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Chapter One

The Duke of Hansforth looked down on his heir, the Marquis of Neathe with disgust.

"You are drunk Charles."

"Completely guttered sir," came the slurred reply as the young man smiled rakishly up at his formidable grandparent from the dubious comfort of the slattern bed. Hansforth sighed; for a moment he saw his handsome elder son in his grandson's appallingly good-looking face. He cursed the fact that this boy of thirty years was the sole surviving male of a family that had produced eleven boys in two generations. Of those that had reached adulthood; his eldest son and heir had died in a hunting accident three years ago: his second son and this boy's father had died six years before from a disease gifted by a whore.

Blessedly Charles had been obscurely different from his father since boyhood. He was serious and intent whereas Walter had been wild and careless even in his forties. After growing up in a broken, argumentative and financially strangled household Charles had been determined to live a life where his passions were under rigid control. He'd done everything expected of him; braved Eton and Oxford for an excellent education; took over the running of his father's estate and rescued those he loved when his redoubtable parent had proved so dissolute as to be forcing the entire family headlong to Debtors Prison. And Charles had been equally methodical in his determination to look for a worthy (and wealthy) bride and thus an heir to carry on the Hansforth name as his male relations seemed to be failing miserably to do so. Having seen three nephews buried in less than two years Charles had been made aware in no uncertain terms of his duty to his grandfather's name.

With a dissolute rake of a father who had no wish to curtail his own freedom and an uncle whose wife had proved thrice incapable of delivering a live heir and having only one sister who remained a determined and miserly spinster until her untimely death, the entire task seemed to fall to him. It was only when his choice of Lady Charles Hansforth had proved unworthy by rejecting him on their wedding day that Charles finally abandoned duty. Emperor Napoleon conveniently provided him with a chance to prove his masculinity to his ignorant, misguided and dying father. So, in true dedication to the task he'd decided to wage a one-man war against the French. After his first year abroad he'd realised he had no need to prove anything to a dissolute, disease-ridden father who died as publicly as possible by collapsing on top of a whore. His name was tarnished by his father's sins and by his grandfather who, in a black mood refused to have anything to do with him when Charles failed to come back and do his duty and marry. So Charles stayed in Wellesley's employ in Spain and with all the rage merrily bottled up inside him had enjoyed routeing the French. However, after six years of revolution Charles returned a changed man.

He made one brief unwelcome visit to his grandfather during which he informed him that although he was his heir, he would never live at Lotheringham and neither had he any intention of marrying or fathering an heir. He also stated calmly and politely that if the old man wanted another child he'd have to be the one begetting it, after which Hansforth had exploded and told Charles to go to hell, which he dutifully obliged. He spent the five weeks since drinking, gaming and whoring his way around the capitol. And when he hadn't been doing that he'd attempted killing himself in duels or other dangerous sporting activities that made his peers revere the black-hearted and danger-addicted Marquis of Neathe. The whispered secrets of his exploits against the French combined with his reputation as one of Byron's new romantic heroes and the small pension left to him by his mother were the only thing that kept him out of the gutter.

His grandfather the Duke had initially disinherited him in the hope that it would bring the normally commonsensical lad to his senses. He'd expected Charles to return, as he always did after his temper had cooled, to state calmly and coldly the real reason for his latest madness. Charles had inherited the Hansforth temper but usually had the good sense and ability, unlike his father, to admit a mistake when he'd made one.

Hansforth had not expected the lad to stubbornly persist in continuing his descent into hell for five long weeks, nor had he anticipated being summoned to his bedside by the boy's last surviving friend, Lord James Stanley. Having recently returned from campaign himself, Stanley was in uniform, battle scarred and walking with a slight limp. He was lucky, as was Charles not to have lost limbs like a lot of the men invalided out of the war. With cannon used against the infantry they were also lucky they hadn't been blown to bits.

"He's been drinking solidly for three days your grace. I've never seen him so bad. There are times he is almost delirious with the pain."

"Pain? What pain?" growled out the old man in derision. He didn't believe it. The boy had proved himself a drunkard and a wastrel like his father.

"Why, sir, I have no pain," Charles laughed a little huskily. "At least not when I am drunk."

Hansforth was a reasonable man but his patience had all but had run out. He grabbed the boy's arm and shook him. "Charles, for God's sake, what's happened to you?"

Charles could withstand his grandfather's contempt, but not the physical zeal behind it. Pain ripped through his entire body and although he prevented himself from crying out, agony consumed him and he passed out.

"What the...?" The old man shivered with presentiments. Suddenly he noticed the unusual pallor around his grandson's face, his unnatural breathing and the smell of the hospital in the disgusting hovel in which he lived.

"He's sick, your grace. I thought he would have told you?" James Stanley reached forward and felt his friend's pulse and breathed a sigh of relief. "In fact, you'd better take a seat whilst I tell you the rest."

Hansforth shook his head, and went to stand at the window where a blast of London smog assailed him. He told himself he should have known. There had to be a damn good reason why Charles would behave with such appalling callousness. The boy had actually told him the truth when he'd said he would not be providing an heir to the Hansforth fortune and that he would never live at Lotheringham. As always, sensitive to the feelings of others, Charles hadn't the heart to explain that he, Hansforth's last remaining heir, was dying.

"He was...wounded in Moscow," Stanley began, slowly. Then he shook his head, gritting his teeth as anger filled him. "There were no doctors only some Russian herb wife..."

"Oh God. He went on that fool mission to follow Napoleon into Russia..." Hansforth shook his head; anger fierce and terrifying made him clench his fists against the truth. One of his cronies had whispered the truth to him a year ago but he'd refused to believe it. Why hadn't the lad gone into the cavalry like all preceding Hansforths? He couldn't understand why the boy had chosen instead to be a spy for the Admiralty, like some runner born out of the gutter.

"Orders, sir. You know how invaluable Charles was to the old boot and with five years experience and speaking the language he was the inevitable choice. After all, you were a diplomat, were you not, during the time of Catherine the Great?" Stanley watched as Hansforth inclined his head.

"Well, so was Charles, in his own way. We followed the French army as gun merchants. We sold them experimental guns, which didn't always work so it was a dangerous business. We reached Moscow where Napoleon found nothing to feed his troops. There was no food for the serfs, let alone the thousands of troops that he'd brought to conquer the mighty Russian Empire. Moscow was burned, and the surrounding countryside became a 'scorched earth' albeit one of ice and snow. With snipers and an excellent hidden resistance...the Russians were more successful with the weapon that was their bitterest winter. Unable to feed his men Napoleon was forced to withdraw. Over three hundred thousand French were killed in that retreat. The Cossacks harried those who trailed behind and the ice and snow took the rest. We left Moscow literally walking on a frozen road of the dead..."

James could hardly speak for a moment. Just thinking about it made him shudder. There were so many awful memories, so many unspeakable horrors, which were endured in order to survive. Yet now, months later they still haunted his dreams. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and continued, in a gruff voice.

"Charles was...injured coming to the aid of a child some of Napoleon's officers had found. He received his wound from several sword thrusts at close quarters. He was left tied up and bleeding to death in the snow whilst the officers...enjoyed themselves. When I found him the child was dead and Charles was being tended by an old Babushka, a Russian herb wife. She warned me not to move him and said that once Napoleon was gone we would both be heroes, but Charles could walk and we had information for the Admiralty. We returned to England in the wake of the French army. I thought he would die like many others, of black finger--the frostbite. But you know Charles, how stubborn he is...and of his...special abilities. I think also that vengeance that drove him, for of those six officers involved in killing that child, all but one died on the way home."

