AVAILABLE FILE FORMATS: HTML for the standard computer, PDF for Adobe Reader, MS Reader for the PC and Pocket PC, Mobipocket for Palm Pilot

Chapter One

"Let me go!" Martha demanded.

She fought to detach the man's hold on her arm, dimly registering scarred boots and coarse material, dirt streaked and smelling of the sea. Her captor ignored her struggles, hauling her toward the rear doorway of the shop. Wielding his huge stomach like a lance, he shoved her maid into the shelf-covered wall. Baskets tilted, spilling ribbons. One straw container fell atop Daisy, obscuring her panicked face.

Martha lost her footing amidst slippery ribbons and tripped over the maid's extended leg. She thought her heart would stop beating when the hand clenched around her arm didn't shift.

"My lady," Daisy howled.

His cruel fingers dug tighter, twisting and tearing her sleeve at the seam. She squirmed, hitting at the man with her reticule, mostly missing and flailing herself instead. The panic of an unarmed squire facing a rogue dragon assailed her. Would her luck hold against this unkempt fiend? Or would he beat her--stab her?

In an instant, they were in the doorway to the back room, tangling with a curtain meant to shield the eye from the littered storeroom. He pulled at the cotton with a curse. The nails holding the material let go, bouncing off Martha, and the curtain draped around her shoulders. Sneezing, she tried to dive to the floor. Her attacker hauled her, curtain and all, into the room.

Dear Lord. Like the flash of deathbed memories, the scene branded into her mind. Two skirmishing groups made a melee of the shop. The first cadre was roughly dressed men, unshaven and evil. For some reason, they wore skirts. The second, a contingent of King's archers, wore the polished Badge of Arthur on their chests. Men were everywhere. Shields, cudgels, swords, bolts of cloth and scissors waved.

Frantic women darted among the battling males. Some escaped to the street; others shrank back from the warriors. Through the broken window, Martha could see the fight continuing on the street.

The lout slid his other hand around her neck and pulled her against his chest. He assaulted her senses. Pads of rolling, shifting fat enveloped her like a grossly overstuffed mattress. She was drowning in a pillow, suffocated by a stench of sweat, rotting fish, and something vile that gagged her even as his arm shifted to throttle her. A raspy curse growled in her ear. Her captor was nothing better than a rabid dog--or a dragon. She redoubled her escape efforts, sinking her elbows and heels into fat.

The cause of the dragon's curses appeared in the doorway.

Tall, dressed not in archer's green but in Bond Street's finest midnight Bath cloth, a man stalked through the now curtainless doorway. He held a sword, its honed tip above Martha's head, pointed at the ruffian. Black hair, humorless steel gray eyes, and dark coat proclaimed him Lucifer, as did the scent of battle emanating from his athletic figure. Martha, beleaguered as she was, decided that rather than the devil, he had better be the archangel Michael come to save her. Or St. George.

"Let her go," the man said. "Hiding behind a skirt won't save you, Marshall."

"Ain't gonna," the ruffian growled and swore again. "I'm goin' out the back and ye best not folla' me, not if ye wants this mort back in one piece." He jerked Martha. She clawed at the scaly arm where it pressed against her neck and dragged fingernails across the back of his filthy hand. How dare the dragon speak so to her avenger?

He roared and shook her like a rag. That broke the stalemate between the smelly beast and the dark angel. Martha caught a flash of blinding white from his perfectly tied cravat as the man leaped forward. The sword sang over her head and the arm imprisoning her fell away.

She dropped to her knees, gasping, barely aware that the dragon behind her had also fallen. Her hair lost its few remaining pins and cascaded in a dark tangle around her shoulders. Her new cottage bonnet was gone. Shocked, she huddled on the floor.

She had come to rest at the feet of the divine avenger. He knelt and laid the sword at his side. The shining tip dripped red and she flinched at the sight. Then relief at deliverance pushed away the scruples that would normally make bloodshed untenable. The angel won, she exulted as the sounds of battle diminished in the front room. He killed that nasty dragon and saved me, just as a proper hero should. She sighed approval. His attire no longer seemed devilish.

Pinching her chin in his fingers, the celestial being's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "No, my dear," he said, "don't think about Marshall. It is sufficient to know he is no longer a threat. Did he harm you? Are you injured?"

The dragon? She did not care about the dragon; the heavenly being held her attention. "No, not really," she responded. "There wasn't time before you came." No longer the cold of freezing rain, the seraph's eyes had the sheen of a lake glinting in the summer sun. "Thank Avalon you came. You arrived just when you should. Thank you."

He glanced over her shoulder into the shop, where the sounds of battle had faded into the booted cadence indicative of a military victory. Reminded she should still be on the edge of panic, Martha asked, "What is happening? Where did the dragons come from?"

"Not dragons," the angel responded, turning back to her, "smugglers; a repellant group of them. This one," he gesticulated, "was the look-out, Marshall. No kitten, don't peek. Marshall is not worthy of attention." He controlled her swiveling head, burying his hands in her hair. "We started out at the docks and ended up here. The smugglers are wilier than thought and slipped through the net set to capture them. If I had realized they would invade the shop, I would have..." His lips quirked. "Well, hindsight is clearer than the falcon's eye. Gaol will be full tonight."

"Is there any pretty silk?" she asked before she thought.

"Silk? You don't want to purchase smuggled goods," he said, cocking his head. "I imagine the archers would frown on that."

"But..." she trailed off. She wanted to say, "Distributing lengths of silk would quiet complaints about this dreadful happening," but it was not her concern.

While they spoke, the celestial being smoothed her hair into a respectable braid. He reached the curling ends and tied the three rich hanks into a neat knot. His handling her hair almost dissolved Martha. Who would have thought angels could be fierce one moment, slaying vile dragons or smugglers, and tender the next, playing maid. Her savior's touch did more to unsettle than his words soothed. It tingled. She instinctively shivered.

Lord Brinston misunderstood the chit's trembling, taking it for a sign of residual fear. Thinking what form that emotion would take in most of the ladies of his acquaintance, he knew his duty: placate the girl and get her to some smelling salts as soon as possible. Above all, he had to keep from laughing. Did she really think she could buy smuggled silk with a contingent of archers watching? To come up with that with Marshall on the floor behind her...Either she's nicked in the nob or she's as fey as Coletta.

Keeping his touch gentle, Brinston brushed wisps of dark hair from the girl's face. By Arthur, it was the softest he'd ever touched. Curls twined around his fingers like ivy up a signpost. Enough, he ordered his fingers to behave. Dalliance in the face of death--what was he thinking of? He'd better divert the chit from the horror of the past minutes or she'd start screeching. Nothing was worse than screeching women.

She stared up at him like a lamb missing its mother.

Merlin, he recognized this one now. Her brother had shown him a miniature; there could be no mistake. Dunsmore, that would be her last name. He couldn't recall what Hurst called her--Margaret? Agatha? She'd been a babe when he met Hurst at Eton, so she'd be about seventeen now--a schoolgirl.

Saving the chit from the smuggler became personal; his friend's sister needed him. That puts paid to my interrogating the spy immediately. Damn the lieutenant for his ineptitude--puts me in charge of a girl I have no business being near. If he fumbles one more time, I'll see he commands a unit in the hinterlands. I'll have to escort this kitten back to her school. Can't just leave her to get where she belongs.

And no one to chaperone. Wouldn't the gossips love to hear about this. They'd have me seducing her in a pool of Marshall's blood.

"Daisy," she murmured and leaned into the warmth of his chest. "She was pushed down." With the slightest pause, Brinston lowered his head and brushed his lips across her forehead, though he could not have said why he did such a shocking thing.

Praise the innocence of Perceval, hope she doesn't fall apart on me now.

"A moment, my dear. I will check on your Daisy," he whispered. Positioning the girl at the door to the alley, facing out, he motioned an archer to watch her and went out front to talk to the subaltern. Lieutenant Collins bumbled the entire operation. No wonder Du Lac wanted me here. Can't do the easiest pickup without me to hold their hands. To let them get into town, near the ladies...Now, I'm saddled with the balmy chit. Silk. She wants silk. He shook his head at his half-hearted grumbling and surveyed the scene.

The front of the shop was a shambles with three men staring sightlessly at the ceiling. On the street, archers still sorted out the malefactors. One man disdainfully stripped skirts off smugglers, tossing them into a pile in the gutter. Not a citizen in sight, not even the shop owner. Only to be expected. Stores might as well close for the day. How are we going to smooth this over? The mayor's going to want someone's head. Making a quick survey for the lost Daisy, he rushed through the business of cleaning up. He ordered the smugglers off to gaol, heavily guarded. The pile of skirts could be left. Someone would spirit it away.

"Collins," he barked, "Wake up, man. Fetch the bolts of silk the smugglers hid in that cave and offer them to the shop owner. He can sell the goods cheap--that will satisfy his complaints, and maybe some of the others that are going to fly over this mess. I'll take responsibility."

He had to get back to stave off hysterics.

Brinston made it back through the doorway in record time. By all that was holy, she was twisting her head, looking around like the curious kitten he had called her. If she wasn't careful, she would get an eyeful of Marshall's body--with a distinctly untidy slash in the forehead. Females could be the devil. Couldn't look at a corpse with composure. They screamed and carried on, even when death was unavoidable, like now. If this one took a good look at Marshall...

The archer scurried away at his approach. The man obviously didn't know what to do with the Dunsmore chit. Neither did he, not really. Clean her up and get her back to her school; let someone there comfort her.

