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Chapter One

In her tall house on Grosvenor Square, Lady Georgina Evans followed Lady Winifred down the stairs and into the front hall.

"And after the trouble I had convincing your father to permit this visit, I expect you to take the matter seriously."

"Which matter is that?" Lady Winifred Westerly murmured, turning in a circle in the effort to coordinate reticule, shawl and parasol--all of which seemed determined to escape her.

Lady Evans shook her walking cane in the air. "Stop gyrating, girl. I mean the matter of your reputation in that house of scandal and iniquity. You're to keep Peebles handy at all times and stay away from Danleigh and his scapegrace father the duke, and whatever you do, you're not to get engaged to marry any of 'em."

This was a difficult directive to obey since, while Freddy and her cousin Richard, Lord Danleigh, were renewing a childhood acquaintance, Dickie had proposed marriage to her, and Freddy had accepted. However, Freddy made a point of never fighting a battle she couldn't win. If her guardians didn't know Dickie had proposed to her, they couldn't reject his suit.

This would have been quite all right except that just as Freddy returned from a visit to her cousins, scandal had erupted over Dickie's mother, a divorcee widowed after her second marriage. The former Duchess Darke had reinstalled herself at her first husband's estate, Darke's Reach. Dickie might have been an eligible parti despite his father's rakish reputation, but the latest antics of his mother made him totally unsuitable in the eyes of Freddy's father and godmother.

Freddy captured the shawl only to lose the reticule somewhere in its folds. "I'm sure you needn't worry, Godmama. I hardly ever get engaged to anybody."

Freddy had been invited to stay a week at Darke's Reach and celebrate the duke's birthday. Her guardians had been inclined to shield Freddy from scandal, but Lord Westerly never cared to have his daughter in his house, and Lady Evans claimed to need a respite before the season began. Since Freddy wisely displayed no unusual interest in the invitation, she had been allowed to go.

As it happened, however, Freddy had a particular reason for wishing to go. Her family would never approve Dickie as a husband under the present circumstances. Therefore, the duke must remarry his estranged wife. It was the quickest way to defuse the scandal that threatened Freddy's plans, and she intended to settle the matter before she left Darke's Reach.

"Don't be pert." The diminutive Lady Evans' face folded into a wrinkled scowl. "The Duke is a rake, and his son is hardly any better after knocking the sense out of young Inglestock at Jackson's. If you receive one more blow to your reputation, your father will give up trying to marry you and pack you off to the country."

Freddy sighed. "He is always promising, but then he is forever disappointing me." She took stock: reticule in the left hand, parasol in the right, and she thought she could get to the carriage before the shawl got underfoot again. "Goodbye, Godmama. I promise not to marry anybody before I come back."

"Give me a kiss." The old woman turned one withered cheek, and Freddy stooped to kiss her. "Go on, then, girl. I declare the only reason I'm letting you go is to have a little peace and quiet before the Season begins."

* * *

Monotonous afternoon rain blundered among the brass monkeys on every roofpeak, and streaked the lighted windows as Lady Winifred Westerly and her maid climbed the stairs of Darke's Reach. The black oak door stood ajar like an afterthought.

Peebles peered around the edge of the door into the dark hallway. "A strange way to run a household, that's what."

Freddy tilted her head. "Perhaps I should knock anyway."

"Allow me, my lady." Peebles gave the knocker a genteel tap.

"No one is going to hear that, Peebles. Give it a good rapping." Freddy applied herself vigorously to the knocker.

No one came. Rain dripped into the blonde curls over Freddy's left eye and reduced them to a bundle of frizzy ringlets. The crescent-shaped scar from a childhood accident marred the white skin above her left eye. "I should think I am about to catch a chill," Freddy said.

Her abigail sighed. "It's out of the ordinary way, that's what. But seeing as how the door's already open, they can hardly raise a ruction if you step inside to be out of the rain."

Freddy stepped into the close darkness of the house.

Peebles closed the door and said, "I'll find someone to announce you. Stop right there, my lady, and take off that cloak."

Freddy had been about to lower herself onto the brocaded seat of the chair. She tried to reverse her direction and landed instead on a slim, baroque table. The table cracked.

Freddy sniffed. "I should think sensible people would have a sturdy table for their guests."

Peebles rolled her eyes. "Likely, they didn't expect anybody to go sitting on it, that's what. Now you sit decently in the chair, while I find out what's what." Emma Peebles departed.

Freddy settled in the chair and wished for a mirror. Under the muffled beat of rain, a faint mutter like voices rose and fell in the distance.

"I shouldn't think this will do at all," Freddy said aloud. She draped her cloak over the arm of her chair and went in search of living people. The hallway jogged up a flight of three stairs. Freddy paused on the landing where a second corridor crossed the entry hall. Before her, the stairs jogged back down. Freddy followed the left-hand way.

The house appeared to have been thrown together by a dozen mad architects. At intervals, a step or two led up to a closed door. Every third or fourth short stairway fronted on blank plaster. The hallway dodged down four steps, up two. She soon realized that the voices in the distance were only the hiss and moan of wind scraping down chimneys and around corners.

She had begun to wonder if the house was deserted when she finally heard intelligible speech. Freddy halted in the shuddering candlelight and listened.

A man's voice in clipped accents said, "I thought I made it clear our association was at an end."

Listening with her head cocked, Freddy tried to follow the woman's reply. "I have too much to lose, your Grace. If you will not honor your promise you will regret it."

To the right, Freddy thought. Unfortunately, the hallway took a dogleg to the left. The voices faded. She turned round and followed them back.

The male voice sounded harassed. "Be reasonable, Lily. You have your house and a small fortune in jewelry. You could marry someone of your own class."

The woman said, "I expected to marry you. Isn't that what you meant when I broke with your son: why marry the whelp when I could have the wolf?"

The man sounded surprised. "I said that? Demmed colorful of me, but you're hardly a fool, Lily. You knew I'd never take a girl of your background to be my duchess."

Freddy thought the voices came from one of the blind doorwells in front of her. She mounted two steps and peeked behind a tapestry. Nothing but plaster. Freddy heard a feminine hiss of outrage. "I won't be treated like a common..."

"Cyprian?" the man suggested.

A door slammed, and hurried footsteps patted away in the delicate tattoo of ladies' heeled slippers.

Freddy followed the patter of running footsteps to the corner before they faded into the maze of corridors. Frustrated, Freddy retraced her steps. She was about to descend the stairs to the first level of the entry hall when she heard a third voice; this time the familiar one of her cousin Dickie.

The Marquis of Danleigh said, "Miss White, what the deuce are you doing here?"

Freddy paused behind the corner where she would be invisible from the main hall.

The woman's voice took on a caressing tone. "Richard, you used to call me Lily. Has so much changed since those days?"

"Yes," Dickie said with a chill in his voice.

The woman sighed like a mournful dove. "How did we come to this, Richard? I tried and tried to speak to you, but you never replied. Did you never get my letters?"

Dickie sounded weary. "It's no good, Lily. I knew why you stopped seeing me."

The woman's voice dropped its caressing tone. "Damn you, Danleigh, you'll pay for this."

"I say, that's not very original."

"How would you like me to introduce myself to that lady cousin you're so fond of these days?"

Dickie laughed. "You're right out there. Fred wouldn't turn a hair."

Freddy stepped out of hiding just as a slim figure with tumbling red hair disappeared through the front door and slammed it behind her.