"Yes, Charles believes in an eye for an eye. He is not a New Testament man." Hansforth grudgingly admired his grandson's sense of honour, if not his reckless and unforgiving nature.

"I thought he might have a chance once he returned to London. Unfortunately I was held up in Paris but as soon as I returned, Grossin his man, sent a note to me. I have to apologise for not informing you sooner, sir, but the last time I saw Charles he assured me that a London surgeon under the name of Widgeon would be able to help. I did not realise until yesterday that he was so...sick. I called on the surgeon and he informed me of the real state of his condition." Stanley bit back the real quality of the speech he'd had yesterday--the irritation that Charles had not followed the learned doctors advice and his shock that he still lived.

"He's dying." Hansforth looked at the back of his hands, hating himself for being so stupid.

James Stanley was surprised the old man accepted it so well. "He's in a lot of pain much of the time. He drinks to make it bearable. You know his past association with the Russian Mystics and how much he believes in the power of the mind over the body? Well, he refused the surgeon's knife and any drug that would make his mind wander. Alcohol was the better option and gaming was also a way for him to cheat the pain for small periods. I believe he's amassed quite a fortune since he applied himself to gambling with serious intent. Certainly he has been refused admission to Watiers on account of him ruining several of the demi monde. Whites dared not throw him out."

Hansforth laughed harshly. "No doubt the moral implications of what he was doing would have kept his mind enthralled. He always considered it iniquitous to rob men of their wealth through a game of chance." He frowned at James. "But I do not understand this whoring. Charles was always so fastidious, particularly because of his father's penchant for loose women."

James flushed. "There are some...things he needs to speak to you about in private. I can only fill you in on what the surgeon said. Widgeon wanted to operate, to amputate both his legs due to the spread of infection but Charles refused."

Hansforth frowned, cursing under his breath. His grandson was a fit and extremely active young man. He would never have gone through with it and he suddenly felt furious for not being informed. "How could he be so selfish? He thought only of the life he could have before he died, not of those who loved him. Why did he not consider his responsibilities? Why not speak to me about it instead of provoking an argument and going off in a rage?"

James licked his lips nervously. He didn't know whether to make a clean sweep of the truth now or to leave it to Charles who had chosen to rot rather than reveal the truth. James's instinct was to trust the crotchety old man who loved his grandson and hope that his understanding would make his friend's last few days easier.

"Come lad, spit it out." Hansforth was no callow youth. He knew when someone was holding out on him and he intended knowing the truth no matter how badly it pained him or how much it embarrassed this young officer.

"Due to the location of the wound he was told that no matter whether he had the amputation or not there was no doubt in the doctor's mind...Charles would be medically incapable of consummating any marriage, getting any woman pregnant...or even, pleasuring one." James was appalled at having to discuss this in front of the old man, but he knew it was important to get everything into the open. He couldn't just let the old man bully his grandson without knowing the reason why Charles had behaved so appallingly. "He was tortured by those French officers."

Hansforth shuddered with suppressed rage at those faceless Frenchmen. Icy fingers crawled up and down his spine and a terrible feeling of dread smote his heart. James watched him then bowed his head, knowing he had said more than enough. He'd reduced the Hansforth line down to a man who was incapable of continuing it.

The duke paced for a moment, quite incapable of speech, then he spat out the question, "So why the whores?" Choked with disgust he shook his head. "He'd hardly been near a woman before this stupid business. I had begun to doubt that he knew what to do with one."

James flushed with embarrassment. "Charles was very discreet. I trust you didn't realise he had a mistress set up in a town house not far from here? Obviously, when he returned from Moscow he had no further use for her but he did require a roof over his head. He offered her a generous settlement under the circumstances. However since she didn't know that he had been disinherited she chose to be publicly insulted. This, combined with the fact that Charles also rejected, not very tactfully I have to say, Lady Sarah Mountford in full view of the ton at Lady Mitchell's ball caused a great deal of unwarranted gossip." He paused as the old man moaned and shook his head in disbelief.

"The reputed beauty?" Hansforth murmured in disbelief, casting his eyes reluctantly over his wastrel grandson. In good health and vigour Charles stood three inches taller than the duke did who wasn't exactly under average height. Over six feet tall with the black hair, dark eyes and rakish good looks of his ancestors he suddenly realised Charles could have had any woman he set his mind to seducing.

"I believe Lady Sarah actually had ambitions extending to marriage but once he rejected her she lambasted him to her friends. With his other exploits so well recorded, the ton jumped to the obvious conclusion that a man with so much vigorous energy must be expending it elsewhere. His mistress who has since attached herself to a young Corinthian, provided the answer, especially since Charles had sold the town house to set up home in this disreputable area." James shuddered when he recollected the pockmarked woman who had propositioned him on the stair on the way up to the small apartment.

"The young cad let them believe what they wanted." Hansforth almost laughed. That was Charles all over; never give up and twist other people's truths just to laugh at their ineffable stupidity.

James smiled ruefully. "When the rumour was made known to Charles I believe he laughed uproariously for the first time in months. He must have decided, in his own ironic way to play up to it." James flushed with shame for the old Charles who had been so fastidious as to reputation and breeding. If that young man ever regained his senses he would be mortally ashamed of everything he had done.

"Trust his black heart to do so," stated Hansforth nodding, realising how difficult this had been for James Stanley. This young man had been nothing but truthful in painful circumstances. "I thank you for your concern over my grandson. He has a true friend in you Lord James. You will always be made welcome at Lotheringham Hall, no matter the outcome of this sorry business."

A tap on the door brought Doctor Widgeon, a small man with a stoop who nodded at both gentlemen. His face was grave as he came forward and examined the patient. His nose wrinkled at the smell that came from his body, not of wine or ale or unwashed body, but of rotting putrifying flesh.

"If you would kindly wait outside gentlemen." He glowered at them both until they left. He made his examination as brief and painless as possible and hurriedly retreated some minutes later out of the room where brandy was being poured by the marquis's valet. He hastily retrieved a glass to acquit his nose of the vile smell.

"Well?" boomed the old man. "Are you going to stuff that down your throat or tell us the worst?"

The doctor coughed, sniffed and looked up at the old man tiredly. When he noted the similarity to the young man lying in his bed his heart jumped as he realised this must be old Duke Hansforth himself. "His condition hasn't improved your grace since the last time I saw him. I might have operated then but there's certainly nothing I can do for him now. The gangrene has spread and leaked its poison into the rest of his body. I've never seen a case as advanced as this where the man is still relatively conscious, particularly owing to the nature of the original wound."

"What are you saying, man?" Even James was impatient.

"He's not just dying your grace. He should by rights already be dead." The doctor was blunt. "To be honest, when I saw him last I didn't think he had a chance even with surgery. It must be sheer force of will keeping him alive. Now the condition is so far advanced I doubt he has hours, rather than days left to live."

"Can he be moved?" asked the Duke of Hansforth with careful deliberation.

"He's in a great deal of pain. Moving him will only succeed in opening up the wound site which will be agonising. I would plan on someone visiting him, rather than the other way round. You should look on this bed as his last, gentlemen."

Chapter Two

Arina smiled with joy as she held the tiny baby in her arms, rocking it gently until his whimpering wail slowly gave way into blessed slumber. The baby's mother looked on in absolute amazement as she put him in the little basket next to the bed, wrapping the lavender scented shawl she wore around him so that the draught in the small cottage couldn't wake him.

"Oh he was crying so much I didn't know what to do. Thank you Miss Arina, but please don't leave your shawl. It's a bitter wind howling through the copse."