No reasonable topic innocuous enough to divert hysterics popped into his head. "Ramsgate is pleasant," he said, wincing at the confounded drivel, but unable to stop. "I became familiar with the town when the Navy began embarking for Persia and the search for the Ark." Belatedly, he thought he could have introduced the weather as a conversational topic.

He dug in his pocket and produced a handkerchief to wipe her face. When one recalcitrant spot of grime defeated Brinston, he whispered, "With your permission." Then he licked the cloth and wiped again at the dirt. It came off skin as smooth as the bowl of the grail.

No, she wasn't his sister, not with those chocolate eyes. Or that soft as soap hair...She wasn't even whimpering. Just stared at him like he was Excalibur.

"About the silk," she said softly. "I don't want it, but it would placate the shopkeeper."

Alarmed at the tenderness he felt, Brinston nodded and lifted her by the elbows, careful to keep the plucky girl facing the alley so she didn't see the fallen smuggler. Saving her from Marshall had been a duty not to be shirked; now he could legitimately abandon her by finding a respectable lady to return her whence she belonged. Collins would need him to handle the mayor. Instead, he intended to see this valiant soul home.

Valiant soul? Gads, what's wrong with me? Going poetic. There isn't anything special about her; she's only Hurst's sister. Just a child. But she thought about the damage to the shop--what it would mean to the owner.

She didn't come to his chin, the feisty little kitten. Brinston smoothed his fingers over the reddened skin of her arm as if to wipe away the rising bruise. Yes, she is valiant; look how she struggles to contain herself. Even my sister would be in hysterics after being hauled around by Marshall. This chit, young as she is, has the presence of a queen. She is shaken, but not stirred out of her composure. Tugging at the curtain that clung to her back, he untangled the young lady.

"I think I should accompany you home, my dear," he rumbled. "Your Daisy has already disappeared. Most of the females had escaped when I came." He noted the red streaking her back. It would take magic to get all that blood off her. At least she hadn't noticed it.

"Keep your eyes closed, kitten," he ordered. The Dunsmore girl's eyes fluttered closed, but darted back and forth under the lids is if they would open any moment. Mumbling a few indistinct words, he made a curious gesture along her shoulder blades. A myriad of tiny lights sparked along her back. With each twinkle, flecks of blood and gore fell from the dress to the floor. Before she could blink, all of the blood had slid off the girl.

"Now, open your eyes," he commanded. Her lids flipped up and he chuckled at her docility. Thank Merlin, that didn't faze her. Better the smell of lilac than blood.

A breeze blew in their faces from the open door. Led by the hand, Martha Dunsmore picked her way through the filthy alley. Broken crates and barrels littered the way. Ale fumes lingered. A solitary wagon sat with a broken wheel, its driver nowhere in sight. "I wonder, are you always so obedient?" her angel asked. A smile reverberated through his words. "From the way you fought Marshall, I thought you had spirit."

Overcome by his proximity, Martha stared at her savior, thoughts twinkling in her head. He handled everything in such a masterful manner...and Avalon, he had kissed her forehead.

His eyes flickered like lightning. Just like lightning. Her skin sizzled.

"A moment," he murmured and deftly tucked the torn sleeve of her gown up. "Now you pass muster," he promised, and took her into the street, leaving behind the stale aroma of dust and ale. "Where do you live?"

She gave him the address of Miss Kilborn's school. Then Martha had to leap to keep up with the angel's long stride as he moved down the street. He didn't look in shop windows or gaze at the passers by, but swung his arms and legs with military precision in a ground-eating march.

My, he doesn't like to amble, does he, Martha thought. He walks faster than my brother. It is those long legs. Men forget that ladies cannot go apace. She skipped, jumped, and half-ran to keep up. With the brisk exercise, the shocking events in the shop were fading. She found her tongue.

"I can't believe what happened. I was looking for a present for Aunt Pemberton--there was a lovely pink Norwich shawl. And purple gloves. But those men barged in. They broke the door--and the window--one woman was pushed out the window. Her boots caught on the frame." Her angel put out a hand to check her while a dray lumbered over the cobblestone, then took her arm and crossed the street. "They threw bolts of material at each other."

She stumbled over the curb, missing the step because her gaze focused on her avenger. He glanced at her, a flickering of steely gray, but didn't answer. "That smuggler, Marshall. What did he do that the archers were after him?"

She blinked hard and tried again. "You said Marshall was the look-out. Was it a large group of smugglers? From what I could see, there were hundreds of men fighting." A puddle of mud had her tiptoeing in double time. "Though I daresay that is an exaggeration. Hundreds would not have left room in the shop for people to move."

"No, there were not hundreds," the man said dryly.

"Perhaps a score or fifteen of each, then. I think there were five or so smugglers in the shop, not counting that dreadful Marshall. It is silly, but I could have sworn they wore skirts. No-" A servant laden with packages to the eyebrows stepped into her path. Martha swerved in avoidance and hurried to catch up with the celestial Bath cloth. She nearly collided with the servant's mistress.

That woman, double chinned but dressed to the nines, stared at them and huffed, "Well, I never." Then her mouth opened in astonishment. "Why, are you in Ramsgate?" she asked rudely.

Giving a quick bow, he mumbled, "No you never will again, either," and whisked around the corner.

She seemed to recognize him, Martha thought. Why wasn't he more polite? "I apologize," she began, but her angel had moved on. Shaking her head, she hurried around the corner. She had to catch up.

He was grumbling. "Would have to run into her. By Merlin, why couldn't it have been someone else?"

"Do you know that lady?" Again, he didn't reply. Thinking that angels could be as maddening as brothers, Martha went back to the absorbing topic of smugglers. "Did they do very bad? Or merely smuggle, as smugglers are wont to do?" He didn't even turn his head, so she explained. "The quest for the Ark is ended--I doubt they were spying. My brother told me that smugglers did a drop of selling information to...that pest, Napoleon." Her breath came in gasps.

Not losing a step, he pivoted his head. "What did your brother say?"

A knot of schoolboys blocked the walkway. Martha pursed her lips. Ah, they parted like the waters for the Lady of the Lake. "Hurst didn't say much," she tardily answered, "only that some smugglers...helped France against us."

He said something. It sounded like "Can't keep his trap shut." She put on a spurt of speed. If she were at his side, rather than tagging along half a step behind, she could hear better.

"I don't know any...smugglers personally," she gasped. Her breath was about gone. "Well, perhaps Marshall. But...they don't do a great deal of harm, do they? They only...bring brandy for gentlemen...and...silk..."

At least he looked at her. This angel was more enigmatic than those in the holy book. Vera would say he is the strong, silent type. But he definitely walks too fast. The angel outpaced her. Martha gave up and slowed her step. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Since the search is over, even if they sold information, it wouldn't count, would it? Not now. Or did these particular smugglers need catching for doing something more dreadful during the search? I know that Napoleon was ruthless, trying to beat us to Mount -"

He stopped. Stopped walking, stopped swinging his arms. Unprepared, Martha nearly walked past him. "Your brother," he snapped. "He didn't perhaps tell you what happens to curious cats, did he?" His eyes shot sparks. Long, darting flames of sparking magic dust danced in his eyes. Then he started walking again and she couldn't see his eyes. For a miracle, he shortened his step.

Martha couldn't catch her breath, so she kept silent, as did the man. She hadn't been offended by his abrupt scold; it was rather comforting. Her brother tended to be curt also. But Hurst's eyes never looked so marvelously fierce.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Martha would have braved a thousand Marshalls to spend a minute more in her seraph's company, but his leave-taking was brusque.

"I'll not come in," he said at the steps. "Girls' schools don't like men cluttering up their halls. Good day, miss." He swung on his heel and strode away. Martha watched him sidestep a footman walking a leashed pug and then turn the corner. Standing on the steps, inhaling grimy smoke from the chimneys above her head, she neglected to examine her innermost feelings, but captured the unvoiced thought like a butterfly on clover. Perfect.

Thankfully, the stern proprietress of an Academy for Young Ladies, a mortal dragon known as Miss Kilborn, didn't witness her charge's bedraggled return from a shopping expedition. The repercussions of so dire an event would have been more traumatic than the smugglers' battle at the shop. After verifying that Daisy had made a safe return, Martha closeted herself in her room, soothed by her roommate, Vera Jackson. They analyzed the ordeal, although smugglers were the farthest thing from Martha's mind.

"Vera," she said, "I have changed my mind. Heroes such as you find in novels are real." She was remembering an angel, dressed in vengeance and Bath cloth.

"Pooh," was the wide-eyed reply. "You don't mean that. You scoff at my books."

"Oh, but I can, and I do. The man who saved me was so..." Martha couldn't find words and fingered the bruise that ringed her arm where the smuggler had handled her. "He had a sapphire pin in his cravat. I forgot to thank him for saving me. Or did I?"

"It was most romantic, I must admit," Vera said. "But why call him an angel? He sounds more like St. George."

"He is more special than St. George."

"Who is he?"

Martha sighed. "He never gave his name. But he walked me all the way back. Vera, his eyes...they looked so cold at first, like the mist on a winter's morn, but then they turned silver. His manners were gentlemanly and he took the greatest care of my sensibilities. It is by his doing that my hair was knotted--he tidied it and put it in a braid." A shiver ran down her back. "He is very good with a sword also," she said inadequately.

"You will most likely never see him again," Vera reminded her. Both girls sighed.

