! You didn't..."

"No, Georges. I took it no farther than a kiss. I'm not such a great monster as that! But I did want her, mon ami! I can't ever recall wanting a woman quite so badly."

"And the lady rejected you."

"When I offered her carte blanche, she was insulted," Amberley drawled.

"Imagine that!" Georges shook his head in mock bewilderment.

After a short silence, Robin said, "The devil of it all, mon ami, is that I'm still wanting her. My heart is racing; my blood is hot -- nom de nom! If I could have found some way, some place, I think -- I very much fear -- damn! I wanted to bed her then and there, with or without her consent, regardless of the consequences. A single kiss and I almost lost my wits with that slip of a girl in my arms. Such carelessness can lead to a disastrous, even fatal, error."

"But, Robin, your adventuring days are over. You need no longer fear an unguarded moment."

Lynkellyn shook his head. "She intoxicates me! She endangers my logic, my vigilance, and my reason. I must avoid her until after my wedding to Miss Saddewythe and leave her far behind when we go to London to confront Giles."

"'Tis still to be Miss Saddewythe, then, mon ami?"

"Naturellement! Giles would laugh me out of England if I presented a governess to him as my duchess!"

"Naturellement!" De Valiére threw up his hands. "You are mad to have la petite governess but, fearing the strength of your own desire and your worst enemy's opinion, you will marry this other girl that you hold in utter contempt, instead. I ask myself who gives a damn what Monseigneur Mountheathe thinks? If you want the governess so very badly, mon vieux, consign your cousin to the devil and marry her! You will still have your fortune and, even if you lose interest after you've bedded her, you will have sated your appetites and had some genuine pleasure as well! Mon Dieu! How can you prefer respectable boredom with Mademoiselle Saddewythe to wild intoxication with la petite governess?"

Robin shrugged. "Mountheathe's opinion means nothing to me, but I need respectability, Georges, and I cannot allow unreasoning lust to interfere with my thinking. Miss Saddewythe is clearly the proper choice for a dishonored man trying to regain his respectability."

Amberley settled in his corner of the coach to nap for the rest of the drive home. Gazing at his friend in the silver moonlight, the marquis shook his head in disbelief, muttering, "Mon Dieu! I shall never understand the English!"

Chapter 3:

In Which His Grace Receives Enlightenment and Proposes Marriage

When Mr. Gleason arrived at Brackenwell Hall on March twenty-first, Lynkellyn introduced the marquis and the gentlemen swiftly turned to business. "Well, Gleason," Robin said, lounging in an overstuffed chair, "have you brought the special license?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I have it here." Gleason sifted through a sheaf of papers in his satchel and handed the document to the duke. "May I say, Your Grace, that both Lady Blayne and I are pleased that you have decided to fulfill the stipulations in your grandfather's will and claim your inheritance."

"I am always happy to oblige you, naturellement," Robin drawled, "but I fear you mystify me. Who is Lady Blayne?"

"Lady Amaryllis, your cousin! 'Twas she who hired my firm to find you and inform you of your legacy."

Robin smiled. "Faith, I've not seen Ryl since she went off to some dismal school in Bath when she was sixteen. She didn't like the idea above half. Threw the devil of a tantrum! And now she is married!"

"For seven years, Your Grace, to Sir William Blayne."

"Sir William Blayne! I remember him! Good man! Dependable! Just the sort of husband Ryl needs. She's done well for herself." Amberley's eyes darkened. "She is happy?" he said after a few brooding moments.

"As nearly as a man in my impersonal position can tell, Your Grace, yes."

"Good! Good!" Leaning back in his chair, Robin closed his eyes. It was exhilarating and excruciating to speak of the people he loved. He had too long denied himself thoughts of them. The hardest part of this venture was knowing he would meet only contempt and condemnation when he took his bride to London to satisfy Giles. Bitterness twisted his heart. "And have you brought information on Saddewythe's women?" he said.

"Yes, Your Grace! I have everything here." Gleason pulled a few more pages from his satchel and started to hand them to Lynkellyn.

"Just tell me, Gleason. Your fine prose doesn't tempt me this afternoon."

"Very well, Your Grace." The solicitor cleared his throat. "Er -- which young lady interests you most?"

"Miss Saddewythe. She is the one I intend to marry."