Arina shook her head, then put her hand over the mother's and smiled at her, willing her to have the strength to deal kindly with a child that had such lusty lungs. The new mother looked tired and drained, momentarily at the end of her tether. Arina's heart filled with compassion as she helped her into the small alcove bed and covered her with a threadbare blanket and lifted a warm herbal drink to her lips.

The small cottage was neat and tidy but there were holes in the floorboards that creaked as the wind howled beneath them. The door, which didn't fit its frame, strained and rattled against its rusty hinges. The smell of winter was in the air and she sensed the coming of snow. In her mind's eye Arina could see ice crystals forming above the eaves of the old parish church. Those with little to tide them over the harsh winter would be struggling and Arina had already seen the worn quality of the young mother's clothes. She emptied her basket out on to the table. There was bread and cheese and two jars of gooseberry jam. She was going to have to send John down later to take extra food to the old woman in Pickles' cottage.

"Oh no Miss. We've got enough to eat, honest. I know you were visiting Miss Barnett. She needs it more than we do."

Arina shook her head and wished for once for the words to say 'don't worry', then looked up sharply as the door flew open. Thinking it was the wind she went immediately to close it. A tall man stood there, blocking the light. Fear made her shudder as she remembered fleetingly another night where a soldier had come to knock down a sturdier door and she shivered with terror.

The big giant of a coachman frowned when he saw the terror on the young woman's face and spoke softly, "'Tis only me, John, Miss Arina. Mrs. Featherstone asked me to fetch you up to the house in the carriage." His eyes flew to the young mother lying in bed and he swallowed. He tipped his hat to the girl and blushed. "I'll...wait outside."

Arina's eyelids dropped and she nodded. She took some coins from her purse and left them surreptitiously on the table and took her cloak from the back of the chair and covered the young mother with it, touching her hand gently to try and soothe her. Even with all the excitement of childbirth she could see the young girl's eyes closing in exhaustion, just as tired as her tiny baby that had finally succumbed to sleep. It had been enough if she had helped them both to rest, for the hard work of labour and birth had been particularly exhausting for this young woman.

As she left, she forced her heart to stop beating so fast knowing it must be serious if the carriage had been sent out to bring her back. It was going to be important to deal with whatever was coming in a calm and rational manner.

"Is she well, Miss?" called out John as he helped her into the rickety old carriage.

Arina nodded, but pointed to her empty basket and worn woollen dress. John nodded. "Aye, I understand. She needs food and clothing to get through this winter. I didn't realise her man had left her till Old Rob told me."

Arina hadn't realised either because the girl had been so quiet throughout the long night. She'd had her pride, and yet pride wouldn't keep her and the baby alive for long if there were no man to put meat on the table. She looked up at John with concern and he shrugged.

"He'll be back once he's run out of money. He's not so bad when he's sober." The bitterness in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders told an even sadder story. He looked askance, appalled at how much he had revealed to this woman who always knew too much, and his jaw set stubbornly. "She chose her life and her man."

Arina reached out and touched his arm with long delicate fingers. John gasped, pulling away abruptly. It was said she had a healer's touch although others said she was a witch. He shuddered with a momentary fear and blurted out, "I'll speak to my gran. She should be able to help."

Arina's eyes filled with tears at his sudden kindness. She knew how the servants in Featherstone viewed her; as an untouchable, someone they didn't understand, someone to be feared. It was only the cook who'd felt her healing hands on her old arthritic bones who held them in check. And John was a young man, easily led. She had not realised how considerate he could be of others. He was all gruff impatience to the fairer sex but she knew there was reason. He had a grandmother he doted on and four sisters too young to be sent into service. All five women relied upon his income to keep them fed and clothed and each fussed over him as if he were the baby of the family. Arina was touched beyond words that he was willing to accept another under his protection but she was also relieved. His grandmother was a termagant but once she knew about Mary and her baby they would all be well cared for, if ruled with a rod of iron until winter thawed.

Arina pulled herself up and into the old carriage. The wind coursed up the lane, blowing her skirts about her ankles and cutting through her woollen gown. Her bones ached and she felt old and tired. She'd been on her feet for almost two days. A day for making jam then a night and a day with the girl's labours. Never expecting any kindness, each act when it came filled her soul with joy. This day she felt well tended indeed as she watched the leaves of autumn gently falling as the carriage saved her the long walk home. Her heart grew full with the incredible beauty of the bitterly cold day even though she shivered in her well-worn woollen dress.

She was relieved it wasn't the fashionable muslin some young women chose to wear. White had become the popular colour since the turn of the Millennium and had caused uproar in more than one household between mistress and servant. It was a nightmare to keep the fabric clean and that was if a girl remained indoors for much of the day. Since Arina was always out visiting or helping others she had to be practical and kept refusing offers to 'make her up fashionably well'. She ignored other comments also designed to appeal to her vanity, 'you might find yourself a little pretty if you were to look after yourself' or worse, 'she might not be so plain if she smiled a little'.

Arina knew she wasn't pretty. She deliberately underplayed her looks so that no man would notice her in that way. It was her greatest fear to be noticed as a young woman rather than the whisper of shadow she played. She covered her black hair with powder to make it look grey and her white skin was made dark with artificial blemishes. Her eyes were so dark a blue as to be like sleet in winter and she made them colder, brittle as flint if there was ever a man present that might glance at her. That and the 'bluestocking' glasses she wore were enough to keep the wolves from her door.

She was a practical soul because that was what life had made her. She was grateful for the roof over her head, the food she ate and the skills that others could find a use for. After an early rebellion based mostly on fear and ignorance, she had learned to accept what she was given and be thankful to God because she alone knew how far worse it could be.

She had deliberately made herself into a servant and although she was unpaid she was gently treated. Her guardian Mrs. Featherstone, had been kinder to her than any other soul in her entire life. Although she was only older by seven years she looked on her as a strict but kindly mother figure, certainly she'd been the only family she'd known since she had turned thirteen. She revered her and all her kindness and loyalty was rewarded threefold. Emma Featherstone looked on Arina as a dutiful loving daughter and, only occasionally, Emma would frown and wonder at this strange girl who had made herself so useful in the running of her house and the care of her tenants. She tried her best to overcome her failings in being unable to draw the girl back into normal society.

Over the years she had had to accept defeat on that score. For in the time they had known one another Arina had resisted every attempt at being invited to polite social gatherings. For a girl of her years she should have been interested in marrying or having a child of her own, not merely delivering the babes of others. But Arina refused parties and soirees and if she were forced to go she played music appallingly, avoided those people interested in her and took up the stance of ageing companion to Emma's lively personality. In simple terms Arina became a piece of furniture, a bit of wooden panelling that had seen better days but refused to be made over more attractive.

Emma, who had hoped for a good match and children to warm the cool heart of her adopted daughter, had to concede to this girl's determination. No modern man would notice her, nor have courage or strength enough to deal with such a stubbornly resistant personality. And Arina, who in all apologies and gentle humility never wished to bring ill feeling to any other, was unfortunately mute. Incapable of explaining a single part of her behaviour in words and, in their unusual way of communication becoming distressed in discussion of this peculiarity of her character, Emma had to accept that she would never change. It was as if trust of the stronger sex as well as speech was something that had been taken from her so many years before.

As in all relationships with those she loved, Emma was wise enough to accept Arina's faults as part of her character. However, occasionally she persisted in her attempt to bring her adopted daughter a true and happy love with a husband and family of her own. These things were closer to Emma's heart than she could reveal, particularly because she herself had been cheated of them.