* * *

The exclusive club was quiet. Sir Hurst Dunsmore sat by the fire, hiding behind a newspaper. He was thinking about his sister, Martha. Next year she would be at Camelot for her first season; he had resorted to writing lists of things to do for the momentous event.

Only a year before she came out. Sir Hurst wanted to be ready.

Trying to remember the name of the outstanding orchestra Mrs. Denby had hired, he was startled when Brinston dropped into the chair opposite, juggling a bottle. The newspaper fell and a grin split Hurst's face when he recognized one of his closest friends.

"Well. If it isn't Richard, the Most Honorable Knight Shipley," he said dryly. "Thought you had disappeared into Merlin's cave. Where've you been--on a quest? I looked for you in the Great Hall and later at the Heraldic ball. Thought sure you said you'd be there. Missed quite a gala--Caro and Byron had a dustup on the dance floor and the queen flapped her hands at them like chickens in her vegetables. I haven't laughed so hard since Perth fell out of the saddle."

Lord Brinston smiled. "My apologies, I was out of town." He scratched his stomach. "Forgive the vulgarity, Hurst, but Lady Pewett served marzipan. Must have had cinnamon in it; I've got welts all over. But that isn't my title, you knothead."

"It is now."

"Great Merlin. You mean the Council dumped another knighthood on my head?"

Hurst nodded. "Yes, the third, isn't it? For your services during the time of the quest."

"As if that mattered." Brinston sighed. "Searching for the Ark of the Covenant was one of the most witless things the Council of the Round Table has ordered. England's knights didn't need such an all-encompassing quest thrown at them."

"It spurred Napoleon and France on. Don't think those bloody jousts would have happened if he hadn't been determined to conquer every land he thought might hold the ark."

"As long as he stays on St. Helena. I have my hands full without him agitating."

Hurst filled his teacup from his friend's bottle. Good old Brin. With his vast estates, endless investments, and matchless manners, the man's calendar frequently exploded. One couldn't be offended if he bogged down with something, even welts. Hurst asked, "You hale enough for a whirl? Could use your support. There's a new den on King Street that promises excellent sport. Perth wants to lose his fortune there."

Brinston shrugged. "Think I can come. Appears the Council will leave me alone. I was in Ramsgate; Du Lac was certain Collins would flub and begged me to be on the scene to wipe up after him. He was right. It got a bit nasty." He leaned over and poured more brandy into Hurst's cup. "Drink up; you're not going to find my tale as amusing as Caro Lamb."

Hurst enjoyed his chum's dramatic story of smugglers evading a military ambush. There could be no surprise the marquess was in the thick of the action; Brinston had served the Council of the Round Table for years and had all the fun. Look at his first quest: he'd organized the climbing boys of London into one organization with trustworthy men to oversee them. The unscrupulous sweeps who formerly held sway over the business had tried to kill Brin. He was, after all, dismantling a lucrative trade for them. The sweeps earned the money; the climbing boys did the work for no reward other than beatings and neglect. No more.

It was just like him--Hurst had never known his friend to shy from danger. Not only was he daring, Brin was whip smart and honorable. Wasn't fair he could spin a spell...Well, wouldn't do to get into that.

Brinston could paint the Sistine Chapel with words; Collins making a mull of the maneuvers put Hurst into whoops. "Fifteen of the ugliest females ever to grace the earth; that's what the men thought of the masquerading smugglers. They clomped into Ramsgate, boots under their skirts of all things, and the archers never thought a thing of it. Thank God Collins's subordinate was awake. He got a snoutful of the tale and hied off after the group with ten men who'd been posted to watch a warehouse. He took a chance, deserting his watch, but it paid off."

Through his chuckles, the thought hit Hurst. Why was Brinston relating this tale when he was normally so reticent about his activities?

"The archers caught up with the smugglers on the high street of Ramsgate, in front of a lady's emporium," Brinston continued. "You know the sort of place--a couple of counters--ribbons and lace. The lieutenant, after his genius deducing the smugglers' plan, made the mistake of challenging the 'women' right there in the presence of the citizenry. The gang headed into the shop in their skirts." He shrugged his disgust. "They had nowhere else to go."

His laughter fading, Hurst began to worry. Brin had warned he would not like the tale. The setting being Ramsgate, he had a suspicion... He interrupted. "My sister is at Ramsgate--Martha. You know what she looks like; I showed you her miniature." Brinston nodded and stared at the floor.

Silence fell as Hurst digested the tale, then he raised sharp eyes to his friend. "Finish," he demanded. "I had better know the worst."

"It isn't quite that bad," Brinston said. "She was in the shop of course, and one of the gang hauled her into the back room. Evidently, he thought your sister would make a dandy hostage. I intervened before Martha suffered more than slight bruising and saw her back to school. Never guessed that I removed the bastard's blood from her with a spell." His mouth tilted. "Your sister has as much pluck as you ever did. Called them dragons." He raised a hand as Hurst opened his mouth.

"Allow me to finish. Your sister was not hurt, but I did spend considerable time with her alone. And Sir Belvedere's lady saw us on the street. You know how she embroiders her gossip. She'll say we had an assignation. If that tale becomes common knowledge, Martha will be compromised. People are perfectly capable of saying I took advantage."

Then Brinston said the unthinkable. "I am prepared to offer marriage, though it's a damn shame your intrepid sister should be forced into a marriage that might not be to her liking."

"I would have no objection to you as a brother-in-law," Hurst said, knitting his brows. "You're one of my closest friends. How could I object? I agree, your reputation could make it look bad. However, Martha shouldn't be pushed into wedlock at the point of Lady Belvedere's tongue. She's just leaving school, for God's sake."

"Martha deserves a season and the chance to be the reigning toast before she chooses a husband." Brinston slammed the empty bottle on the table.

Hurst finished his brandy with a flourish. "I know your opinion of arranged marriages."

"Those appalling alliances should be banned." Brinston's chin elevated. "They are the ones that turn out licentious. Having witnessed my parents together, I believe common attraction the only valid basis for wedlock. Couples should have a minimum length of acquaintance of at least six months before they wed. Takes that long to know each other."

He stood and bowed as if to Almack's doyennes. "But you don't need to hear my rant again. I've said it often enough. There are situations where my convictions cannot hold. This may well be one." He took a deep breath. "At this time, I ask your formal permission to wed Martha if it becomes necessary."

"You ask my permission because you must?"

Lord Brinston said, "Never would I be unwilling. That would be to insult a lady who is the equal of any man in the land. In looks, manner, and spirit Martha is wholly delightful. No, if we wed, it will be entirely to my liking."

Deep inside, a little voice started chattering. No, it would not be to his liking, not at all, but sometimes there wasn't anything less to do. Not if one considered himself a true gentle knight.

* * *

"Stay back, Vera," Martha cautioned. "Miss Kilborn is in the hall." The girls shrank into the shadows of the service stair, hoping the white of their night robes would not give them away.

"The bowl is heavy." Vera's voice was the tiniest thrumming thread.

"Don't drop it. That would ruin a scrumptious prank. At least, it will be if the Killer ever retires." Quietly, a door closed. "There. Give her a few minutes." Martha muffled a giggle with the hand not occupied holding a bowl of wet, bland smelling porridge.

"Come. That's long enough."

Two ghostly figures, one with dark curling hair loose over her shoulders, the other sporting a tidy chestnut braid, drifted along the hall. Two serving bowls tilted, their contents piled three inches deep at the edge of the door on the practical brown Axminster carpet. Fingers patted the substantial pile, then the figures flitted, white threads glimmering in the pale moonlight, to fade at a door at the end of the hall.

Vera and Martha tiptoed into the room they shared, giggling at the prank and hoping for the most dramatic conclusion to it. "Bless Ardeth for making the porridge," Vera said, scrubbing her hands with a cloth. "Miss Kilborn deserves some measure of humiliation for her tyranny. It's lucky the hallways were rebuilt. If they had not been done so, the door would open the other way and our brilliant prank would be useless." She sighed and picked under her fingernails. "How do you think them up?"

Taking her turn at the wash stand, Martha grinned. "I see possibilities," she intoned mysteriously. "Gypsies foretell the future; I sense mischief gathering in the air."

"What a lame excuse. Rather, you have your mother's imp in you."

Martha looked up, startled. "What do you mean?"

"You told me yourself. Your mother was fond of pranks and you are much like her."

"I'd forgotten," Martha said faintly. Dear Lady, she had almost revealed her deepest secret to Vera, who couldn't keep a secret to save a life. She settled for an innocuous, "Yes, I inherited an impish nature from my mother."

Vera threw her arms around her for a quick hug, smearing a bit of porridge on Martha's back. "I believe it is your most endearing trait. And none of your pranks hurt anyone. Most people get nasty--like Deborah Gaddings when she cut off Sara's braid. I am glad you come home with me tomorrow. We can create mischief at the manor to our heart's content."

"With my brother in Dorset, home would be dull as can be." Martha spread her fingers; porridge stuck them together like webbed feet. "Uncle Pemberton is immersed in his history and Aunt is so unimaginative. She never thinks clever things." When Vera looked askance, Martha clarified her comment. "Oh, I don't mean that Aunt is so very bad, only..." She sighed. "I wish living with them was more exciting." She scrubbed globs of porridge off her hands.

"My mother is tolerant of adventures," Vera promised. "I ache to get on a horse. The whole area is amenable to riding. We almost never take the carriage."