"A very wise choice, Your Grace." Relief colored Gleason's voice.

"I always strive for your approval, Gleason. Pray proceed."

The solicitor cleared his throat a second time. "Miss Pamela Saddewythe and her family fulfill your grandfather's stipulations admirably. Lord Saddewythe's Saxon lineage can be traced some three hundred years before William the Conqueror. His lady is one of Sir Carwell Halverton's daughters and her ancestry can be documented for five hundred years. In short, there has not been a scandal or blemish in either family within living memory, Your Grace."

"They sound much too dull, mon ami," Georges frowned. "That much respectability would put one to sleep!"

"Pamela Saddewythe is perfectly suited to shore up my own lack of respectability, Georges."

"Well, what of the other one? The governess?" de Valiére asked.

Gleason shuffled his papers. "Quite a different story!"

Lynkellyn straightened. "Do you mean that she is not of good family?"

"Oh, no! Her heritage is impeccable. If Your Grace married her, however, you would be fulfilling the letter, but not the spirit, of the will."

"You speak in riddles, Gleason. We merely asked the lady's background."

"As you wish, Your Grace. The Cothcourt family traces its ancestry back to the Conqueror. Lucia Cothcourt's father was Albert Cothcourt, brother of the present earl. Family connections include the dowager Countess of Easterbury and the Earl of Malkent." Amberley's brows rose as Gleason continued. "Miss Cothcourt's mother was Elise de Couvrelle, daughter of the present Duc de Mondecharles. Coming to prominence in the court of Charlemagne, the family can trace an impressive lineage to the present day."

"Mon Dieu!" Georges muttered, growing pale. "Elle est ma cousine!"

"Je ne comprends." Robin frowned. "With so much money and such high-born kinsmen at her disposal, why is this woman a governess?"

"Because they are not at her disposal, Your Grace. Neither family will acknowledge her existence."

"Riddles again, Gleason!" Robin said. "Pourquoi?"

"Miss Cothcourt's parents were cast off when they married against their families' wishes," Gleason said. "Her English grandfather detested the French and her French grandfather abhorred the English. They both pronounced the marriage a mésalliance and cut the newlyweds adrift."

Georges nodded. "That sounds like grand-père!"

"When Miss Cothcourt was born, both families were informed of her birth, but neither was willing to recognize her. Here is a letter from Madrid dated February 14th, 1711, announcing the babe's arrival." Gleason handed the letter to Robin. "No one heard anything from the Cothcourts for sixteen years. Then, in 1727, the Earl of Cothcourt received a letter from Miss Cothcourt in Copenhagen informing him of Albert's and Elise's deaths in a fire." Gleason also passed that document to Lynkellyn. "Four more years passed in silence and then, from Paris, Miss Cothcourt sent a letter to the earl, asking that she be taken in as a poor relation or given assistance in finding a respectable situation. Here is the letter, Your Grace."

"Obviously, she got some response. Who was it took pity on our hapless heroine?"

"Her aunt, Lady Lavinia Laddon, offered her a home if she would be governess-companion to her daughters, Your Grace, but within six months, Miss Cothcourt was with the Saddewythes. One can only suppose that she did not prove satisfactory in Lady Laddon's household."

"She probably caught Laddon's eye. The man always was a thorough-going rakehell!" Robin muttered. "How do you come to have all these letters, Mr. Gleason?"

"Discreet inquiries yielded little about the governess, Your Grace, but Lord Cothcourt employs our firm to handle his family's legal affairs. Viewing Miss Cothcourt and her parents' mésalliance as such, he filed all documents pertaining to the matter with the firm. I merely borrowed the file for Your Grace's confidential inspection. I shall, of course, have to have the letters back, but not immediately, if Your Grace would care to look them over."

"Yes, I would."

"And now, Your Grace, if I might retire? The journey from London was rather wearing."

"Certainement," Lynkellyn nodded, rising. He rang for Carter to show Gleason to a bedchamber. "But I will require your presence at Brackenwell Hall until I am married, Gleason."

"Yes. I certainly must be here to serve as legal witness."

After the solicitor left, Robin and Georges sat for some time in tense silence. Finally, Amberley rose to pace the room, halting to stare at the faded letters on the table. "Damnation! I cannot credit it!"

"Mon ami?" Georges looked up.