Danleigh glanced down at the chair beside him and raised Freddy's dark blue cloak from the seat. "Fred?" He turned.

Freddy negotiated the stairs to the lower level.

A flush of pleasure warmed the diminutive marquis' transparent skin. "I say, Fred, I'm dashed glad to see you." He strode forward, caught her gloved hand and brought it to his lips.

Under a coat of jonquil yellow, he wore a waistcoat embroidered with iridescent peacock feathers on mustard. His spotted belcher neckerchief rendered the outfit almost blinding.

Freddy said, "What a handsome waistcoat. Where is everyone?"

Dickie looked around. "Wasn't there anyone to announce you? Butches came round and told me he heard a knock at the door, but when he got to the hallway, there was no one there. Only the table was broken, and a wet cloak lay on the chair. I knew that had to be you."

"The door was open when we arrived," Freddy said.

Dickie winced. "That reminds me: I had better send a carriage to drive Miss White back to London. I'll show you up to Mother in the solar. She's in a dither to meet you, and I'll join you when I get everything squared away with Coachman."

Up the little flight of stairs, right turn down the hall and up a long flight, Dickie knocked at a door set flush with the top step. "Mother, it's me. Cousin Fred is here."

The door opened. In a blaze of fire and candlelight, an elegant woman towered over Freddy like Hera on mount Olympus. "Cousin Winifred, I haven't seen you since you were just a little girl. Richard, aren't you going to stay and visit with your cousin?"

Dickie had already started down the stairs. "I've an errand to do. I'll be back in just a moment."

The lady snorted. "Don't keep us waiting, Richard. Winifred dear, why are you still on the step? Do come up." She caught Freddy's hand.

Freddy mounted the last two steps. "How do you do, Mrs. Picket."

Like a general assessing the troops, Freddy took stock of the materials with which she would be working. Seen face to face, the ex-duchess was little more than Freddy's height. She had a thick figure, elegant for its simplicity like a Grecian column. Her handsome face had once been beautiful, and her décolletage revealed an expanse of flesh that would have done a much younger woman proud. In all, Freddy was satisfied.

Mrs. Picket held Freddy's shoulders and smiled puckishly with one side of her face. "Richard has been utterly tiresome these past two weeks: 'Freddy' this and 'Lady Winifred' that and 'Fred' the other thing. Perhaps now you are here, we will be able to get some sense out of him. Come and sit down, won't you?"

Freddy regarded the cluttered room dubiously. She was notorious throughout the ton for her disastrous lack of grace, and the crowded solar was, for her, an obstacle course. China dogs and shepherdesses crouched malevolently on the tabletops as though challenging her to topple them. She turned to the side to edge past a crystal decanter set perilously near the edge of a three-legged table and lost her balance. She staggered, hopped, trod on her flounce and overturned an arrangement of dried flowers behind her.

"Whoops." Mrs. Picket caught her arm and eased her into the mahogany settle before the hearth. "Never mind about the flowers, dear. I'll have Earnestine gather them up in a moment."

Opposite the fireplace, a chill draft breathed through a pair of viewslits in the paneled wall which opened on the next room. A wide-beamed ceiling loomed low overhead, and the room smelled of smoke and lavender.

Footsteps sounded through the door at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Picket rose. "That will be Darke coming to meet you, dear. Hello, Ashley. Come in and greet my cousin Lady Winifred. You remember Winifred, don't you? Alice's daughter."

Freddy deduced at once that the man who strode into the room would be the sticking point in her campaign to remarry him to his ex-wife. Darke could have modeled for the heroes of a dozen popular novels. Broad shoulders filled his skin-tight riding coat. His sensual mouth lay in a wry grimace, and a shock of black hair dropped lank over his eyes. It was the face of a man who had drunk too much, gambled too often, taken too little care of himself. It was the face of a self-indulgent boy.

The duke gave his ex-wife a lazy look. "Butches says you wanted me."

Mrs. Picket raised her brows. "My dear, Butches must have been mistaken. I can't imagine anything I might want you for."

Freddy nodded to herself. It was as she had first suspected; Mrs. Picket had indeed returned to Darke's Reach with the intention to remarry her first husband. There was as yet no way of knowing if it would be a help or a hindrance to Freddy's plans. Mrs. Picket had not managed the duke well when she was married to him the first time, but at least Freddy would not be obliged to persuade Mrs. Picket to accept the duke's proposal when it came.

The duke turned to Freddy. "Alice's girl. I would have known it at once." He strode forward to take her hand. He turned it over and pressed his lips to her gloved palm.

Mrs. Picket pulled Freddy's hand from the duke's grasp. "Ashley, you're far too old to flirt with Cousin Winifred. She's here to see Richard."

Darke gazed intently at Freddy with light green eyes. "And what would a beautiful girl like this want with a whelp like Richard?"

Freddy gave a little start as she recalled the argument overheard in the corridor, and her agile mind leaped skittish as a colt to the incident that had sent her prowling the halls in the first place. "Oh dear, I ought to tell you I broke your table."

The duke blinked. "My what?"

"Your table. The one in the entry hall. I sat on it."

"What the deuce did you do that for?"

Freddy explained. "I didn't want to get the chair wet."

Darke turned to Mrs. Picket with an inquiring look, as if she could cast a light on her young cousin's remarks.

She smiled amiably, having, evidently, no interest in enlightening him.

The solar door opened, and Dickie breezed through smelling of rain and air. "There you are, Fred." He approached the settle with his eyes on Freddy and a smile lighting his delicate features.

Mrs. Picket turned to her son. "Hello Richard, dear. I see why you are so voluble in your praise of your cousin."

Dickie gave his mother an ironic smile. "No you don't, actually, and you'd better hope you never do." He rested his hand on the back of the settle over Freddy's head. "The Dashwoods are downstairs. Butches let them in. He didn't let Fred in, by the way. She let herself."

Mrs. Picket said, "You didn't leave them alone in the house did you? They'll be lost."

"Butches is bringing them up."

"Why didn't you bring them yourself, Richard?"

"I was on an errand. I only saw them in passing."

The butler, a lean-faced fellow breathing dignity at every step, pushed open the door and said, "Your grace, Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood have arrived." The placement of the door so close to the top of the stairs required the butler to step all the way into the room before the guests behind him could enter.

The couple had evidently been in the middle of an argument, and the lady was unwilling to let go of her complaint. "If it wasn't anything, then why won't you tell me who she was?"

Mr. Dashwood's gentle eyes and long, slightly silly face sat oddly atop his high collar and cravat. He squirmed as though his cravat galled his neck. His wife had a thin, peckish style about her and a birdlike way of turning her head and hands. She clutched her husband's elbow as though she feared he might gallop away from her.

Mr. Dashwood said, "Excuse us, your grace. How do you do, madam."

The duke raised one ebony brow. "Dashwood," he said.

Mrs. Picket rolled her eyes. "Ashley, don't be a stick. Cyril, dear, what a delight to see you. And such a beautiful wife. Mrs. Dashwood, let me look at you." She held out her hands to the young woman.

Mrs. Dashwood hesitated. An expression of prim distaste crossed her sharp features.

Mr. Dashwood's cheeks flushed darker, and he nudged his wife's elbow.

Reluctantly, Mrs. Dashwood let her hands be taken and her person admired.

Mrs. Picket shook her head slowly. "Mr. Dashwood is indeed fortunate, my dear. Cyril, I hope you know how fortunate you are."