"I haven't been on a horse since I started school."

"You will like the Manor of the Ashes, even if your seraph isn't there. I doubt Papa knows anyone remotely resembling him," Vera said out of the blue, attacking her fingernails with a small stick, "Oddly enough, your meeting that man sounds like a novel. I'm the one who adores reading them, and you are living a romance. I don't envy you--it sounds vastly uncomfortable."

Martha's lip wobbled, she shook her head so hard. "Man? Romance? Nonsense. Vera. That was weeks ago. And I don't even know his name; how could he be my love?"

"You have to meet your love somehow. A grand affair with your angel would suit you. For me, an all-encompassing passion would be disquieting. I prefer comfort to excitement."

"I can do without such excitement. Though his coat could only have been made in London. It fit without a wrinkle." Martha made a moue. "I don't wish to wed the gentle knight, Vera, only meet him."

"From the way you speak, you are in love with him. At first sight, just like in my novels."

Startled chocolate eyes turned to her friend. "Oh, no. Not love at first sight. I would not dare. He was much too...too..."

"Perfect," Vera finished. "I told you."

Dark curls swept over the pillowcase as Martha scooted into bed. If you knew, dear friend. It's not his perfection I find daunting, but the mastery of life I saw dancing in his eyes. He doesn't need me, even if I am descended from a puka. Aloud she said, "Tomorrow is our last day in this dreadful place. Just think, even if Miss Kilborn figures out we piled the porridge against her door, she shan't be able to punish us." She smiled smugly.

Before they left school, she and Vera would slay the beast called Zillah Kilborn, the battle being waged with porridge arrows. Wouldn't Hurst be proud if he knew.

Chapter Two

On the chime of eight, a great thumping resounded through the hall. The downstairs maid jumped and stabbed the feather duster at a walnut table. "Oooh! Miss Kilborn's in a right bad temper this morning," she exclaimed, peeking up the stairs. She could not see the door she assumed the mistress pounded, but who else would dare?

The chatelaine stormed from the kitchen. "What is that racket?" The impertinent maid flourished her duster, guiding her superior up the stairs. Spying a group of girls milling in the upstairs hall, the chatelaine snapped, "What're you doing?"

"Coming to breakfast," Martha replied. She stood at the back of a chattering group. "We were almost to the stairs when Miss Kilborn began pounding on her door."

The chatelaine eyed Martha. "It's your fault, whatever the matter is. Bless the Lord you're leaving today," she muttered. "Well," she boomed. "Miss Kilborn, what's the matter?" Her voice slammed over the chorus of girls.

"I am locked..." the remainder of the sentence drowned in the foam of girlish voices.

"I'm frightened! I want my mama!" One little girl wailed and another, deciding it was a good idea, followed suit.

"Mama! Mama!"

Miss Kilborn shouted, "Get this door open!"

It took the handy man ten minutes to come up from the kitchen to view the situation, another ten minutes to find a chisel and hammer, and five minutes of slow hammering to break the dense pile of dried porridge into pieces and dust all over the carpet. He managed to gouge the door twice.

Finally, the portal scraped opened, a dread sight being revealed. Miss Kilborn in her starchiest black bombazine, quizzing glass swinging from a thin black ribbon, stood revealed. Gray hair pulled back from her forehead into a knob so tight her crow's feet stretched.

At the fearsome sight, sound deadened. "Miss Dunsmore."

"Yes, Miss Kilborn. Did you wish something?" Martha's voice was sweet, modulated, and respectful of her teacher.

"Nothing," Miss Kilborn surrendered with a sigh. "Thank goodness the girl is leaving," she mouthed to the chatelaine.

* * *

The journey from Ramsgate to the Jackson estate took one convivial hour with a brief stop in Braintree for a snack of pickled cucumber sandwiches. Miss Agnes Bridewell, Martha and Vera's chaperone, didn't dampen the fun, only kept it in bounds tolerable to her ears. Martha felt comfortable following Vera's lead, treating 'Bridey' as a valued confidante.

Bouncing on the carriage seat, Vera looked ready to burst. "Bridey, it's around the curve. Watch Martha's face when she sees."

"Just keep your eyes on the right," Miss Bridewell said. As the carriage rounded the curve in the road, a vista opened. Green meadows sparkled and in the distance, a house peeked through a well-kept wood. Two tall slender turrets marked the ends.

"Vera, you never told me your home was so beautiful." Inhaling the fresh scent of grass and sunshine, Martha hung out the carriage window, admiring the myriad of mirrored windows pictured through the trees. "I have been imagining any old place. You fooled me."

Vera's lighter head popped out the window, crowding her friend in the limited area. "Did you think I live in a cottage? Ooh, look--there is Bryce Irvine on his new horse. Papa wrote how splendid the steed is. You will like him, Martha. Everybody does."

The girls watched the stallion prance along the far edge of an open green, a man straight and easy in the saddle. The thoroughbred showed excellent conformation, leaping a low hedge with its midnight tail streaming behind. Pulling into a graceful circle in front of the manor, the rider turned his head and saluted.

Martha drew back from the window, leaving room for Vera to waggle her arm at the distant figure. As she returned to her seat, Miss Bridewell straightened her chip straw. "It's time to stop playing hoyden, girls," she chided. "When we arrive at the house, I would appreciate ladylike behavior, not the crazed hooliganism you have exhibited in the carriage."

"Crazed hooligan; I like that description." Martha grinned at the prim lady on the opposite seat.

Vera pulled her spencer down where it had ridden up. "Bridey, I don't know any longer how to be a hooligan. You know Papa sent me to Miss Kilborn for that tendency to be stamped out. It worked. I am now the model of a proper young lady. I can flirt with the best."

"But my brother sent me to Miss Kilborn to turn me into a hooligan." Martha's reticule fell to the floor with a plop. "That is an improvement over the gremlin I was." She reached for the reticule. "Did it work, Vera?"

"Oh, yes, you are just as I was before I became improved --crazed and so much fun to be with. I hope you don't think I am too dull."

"Never!"

Miss Bridewell quieted the laughter. "Lady, hooligan, or gremlin, we are almost at the door."

"Vera, who is Mr. Irvine?" Martha asked.

"Mr. Bryce Irvine." Vera sighed. "He works for Papa with Round Table business. He is connected to Sir Hertford in some way, but hasn't a fortune. That's why he works for Papa. He is the nicest man, and so handsome." She sighed less happily. "But...not handsome."

"And not to be flirted with, ladies." Miss Bridewell's tone was firm as a pincushion. "He has no interest in you--as you know, Vera--and his work is important."

Martha's eyes opened wide. "Miss Bridewell, I promise to be good. Can't we flirt, only a little?"

"Flirting never came to any good for a lady. You would do better to improve your minds with sermons and embroidery." Miss Bridewell's voice was so dry and her expression so comical that the carriage drew to a stop amid a gale of laughter.

The ladies debarked at the front door of the gracious manor house with Irvine's aid. Martha's knees had stiffened, but she managed to retain some measure of grace, clinging to the man's hand for a moment. Feet moored on the gravel, she scrutinized Vera's Mr. Irvine.

He was handsome, just as Vera said. Of slim build and respectable height, he had brown hair cut in a strict Brutus and a square jaw. A thin scar on his cheek added interest--did it come from a joust? Then he turned his head. Oh dear, his face did not match. Whereas the one side cut cleanly, with only the scar to mar a visage to gladden any maid's heart, the other side slipped. The cheekbone was not as prominent and the jaw sagged. No wonder Vera said he was handsome...but not.

"It appears I am the advance guard," Irvine said, bowing to each in turn. "Welcome, Miss Dunsmore. I trust you had a pleasant journey. Miss Bridewell. It is good to see you, Miss Vera."

They moved into the house. In the hall, Robert and Amelia Jackson embraced their daughter and welcomed her friend to the Manor of the Ashes. "Your presence adds to our family, my dear," Mr. Jackson said. Vera bore a remarkable resemblance to her sire in the form of her snub nose and generously curved mouth.

Mrs. Jackson added, "Vera has written so fondly of you. The two of you will rule in solitary splendor for now, Mr. Jackson and I your willing slaves. I so looked forward to having you." Vera's mother seemed a warm-hearted woman, not high in style and comfortably plump. Her most obvious characteristic was the humor with which she viewed the world. Affection brought her arms around each of the girls' waists, enveloping them in a cloud of lavender scent. "You come in good time. We will be merry later with a house full of guests."

"Guests, Mama? Pray, who has been invited?"

As Mr. Jackson disappeared down the hall, Mrs. Jackson said. "Janice will be here at the end of the month, bringing a group of her friends. Why, nearly every bedchamber will be taken."

"How delightful." Martha minded her manners.

"I consulted with Mrs. Pemberton and Sir Hurst whilst I was in town," Mrs. Jackson said, crinkling tiny lines at the corner of her eyes. "Your brother and aunt give permission for you to join in the activities of the party. Young ladies of seventeen, in my estimation, are more than ready to enjoy parties and need a bit of experience to smooth their Camelot introductions. Since you will be presented next spring, it will stand you in good stead. I will keep an eye on you." Over Vera's excited squeal, she continued, "You may begin this evening. Robert has a guest, Lord Brinston. But he will be leaving tomorrow, sadly enough." She wagged her head. "I enjoy his visits."

The girls were rapt with joy. To be out of the schoolroom--and with a noble to meet!