The red and amber leaves of autumn swirled in little tornadoes of debris as the carriage sped bumpily across the estate. Featherstone Manor was beautiful at this time of year when all the trees changed colour and the autumn sunsets turned the landscape to gold. It had been Arina's home for the last six years and it warmed her heart to see the lights of the manor house amidst the trees as dusk fell with the first sign of snow.

The carriage whirled down the lane so fast that she had to hold on to the straps. Dust whirled up and unsettled her hair so that some of her unruly black curls broke free and tangled in her eyes. She was so busy gripping the edge of her seat that she didn't notice the other carriage in the driveway of the house until they had stopped. The gilded arms of Hansforth glittered on the wood in the failing light and Arina recalled the coldness with which Mrs. Featherstone had last spoke of the peer who occupied the neighbouring mansion.

"He is, and always has been, a complete reprobate." Emma's voice had been full of fury after she had read a newspaper article about the Duke of Hansforth's latest on-dit. "His grandson is set to take after his father, with gaming, wine and...such sending him straight down the twisty road to hell."

Since then they'd heard even more risqué tales of gossip from the London set through her correspondence with a Miss Fischer, and none of it was good. The Hansforth heir had fallen into disrepute. After returning from the continent he had disgraced himself with a duel over a reputed beauty and then carried on with what could only be described as a wild orgy, with a series of women of dubious repute. Oh, the scandal! Emma had been furious, which was why Arina was shocked to find the Hansforth coach in front of Featherstone Manor.

In hoping to find out more Arina went around the back of the house and through the kitchen doorway. The footmen and drivers of the Hansforth coach were cosily chatting whilst sipping the hot tea and pastries cook provided. When Arina entered they all went silent. One even sketched the protective sign of the cross in dread fear of her. Incongruously, the long night and her tiredness made the gesture more important to her than it should and Arina felt tears prick her eyes because they thought her a witch. She busied herself wiping the steam from her spectacles.

"Now lass. You should be using the front door. And where's your cloak and your shawl? Why, you're freezing." Cook came up to her and touched her hands, ignoring the utter silence behind her as the men stared in outrageous curiosity at the witch in her too big, too worn dress.

"Miss Arina gave her cloak to Mary and her shawl to the baby," said John, coming in behind her. "Mary's man's gone again and there's no food or cloth to keep her or her new baby warm."

Cook looked up at him and glowered. "Never you mind about Mary what's-her-face. She chose her man." She drew Arina closer to the fire. "Once you've warmed your hands I'll give you a tray to take up to Miss Emma and his nibs. They're having such a row through there that would raise anyone's thirst. He'll no doubt want whisky but she'll be happier it's tea and it's her house." Cook bristled with annoyance then looked carefully at the young woman before her. "And how is Mary and the young 'un? Is it a boy then, like you said it were to be?"

Arina nodded, and smiled wryly, mimicking holding the tiny baby in her arms. Cook smiled with warmth. "I'll have to go see. I always liked young Emma when she was a babe. You could tuck her into the corner of your elbow so neat and tidy and she would just go to sleep."

The men tittered amongst themselves and she glowered at them. "Aye, you lot can drink me tea and eat me fresh scones but you'll not ridicule me or you'll all be out in that sleet."

"It ain't sleeting yet Cook, but you'll be wishing it on us and we got an hour's journey before Lotheringham." The tall, ruddy-faced coachman stretched out his long legs under the battered oak table. He eyed Cook in the way one might look at a leg of turkey at Christmas and she scowled.

"You should count yourself lucky enough for a bit of warmth so keep your mouths shut unless you cause Miss Arina to leave with reddened ears for your swearing and complaining." Cook brandished the teaspoon she used to set the tea tray and they all laughed.

They laughed at Cook but they stared at Arina who was terrified. She had never seen so many men in one small space at one time. For a moment she forgot to keep her eyes lowered, her position humble and more than one noticed the unusual beauty of her eyes. John, realising what they saw was suddenly appalled.

"You need to go and join Mrs. Featherstone Miss Arina." He stood up in front of her. Her eyes lowered and he was relieved when she placed her spectacles back on her delicate nose.

"Yes Miss. Take the tea tray and eat one of those scones. I doubt you'll have eaten since yesterday." Cook scolded Arina and opened the door and hurried her out of the kitchen and into the small hallway.

Holding the heavy tea tray proved almost too much for Arina and a smartly dressed valet entering the house took it from her. "Here Miss, I'll take it. It's for his grace and Mrs. Featherstone is it? Don't worry, I'll take it in and you can retreat back to the kitchen." He grinned at her, mistaking her for a maid. "They've been shouting at each other nigh on an hour now, so it'll be safer."

Arina met his gaze, amused for a moment and relieved that her disguise was so well perfected. He was neither young nor good-looking but he had a kindly face with bright blue eyes and she instantly felt safe with him. However he looked at her in puzzlement as she ignored his advice and opened the door to the morning room. He took the tea tray in and frowned as she followed him.

"Thank goodness," said Emma Featherstone, noticing Arina whose eyebrows rose fractionally at the distress she could see in her guardian's eyes.

"Yes, it's about time you offered me some hospitality madam, especially considering the hours I've been on the road. You might also consider my boy who lies dying in the carriage outside." The old man peeled out the words like a town crier, his voice filling up the entire house. He ignored Arina who reached forward to pour the tea much to the valet's astonishment.

"I'll do that Miss..." he protested.

"Just let the woman do it Grossin. It's what they're here for isn't it? Pouring that disgusting stuff down our throats, trying to sober us up," The duke roared like an army general.

"Oh do be quiet Edward," Emma spoke softly in rebuke. "You'll wake my neighbour and he is actually enjoying his retirement from politics."

"Humph!" the duke glowered. "Well your tongue ain't blunted any Emma Featherstone."

Arina noted Emma's pained expression and gently touched her arm as she passed her a cup of tea. Emma's hand instantly covered hers and her eyes came up full of amusement. "It's all right Arina, Edward and I have always argued, even before my marriage."

The valet almost dropped the cup he was carrying. As it was it wobbled precariously and the duke had to grab it in his large hand and glower at the man who had served his grandson for ten years without so much as batting an eyelid. Then he turned on Arina.

"So this is the Lotheringham witch." He took a sip of his tea and shuddered at the insipid concoction of milk and hot water. His eyes covered Arina's entire body with distaste. "You're dressed like a servant."

But that is what I am. Arina curtsied and allowed herself to meet his gaze. This man was powerful and would have to know that she was not some untried schoolgirl to be pushed around. She raised her head and the fire she always kept hidden blazed into her eyes. The old man noticed everything about her. His life experience had been particularly thorough in terms of the fair sex and he recognised the mental strength and the unusual beauty beneath the humble disguise she chose to deceive others.

"So, Miss, will you help me I wonder?" He was wondering what to offer her as incentive since Emma had already denied him aid. He immediately noticed her lack of artifice. She wore neither jewelry nor clothing to impress and her looks were dimmed with lack of sleep. He'd already been told she'd been out midwifing a local peasant and was impressed with the fact that she was still relatively clean.

"She will not," Emma Featherstone stated calmly and quietly. "It's one thing to help my poor unfortunate tenants or the mothers and daughters of the local gentry who may deserve it, but I suspect this boy requested his illness straight from the devil himself. I'm not having Arina come into contact with a man sickening with some disease he's picked up off some...person of disreputable station."