Mr. Dashwood cleared his throat and bowed. "You are as beautiful as ever, madam. I, for one, am delighted to see you back from the wilds of the West Indies."

Mrs. Picket made a purring sound in her throat. "Do you hear that, Ashley? Cyril is delighted to see me in England. Cyril, dear, is it true you have only been married six months? I should have guessed longer. But I have forgotten to present our other guest. Lady Winifred Westerly is a cousin of mine, and of course, Cyril knows my son Richard. Richard dear, come and say hello to Mrs. Dashwood. Is she not charming?"

At Dickie's approach, Mrs. Dashwood bloomed from a discontented hen into an artful sparrow. She fluttered her lashes and arched her wrists. "How do you do, my lord. Do you stay at the Reach, or are you visiting as we are?"

Dickie poked at his spectacles and bowed over Mrs. Dashwood's hand. "Generally I stay in London, but the old home ground is more attractive than I remembered it, Mrs. Dashwood."

She cocked her head to one side and looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Mr. Dashwood has told me how close you were as boys. I feel quite a sister to you."

Freddy felt Mrs. Dashwood had fluttered her lashes quite enough for Dickie's benefit. She rose from her seat on the settle and, nudging Dickie aside, took Mrs. Dashwood's hand from his grasp and shook it vigorously. "How nice to meet you, Mrs. Dashwood."

Mrs. Picket extracted Mrs. Dashwood from Freddy's clutch and steered them toward chairs on opposite ends of the fireplace. "Richard, darling, sit down here and amuse Cousin Winifred won't you? Ashley, come and be civil to the guests. Tell me, Cyril, how your mother goes on."

Dickie, in route to the chair on Freddy's left, stopped short under his father's glare. He edged into Freddy's former place on the settle.

Darke took the contested seat, crossed his left knee over his right and leaned toward Freddy with a speculative squint. "I hope you don't mind, Lady Winnifred. I find the draft on the other side of the room gives me a chill."

Freddy tilted her head. "I don't suppose my minding would make any difference. After all, you must expect to become more sensitive to the cold as you age."

He rested his chin on his hand with his forefinger extended alongside his mouth. "You're a clever, little puss, aren't you, Cousin Winifred? I may call you by your Christian name, mayn't I? We are very nearly cousins."

Freddy was so startled to hear herself described as a clever, little anything that she was unable to think of any reply. The duke smiled with satisfaction at her confusion.

Mrs. Picket said to Mrs. Dashwood, "You must ask Richard to show you over the grounds while you are here. I dare say Cyril knows the park as well as Richard, but Richard knows such bloodcurdling stories about the place. I don't know where he gets them, the dreadful boy."

Mrs. Dashwood offered Dickie another bird-like tilt of her head. "Ghost stories, your lordship? Do tell one."

Mrs. Picket grimaced. "Before dinner? I should think not."

Freddy, who had been listening with only half an ear, sat up. "I forgot Peebles."

"Forgot what?" the duke said.

"Peebles. She went to find someone to announce us. I never saw her again."

The duke opened his mouth.

Dickie said, "Don't..."

He was too late. The duke asked, "What does your abigail have to do with ghost stories?"

Freddy blinked at him. "I don't know. What?"

Mrs. Picket covered a smile with her fingertips. "Don't harass the child, Ashley. She wants to change her gown before dinner. Naturally she thought of her maid."

Freddy looked down at the front of her gown. "Is it very noticeable?"

"That your hem is wet? No, dear, but the rain is dreadful. Naturally, you would want to change. I'll ring for Tubbins to show you to your room. Would you like a ball of string to keep you from getting lost?"

Freddy said gravely, "No thank you, but if you find Peebles, perhaps she would like one."

An aged footman led Freddy through wandering hallways and up uneven staircases to a queer, knobby room with a gable at one end and a nook in one corner that jogged out into the corridor. A paneled bed occupied half the floor. Peebles worked in grim silence over Freddy's trunks, and a ball of string sat conspicuously on the mantle.

"There you are," Freddy said. "I was afraid you were lost."

Peebles hung two frocks in the wardrobe. "I was not."

Freddy said. "I would like to wear the white muslin with the blue gauze overdress and the blue ribbons."

Peebles eyed her. "Who are we trying to impress, then, my lady?"

Freddy turned her back for the abigail to unfasten her gown. "I am only dressing for dinner."

"Not got your eye on the duke then?"

Freddy stared over her shoulder. "Whatever for? He's not a very agreeable man by all accounts."

Peebles sniffed. "Agreeable enough, I'd say, from the number of pretty chambermaids. Just you remember what Lady Evans said."

"About what?"

Peebles rolled her eyes. "About encouraging attentions, that's what. She won't hear of you marrying into this family what with rakes and divorcees and I don't know what-all."

Freddy tilted her head. "I should think she would hear of it somehow. It would be in all the papers wouldn't it?"

The abigail scowled darkly. "You know what I mean, my lady, and don't pretend you don't."

---

The duke didn't make himself agreeable at dinner. He drank, scowled and looked ravishment with a shock of hair lank over his forehead and his cravat rumpled out of its precise Trone d'amour.

When the footmen removed the last course, Mrs. Picket waved Freddy and Mrs. Dashwood from the room. "Come along, ladies. We may leave the gentlemen to deal with Ashley's sulks while we enjoy ourselves. Can you find your way to the solar, or will we tie ourselves together?"

They made an awkward little group about the fire in the solar. Mrs. Picket served orgeat, and the gentlemen's voices came up in a murmur through the viewslits overlooking the great hall. Verity Dashwood turned frequently toward the sound with a restless fluttering of her hands.

Mrs. Picket passed Freddy a glass of orgeat. "Goodness, that did bring back memories. Night after night with Ashley glowering across the table at me. Thank goodness Richard has never taken after his father's moods. Such a good-natured boy. Cyril was always very good-natured, too. Is he still, Mrs. Dashwood?"

Mrs. Dashwood had been staring at the viewslits overlooking the great hall. She turned back to the other ladies. Her discontented face grew sharper. "Mr. Dashwood and I go on very amiably together. Indeed, I couldn't be happier."

"How did you meet him, dear?"

Mrs. Dashwood replied in a low voice.

Mrs. Picket leaned forward. "What was that? I didn't quite hear you."

Mrs. Dashwood stared into her glass. "My papa arranged it."

Mrs. Picket shook her head. "My dear, think how lucky you are. You might have ended with someone like his grace. But you didn't meet him for the first time at the altar, surely. More orgeat, my dear?"

A fresh infusion of punch seemed to loosen Mrs. Dashwood's tongue. She said, "Papa brought him home and told me I was to think kindly of him."

Freddy said, "Did you?"

Mrs. Picket gave Freddy a laughing look. "Yes, tell us, Mrs. Dashwood dear. He is handsome. Broad shoulders, good legs. You did look at his legs."

Mrs. Dashwood stared. "I didn't."

Mrs. Picket rolled her eyes. "I forget what it was to be a well bred young lady. Of course you never glanced at his legs. You were too much interested in his dark eyes and his pale brow. I am right, Cousin Winifred. See her blush. But he must have courted you, Mrs. Dashwood. Even with an arranged match, it is usually considered polite, or do I mean politic, to court the lady."

Mrs. Dashwood glanced back toward the viewslits. "Well, he brought me flowers. Lots of flowers."

"A promising start. What else? Long walks? Tender looks? Sonnets to your smallest finger?"

Mrs. Dashwood finished her punch. "Not exactly."