In the salon, they found seats arranged around Mrs. Jackson's worktable. Lavender lingered in the air, mixed with the yeasty smell of starched canvas. "Please say you find nothing amiss in my stitching." Vera's mother took up a tambour frame. "It is one of the joys of my life, Martha. This piece is for the footstool in Robert's...Oh, dear. Where is my needle?" She began patting the seat around her. "Dalton!" she called.

The butler opened the door. "Madame?" he inquired.

"My needle, now I have lost my needle." Mrs. Jackson looked pathetic. "What if someone should sit on it?"

"We shall find it, Madame." Under his direction, a footman and maid filed into the room and began searching every tabletop, seat, and around the floor. Through the doorway, others could be seen doing the same in the hall.

Five minutes later, a maid entered, curtseying. "Found it, Madame. Was in a candle, stuck straight in."

Mrs. Jackson looked perplexed. "How did I do that?"

Mr. Jackson wandered in, holding a parchment close beneath his nose. A squint testified to the lengthy periods he spent reading and lessened any similarity his eyes may have borne to his daughter's wide blue gaze. "My dear," he began, never lifting his eyes from the paper. "Would you agree to move dinner back a few minutes? Brin and I want to go over some papers before we eat. I want to be sure we finish with them. Most disturbing numbers..." He looked up. "Ah, it will be so pleasant to have these young ladies at table with us, don't you think, Amelia?" His nose dropped back to the paper and he drifted from the salon.

Vera rolled her eyes.

* * *

At dinner, the gentlemen grouped around one side of the round table, the ladies opposite, rather than intermingled, as was the custom. Unsettled, Martha kept peeking.

It was him. The Marquess of Brinston, with a crispness that bespoke Camelot, with dark hair and gray eyes like ice in water, was her celestial being of the smugglers' battle. He wore the green of fir trees and an emerald nestled in his cravat.

They met in the dining room, Mr. Jackson having delayed the gentlemen in his study. Watching the door, Martha thought she might have seen the slightest hesitation in Lord Brinston's step when he spied her. Then again, with Mr. Jackson pausing to allow Mrs. Jackson to give him a fond kiss, he may just have been avoiding Irvine's feet. When he greeted Martha, Lord Brinston was polite. No hint of prior acquaintance flickered in his face. Her dark angel might have been greeting any lady in the kingdom, rather than the one he had saved from disaster and converted into his undying admirer with a kiss on the forehead.

Martha, on the other hand, raised an impulsive hand toward his sleeve, only to draw it back. How to explain her acquaintance with the marquess to Vera's parents? What did one do in this situation? She doubted her own feelings; Martha felt...oh, she didn't know how she felt. Ecstatic, hurt, confused and giddy, all at the same time.

She felt an overpowering urge to flirt, but did not dare. Now she peeked at him across a vast expanse of polished round table.

Mr. Jackson had thrown off his earlier distraction and was in a jolly mood. "This fish is tasty, my dear." He smacked his lips as he swallowed another bite of trout. "Did you send one of the lads to the stream this morning?"

"Yes, it was Jordan's turn." Mrs. Jackson beamed as she answered her husband's question. "He took less than an hour to hook a whopping number of fish so you could have your trout for dinner." She turned to Martha. "He insists on the freshest fish, my dear. It is a blessing we are so close to the coast. Trout comes from our own stream, but we have to send a groom to Ramsgate when we desire other." She shook her fork at her husband. "Most inconvenient, but Robert is adamant."

Vera leaned forward. "Papa says it's well to allow the servants to fish; every soul is improved by the contemplation of a line and running water."

Hadn't he recognized her? Toying with her fork, Martha supposed the ache in her stomach presaged hunger. It couldn't be from thinking of the gentle knight. Lord Brinston. Her avenging angel. Her heart gave a queer little thump and the ache in her stomach intensified. She peeked again. He looked so fine--her memory from Ramsgate was accurate. The rich Celtic red of the walls suited him.

Her thoughts went in circles, chasing their tails like puppies. Hadn't he recognized her?

Bryce Irvine dragged a bite of fish through the sauce on his plate. "I should take up a pole myself and test whether I may prove a better angler than Jordan." He looked at Mr. Jackson, "We have a few more days until anything arrives from the Council, do we not?"

Jackson nodded. "The Ship is bringing it down for us. Till then you are free." The men fell to discussing where the best waters were; at the water hole past the bridge or the sheltered stretch of the stream farther up, where the water ran free and clear over stone but was shaded by willows.

The marquess was versed in the manly art of fishing, Martha noted. One could tell by his comments.

Miss Bridewell told Vera and Martha about Camelot; she and Mrs. Jackson had been in London with Janice, Vera's older sister. That young lady had enjoyed her season. Indeed, Janice was a considerable success. "I am so pleased for her," Miss Bridewell said. "She and Mr. Lacey look to be developing a sincere attachment."

Mrs. Jackson nodded and added in a low voice so the gentlemen should not overhear, "I could wish she had interested Lord Brinston. My dears, there is a man to dream of. All the ladies yearn for a glance from him. He holds himself aloof, dancing only once with any lady at the balls and showing none any particular attention. He is not as handsome as his younger brother, Squire Michael, whose profile belongs on a coin, but Brinston is a true gentle knight. And kind, which you do not find often in society. Thanks to him, we were invited to dinner at Uther House, which you know increased Janice's standing at court. Connections are so important at Camelot."

Careful not to be seen watching him, Martha's eyes wandered past her angel to the painting over the sideboard. Two hunting dogs, pointing as if just sighting their quarry, frozen forever in a golden field. It was well enough for a painting, but she wished something prettier hung there. Perhaps a dark St. George...

Mrs. Jackson noted where her eyes had traveled. "Oh, I am glad you reminded me, Martha." She beckoned to the butler. "Dalton, tomorrow the painting changes. Let's see, what shall we have?" She tapped a dimpled finger against her chin. "Yes. The landscape from the burgundy bedroom, please. Its soft tones will be much more pleasing to the ladies."

"Can't we have Cador's Pride, Amelia?" Mr. Jackson asked.

"No my dear, you may not have one of your horses. We shall be entertaining and I would be mortified to have Janice's friends stared at by a horse while they dine. Quite puts one off their meal. As if I set the table in a stable."

Lord Brinston smiled. "I doubt any gentleman will notice the decorations on the wall. The feminine decoration at the table is all-engrossing." His silvery eyes flirted with Mrs. Jackson, who actually blushed.

Vera leaned close to whisper, "Mama and Papa never agree on what art to hang in here, so they rotate the paintings. Papa likes still life's, horses, and dogs; Mama favors Constable's landscapes." Martha nodded, tasting dust instead of glazed carrots.

* * *

Five hundred good families in the kingdom. Why did she have to be visiting this one? Brinston's eye wandered down the table. It was a trick he had learned from his father; keep one eye planted on the person seated next to you, and deliberately cross the other and look elsewhere. Thank Avalon for that Shipley trait. Not many were able to cross just one eye. Whenever he did it, he marveled that no one noticed. Jackson, for all his powers of observation, didn't.

His right eye confirmed his earlier glances. She was lovelier than she seemed in Ramsgate. Perhaps not surprising--her hair wasn't tumbled; her face wasn't frozen in horror. She didn't look like a child. Only seventeen, but older. In a way.

Not tasting the contents of his plate, Brinston reflected that the meeting had to happen sometime, but he hadn't thought it would come here. Rather, it should have been at Camelot, at the crush of a ball, where he had the safety of numbers. In the park. On Bond Street. Or at Kay House. Anywhere but under the sharp eye of Robert Jackson.

Gads, she looked as tasty as one of Elaine Kay's lobster patties. Definitely not a schoolgirl.

Movement caught his crossed eye. The tray tilted. The footman who held it was not paying attention. Miss Dunsmore would be bathed in a fountain of wine when the full tray of glasses tipped.

Red wine on that white gown. On those white shoulders. With no time to consider what he did, Brinston did what came naturally. He muttered and under the table waved his hand. The faintest shimmer of magic arced from his fingertips and flickered around his feet.

The tray tipped. The glasses fell up, sloshing good burgundy over the footman's livery. The servant's panicked cry drew attention, but the butler whisked the sputtering man out of the room and a quick mopping did not disturb the meal.

Brinston took care to give no hint that he had met the chit before, but he didn't take the time to wonder why he needed a buffer against Martha. His focus was on behaving normally in front of Jackson.

That and chastising himself for not keeping sufficient control of himself. The servants might suspect and that would never do.

* * *

The gentlemen turned their conversation to the paddocks of Newmarket. Martha, Vera, Agnes Bridewell, and Amelia Jackson held a discussion of the excursions available in the neighborhood. In the next days, the girls could choose between visiting the village, with its shops and picturesque inn that served cakes and lemonade, visiting neighbors, most especially the vicar and his family, and taking a picnic to the local ruins.

Miss Bridewell offered to review wardrobes with the girls. "Your gowns may not suffice for evenings. It would be better to be forewarned of a lack." With a glance to Mrs. Jackson she added, "I would be pleased to accompany the girls to Mrs. Tweed."

Mrs. Jackson sighed dramatically. "Agnes, you are a diamond to rival all diamonds to take on this onerous chore." A dimple flashed as she explained to Martha, "You see, my dear, although most ladies delight in all aspects of the wardrobe, it bores me silly. Miss Bridewell, on the other hand, enjoys choosing patterns, materials, and trims. I concede her superior enthusiasm. Mrs. Tweed is gratified. A wizard of a seamstress, she would bar me from her door if she dared."