Emma was furious and Arina's eyes widened with surprise. Reputable women were not meant to acknowledge those that were not. Besides which, Emma had always been kind to those who came to ask for help, she always responded positively no matter what the problem. But perhaps this was the first time anyone had come to them requesting help for a venereal disease.

"I keep telling you, it's not syphilis. He was wounded and the wound has festered." The old man ignored Emma and turned to look at Arina. Although she said nothing she was listening intently. "I believe he's dying. I want to call my surgeon from Fawley, but I doubt there is anything he will be able to do. I had hoped your ward might, at the very least, be able to help with the pain."

Arina softened, then looked at Emma who shook her head adamantly. "No. Let him take poppy for his sins. I will not permit Arina to tend him. If he's dying let him do so without ruining her reputation."

"Reputation? Are you so hung up on the opinions on society's dictates that reputation is worth more than a man's life? If so, then I consider you to be a very foolish woman Emma Featherstone and I bid you good day." The duke had heard enough. He glanced once at the girl who had gone to stand next to her guardian and had put out a slim long-fingered hand to her sleeve. It was almost an entreaty but without the words it served no purpose and he was sick to his soul in having to plead to a woman who had lost hers a long time ago to society's mores. He headed for the door and paused at the exit. He had to try one last time.

"You must realise Emma that I would never have come if I was not in desperate need of your help." It was the first time he had spoken to her gently, without blustering or bullying. His simple words cut away all Emma's resistance.

"My help?" Her eyes widened with amazement.

"Yes, for my last remaining heir," he spoke calmly, wondering for the umpteenth time why she hadn't born any live children to his eldest son. When he saw her eyes fill with pain at the unspoken criticism he sighed. He had not wished to cause her more sickness of heart. "He was wounded fighting against Napoleon. He stupidly allowed the wound to fester whilst he returned vital information to London."

Emma frowned, horrified. "But he returned weeks ago. Why didn't he speak to a surgeon then?"

"He did but he refused the surgeon's knife because they wanted to amputate. Now there's nothing they can do for him." Emma winced, but Arina's eyes filled with compassion. The girl understood. He wanted her to make Charles's last hours easier. He needed her to be able to finally make his peace with his grandson before he died. He leaned forward to speak directly to Arina. "Go and see him. He's been waiting out in the carriage for the last hour because your guardian refused to allow him in the house." He knew she would not be able to resist.

"Arina, no!" Emma tried to catch Arina's arm but failed to do so as the girl hurried out along with the valet. She turned to Edward, last Duke of Hansforth, and shook her head, knowing what was coming and dreading it. "Arina cannot help you. She is neither a physician nor a surgeon."

"But she is a healer. Everyone speaks of her talent. Did she not help the miller's wife with her twins and save the blacksmith's hand after that terrible accident? In both situations a surgeon was summoned and admitted defeat." Edward frowned, wondering why she was trying to protect her young protégé. He was aware that her eyes were staring into his intently. "You forget the fact that I know who she is Emma. She's the girl I rescued from that Russian winter nine years ago, the one you saved from typhus and then took under your wing when my wife was dying. You nursed them both, don't you remember?"

Emma winced, remembering more than that. She closed her eyes, refusing to think about those nights of pain and frustrated longing. It was the worst and the best time of her entire life. The bitter ice of the Russian winter had driven its way deeply and intensely into their polite English household like a swirling vortex of pain, dragging each of them down in its wake. Those that hadn't died had been besmirched forever. There was no getting the taint off one's soul afterwards.

Edward watched her face fill with shamed emotion and remembered also the bleak anger that followed. He'd been distraught. His wife had been dying, along with the child she'd given birth to. Somehow, he still didn't understand why, he had discovered Emma's vulnerability--her desperate hunger for affection because his eldest son was incapable of giving that to anyone but his Russian mistress.

"Emma, that wild, unruly time brought a special child to us--a healer who can bring back the dead, the destroyed. She has a wild, chaotic power inside her she could barely control as a child. Now she's a woman and a healer of merit and I need her to try and bring Charles back from the brink. If she can do that much his mind is strong enough to do the rest. He also studied Russian Mysticism. So perhaps between the two..."

Emma's eyes filled with tears. Suddenly she realised how unforgiving she was being and sighed. "Her talent doesn't always work. Some people don't want to be brought back. Some want to die because they are just tired of living." She spoke from personal experience and a great deal of grief.

"I realise that." In an attempt to comfort her Edward took her cold, stiff fingers into his and warmed them. "But I have to try everything in my power to give my grandson that choice." He wanted to say more, but he didn't want to say anything that would insult his elder son's memory. However, now that he had touched her he found he wasn't able to let go. Tenderness filled his heart and joy touched his soul at that innocent connection. He held himself still with iron control and waited for her to decide. For all the years between them it was as if they had never been apart. The wind still howled outside the windows, the snow came down and there was fire between the palms of their hands.

It was Emma who withdrew her fingers calmly and coolly. She forced her unruly emotions back under control and looked up at him carefully. "You know what my objections are. Arina has seen enough of pain in her life. She helps others because it is a way of making her own pain go away, however temporary the relief. She needs more than that in her life. She needs love Edward, a family of her own. If Charles with his illicit history is entwined with her present..."

Edward growled. "Don't speak to me again of reputation."

"Yes, you can cast it off, for men are revered for their adventures but women are shamed forever. In our society reputation is everything and if but one rumour circulated as to the fact that your son spent a single night under the same roof, Arina would be finished. No decent man would look at her again. She would be subject to the sort of speculation that no good woman should ever be exposed to."

"There will be no rumour. Any servant that speaks of it will be flogged." He was furious that she would question his moral intent. Had she not realised eleven years ago how determined he was to uphold the mores of society even to the extent of their own deep unhappiness?

If Emma had cared more about herself and less for Arina she would have not said what she then did. Gone were her own concerns, her twisted past with this man who had once disgraced her. All she cared about was the fact that Arina should not suffer the same unhappiness she had experienced purely because of some miscarried opinion. "No, there will be no flogging your grace. Nor will there be any attentive scandal because your grandson, if he lives, must marry her."

Hansforth's face went the colour of cooked beetroot and he almost laughed at her gall. Apart from the immense difference in their stations little did Emma know how that impossible it would prove. Arina was not free to marry and Charles could give no woman a child even if he lived. Would she wish such a barren existence on her young protégé? And yet, since society dictated that he could not speak to her about such intimate knowledge and because she followed its every dictate he merely inclined his head and added, "If he lives."

He realised when he said the words that the issue was irrelevant and only then, in that single bleak moment Hansforth acknowledged that he did not expect Charles to live. For a moment the rage he had carried for so long ran free inside of him, to have suffered himself to survive beyond all his children and perhaps now even his last surviving grandchild, was excruciating. And, as always, when he thought of death he remembered his once beautiful wife and all their dead children; those that had died during birth or afterwards and the two that had grown to handsome men who had thrown their lives away on reckless selfish pursuits.

He wondered what it was that made men and women give life to their descendants when such grief accompanied it. He turned away to hide the bleakness in his soul and realised another truth--that he had come to Featherstone for another reason. He wanted to reacquaint himself with the lady who had haunted his heart for almost twenty years. Her ward Arina was a reputed healer it was true, but he truly believed his grandson beyond healers and surgeons. What his grandson needed was a minister but he, Hansforth, wanted comfort from a cold-hearted matron who cared for nothing but reputation.