Mrs. Picket refilled her glass. "No sonnets? How very bad of him. I should think his mother had raised him better."

Mrs. Dashwood's narrow face tightened. "I suppose gentlemen are not concerned with such things."

The ex-duchess waved a hand in airy dismissal. "There are any number of charming sonnets written by gentlemen of sensibility."

"Lord Byron," Freddy said helpfully.

Mrs. Picket gave her an approving glance. "An excellent example, my dear, and his scribblings are really rather good which is not, I am afraid, the rule." She turned back to Mrs. Dashwood. "Even if Mr. Dashwood is not a poet, he should be obliged to exert himself to some sort of romantical display. My second husband quite swept me off my feet."

Freddy cocked her head, but Mrs. Picket forestalled her by saying, "Not literally, my dear. Mr. Picket was rather a small man."

Freddy said, "I should think his grace was very romantic."

Mrs. Picket shuddered. "Yes dear, but not in a desirable way."

Mrs. Dashwood's flush said she'd had as much punch as was good for her. "A handsome duke seems like a fairy-tale romance to me."

Mrs. Picket sighed. "Just consider how gruesome fairy tales can be. Someone is always being killed and eaten by wolves, or turned into animals or stones or worse. What do you think, Cousin Winifred?"

Freddy's attention had wandered again at the mention of wolves, and she scarcely heard her hostess address her. She said, "It must have been the duke."

Mrs. Picket gave her a playful nudge on the arm. "La, listen to you. You were a thousand miles away. And thinking of his grace to boot. Never say you have fallen for Ashley's schoolboy charm."

Freddy puzzled at Mrs. Picket a moment, trying to comprehend her remarks. "It was the woman."

Mrs. Picket stared back. "Forgive me, dear, but this time I am at a loss to know what you mean."

"A woman with very red hair."

Mrs. Dashwood looked up.

"She quarreled with his grace," Freddy added.

Mrs. Picket looked vexed. "Here? How exasperating of him. Don't frown like that, Mrs. Dashwood, dear. You will give yourself lines."

Freddy added, "Only I didn't know at once who she quarreled with. And Dickie of course."

Mrs. Picket arched her brows. "Oh that woman. What in heaven's name was she doing here?"

Mrs. Dashwood moaned.

"What is it, dear?"

Mrs. Dashwood had turned white and swayed. Mrs. Picket left her seat by Freddy's side and put her arm around Mrs. Dashwood's shoulders.

Mrs. Dashwood clutched her serviette to her face. "She is his mistress."

Freddy tilted her head. "Whose mistress?"

Mrs. Dashwood's long nose flushed red at the tip. "Mr. Dashwood's."

Mrs. Picket said, "No, that really is too much. She can't be Cyril's mistress, too."

Mrs. Dashwood wiped her eyes with a flutter of her hand. "Her carriage passed ours on the road. Mr. Dashwood saw her, and his face..."

"His face, dear?"

Mrs. Dashwood worked her handkerchief between her hands. "There was no mistaking it: the way he looked at her. He couldn't look away, and afterward, he was so quiet and strange."

Mrs. Picket shook her head. "I can hardly believe it. Mrs. Dashwood, dear, are you sure you are not imagining the whole thing?"

Mrs. Dashwood glared. "I am not."

They heard footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Picket looked round at the doors. "There are the gentlemen already. They must have grown tired of Ashley's sulks. Dry your eyes, dear. You mustn't let them see you like this."

Mrs. Dashwood patted her eyes dry and refreshed herself with a swallow from her glass. When the gentlemen entered the room, they met three pairs of female eyes, two disapproving and one set, Freddy's, rather vague.

His grace set his bottle on a table beside Freddy and jerked his eyebrow at Mrs. Picket.

She said, "How prompt of you, Ashley. I didn't mean for you to drag the gentlemen away from their port. Indeed, we hadn't nearly finished our little chatter."

The duke seated himself in the chair beside Freddy, leaned toward her and said, "Is that right, Cousin Winifred?"

Mrs. Picket snorted. "Don't bother Winifred, Ashley dear."

Darke squinted at Mrs. Picket. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Mrs. Picket glared at him for a moment, then deliberately turned away. "Richard, dear, didn't you promise to tell us the story of the haunted forest?"

Dickie cocked an eyebrow. "Blightin' Humbolt's Wood?"

Mrs. Picket shuddered. "Yes, dear. Such a dreadful name."

Dickie grinned as he took a seat across from Freddy's. His spectacles flashed in the leaping firelight. "As some of you know, the little tract of oaks and maples outside our gates is the tag-end of Blightin' Humbolt's Wood. You came from London, Fred, so you must have driven through it the last mile or so."

Freddy nodded.

Dickie said, "Sir Samuel Humbolt built the Reach about two hundred years ago. He was a hunchback."

"That explains it," Freddy said.

Mrs. Picket arched her brows. "Explains what, dear?"

"All the odd corners and peculiar turns and so on."

Dickie glared repressively at her. "Now the story goes that Samuel Humbolt fell in love with a maid named Marion, but Marion, either a virtuous milkmaid or a tavern wench of dubious repute, despised Sir Humbolt and refused to have anything to do with him until one day Marion was attacked by a jealous lover. Humbolt rescued her, and she pledged her undying love to him just before she was run over by a runaway farm cart or struck down by a fever or something.

"The long and short of it is that a broken-hearted Humbolt lurched out into the forest and hung himself from a fearsome, old oak tree at the crossroads, and his restless spirit has been haunting the wood ever since."

Freddy said, "Have you seen it?"

"The tree? Of course; it's stood at that crossroads for four-hundred years."

Freddy said, "Not the tree, the ghost."

Dickie shook his head. "Actually there's a problem with the story. Humbolt's monument is prominently displayed in the crypt here at the Reach. If he'd been a suicide, he would have been buried at the crossroads, not sanctified ground. The times don't match up either. According to the gravestone, he lived to be a very old man, but the stories all have him dead shortly after the Reach was finished."

Freddy knitted her brow. "Then why do people think the woods are haunted?"

Darke squinted at her. "I should say it was to keep the poachers out."

Dickie's spectacles flashed. "Or the gamekeepers."

Mrs. Picket laughed softly. "Don't let them fool you, Cousin Winifred. When Richard was a boy, he kept his nurse up half the night with his nightmares about Samuel Humbolt coming out of the woods to eat him. Even Ashley won't go under the trees after dark."

The duke's voice had an edge under its suavity. "A low branch can be a hazard after dark. I once suffered an accident of that nature, and ever since, I have preferred to take the better part of valor."

Freddy said, "You don't believe in the ghost, your grace?"

He crossed one knee over the other. "Reason, Lady Winifred, and science leave little room for belief in spirits."

Dickie snorted. "I don't believe it by day, but I have to admit I don't go under the trees after dark. What about you, Dashwood?"

Mr. Dashwood gave his chin a careless jerk. "I grew up right on the eaves of the forest. I never thought there was anything remarkable about it."

Dickie said, "That won't wash, Dashwood. The trees march almost up to our front gate. The folly looks out over the oak tree at the crossroads, and I still find the place unnerving."

"He takes after his father," Mrs. Picket said. "Their romantic natures." She gave Mr. Dashwood a stern look, but he did not appear to notice.

Freddy said, "Where is the folly?"

Mrs. Picket replied. "You passed it when you arrived, dear. The mock castle at the gate house. The tower has a little room at the top. You must make Richard take you to see it in the morning."