"How could anyone turn an infant, his own granddaughter, out into the streets? Mon Dieu! All she did to merit four-and-twenty years, a lifetime in hell, was to be born!" Robin's eyes smoldered.

"Surely it's not as bad as that, Robin?"

Amberley flung himself back into his chair. "Yes, it is, Georges! No home; no name; just cold and hunger and endless wandering. The loneliness corrodes you and your soul is ripped apart again and again until you draw away from humanity, lest it savage you. And if, a Dieu ne plaise, someone touches your heart, you had best flee before you are discovered, denounced, derided and cast out." He leaned back and closed his eyes. "You say Miss Cothcourt is your cousin. Why the devil haven't you tried to help her?"

"I was four years old when my Tante Elise eloped, Robin. My family never spoke of her and I had forgotten her very existence until I heard Gleason's report. I knew nothing about a child or, believe me, I would have sought her out and offered her a home."

"Forgive me!" Robin sat up to look at Georges, his eyes dark. "'Tis just that I shudder to think of la petite governess forced to live by her wits. An adventurer's life is not a fate I would wish on anyone."

"C'est rien." Georges smiled. "Have your intentions changed in the light of this new information, Robin?"

"Of course not. I shall still woo and win Miss Saddewythe for my bride. Miss Cothcourt would be a liability. Giles would be only too delighted if my wife's own family refused to receive her."

"Giles! 'Tis always Giles with you, Robin! What about your own pleasures? What about your bride's happiness?"

"I don't take your meaning, mon ami."

Georges shook his head in defeat. "No," he said, "I don't suppose you do!"

***

Lynkellyn haunted Saddewythe Manor for five days, endeavoring to fix his interest with Pamela. He took her for rides and drives, strolled with her in the manor gardens, and attended her at the harpsichord when she practiced in the afternoon.

As each day passed, however, she irritated him more and more with her helplessness and inanity. He longed for the day when they married so he could pursue his own interests and leave her, for the most part, to pursue hers.

Of Miss Cothcourt, Robin saw nothing. He was relieved, yet disappointed. In quiet moments alone, he dwelled upon the kiss he had stolen and his soul yearned for more. Ruthlessly quelling such importunities, he forced his mind to focus, instead, upon Pamela's spun-gold tresses and soft brown eyes.

Lady Saddewythe, always present as chaperone, smiled on Amberley's courtship, resolutely ignoring the wagging, warning tongues of friends. Her lord, however, was not so sanguine and when, on the twenty-fifth of March, Lynkellyn asked for a private audience, Saddewythe agreed, resolved to be rid of him.

In Saddewythe's study, Robin formally requested Pamela's hand in marriage. Saddewythe eyed him as if he were a dead worm. "And what makes you believe that I would have you in my family when your own grandfather was ashamed to have you in his?"

Robin's cheeks reddened. "I will not pretend that I don't take your meaning. I know my name is scandal-ridden and therefore I do not require a dowry. I am extremely wealthy and if your daughter becomes my duchess, she shall want for nothing. I am also prepared to bestow a generous marriage settlement upon your family. I must, however, request that Miss Saddewythe and I be married within three days. I have a special license in my pocket and I will make arrangements with Vicar Stanfield for the wedding ceremony immediately."

"Rushing your fences a bit, aren't you?" Saddewythe flushed angrily. "You are a scoundrel and a reprobate, sirrah, and no fit husband for any daughter of mine! You entered my house at my lady wife's insistence, but I'll be damned -- damned -- if I let such a beast into my family, sir!"

Robin stood frozen, consciously crushing his fury. "Good day to you, then, my lord," he said through gritted teeth. Bowing stiffly, he turned to leave.

"One thing more!" Saddewythe said. "You will grant me the favor of not calling on my family again."

Robin bowed a second time and stalked out of the room, his eyes mutinous and his lips compressed into a thin, hard line. He had just entered the foyer when Lady Saddewythe hailed him. "Oh, Your Grace! You are not leaving already? Did you have your mysterious conference with Nigel?" She threw him an arch look.

Robin schooled himself to smile. "Lord Saddewythe and I had a most enlightening conversation, my lady. I trust you will pardon my haste, but I have pressing business at the Hall."