A rush of icy wind swirled around him, disturbing his travelling clothes and a door banged shut. His eyes flew to where Arina entered, her hair starting to loosen from its prim knot. She looked both furious and intent as she ignored him and approached Emma. He wondered for a moment what could have changed this shadow servant into a woman of such power and command but he raised his eyebrows as she mouthed words, made small gestures. How could he have been so stupid to forget? In all these years he had not seen her he had forgotten that she was mute. The healer who could help others couldn't heal herself. She couldn't speak a word.

Emma frowned, shaking her head for a moment. "No. Not here." Her voice was tremulous and frightened and Hansforth came up beside her, wondering what the girl was saying so silently that spooked the older woman.

Arina looked then to the duke and her eyes pleaded with him. Then she pointed a shaking hand to the ceiling. Emma shook her head, glowering. However when Arina pointed to the floor and nodded her head determinedly Hansforth realised what she was trying to communicate. "It seems my dear that your ward indicates that Charles has to be brought into the house."

"Over my dead body," said Emma, furiously.

Arina tried desperately to speak but Hanforth sighed. "Come Emma, it will not be yours, it will be his. If you are so strict as to insist on propriety you can visit with me at Lotheringham. Lady Degarth is visiting; you remember the widow of my friend Degarth? She is with her daughter and her companion, so you will be well chaperoned." Emma scoffed. Chaperoned by the woman who was reputed to be his current mistress?

"I cannot go to Lotheringham."

"Yes you can. If we are quick we can get Charles into the house and take you up into the carriage. It's a visit long overdue and it will protect your reputation. If you tell Grossin in which bed to put him the two of us can see to him being brought in from the cold without even the servants knowing. Grossin can double back later to help your ward."

"It doesn't protect Arina..."

"We will say she is sick. Besides, most people believe my grandson is in London. I can trust my servants to keep their mouths shut and we can draw the gossip to Lotheringham with ease whilst Arina has a free hand here to do what she will without anyone knowing any better."

Without understanding why, Emma realised she had lost the battle, acquiescing to her ward's insistence and Hansforth's calm words. For once she felt everything had been taken out of her hands and was relieved. Hansforth was a capable organiser and he was cunningly manipulative with Society. They would believe what he told them and nothing of the truth if he so wished. And he was right that the tabbies would gossip. Eleven years of open warfare suddenly ended between the duke and she would certainly end all speculation about the marquis. Now that the season was over the news would spread like wildfire amongst the stagnating ennui of the ton.

Emma inclined her head, and wondered what the future would hold now that Hansforth featured in it. She looked at him once and saw only pained relief in his eyes and nothing of calculation.

"Thank you Emma. I am forever in your debt." The duke bowed to her and went immediately outside to help Charles into the house, providing he hadn't already decided to depart the earthly realms. So it was that Charles Hansforth, Marquis of Neathe was carried into Featherstone Manor.

Chapter Three

Charles had slept fitfully in the thankfully now stable carriage and awoke in a foul mood because of the pain and fever raging inside him. As a consequence he refused to be carried from the coach like some common drunk. He stood up, only to realise his mistake when the ground rushed up to meet him. Both his valet and his tall grandparent caught him but the pain of stretched muscles twisted his insides to molten lava.

Not for the first time that day was he thankful for the concoction his grandfather had forced down his throat earlier in the day. Drink or be carried, his elderly relative had threatened and he had drunk, knowing his pride wouldn't allow the latter. What he did not expect was for the all-pervading numbness in his body to alter his ability to stay upright.

"You are a ridiculously stubborn man Charles," muttered the gruff voice that belonged to his grandfather. He grimaced, aware of being carried through the door under the ivy-laden eaves of a stone-built house. Once within, the smell of fresh scones made him remember his blissfully irresponsible childhood.

"I take after my patriarchal grandfather," he replied dryly. "I believe I inherited everything from him or so Grandmamma told me."

"Yes, unfortunately you were her favourite. She ruined you." Hansforth thanked his old bones that he wasn't that unfit. Sixty years on the earth seeing to his estates and burying his children seemed to have gifted him endurance. They managed to get the boy into the sparsely furnished bedroom and onto the bed, which had been stripped of everything but a bottom sheet.

"She loved you because you were such an early moralist and because you made the time to drink tea with her." Hansforth shuddered at the thought.

Charles looked around him, shivering in the cold room and noticing the lack of bed linen. "Bit Spartan is it not? Couldn't find a decent hostelry?" He frowned at the sight of an old woman in a threadbare grey gown. His eyes rose as they fell on the carving knife in her hand. His heart jumped when she momentarily rested it on a brazier of coals, which his valet was moving closer to the bed. He glanced once at his grandfather and a flicker of anger crossed his face.

"I told you--no surgeon." His lips set furiously. "You can drug me to the eyeballs but I refuse to let any doctor carve me up." Charles was absolutely determined. That's why he'd tried so hard to kill himself in the normal way of things before it came to this--the surgeon's knife. He wasn't a coward. He just wanted to choose his path to his maker, with all his body parts intact.

"Fear not Charles, it's a knife, not a saw," replied Hansforth, steeling his emotions to hide his own fear.

"If it were a saw I wouldn't be lying here," snapped Charles, appalled that his grandparent could make fun of his illness. They had hardly talked in the coach from London but he sensed the old man understood that this was Charles's last port of call.

"Well, lucky for us you are not in a fit state to go anywhere." Hansforth frowned as a big lad came into the room with hot water in a steaming bowl and towels over his arm.

Charles didn't see the old woman as she took up the butcher's knife, but he felt the skin-tight buckskin rip as she attacked them. "Good Lord. Isn't there a better way to get my clothes off? I'll let you know they cost a great deal of money old woman!" He glowered at Hansforth. "And don't you dare tell me I won't need them again. I'll not go to my maker dressed in a night shirt."

"Charles, calm down. This is for your own good. The girl will take care of you."

"If that's a girl I'm already dead and gone to hell," snapped Charles. "And if you've chosen a woman for me I don't think I've ever seen an uglier one. If she were thinner you could have maybe used her for a matchstick and as for what she's wearing it probably belonged to her great grandmother...why I am sure I can see mothballs on the collar."

"Charles." Hansforth was appalled. His son had a cutting sense of humour but he had never been deliberately cruel. He could only think it was the fever and pain eating into his sense of decency.

Arina looked properly at Charles. She tried hard not to treat any of her patients with anything but gentleness and detachment, but this man seemed determined to needle her. Her eyes, once they had gained his, stilled his speech instantly. Hidden by the gloom of the oppressively cold room they appeared even darker than normal and intent with meaning. Shivers went up and down his vertebrae.

"Oh my God. It's the witch," he gasped, recognising her instantly and without anyone able to stop him he pulled her closer to him to get a better look at her. "Going to cast a spell on me so I see you as young and pretty?" His other hand, which spoke a great deal of experience with the female form, was quick to seek out her curves under the awful gown. "Goodness me, there's padding aplenty here that you could use to make your bosom more obvious and pleasing to a man, only it's in the wrong place."

Arina squirmed in his grasp but could not cry out or move away. Her eyes went wide with fear and she trembled in his arms. Within moments, the other men in the room who had merely watched in horror revived instantly and pulled his hands away and pinned him to the bed. Charles bit back the immediate agony of his wound being stretched, barely hanging onto consciousness. Arina shivered with fear and his grandfather swore.

"For God's sake behave as the gentleman you were brought up." Then he looked at the way the girl was holding the knife and frowned. She had turned it in her hand unconsciously, into a weapon. The innocuous servant she had first appeared was gone. Some wild gypsy was now in her place, intent on doing anything but healing.