This seemed to Freddy to be a very agreeable plan until Mrs. Dashwood sat up and fluttered her hands to her breast. "Oh, would we really see the tree where the hunchback hanged himself? How terrifying."

Freddy said, "I shouldn't think we would see anything terrifying. Unless you are afraid of rats. Are there rats in the folly, Dickie?"

Dickie shook his head. "No rats. Pigeons."

Mrs. Dashwood fluttered her lashes and cocked her head. "I'm sure I wouldn't be afraid of anything if you were there, Lord Danleigh."

Freddy felt this was the outside of enough, but before she could think of a way to squash Mrs. Dashwood's pretensions, Mrs. Picket said, "There you are. It will be a party. Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood will go with Richard and cousin Winnifred to see the folly in the morning. Tell me about your home, Mrs. Dashwood. Are you redecorating?"

This topic seemed to fascinate Mrs. Picket, and it even aroused Mrs. Dashwood's tepid interest, but it paralyzed Freddy with boredom and put Dickie and Mr. Dashwood to flight to the opposite side of the room where Freddy sat beside the duke. Unfortunately, Dickie at once inquired of Mr. Dashwood whether he had any good hunters this year, and the talk of horseflesh made Freddy yawn until she stood and announced her intention to go to bed.

She was halfway to her chamber when she heard the hard sound of Dickie's heels behind her. She stopped and waited for him to catch up.

"Fred," he said when he appeared from around a corner.

Freddy stood her ground. She supposed he would stop at a polite distance, but instead, seemed to pounce at the last minute, falling on her with one hard arm around her ribs and the other hand braced on the wall behind her head. His head dropped, and his mouth opened on hers in a hard, searching kiss that wrapped Freddy in the taste of port and Dickie. She breathed him in and let him support her weight which was a good thing because she was suddenly too dizzy to stand on her own feet.

She murmured her pleasure into his mouth, and her hands fisted in the back of his coat.

Dickie raised his head, breathing quickly. A light mist fogged his spectacles. "I think I can hold out a bit now, Fred. I've been half out of my head all evening wanting to have a minute with you alone."

"Really?" Freddy felt quite languorous but alert at the same time. "I should think Mrs. Dashwood was a very good distraction."

Dickie grinned wolfishly. "Not a patch on you, Fred." He had not released her. "Did you speak to your father?"

Freddy blushed. "You see, I am not accustomed to receive proposals from gentleman who are not desperate to repair their fortunes."

Dickie said impatiently, "Don't exaggerate, Fred. You're a diamond of the first water. Any man would be eager to have you."

Freddy cleared her throat and tugged at her curls. "Well, there was Lord Havepot who asked for my hand the morning after he lost his family seat to Lord Crisholm in a game at White's. He was older than the duke."

"Havepot admired you before that. I heard him refer to you as a demme fine filly on more than one occasion before he left for the continent."

"I heard he called me a 'fumblefooted filly.'"

Dickie yanked at his belcher neckerchief. "The point, Fred, is that I don't care a jot about your fortune or your family or your breeding."

"What's wrong with my breeding?"

"There's nothing wrong with your breeding. You're the one who implied there was something amiss with you."

"I meant that I am clumsy."

"We just won't have any rickety furniture or leave sharp objects lying about the house when we are married."

"Or knickknacks."

"Absolutely none. If anyone gives us a knickknack as a gift or some such, we'll put it away directly in a back room where you can't get at it."

"Assuming I married you."

Dickie pushed his spectacles up. "I confess, Fred, I thought you were a little fond of me at least. Perhaps I was flattering myself. I know I'm not the sort of fellow the debutantes swoon over."

Freddy tilted her head. "You're a marquis."

"Other than that, I mean."

"Anyway, I'm not a debutante."

"Meaning, I take it, that you are fond of me. So why won't you say you'll marry me?"

Freddy sighed. "I am not supposed to. Lady Evans has forbidden me to accept your offer."

"What?" Dickie pulled more furiously at his neckerchief. "What the bloody deuce did she do that for?"

Freddy said, "It's rather a problem, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Mrs. Picket."

"What about her, Fred?"

Freddy tilted her head. "Well, it's rather shocking for her to be here after the scandal when she divorced the duke. I'm afraid Lady Evans and my father are not very amused."

"What the deuce has it got to do with us?"

"I should think it is because of Mama, you see."

He rubbed his hand through his hair. "Sorry, I don't see. What's Lady Westerly got to do with it?"

Freddy said, "It's because she is so disreputable. Papa can't bear any breath of scandal, and Mrs. Picket and his grace are both rather scandalous, and there is that unfortunate business with Lord Inglestock."

Dickie slapped his forehead. "That dashed scandal. I swear if I had known I'd be making so much trouble for myself by boxing with Inglestock, I'd have done for the silly gudgeon. At least I'd have had the satisfaction."

Freddy said thoughtfully, "Not that Godmama minds you rattling Inglestock's brains. She doesn't like him above half, but she thinks you are notorious, and she says I have troubles enough without allying myself to someone whose reputation is as shaky as mine."

Dickie cursed. "So your father refused me."

Freddy ducked her head. "Not precisely."

"He didn't refuse?"

Freddy said, "It's only that I'm quite sure he would refuse if you were to ask him."

Dickie frowned. "Are you saying you didn't tell him we were engaged?"

Freddy nodded. "I'm sure he will be very agreeable once Mrs. Picket is her grace again."

"Her what again?"

Freddy said, "When she is a duchess again, everyone will forget she ever divorced the duke, and Papa and Lady Evans won't mind so much."

Dickie stared. "When she's a...your father won't...Fred, I love you, and I'm going to marry you, and hang your father if he doesn't like it. I'll hurdle that bit. Don't you want to marry me?"

It was Freddy's turn to stare. "Of course I want to marry you. That is why Mrs. Picket must remarry the duke."

He groaned. "Fred, she can't. He won't. Even if they did, they'd be miserable."

Freddy said placidly. "Mrs. Picket will manage your father much better this time. I should think you would be glad for their happiness."

Dickie made a strangled sound, caught her face in his hands and, evidently beside himself with frustration, kissed her thoroughly.

Freddy forgot herself for several moments, and it was Dickie who pulled away first, breathing heavily. He sounded a little strangled when he said, "All right, let me mull over the problem. I am, after all, a marquis, for pity's sake, the heir to a duchy. Eligible debutantes throw themselves at my feet every day."

Freddy looked dubious.

Her expression evidently so aggravated Dickie that he kissed her again with great feeling for several moments. Finally, he groaned. "I've got to get you back to your room or your maid will come looking."

Freddy could not answer, being too preoccupied with the trembling feeling in her hands and her knees.

When they reached the door, Dickie turned Freddy toward him and said softly, "This isn't the end of it. We're going to talk this out.

"If you like," Freddy said agreeably just before Emma Peebles opened the door of and pulled Freddy inside.

* * *

The Dashwoods were not having nearly so congenial a time as Freddy and her cousin. They had retired to Mrs. Dashwood's comfortable, little room where Mr. Dashwood paced before a cheerful fire, and his wife sulked on a chaise.

Dashwood said, "I am only saying it is distasteful to see my wife throwing herself at my childhood friend, the more so as Danleigh is not in the least interested."

His wife's narrow face flushed from brow to chin. "I don't know why you should snap at me for being courteous to your friends."