"You'll call on us tomorrow, though!" Lady Saddewythe was instinctively aware that something had gone wrong regarding Amberley's proposal. "Pamela will be completely cast down if you do not."

"I am desolated to disappoint Miss Saddewythe, but my estates will require my attention for the next few days."

In a vexed voice Lady Saddewythe said, "Very well, Your Grace. Perhaps we shall see you in London. We leave bright and early Saturday morning, the twenty-eighth. If you want to visit Pamela before she is surrounded by suitors, you had better call on us within the next three days."

Aware that he had given her every reason to presume, Robin nevertheless found Lady Saddewythe's audacity infuriating. " I shall bear it in mind, my lady," he said through gritted teeth in a forced smile. "Good day!" His fists clenched, he bowed his farewell.

He stepped out onto the porch and descended the steps, shouting for his carriage. Fuming, he jerked his gloves onto his hands as a servant headed for the stables.

Miss Cothcourt came around a corner of the house, her boisterous flock in tow. While she scolded Philip for punching Terrence and bent to wipe a smudge from Honor's face, Amberley stared pensively at the scene. Making a sudden decision, he strode toward her.

Seeing his approach and disliking the fire in his eyes, Lucia hastily told Arabella to escort her younger siblings back to the schoolroom for tea. As the children disappeared into the house, he reached her side and nodded. "Miss Cothcourt."

"Your Grace." She curtsied stiffly, her eyes lowered.

Robin did not bandy words. "Miss Cothcourt, I want you to marry me."

The governess frowned, tucking an errant lock of hair under her cap. "Why must you amuse yourself at my expense, Your Grace?" she accused, her gaze flying up to meet his. She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her arm, halting her.

"'Tis no jest. I must marry by Saturday midnight or lose my grandfather's legacy. Saddewythe has not only denied me his daughter, but his house as well. You are my last hope."

"And what of the other young ladies in the area?"

"I'm not deemed worthy of them." Bitterness tinged his words.

"Ah, but as a lowly governess with no future, I should swoon with joy when you deign to offer me marriage. Very flattering, considering I rejected your last proposal."

Amberley grinned. "Still smarting from that, are you?"

"I have never accepted carte blanche, Your Grace, and never will. One needs at least a scrap of honor to salve one's soul when all else has been sacrificed to survival."

"A touching philosophy." Robin sneered. "But I've no time for such abstractions just now. Give your notice to the Saddewythes. We shall wed this evening."

"No, Your Grace. I cannot marry you. My past is questionable. A union with me would bring you no honor. Besides, I do not love you."

Robin grabbed her shoulders, spinning her to face him.

"One hundred thousand pounds a year is at stake here, ma douce. I know all about your past and love has absolutely nothing to do with this. You will be amply rewarded. A title, money, jewels, fine clothes, great estates, servants..."

"You know all about my past! But how?" Lucia paled.

"I had my solicitor look into your background to be sure you were suitable. My bride must come from aristocratic stock."

Cold, incredulous anger stole over her. "And is my blood properly blue? Am I noble enough for you?"

"I'd not be here, else. I've no time to waste on someone who is unsuitable. Wed me and you shall have all I've promised you, but we must produce a child from our union within a year. On our first anniversary, I will give you a separate maintenance and clear title to a fine country estate; Brackenwell Hall, if you like; but you must leave the child in my care. I will provide you a very generous lifetime annuity in return. What say you to my offer?"

Miss Cothcourt blushed. "I say you have run quite mad, Your Grace. I have made a home here and if you 'know all about my past', then you must know that I have forsaken it. I have no desire to sell myself back into plots and deception. Furthermore, if I should ever be blessed with a child, I certainly would not abandon my babe for money, as you are suggesting! The answer is 'no', Your Grace."

Amberley's hands tightened painfully on her shoulders and his stormy, steely grey eyes bored into hers. With a crack of laughter, he shoved her away. "You've made a home here? A home! That's rich! Slave quarters, belike!"

"I am content." Her chin lifted and her eyes challenged him.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you are. A bird with clipped wings is always content in its cage, n'est-ce pas? Ah, here is my carriage."

The vehicle rounded the corner and stopped. Amberley entered the coach, then leaned out the window, grinning wolfishly. "I bid you adieu, Miss Cothcourt. If you are ever feeling 'lonely', my first offer still stands."

To order or learn more!