"If I am no gentleman then that is no lady. Look carefully because I think your witch is going to kill me." Charles grimaced with the pain and then smiled with mockingly dark humour. To Arina his smile transformed his face into one of stunning masculine beauty. Her soul sighed with joy even if her heart and mind resisted. She glowered at him and Hansforth sighed. They were like duellists, she with her surgeon's knife and he with his tongue.

"But you are dead already Charles. The surgeon told me so. What could this woman do to you that would be worse than that?" Hansforth spoke with a great deal of repressed emotion and Charles looked up at him. The other occupants of the room seemed to disappear. It was down to these two proud aristocrats who stared at one another with intense emotion.

"You should not have interfered," stated Charles coldly.

"Should I not? Was I to let my last remaining heir go to hell like his father before him, when I love him so?"

It was the first time in decades that Hansforth had spoken of love. Charles was awed, but his lips twisted bitterly. "So you hired this angel of retribution to torture me until my soul is released up to heaven? Why couldn't you have just let me die in my own way?"

Arina looked down on Charles and saw the pain he was fighting, both emotionally and physically. She shivered and touched his arm, soaking up his absolute distress. All four men looked at her and for one wild moment she did look like an angel of darkness. She reminded Charles of his conscience that had fled in these last two months of hell. For a moment he believed all the stories he'd heard of her and shuddered. Then within the twinkling of an eye she changed before him and looked once more the old woman with grey hair that reached out her hand and soothed him with agonising gentleness.

"I will not be cured," he said, determined to resist the sudden peace seeping all around him. He glowered at her and she met his eyes boldly. He did not see what his grandfather saw--her exhaustion and her terrible compassion--but he did see the violet fire of her soul as it came to battle for his.

"He's dying. She's wasting her time with him." Cook stirred the foul smelling brew on the stove.

John glanced up as he sipped his tea. "I reckon so, but he's strong. You should have seen what she did once she saw his wound. He were awake for much of it, but he didn't scream like any normal man would." He shook his head and shuddered. "It were almost too much to keep sharpening the knives."

"I know, the valet came down and threw his accounts out the back door. I figured since he'd seen war, it were real bad."

"It were. Once milord wakes up he won't be happy about it, dead or no." John frowned, realised he'd made no sense and they looked at each other and both laughed, their throats rusty.

At that point the valet Grossin entered and frowned at both of them. He did not understand how anyone could laugh at a time like this. He'd just left Arina with soaking down his master's body in an effort to reduce the fever. Hansforth's heir was delirious with fever and pain. It seemed a complete irony that Charles who hated the fuss women made, was probably going to die from an excess of it.

Grossin helped himself to a cup of tea and a scone, knowing he had to eat something. The crumbly texture of the pastry melted gloriously in his mouth and he felt tears prick his eyelids. Life was so full of joy and pain, often intermingled, and for a moment he found his own pleasure unbearable. Silence fell as they all stared at one another. Grossin did not attempt to hide his disdain for the cook or the coachman and he was equally aware it was mutual. Yet, out of loyalty for their young mistress they tolerated him and both had gone beyond the call of duty to help her. He had to respect that.

"My lord's still delirious with fever and he doesn't sound too good," he said, curtly. Charles had been reliving that nightmare in Moscow in graphic detail. He could only be grateful that Arina couldn't possibly understand either French or Russian.

"He's still alive," said Cook, forever practical.

"His breathing ain't good and she looks sick with worry. It's been almost three days since the duke left and I have nothing new to tell him." Grossin shivered.

"Miss Arina's hardly slept. She's probably heading for the sick bed herself." Cook glowered at the valet. She could have made him feel better by saying that the fact Arina still tended him was a good sign, but she resented this toff's valet, his fancy clothes and his holier-than-thou attitude.

Grossin looked at them both and was about to challenge their resentment, intending to bring it into the open, when he heard the front door knocker. "That'll be his lordship's messenger."

Cook shook her head. "Not at the front door." She suddenly put her hand over her mouth. "Oh no, it's Thursday. I plum forgot it's the vicar's visit. He'll be after seeing Miss Arina."

"Well she ain't in any state for visitors." John stood up. "And if he finds out who's sick upstairs it will be round the village in no time." The young man bolted through the parlour and into the hall. He could not believe that the door was open and Arina was standing in the hallway listening to the young minister who was at the door and smiling down on her with a decidedly un-clerical expression. John swore but Grossin, who had followed, took in the situation calmly, straightened his collar and stepped in to rescue Arina.

"Excuse me. Reverend Johnston is it not?" He bowed his head in deep respect. "My name is Henry Milford. I'm one of the Duke of Hansforth's stewards. I'm afraid Mrs. Featherstone is not at home at present as she is visiting at Lotheringham. Miss Arina was unable to accompany her as she has not been well the last couple of days. Along with Mrs. Jemima Treacle as chaperone for Miss Arina, I was requested to remain behind to arrange a few essential repairs and maintenance on the property, which the duke is considering purchasing. Unfortunately, Mrs. Treacle is now indisposed with the same fever that took Miss Arina. We are indeed a sick house in more ways than one."

Arina's eyes widened, then lowered, amazed at the valet's ease at lying and his confidence in passing himself off as a young man of breeding. She suspected it hadn't been the first time that he'd pulled his master out of a ditch and was relieved he chose to do the same with her. The young minister had been most attentive since he'd discovered her talent. Unlike the neighbouring minister on the Hansforth estate who proudly proclaimed her to be the 'very work of the devil' this cleric seemed determined to bring her under his wing, to defend her for some reason she hadn't quite fathomed as yet.

"Oh? I'm so sorry to hear that. Mrs. Featherstone is at Lotheringham you say? She usually acts as an intermediary between Miss Arina and myself." The young minister frowned at the young steward who regarded him equally suspiciously. "I trust however that Miss Arina is well enough for tea and our usual chat?" He turned his face to Arina and smiled at her charmingly. The man's boyish good looks were displayed to full advantage although Arina didn't seem to realise that he was flirting with her. She merely curtsied and regretted it immediately as she swayed with exhaustion.

Grossin decided in that instant that he really did not like this too nice, too charming and almost handsome young reverend and frowned with disapproval. "Miss Arina is not well enough for visitors, sir."

Arina saw the petulance on Johnston's face and lightly touched the valet's arm to indicate that she did want to speak to the young minister. Johnston also saw that softening in her eyes and since it was the only time it had ever been directed at him personally, he decided it was enough for now. He knew his courtship of this highly sensitive young woman would have to proceed as slowly as possible. He had known from the first that if she suspected what he was doing she would resist every attempt at being wooed.

"Oh no, my dear, if you are not well, I will not stay. I can well do without another dish of tea, but I am concerned about you. Have you enough provisions in the house? Do you need any medicine? Do you want for anything?"

Grossin looked at Arina quickly and she shook her head. They were both aware that they did need things, but such as they were they could never ask the minister without him knowing exactly what they were up to.

"No we have no need, but we thank you for your kindness," Grossin softened his words. Much as he did not like the man, Arina would have to deal with him in the future.

"Perhaps I may call on Mrs. Featherstone at Lotheringham? Do you think she will appreciate the visit? I understand his grace has his own chapel and a minister that calls, but do you think she would appreciate a friendly face?" Reverend Johnston was all kindness and humble consideration but both girl and valet realised that the charming reverend was desperate to see the mansion his neighbouring minister bragged so highly of. Arina couldn't help but smile, dazzling him a little with her good humour. Grossin tried to keep the humour out of his voice.

"Yes, I'm sure Mrs. Featherstone would appreciate you calling on her. If you could tell her that Miss Arina is actually feeling a little better but that she is just not up to a carriage ride as yet. Perhaps early next week when Mrs. Treacle is recovered?"