"Courteous. Courteous? You all but cut Mrs. Picket in her own home. Have you no notion how you humiliated me?"

Mrs. Dashwood sprang to her feet. "How can you say such things when you have brought me to the home of such a woman? She is a divorcee, practically a demi-mondess, and that Lady Westerly is a bedlamite. Oh, I shouldn't be astonished." She threw herself down on the curtained bed. "All men are vile. My mother told me what to expect." She shuddered and clenched her fists in the bedclothes.

Dashwood tore at his cravat in his temper. "What have you to complain of? Have I touched you? Have I failed to respect your wishes in the least way? And all I have asked is that you treat my friends with courtesy."

She rolled to her back and sat up. "While you cavort with some vile, red-haired creature?"

"Don't..." His face contorted with rage a moment before he took two quick steps toward her. His hand lashed across her face in a sharp blow. He thrust his face into hers and snarled, "Don't ever speak of her that way again. In fact..." he stepped back, breathing heavily as if he had just run a great distance. "In fact, don't ever speak of her at all. She's too good for you."

He straightened his cravat, his long calf's face settling into cold lines as he regained control of his temper. "I'll expect you to respect my friends, and when my mother arrives tomorrow, you will greet her as a daughter should. In return, you may rely on me, as always, never to touch you. In any way," he added as remorse and horror roiled in his stomach.

He licked his lips and left the room before he could give in to the temptation to turn and look at his wife. If he looked, he would see her tears, see her hand pressed to her reddened cheek. Then he would have to try to console her, and he couldn't bring himself to stoop so low.

* * *

Peebles had procured for Freddy a cup of warm milk which should have helped her to sleep soundly. Instead, Freddy dreamed restlessly of horses coming and going in the night. She blinked awake into the dark, wondering if she had really heard shod hooves on cobblestones. Throwing back the bedclothes, she bundled herself in a shawl, went to the window and pushed back the curtains.

Freddy's window in the west wing overlooked the inner courtyard, and Freddy could look directly across the yard to the stables. A lamp burned sulfurous yellow beside one of the wide, swinging doors. Hooves rapped on stone again. Freddy squinted into the dark and made out a moving shadow, black on black, an outline barely visible in the lamplight. Hooves rattled, and the shadow passed under the stone arch and into the courtyard. The horse's steps seemed to drag and stumble.

As she watched, a bent figure on horseback passed between Freddy and the lantern glow. The stable doors opened. A rider dismounted and led the weary horse inside. A moment later, the light disappeared, and the doors swung shut.

Freddy watched for a while, but there was no further movement from the stables, so she went back to bed, and slept lightly until Peebles arrived to tell her breakfast was nearly ready downstairs.

Freddy arrived in the morning room well after Dickie. Mrs. Picket and Mrs. Dashwood had already served themselves from the Chippendale sideboard. Dickie, prone to morning sulks, scowled at Freddy over his newspaper and sipped his tea.

Freddy drifted to the sideboard. "Chocolate," she remarked happily.

Mrs. Picket chuckled. "Richard nagged Mrs. Mumfort about it until she was ready to set about him with her ladle. How are you this morning, dear?"

Freddy brought a heavily laden plate and a cup of chocolate to the table and sat down beside Dickie. "Very well, thank you, but I dreamed of Samuel Humbolt all night."

"My dear, how dreadful. I should never have allowed Richard to tell that horrid story just before bed time."

"They weren't frightening dreams at all, only he was galloping about on a horse all night. It was very distracting. My room was extremely comfortable."

"Richard insisted you must have that room. He felt you would like it. The only drawback is that it can be hard to find."

"Fred never gets lost," Dickie mumbled.

"I never get lost," Freddy agreed.

Mr. Dashwood strode into the room in riding boots and coat. He nodded to his wife.

Mrs. Dashwood turned aside. Her discontented face was wan with dark circles under the eyes.

Mr. Dashwood cleared his throat and adjusted his cravat. He said to Dickie, "What, his grace not up yet? What say we go for a gallop, Danleigh? Rain's died to a drizzle. Won't get better than this today."

Dickie issued a malignant stare over the top of his teacup.

Mrs. Picket said, "Cyril Alistair Dashwood, have you forgotten Richard has promised to escort the ladies to see the folly this morning."

Mr. Dashwood drew his chin into his cravat like a chastened schoolboy.

Mrs. Picket said, "And poor Mrs. Dashwood is terrified of the ghost of Samuel Humbolt. She'll be so much more comfortable if you are with her."

Mr. Dashwood looked anxiously at Dickie in hope of a reprieve, but Dickie sank behind his newspaper and scowled into his cup.

Butches presented his dignified self in the doorway. "Madam, Mrs. Dashwood and Mr. Wilby have arrived. I have left them in the solar."

Mrs. Picket sprang up from her chair. "Merciful goodness, they must have risen at sunup. What is wrong, dear?"

Mrs. Dashwood had stiffened and gone quite pale.

"Well, dear, what is it? Butches, send for my vinaigrette. I believe Mrs. Dashwood is unwell."

Freddy patted her person and was able to produce from her reticule both a fan with one broken ivory and a smelling bottle. She passed the items to Mrs. Dashwood.

Mrs. Picket beamed. "Very clever of you, Winifred dear. Does that help, Mrs. Dashwood? Whatever is the matter?"

Freddy said, "I should think it had something to do with Mrs. Dashwood and Mr. Wilby."

Mrs. Picket's eyebrows went up. "Don't you get on with your mother-in-law, dear? If you take my advice, you will lose no time in getting on good terms with her. I have always regretted I didn't toad-eat the dowager duchess when I had the chance."

Mrs. Dashwood fluttered Freddy's broken fan before her face and said weakly, "I am...it is only that I am surprised she is received."

Mrs. Picket arched her brows. "She is received by me."

Mrs. Dashwood's discontented face grew sharper. "But I have heard..." She glanced up at her husband and dropped her eyes again.

Mrs. Picket waved her hand as though shooing flies. "Is that all your trouble? As to her acquaintance with Wilby, she is no less discrete than a dozen perfectly respectable ladies I could name. And for myself, I can't afford to cut her, for she was one of my dearest friends. We will simply go on as if Mr. Wilby is an acquaintance and nothing more."

Mrs. Dashwood seemed to be about to protest, but her husband, very red of face, caught her wrist. He pulled his chin out of its nest in his cravat and said firmly, "I am delighted you have invited my mother, Mrs. Picket. Her company will be the chief pleasure of our stay."

Mrs. Picket beamed at him. "Of course it will. Come along, Mrs. Dashwood dear, if you are feeling more the thing. Introductions all around, then you may have your outing."

* * *

Before the fire in the solar stood a sandy-haired gentleman and a woman composed of one roundness heaped upon another. Her lavender and grey-striped gown outlined round shoulders and a great, mounding bosom.

Mrs. Picket greeted the new arrivals with outstretched arms and a cry of delight. "Amy dear, how marvelous to see you again. And Mr. Wilby, you look so hearty."

The woman swept around the settle. "Mrs. Picket, bless me, you look so charming. And this is your Richard? Goodness, he's grown to be a handsome boy."

Dickie said, "How do you do, Mrs. Dashwood. Let me make you known to my cousin, Lady Winifred Westerly."

Mrs. Picket said, "Lady Winifred's mother is my cousin Alice Dalrymple. Lady Westerly now, of course."

Mrs. Dashwood squeezed Freddy's hand between both of hers. "Bless me, any friend of Laura's is a treat."