"Oh, Mama!"

Ignoring Vera's faint protest, Mrs. Jackson continued. "She scolds me so; I hardly dare raise my eyes from the ground." The lady's lips twitched. "So many things are ever so much more important than wearing a stunning bonnet."

"Your superior sense of management saves you from doom, does it not?" Miss Bridewell laughed. "How else could Mr. Jackson tolerate your failure to make the best of your looks?"

Mrs. Jackson, patting the flawless bloom of her cheeks, directed the change of courses with an airy wave the butler had no difficulty interpreting. "Robert would not notice if I sprouted a wart upon my chin, Agnes, as you know. He is equally oblivious to the deficiencies of my household management." Noting her daughter's chagrin, Mrs. Jackson changed the subject.

"When our guests arrive, excursions will be planned at which you will be in attendance. It would not be good manners to disappear all the time." She leaned forward to whisper to Martha, "Wear a bonnet that is becoming."

Bemused by the teasing and achingly conscious of the gentle knight around the curve of the table, Martha colored as Miss Bridewell said, "We haven't the remains of a monastery or grand castle for you to clamber over, only a tumbled down medieval pottery that once flourished past the mill."

"It's an appealing ride, Martha," Vera promised. "Papa will not make me take a groom there if you come with me. It is almost on our land."

Vera's mother was gentle but insistent. "If you wish for a picnic luncheon, it would be as well to take a groom, my dear. I have lost too many forks and baskets from you abandoning them at the ruins. How embarrassing it was to have to crate the supplies that time we took the Herringbone family picnicking. Not a basket was available." Mrs. Jackson turned to Martha. "Vera went out every day that week, the weather was so fine. Six baskets she lost for us."

"Mr. Irvine found five in the ruins, Mama," Vera returned.

"But two belonged to the vicar and one basket had sheltered a vixen's pups and was fit for naught but the stables. Remember, Vera. Take a groom so the basket comes back."

Martha's stomach sank toward her toes as Lord Brinston ignored her. The male conversation had reverted to fishing. Mr. Jackson queried his wife, "My dear, did you remember to order that reel from London that I saw in the Gentlemen's Quarterly? Irvine should use that. I daresay it may give him the edge over Jordan at the river."

Mrs. Jackson rose, indicating the girls should leave the table. "Yes, my love," she responded, "it came the other day. But I don't recall...My lamentable management fails me again." A mischievous smile lingered on her lips. "Dalton was to have given the reel to Jordan to put on a pole, so it may no longer be perfectly new."

They left the men to their after-dinner drinks. Taking their favorite seats by the fireplace in the drawing room, Mrs. Jackson and Miss Bridewell occupied themselves with deciphering a confused embroidery design. The girls were left to themselves. Dragging Martha off to the corner, where three chairs had been arranged for conversation, Vera plopped into a chair. Looking at the elder ladies, Martha decided she had best not mention angels. They might overhear.

"So, what do you think of Mr. Irvine?" Vera asked.

"He is very gentlemanly," Martha replied. "And it is apparent he likes sauces."

Vera stifled a giggle. "I am impressed with your powers of observation. He has Cook's undying admiration; Mrs. Forge is always dreaming up new sauces for his enjoyment. It's not fair though--he ingests the heaviest as liberally as tonight and never bulges at the waist."

Picking up a portfolio of etchings from the table, Martha flipped through them, feeling the textured edge of the paper. They were uninspiring. "The sauce was good. He can't be blamed for enjoying it. How did he get the scar? Was he in a joust?" she asked, concentrating on her mental confusion about angels. Lord Brinston had enjoyed the sauce also.

Her distracted mind flew back with a jolt when her friend dissolved into laughter. "Vera," Martha exclaimed, setting down the portfolio.

"A-a j-joust," Vera gasped through her mirth. "Ho-ow ro-mantic." At last, she dragged a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her eyes. A smile still tugging at her dimples, she said. "Mr. Irvine wasn't in a joust." It almost, but not quite, set her off into gales again.

Martha assumed her version of the patience of Job. She crossed her arms, tapped her toe, and with Vera's infectious laughter rolling, her lips quirked. "Then how did he get the scar?"

"Last year in London Mr. Irvine stayed with us. Janice had a friend visiting." Vera crescendoed a series of chuckles, but sobered when she saw Martha's irritation. "Oh, all right. I am sorry, but it is just too funny to recall."

"It may be funny, but I haven't heard the story."

"Come and sit. I will tell all." Vera pulled Martha down onto the chair next to her. It was an uncommonly comfortable chair; Martha sank back.

"As I said, we were in London," Vera began. "Before the season began, Papa was busy. He went to the Knight's Council offices every day, but he left Mr. Irvine at home most of the time. We had a house on Pendragon Square. Janice's friend, Miss Ortonwell, came from the country to stay. Her parents were delayed by something or other and she couldn't go to their townhouse alone. Mr. Irvine liked her and decided to cut some roses to perfume her bedchamber."

"What is so funny about that?"

"I was in the conservatory when he did it. He didn't have the gardening shears, but a pair from the estate office. They didn't cut. He sawed away at the stems of Mama's favorite red roses but didn't do well at all. So he leaned over and bit one."

"Bit...a stem?"

"He scratched his cheek badly. That is the scar."

"How...repelling."

"I didn't know then, I found out later, he had already cut close to six dozen flowers and sneaked them into Miss Ortonwell's room, crammed every which way into all the vases he could find. The funniest thing is Miss Ortonwell didn't appreciate his decorating. She suffers from rose fever. She and Janice exchanged rooms for a week."

Martha didn't find the anecdote amusing. She was saved from comment by a call from Mrs. Jackson. During two hours spent in the drawing room, Martha stewed about Irvine's strange manner of courtship and her angel. Angels were more interesting; for every moment spent mulling Irvine's scar, she spent a minute on dark-haired beings.

When it was clear the gentlemen were not coming to the drawing room, the girls were released from the salon. Martha, disappointed at the missed opportunity to see her divine protector, nonetheless drew Vera upstairs. "Vera," she hissed. "It's him."

"Him?"

"My angel. He's he." A perplexed face said that Vera had not understood. Whirling the girl into her bedchamber, Martha crowed, "The marquess is my angel. Lord Brinston is the man who saved me from the smuggler. Oh, my friend, tell me, what do I do now?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Talk to him. It came to me the moment I saw him. I have not been able to forget him. I think him perfect." She plopped in a chair. "He, on the other hand, did not show by so much as a blink of his eyes that he recognized me. Oh, Vera, how do I catch his attention?"

"There is nothing you can do. If Lord Brinston wishes to pursue the acquaintance, he will make it clear." At Martha's violent motion, Vera repeated, "There is nothing you can do."

It chafed, but Vera was right. There was no way a lady could properly approach an angel. It was up to the gentleman to make the first move.

"There is always hope."

"Yes," Vera said obediently. The two regarded each other. Suddenly, Vera grabbed Martha and waltzed around the room. "Free at last. No more Killer and no more schoolroom."

"There will be scores of gentlemen for you to flirt with. We may join all the activities."

"And be together."

"With Camelot to look forward to; and I may talk to my angel. Vera, stop rolling your eyes."

The next morning, Lord Brinston departed the Manor of the Ashes.

Chapter Three

A week later, the friends ambled the path to the stables, arguing as to their destination. "The village store has just received from London an enthralling box of buttons," Vera hinted. She delighted at all times in clothing and its assembly.

"We can rummage the store later," Martha responded. "I want to see that ruin you were telling me of. I can't believe, after all the interest you generated in me with tales of that place, that I have not seen it yet. Perhaps the ghost of a potter will turn our hair white with fear."

"But we neglected to get a picnic."

"Pooh, we can do that another day." Martha kicked a small stone into the cropped grass with a sturdy riding boot. "I am not the least hungry. Not after those delicious scones."

In the stable yard, Hutchins, the head groom, bent over the magnificent stallion Bryce Irvine favored. The man lowered the hoof he had been inspecting as the girls tripped up, swatted at a fly and brushed grizzled gray hair from his forehead. "New shoes for ye, Master Beastslayer." The groom scratched his head, looking worried. "Mornin', misses."

"Is there a problem?" Vera put on her best mistress of the manor air.

"Beastslayer needs shoeing, Miss Vera," Hutchins said. "But all the lads bein' taken up with a sick mare, there's none to take this gent to the smithy." He scratched his head again. "If only Eddie'd been more careful, he would'na broke his leg and I would'na be short a man. I don't rightly know what's to do. P'raps Ben can be spared in a while." His forehead puckered.

"We shall deliver the horse to the smithy," Martha decreed. "Vera, you may do your shopping. I shall see the ruins another day."

Hutchins was grateful for the assistance and the girls were tickled at the thought of being responsible for the noble stallion. Vera trailed Beastslayer's reins and the girls held their mounts to a walk, conscious of the black's hooves. A light breeze blew the scent of leaves, softening the sun's warmth. Vera reminisced as they went.

"See that tree, the oak with the branches that hang over the path?" she pointed. "I climbed it with my apron full with berries. When Janice came along, I pelted her. How she howled. She was dotted all over."

"Vera, I have the most delicious idea."

"What have you come up with?" Martha whispered. Vera began to smile and nod. "Oh, yes, we must do it. Mr. Irvine is so good-natured he won't be offended."

"Are you certain? I don't wish to offend."