The sandy-haired gentleman shifted from foot to foot with a pleased grin stretched across his freckled face. He finally spied an opening and ducked past Mrs. Dashwood's pillowy bulk. He clasped Freddy's hand and stooped over it. His obeisance caused his watch fob to slip from its moorings and dangle down his chest. The gold chain jingled with a startling variety of coins, buttons, trinkets and a well-rubbed rabbit's foot half hidden in the breast of his coat. "Here now, Amy. Think you were jealous the way you keep the pretty girls to yourself. I'm Wilby. Pleased to meet you." He winked at Dickie and gave him a nudge of the elbow without releasing Freddy's hand. "Share alike, you young dog. Boy's got taste, eh Darke?" he remarked to the duke who leaned on the mantle watching the introductions. "Oops! What's this?" He reached up to Freddy's ear and came away with a thin medallion of gilded tin with a rampant lion stamped on the surface.

"You are a conjurer," Freddy said.

Wilby winked and pressed the trinket into her palm. "Don't know what you mean, Lady Winifred."

The older Mrs. Dashwood sighed. "Do mind your manners, Harold."

Mr. Wilby grimaced. "Ah now, there's no harm in a bit of magic to amuse the ladies. Lady Winifred, you keep that trinket, now."

Mrs. Picket hushed him. "Amy dear, this is so exciting. Look who I have brought to meet you. Come along, Mrs. Dashwood, and meet your mama-in-law."

Verity Dashwood hung back in the doorway and offered her mother-in-law a rigid little jerk of her head.

Mr. Dashwood flushed and dug his chin into his cravat. He took his wife by the elbow and propelled her forward. "Mother, my wife, Mrs. Verity Dashwood."

Mrs. Dashwood beamed at her daughter-in-law. "Bless me, I've been all of a twitter to meet you since Cyril wrote me he was getting married. Somehow, it never seemed like the right time."

Verity Dashwood avoided looking directly at her mother-in-law. "I am sure I perfectly understand," she murmured primly.

Mrs. Dashwood sighed. "Set folks on their ears if I had gone to the wedding, I suppose."

Mr. Dashwood raised his chin. "We would have been honored."

His mother rolled her eyes. "You're a good boy, Cyril, but your wife agrees with me. Bless my dear friend Mrs. Picket for giving me this chance to meet my new daughter." A shadow crossed her features. A moment later, she dispersed it with a beaming smile and held out her hand for Mr. Wilby. "Harold, come here and meet my daughter-in-law, and don't pull anything out of her ears."

Mrs. Dashwood drew her daughter-in-law to the settle and quizzed the young bride about her wedding. "And what flowers did you have? Bless me, did they match your gown? And what did your mama wear?"

Dickie hitched Freddy's arm firmly through his and drew her aside. "It's been one interruption after another ever since you arrived. Never a moment's peace."

A shadow fell over them, and a velvet voice said, "What, Richard, hoarding my birthday guests?"

Freddy looked up into Darke's emerald eyes.

"My dear Lady Winifred, you must not allow my son to drag you off into corners and hide you from the rest of us who are starving for your company."

Freddy said, "I shouldn't think a person could actually starve for company, could they? For food, of course, but that's different isn't it?"

Dickie said with an edge of annoyance, "He's exaggerating."

The duke regarded his son. "Really, Danleigh, is that any way to speak to a lady? Better turn her over to someone who knows how to deal with females."

From across the room, Mrs. Picket raised her voice. "Ashley, stop hovering over Cousin Winifred. You will give her the headache."

Darke scowled. "And what makes you think that Lady Winifred does not care for my company?"

Freddy said, "Actually, I am not given to headaches."

The duke acknowledged her with a glance. "There. You see, Mrs. Picket, I am not giving her a headache."

"That is not exactly what I meant," Freddy murmured to Dickie.

Mrs. Picket said, "That is not what she meant, Ashley. Come here and be civil to Mr. Dashwood and Mr. Wilby."

The butler opened the door with a look of alarm on his features. "My lord, there's a person to see you. He would not wait."

The butler was shouldered aside by a sinister black figure who fell upon the room like the curtain of night. He raised one black-gloved hand and fixed the astonished Mr. Wilby with a stabbing finger. "You," the figure cried in a sepulchral voice, "are under arrest for the most heinous and hideous of crimes. Murder."

---

Chapter Three

Dickie stared. "I say, Fred, it's that hangman fellow. You know. What do they call him?"

Freddy frowned. "What does who call him?"

"You know, everybody. Everyone who meets him on the way to the gallows."

"Oh them. The Executioner of Bow Street. How do you do, Mr. Street."

The Executioner of Bow Street blanched. The pointing finger wilted as the Executioner looked around him.

Dickie said, "Say, Fred, don't the runners usually wear red vests?"

Freddy replied thoughtfully, "I should think it would spoil the effect. Red is such a cheerful color."

The Bow Street runner finally located Freddy and Dickie half-hidden behind a painted screen. His black brows beetled across his hooked nose like anxious spiders. "No, it's not fair. What are you doing here?"

Freddy and Dickie exchanged looks. Dickie said, "I live here."

"I'm only visiting," Freddy assured the runner. She turned to Mr. Wilby. "Who have you murdered?"

Mr. Wilby gripped the rabbit foot on his watch chain and said, "Here now, I don't think I have murdered anyone. Amy, have I murdered anyone?"

The elder Mrs. Dashwood shook her head. "Bless me, you never did."

The Executioner sounded petulant. "You did so. I have witnesses."

Freddy picked at the crescent-shaped scar over her left eye--a habit she had when she was thinking. "Mr. Executioner, who was it exactly you came to arrest?"

The Executioner of Bow Street took a shaky breath. He swirled his cape and thrust his long finger at the ceiling. "The merciless malefactor who has been caught in the cruel commission of crime is none other than the dastardly duke of Darke himself." The runner stabbed his finger once more at Mr. Wilby.

Freddy said, "I thought so."

The duke cleared his throat.

The Executioner turned. "What? What is the matter now?"

The duke bowed. "His grace the Duke of Darke at your service."

The runner's nostrils flared.

"I'm afraid so," Dickie said.

Freddy nodded. "That does make more sense."

The duke squinted at her. "Thank you my dear."

Mrs. Picket said, "Ashley, that is not what Cousin Winifred meant."

Freddy tilted her head to the side in concentration. "Isn't it?"

Dickie said, "No, Fred, it isn't."

The Executioner of Bow Street gave a peevish bounce. "No one seems to realize that I am in the middle of an arrest."

Dickie said, "Hadn't you ought to tell us what your evidence is?"

The Executioner pouted. "I don't have to."

Freddy cleared her throat. "I should think you are obliged to have evidence of some sort."

Dickie nodded. "I say, Fred. That does seem fair."

Darke squinted. "I hope it was at least someone I disliked."

Mrs. Picket said, "Be quiet, Ashley dear. This is no time to be witty."

The Executioner glared at Freddy. "Last night, screams of terror and agony arose from a certain house in Kensington. The witness to this callous crime then saw a tall man emerge from the front door carrying the limp form of a woman over his shoulder. He climbed into his carriage with the body and drove away. The carriage, your grace, bore your own crest upon the door."

The duke cursed.

"Ashley," Mrs. Picket said sharply.

Freddy rubbed hard at her scar. "Who was the victim?"