"Martha, don't be tedious. It's a bit of fun and won't harm Mr. Irvine."

By the time the village came into view, the scheme bloomed. The young ladies walked their horses to the blacksmith's shop; Beastslayer, belying his ferocious name, trailed them. "Mr. Baker...?" Vera caroled into the smithy. A squat, muscled man appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a spanking new blacksmith's apron.

"Well, Miss Jackson. Heard you was back. Welcome." His voice, as powerful as his arms, boomed across the street.

"Thank you, it is good to be back, Mr. Baker. May I introduce my friend, Martha Dunsmore?" Vera, with the help of the smith, slid from her horse.

As he moved to assist Martha, the blacksmith smiled. "Welcome to ye also, Miss Dunsmore. Do ye ladies have business with me?"

Vera twinkled. "Yes, you are to shoe Beastslayer. Hutchins says he needs all four hooves re-shod. Mr. Baker, we have the best idea."

In the end, the smith reluctantly agreed to shoe the horse as Martha and Vera asked, all for the price of a dozen blackberry scones straight from the manor ovens.

"Mrs. Forge makes the best scones. Papa says her baking would have won England's eminence over Napoleon, if only she were pitted in a cooking joust against his chef." Vera swung in a circle. "She has a soft spot for Mr. Baker; it will be easy to coax her to bake." She circled again.

Martha grabbed Vera's arms and stilled her. "Tomorrow, when Mr. Irvine rides Beastslayer, he will be so surprised."

* * *

The next day, two muslin-clad figures strolled the raked gravel at the front of the Manor of the Ashes. They made a fetching picture, one in palest green with bits of white lace, the other in white edged in blue. Delicate bonnets framed their faces and once in a while, one or the other would give a little skip of exuberance. Altogether, they looked what they were, two graceful young ladies on the brink of womanhood.

What also showed was their anticipation.

"He should be here any moment. Hutchins said he went to the south meadow to check the bridge, so he should pass the front of the house on his way to the stables." Vera prodded the gravel with the tip of her parasol. "After the rain last night, Martha, the ground is a bit damp; just right." They turned, startled at the sound of carriage wheels and horses.

"Who is it?" Martha asked.

"Oh," Vera, spying a face, grimaced with dismay, "my sister Janice. Now our fun will be cut in half."

Sweating horses and a black traveling carriage, both dusty and mud spattered, crowded the drive. Men dismounted. The door of the carriage opened. As the steps were let down, one gentleman, tossing his bay's reins at a groom, turned with a flourish and raised his hand to the lace-edged glove that emerged. Following that glove, a vision of Camelotian fashion minced down the step, spoiling the pretty picture with a scowl.

"Vera! What are you doing out here?" she demanded in a preemptory tone.

"Greetings to you, Janice." Vera turned mulish. Martha, warned by her friend's voice, stayed in the background. Ignoring Martha's presence and turning a cold shoulder to Vera's grumpiness, Janice Jackson drifted toward the group of London belles and beaus now milling on the drive.

"Can't believe I left London for this."

"I am tho glad to be quit of that carriage."

"Isn't the façade pretty?"

"Gads. What a ride."

"Mayhap your father will agree to hold a ball."

"...lovely mise en scène."

"Miss Jackson, I am your eternal servant for the invite to your charming home."

"My ruffle is sadly wilted."

"Take the horse, man. Don't footsy around..."

"Nonsense. You look as fresh as if you just stepped off Bond Street."

"I am so glad you came with us."

"My jewel box; I left it on the seat."

"...counting the boxes."

Martha and Vera exchanged glances. Vera rolled her eyes. "My sister Janice and her London friends. Papa calls them the Banshee Brigade."

"Banshee?"

"Because they raise such a fuss over everything. Mama dotes on them. Papa complains that they are indistinguishable one from the other--all equally shrill. I thought they were not coming till the morrow."

They watched the confusion of four ladies and four gentlemen, all talking at once. The ladies wore the latest in traveling costume as if they had just stepped from the pages of La Belle Assemblée. The gentlemen were in standard men's wear, albeit embellished with modish fancies. Here a chain laden with half a dozen fobs, there a cravat intricately tied. Parasols, kerchiefs, and whips flourished.

Then, past the whinnying of the standing cattle, the girls saw what they had been waiting for. "There he is. Mr. Irvine," Martha whispered. Vera nodded enthusiastically.

Mr. Jackson's assistant rode the proud Beastslayer at a walk around the carriage and horses. The black stallion lifted his hooves onto the grass verge, turning his nose toward the newly arrived cattle in inquiry. At the last moment, a restive chestnut forced the black into a circular flowerbed to the left of the group. Cleared of the remains of tulips and with an herbaceous grouping in the center, the dirt had been turned, but not planted.

Janice noticed the rider and lit up like a beacon. "Mr. Irvine," she cried, tripping toward him, raising burgundy and gray ruffled skirts above the ground. Her court, loath to be abandoned, followed her. "Oh, Mr. Irvine. It is so good to meet you again." She appeared ready to grasp his boot.

"Miss Jackson, you are a vision to parched eyes." Irvine swept his hat in an arc, bowing from the great height the stallion lent him. "You bring a touch of Camelot with you this visit."

Janice simpered. "You know most everyone, Mr. Irvine. May I present Charlotte and Maria Wentworth? You met them at Christmas, did you not?

"Miss Honoria Silvester you have not had the pleasure of, I am sure." As Janice introduced Miss Silvester, Irvine froze atop Beastslayer. The wispy ends of the lady's stylish coat fluttered on the breeze and she dipped a graceful curtsey, smiling. Her proud nose twitched in acknowledgement of his homage.

Janice breezed through the introductions. "Of the gentlemen, your old friend Mr. Dom Lacey, and over beyond the ladies you see Sir George Colby, Squire Michael Shipley, and Mr. Peter Silvester, Honoria's dear brother." Irvine bowed to the gentlemen, but his eyes kept returning to Honoria.

"Goodness, he seems bowled over, does he not?" Martha murmured. Vera remained silent and Martha glanced at her friend. "What is it?" Vera shook her head, but did not speak. Her eyes flickered between her sister and the horseman.

Irvine replaced his hat. "I will return Beastslayer to the stables, Miss Jackson, and join you after I have removed the dirt of my ride." He bowed again, flashing another glance at Honoria Silvester, and wheeled the black the only direction he could for all the people, through the empty flowerbed.

A Banshee pointed, drooping her shawl on the ground. "Look! Thuch funny horthe printth." she lisped.

"Mr. Irvine," Janice trilled. "Whatever have you been doing?"

"Heart-shaped horse prints."

Irvine twisted in the saddle and looked down. Each of Beastslayer's steps had imprinted a heart shape in the loose dirt of the bed.

"Heart horseshoes, Irvine?" One of the men boomed out. "Gone courting, what?"

"Courting what?"

"There are those who love their horses more than ladies, we all know," Honoria choked, "but I do believe this is the extreme." She resorted to the handkerchief a gentleman thrust in her hand to wipe tears of laughter from her cheeks.

"Wait till the Four Horse Club hears of this."

"I declare I have never seen the like." As he stared at the prints in the freshly turned earth, Irvine's face reddened.

"Brummell. Won't he turn up his nose."

"Why shoe his horse in such a ridiculous manner?" The embarrassed rider straightened in the saddle. His hands clenched the reins and Beastslayer shied in response. The laughter of the London crowd took on a hurtful edge. His face now white, Irvine snapped the black away from the drive.

Martha and Vera, aghast at the unfortunate direction their prank had turned, shrank back.

One of the men did not jeer as the others did. Classically handsome, with curly dark hair and the profile of a statue, Martha's heart thumped when she saw him--he looked startlingly like Lord Brinston. The little ache that never left bumped into her lungs when her heart thumped. She had to pause to catch her breath.

The hateful laughter and taunts escalated. Mr. Irvine, that estimable man, withdrew, urging Beastslayer toward the stables, but the crowd continued to mock him. To escape the distressing scene, the girls raced through the rose garden.

"That did not go as I expected, Martha," Vera said.

"I am sorry for Mr. Irvine," the dark haired girl responded. "How shall we atone for that unfortunate prank?" Martha sat on the grass, her skirt tangling. Soft blades scraped her ankle. "I must find some manner of making it up to him. I will put my mind to it." And something would come to mind. Pranks were as much a part of her as her toes, but whenever they inadvertently caused harm, Martha suffered agonies of regret. Firmly tamping the urge to cry, she glanced at her friend. "What's wrong?"

"My sister," Vera bit the words out, "has been flirting with Mr. Irvine for the longest time. Janice can be unpleasant, and if she loses his admiration, she is bound to be unbearable. She has done it before. When Mr. Merryweller danced twice with another lady, Janice spent a week in the boughs. I stayed with the Brooms two days to escape her cattiness."

Martha slapped her skirt. "I was afraid you had lost your heart to him."

"Me? Mr. Irvine? Never! Though why I should not, I do not know. If you may fall in love with Lord Brinston, so may I care for Mr. Irvine. I vow I should prefer to fall in love with Squire Michael. He is quite the handsomest man. Seriously, Martha, watch out for Janice. She is the cattiest cat."

"I fear Mr. Irvine more. What if he takes revenge for the prank?"

"We will find a way to make it up, I am sure. It is too bad that Vera brought Sir George. He was here before. If you listen to my sister, he is of the highest nobility, but I dislike the man. He is as you would imagine a country squire, loud, smells of horses, and hasn't two words of proper conversation. Supposedly, he is highly regarded at court for his knowledge of horses, if for no other reason. Sir George was knighted a few years ago."