The runner's deep-set eyes glittered with enthusiasm. "The owner of the house, brutally slashed, her innocent blood splashed upon the walls to tell a bloody tale of crime. Miss Lily White is dead."

Dickie cried, "Good Gad."

His father said something less suitable to the drawing room.

The runner swirled his cloak. "So you are not unfamiliar with the name."

Dickie tightened his lips. "I should say not."

Freddy leaned around the duke's back to say, "She was his grace's fancy piece until quite recently."

Dickie, the duke and the Executioner of Bow Street all glared at her.

Mrs. Picket came and drew Freddy toward the fireplace. Freddy turned round and said, "But his grace was here last night. I shouldn't think he had time to go to London and back before morning."

"Zephyr," Dickie said under his breath.

Freddy tilted her head. "What?"

Dickie cleared his throat. "Nothing. Frog in my throat. Sorry."

The Executioner of Bow Street scowled. "Black Angel, coursing like the wind of vengeance, covered that very road in a mere two hours."

"That's his horse," Freddy explained to Mrs. Picket. "Although I don't suppose she could actually course like a wind for two hours. Likely she trotted a good bit."

Dickie, his grace and the Executioner of Bow Street fixed her with slit-eyed stares. The duke said, "Perhaps for the sake of the ladies, we should remove this discussion to the study."

Dickie nodded and moved as if to follow the other gentlemen.

The duke stopped him. "Where do you think you are going, sprout?"

Dickie poked at his spectacles. "The Executioner and I are old friends. I expect I can help you to deal with him--or at least to translate."

The duke snorted. "Suit yourself." He waved the Executioner of Bow Street out of the room ahead of them.

Mrs. Picket sat down on the settle. "What a dreadful thing to happen in the middle of my house party. What are we to do now?"

Freddy had been thinking hard. The unexpected arrival of the Executioner of Bow Street had abruptly doubled, if not tripled the barriers mounting between herself and her plans to marry Dickie. Action must be taken at once. "I should think the first thing would be to see that his grace has an alibi. Can anyone vouch for his movements during the night?"

Mrs. Picket raised her eyebrows. "Not I."

Verity Dashwood gave a little cry of alarm.

Mrs. Picket stared. "Now dear, don't tell me you can provide his grace an alibi, for I know he has not yet sunk so low as to take an interest in brides."

Mr. Dashwood laid his hand on his wife's shoulder, but she recoiled and stared at him, her white face blotched with red.

Mr. Wilby methodically stroked his rabbit foot. "Dashed unfortunate thing. Never would have imagined it of Darke."

Freddy said, "I don't suppose his grace will be arrested on the spot. The Executioner of Bow Street must first prove he was in London last night."

Verity Dashwood said, "Well, I think it's shocking to have runners breaking in to arrest people. Please let us go home, Mr. Dashwood. We will be cut by everyone if news of this should get out."

Freddy eyed her. "I shouldn't think you would be allowed to leave until the Executioner of Bow Street has finished questioning everyone, but I shouldn't worry too much if I were you. My mother keeps all sort of dreadful company, and she is received everywhere. Well, not Almack's, but everywhere else."

Mrs. Picket nodded. "Dreadful, stuffy place, Almacks. I will have to get vouchers for my stepdaughters to attend this season."

Amy Dashwood beamed. "Bless me, Laura, never say you've daughters coming out. How I should have loved to bring out my Agnes." Her smile faltered, but she mustered it back. "Are they pretty girls? How many?"

"Two of them. Both quite well in their way. Handsome enough, I mean, but two more tedious girls I have never met. Fortunately, Mr. Picket left them very well off so I can hope to get them settled this season and off my hands."

Mr. Wilby grimaced. "Women's talk coming. What say, Dashwood? Port in the library? Cigars in the main hall?"

Mr. Dashwood hesitated. "Ought we to leave the women alone at a time like this?"

"What, you mean this murder nonsense? Nothing in it. Stands to reason. That runner fellow didn't even know who's supposed to have murdered the poor lass. Thought I did it."

Mrs. Picket rolled her eyes. "Go away, gentlemen. We will send for you if we discover anything for which you might be useful."

Mr. Wilby gave Amy Dashwood's cheek a pinch. "There we are, Dashwood, they don't want us anyhow."

Mr. Dashwood laid a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Stay here and become acquainted with my mother."

Freddy, who missed very little of consequence despite her vague manner, noted once again the almost fearful way Verity Dashwood flinched from her husband's touch.

The gentlemen left. Amy Dashwood leaned forward in her chair. "Bless me child, is something wrong between you and Cyril?"

Verity's face changed color several times. After a long moment, she seemed to take hold of herself. "I don't think it is the sort of thing a lady should discuss."

Mrs. Picket sniffed. "Goodness, dear. Where did you get such a notion?"

Freddy said, "My mother speaks quite freely about her gentleman friends."

Mrs. Picket patted Freddy's hand. "Yes, dear, but Alice does it to be shocking. The rest of us do it because gentlemen are such a handful to manage that we are obliged to pool our resources. You see, Amy dear, Verity is concerned that Cyril may be having an affair."

Verity cast her eyes down at her lap.

"With his grace's mistress," Freddy added.

Mrs. Picket said, "Well, I find that part difficult to credit. She simply can't have been everybody's mistress no matter how enterprising she might have been."

Verity hissed, "He is. He admitted it to me." She put her fingertips to her cheek.

Amy Dashwood shook her head solemnly. "Bless me, that is dreadful. And you so newly married, too. Is everything...all right between you and Cyril? Perhaps you will find he is less inclined to stray if you make an effort to encourage his affections."

Verity sniffed. "I do nothing but encourage him. The more I try to get him to notice me, the more time he spends in London.'

The two older ladies exchanged glances.

Mrs. Dashwood said, "Bless me, what I meant was that you might...that you could...well dear, did your mama speak to you about the, er, duties of a wife?"

Verity Dashwood nodded and ticked them off on her fingers. "To supervise the household servants, to keep the accounts, to be thrifty but not nipcheese, to entertain guests and be a credit to my husband, to keep up my looks..."

Mrs. Dashwood cleared her throat. "Bless me, but your mama was very thorough. What I meant was the more private duties of a wife."

Verity frowned. "The linens?"

Freddy exhaled an exasperated sigh. "We are talking about intimacy with your husband. Throwing the leg over. Lovemaking."

Verity turned very white, very red and very white again.

Even Mrs. Picket looked shocked. "My dear, wherever did you hear such language?"

"From Mama, of course."

Mrs. Picket shook her head. "I will have a few sharp words to exchange with Alice next time I see her. That is not at all a suitable topic for an unmarried girl. And such terms."

Freddy tilted her head. "You were discussing it in front of me."

Mrs. Picket winced. "That is not the same at all. We were referring obliquely to the subject among family and close friends."

Verity Dashwood said firmly, "A lady should not encourage those attentions from her husband."

Freddy nodded. "That is what Mama says. Reserve them for your lovers."

"Winifred dear."

Amy Dashwood said gently, "Sometimes it is very helpful to express a certain eagerness for your husband's embrace. Gentlemen, after all, do have strong feelings."

Verity Dashwood shuddered. "A gentleman would restrain himself if he cares for his wife at all."

Mrs. Picket shook her head. "I begin to see your difficulty, my dear."

At that moment, Dickie strode into the room and said, "Mother, do you know what he has done now?"

Mrs. Picket raised her eyebrow. "Something calculated to annoy me, I feel sure."

"He's admitted to that runner that he has no alibi for last night.