"What was his quest?"

"Something to do with breeding the ideal hunting dog."

Martha gave her a disbelieving look. "What of the others?"

"I don't know them all. The Misses Wentworth have been; they are of the silliest."

"And Squire Michael?"

Vera put her nose in the air. "He is a younger son of the Duke of Haverhorn, my dear," she drawled.

"I knew from the title that he must be from a noble family, but a duke. That's impressive," Martha said. "We have come up in the world."

* * *

Spirits restored, the girls skipped across the lawn. They met up with Miss Bridewell, her arms full of flowers. Each step she took caused a flower or two to slip to the ground. "Bridey," Vera danced around the older woman. "Is that a bouquet from your latest admirer?"

Miss Bridewell laughed. "Of course, Vera, Mr. Broom denuded his garden just for me."

"The vicar as conquest? What does Mrs. Broom say?" Vera teased. Martha listened, wondering if she would ever become accustomed to the Jackson's lighthearted chatter.

"Mrs. Broom encourages his tendre, my dear," Miss Bridewell said, "and will gladly continue to do so as long as I arrange the altar flowers for your mother."

"Why should Mama stop arranging the flowers? She always has done so."

Miss Bridewell's eye fell on Vera, biting her lip. "Mrs. Jackson has enough chores on her platter. I wish to ease her way by taking over those tasks less to her liking. These flowers are not destined for the church, but for the adornment of the hall. Mr. Broom insisted. I believe he desires to impress the London visitors when they arrive tomorrow."

"Oh, they have come today, just a few minutes ago."

"Vera," Martha interrupted her friend. "Miss Bridewell is leaving a trail for her swain." She looked at the older woman to check that her teasing was acceptable. "Do you suppose he will appear this night, picking up the discarded stems and singing outside your window?"

Miss Bridewell laughed and tilted her armful of blooms, cascading more flowers to the ground. "A delightful thought. Mrs. Broom can play the music room pianoforte in accompaniment. If we open the windows, the vicar should be able to hear the notes well enough to follow."

In charity with each other, the three made their way to the house, the girls retrieving wayward flowers and piling them back into Miss Bridewell's arms, teasing that her admirer would lose his way and never be seen at the manor again.

* * *

In contrast to Agnes Bridewell, Amelia Jackson bustled into the hall, her plump arms prosaically filled with clothing. "This is for the church bin," she told Dalton, tumbling the pile onto the broad table and smothering the silver tray and red box that already reposed there. "Millie is bringing a basket to pack it all in. If you would have Holt take it over, my mind will be at ease. How I forgot that the poor boxes are sorted this week is a mystery to me. And to have Janice arrive early. This must be done today, regardless of the confusion."

The butler straightened the top items of the stack. "Not to worry, Madame, I trust Vicar Broom to have left plenty of time to organize everything. He knows visitors were expected and will understand your preoccupation."

A maid ran into the hall, a large hamper banging against her legs. "Here is the basket you wanted, Madame. Oh, Mr. Dalton, sir, Cook is ever so fussed. The pot is boiling over and she's ascared to lift it off. She asked you to come right away." She set the basket in front of the table, made a distracted curtsey and rushed to the back hall. Moans drifted from the kitchen on the aroma of herbed, crispy-skinned chicken roasting.

Hand to her forehead in dismay, the lady of the house determined she would stay out of Cook's way. Mrs. Forge was having a bad day from the sound of it. No wonder, with so many extra mouths to feed with no warning. The planned menu had been overturned to allow for the expanded company. With scant hours to prepare so much extra food, the kitchen was abustle.

Nevertheless, I dare not forget those clothes, she thought. I fear the chore shall go right out of my head. What if Dalton should forget also? Vicar will be most displeased. He was so cross when I neglected to place flowers on the altar for services.

I cannot bear this affliction of mine. Amelia paused on the stairs. I did do the flowers last week. How could I have confused Thursday with Saturday? The poor things were all wilted; Mrs. Chapin threw them out the instant she saw them. So there was nothing on the altar. I believe Vicar Broom thought I had forgotten. Thank goodness Agnes has agreed to take over that charge.

Making her way along the upstairs hall, she paused. "Holt!" she called. A footman turned from his task of placing candles in the sconces lining the hall. "I need a chore done. It has become something of an emergency."

Back at the well-polished hall table, Mrs. Jackson pushed the pile of clothing into the basket, where it made an untidy mound. "This goes to the church hall ever as promptly as you may get it there," the plump woman twinkled. "It's my fault it is late, so you take the consequences and must hurry. Since you will be so out of breath rushing there, please dawdle back. The candles can wait. If Janice complains, she can just go back to London." As the servant hefted the basket, Amelia swept away, pleased to have accomplished her assignment so handily.

Next, she had to check that each guest was settled in his or her room. Had Dalton switched the picture in the dining room? Avalon, if Janice saw that awful hunt scene...

* * *

"Dalton, where is the dispatch box?" Irvine asked an hour later.

"It was on the hall table, sir. I thought Mr. Jackson had taken it to his study."

"No, it ain't either place."

"It was there just a short time ago, Mr. Irvine."

"It must be found at once. Mr. Jackson wishes to review the report." A while later, four men assembled in the wide hall. The table's polished sheen reflected the silver salver that always reposed there, nothing more. None of the masculine faces looked happy.

Robert Jackson took the lead. "Let us recreate the events of the afternoon. That should tell us who had access to the box."

The butler was shaken out of his phlegmatic manner. "I should have spent the entire time in the hall. Ever since its arrival I should have been within sight of the dispatch box."

Jackson made an impatient gesture. "Who else entered the hall?"

"The s-servants have been about their duties," Dalton stuttered. "Miss Bridewell distributed these handsome arrangements of flowers." His hand waved, encompassing a regiment of vases spraying colorful blooms over tables around the hall. "Miss Vera and Miss Martha went to the drawing room. They played the pianoforte for some time. Then they retired upstairs, I believe to attempt new hair arrangements." He paused and thought. "Squire Michael and Mr. Lacey took guns out, just returning moments ago through the courtyard door. The Misses Wentworth, Miss Silvester and Miss Janice took the carriage to visit Mrs. Broom and have yet to return. The box was there after they all passed through the hall. I left for a mere five minutes when Cook needed assistance at the range."

"Who does that leave?" Irvine had been ticking off on his fingers as Dalton produced names. "Only Colby." He ricocheted his eyes between Michael and Mr. Jackson. "Do you think he would have taken the box?"

Jackson frowned. "You're forgetting my wife. Was Mrs. Jackson in the hall, Dalton?"

"Yes, sir, but she did not have an opportunity to mislay the dispatch box. She retired upstairs before I went to the kitchen."

"What did Mrs. Jackson do here?" Jackson sounded resigned.

"She brought a pile of clothing to be delivered to the church hall, sir. For the poor boxes."

"Where is the clothing now?"

The butler looked bewildered. "It must have gone."

Michael spoke for the first time. "Who would have taken it?"

"Holt is to go, sir. It was necessary to move a larger glass into Miss Wentworth's room so I have not yet given him direction to do so. After moving the glass, I set Tyler and Ben to finding chairs for two of the bedchambers. The maids were upstairs already, freshening up for the guests."

Time was spent checking for Holt, who was nowhere to be found. As Dalton hurried back to the tense group in the lofty hall, Martha and Vera, her arms full of unwieldy red box, entered the front door.

"Papa," Vera said breathlessly. "Isn't this yours?"

Mr. Jackson leapt forward. "My dear Vera, where did you get that?" he asked.

"At the church hall," Vera heaved, trying to catch her breath. Irvine leaned against the table and folded his arms. Michael nudged him, and they shared an intense glance. Irvine shook his head.

"In the study if you please, girls."

In Mr. Jackson's private room, two tired, hot young ladies sank into wing chairs fronting the desk. Bryce Irvine and Squire Michael buttressed bookshelves as Mr. Jackson placed himself in his leather chair, setting his hands flat atop the red leather box in front of him. "Now, my dears, I will hear your story of how you came upon my box."

Vera began. "We wanted to keep out of the confusion of Janice coming with all those people, so I took Martha to see the church, Papa. It is supposed to be a fine example of late Celtic stonework, though I don't know anything about it."

"We went to find Vicar Broom to tell us what is so superior about the church," Martha continued.

"He was in the hall. You should see the clothing he has collected. The poor boxes are generous this year."

"The first he saw us, the vicar asked if Mrs. Jackson had forgotten to gather clothing."

"We offered to help sort, since there was so much."

"One lady sent the most cunning knitted scarves. There were ten of them, all different colors, were there not, Vera?"

"And then Holt came in, carrying a big basket from Mama. Vicar was ever so pleased."

"So we started to sort that too."

"Only the box was at the bottom of the basket. We brought it back straight away." Vera beamed at her father. "I knew you would be worried about it, Papa. Holt had left already, so we hurried to bring you your box."

"It must have been a tiring activity. Martha, you and Vera look winded. Thank you, I was indeed concerned." Mr. Jackson smiled and ushered the girls from the room. "Lemonade and a period of quiet should be just the ticket to restore you. Might want to check your hair before your mama sees you," he whispered to his daughter as she passed.

The door closed behind the girls, leaving four vastly relieved gentlemen in the study.

To order or learn more!