"It will be my pleasure." The reverend looked obliquely at Grossin. "However, I expect to see you both at the morning service on Sunday." Then to Arina, "Please forgive me my dear. I did not wish to disturb you from your sick bed. Once I tell my parishioners about the illness in your house I am sure they will all wish to help."

Arina curtsied, wanting to get away as soon as possible, dreading the thought of other visitors, but too tired to think up an argument. The reverend put his hat on and bowed to her and smiled once again, quite smugly, at Mr. Henry Milford.

"Mrs. Treacle?" Cook who also had come to listen at the door, found herself cackling with rusty humour. "I suppose that came from the scone you ate?"

Grossin inclined his head and bowed like a true nobleman. "Sir Henry Milford at your service ma'am." He sighed, watching Arina take herself up the stairs. "I'll certainly have something to tell his grace now. I didn't realise Miss Arina had a gentleman caller."

"She does not," said John, appalled that the valet would joke about it.

Cook merely smiled knowingly. "Come and write your letter in the kitchen Henry and have another scone. I get the feeling it's going to be a long night."

* * *

Arina stared at the young man who writhed in agony on the small bed. If she unfocused her eyes she saw his wound swirling in a pattern of green and black. When she closed her eyes she could also see his tie to life was wearing thin. One red line of anger seeped from him, tying him to earth and all things material and she realised when he spoke in his delirium that it was vengeance that kept him on this side of death.

It had been hatred that had kept him going through the pain of being wounded, not even having the time to heal because he was intent on following a spy across the borders of various nations. He had come to England to continue his investigation wherein the trail had gone cold. The story she had pieced together from several sentences in her native language and her excellent French made her shudder with disgust. She understood the need driving him; his sense of honour would not let him rest. He'd believed himself weak when he had been unable to stop what had happened. He'd done the best he could but it wasn't enough. She understood that because she knew that her talent, albeit not for the first time, was failing her.

Although in the past she had accepted when she was not allowed to help someone, for some unfathomable reason this time she couldn't accept it. She could not bring herself to let go of this man who was so close to death. So she washed him, fed him medicine that could only prolong his agony and willed him to live. She was so tired, yet energy burned in her when she looked at him. The woman in Arina had long surrendered to this healing force within that would not let her rest. Powers beyond her control were battling to save him that made her relax since the decision was no longer hers to make. She merely had to keep him alive long enough for the battle to be won.

In complete exhaustion she rested her forehead on his hand, held between both of hers. She felt so tired that she was almost hallucinating. For a moment it seemed as if he rested more with that simple touch. Then he shuddered with sudden cold and she covered him.

"I am dying, woman, let me go," he said, seemingly aware of her for an instant in time. Arina's head snapped up and she looked at him but he stared elsewhere, speaking in Russian, to some ghost from the past in the language she had spent years trying to forget. "Nyet, nilzar, I have to make sure he does not escape. I do not even know his name, only I could know his face in a dark room and he hides a scar under his black officer's collar..."

Arina shuddered, and put her hand over his forehead trying to soothe him with her gentle touch. His eyes shuttered for a second, then looked towards her. "Olivia...my sweet darling. How long it has been since we embraced..." His eyes were tender with love, unshielded and uncaring of the affection he revealed, thinking she was his beloved. He raised his other hand to touch her face, gently, tenderly and she gazed into his eyes, her entire body enthralled by the expression on his face.

"What's that? French? He's talking nonsense again." Grossin judged he had come back at the right time by the sight of the tender scene that greeted him. The girl was leaning towards the bed, drawn by his lord's handsome face and tender words. Charles was dying but he was a man and she an innocent girl for all her expertise with healing. At his cynical words she drew back instantly, like a child that has been caught touching a living flame. She looked stricken and he pursed his lips, refusing to smile at her. She deserved more than that from him after what she had done this last two days but he felt he had to protect her.

* * *

Once old man Hansforth had left, Grossin stood over her and watched her make the first cut into the decayed flesh around Charles's unhealed wound. He had never seen such blatant determination on anyone's face. It was as if she were gritting her teeth as men did before battle, terribly afraid but also determined to do what was necessary. And it had been so disgusting he'd had to bolt to empty his stomach.

The coachman had stayed, thank God, to help her through that nightmarish hour. It was only afterwards when Grossin had seen the wound site, so neatly stitched, that his face had paled. If Charles, Marquis of Neathe, ever survived her surgery, Grossin was going to be flayed alive for letting her anywhere near him. For now, however, there was the mere matter of keeping him alive.

The concoction she poured down his throat hourly smelled so vile that Grossin began to sympathise with his lord's desire for a clean death. Charles was in so much pain, even with the effects of poppy, they had also been obliged to tie him to the bed with a ripped up sheet to stop him from opening the wound site as he thrashed around the bed.

"He can't possibly live through this," he'd said later, to Cook. "His body's so full of poison it's rotting from within." Much as he was loath to admit it he knew he was right; they all smelled the decay and the sweetness of death. It reminded him of the hovel they'd lived in, in London; not even the whisky had been able to disguise that particular smell of decaying flesh. He told himself it was only a matter of time. His heart ached when he thought of what they'd gone through together, how good Charles had been to him over the last ten years and on the task that would fall to him once Charles had died.

Grossin, the valet, would be quested to become Sir Henry Milford, the youngest son of an impoverished aristocrat who had made good in the colonies. The man they had chased across a continent had to be brought to justice and that could only be done by a man of equal standing, another aristocrat. Grossin and Charles had planned it together in the last week, when they had realised that time was running out. Grossin had acquired a substantial amount of money gained from Charles's gambling in order to carry out the action. The money meant nothing to him. It was only a means to an end and Charles had come to represent more than responsibility and a wage to Grossin; he was also a friend.

"If she's beside him he'll live," Cook had replied carefully. "The only question being how long she can keep herself going."

Grossin watched as Arina stood up unsteadily to soak a cloth in a bowl of liquid herbal viscosity which having been warmed by the brazier was almost too hot to touch. She took it and wiped his face, leaving stains behind on the fine pale cheeks and the ragged half grown beard. His lordship was beginning to look like an ancient Celt, stained blue with wode. Grossin's lips curled slightly as he remembered Charles's aversion to being untidy and took the cloth from her hand.

"Go and eat, Miss. Cook has made some excellent scones. I'll look after his lordship for now." He met her gaze, aware of her inner self, reaching out to communicate with him. "Fear not. If his breathing gets worse or he convulses, I'll call you."

She nodded, then went downstairs quietly. Only she didn't go to the kitchen, but the garden where she grew the plants she made into herbal medicine. She looked around the garden covered in autumn leaves. Soon it would be winter and her crop would be severely diminished. Not for the first time did she wish for the greenhouses that Lotheringham owned. There they grew tomatoes out of season and strawberries even when hoarfrost covered the hard winter soil.

Cook had heard Arina's soft tread in the hall and the side door opening and went out with a hot cup of tea and a plate of scones to find her buried in a pile of books. Cook knew exactly where to find her--in the old summerhouse, which had been converted over the years into a study and herb drying store. It had amazed the old woman what use a child her age had with such dusty tomes, but Arina's head was often found so, reading the crooked letters as if they were merely a pattern for embroidery and not some ancient language. She would have a slight frown on her face and Cook would tut-tut and fuss over her, telling her she would be wrinkled before she were wed, to which Arina looked up and frowned with the distraction of a great scholar.

Arina smiled at her this time, unable to concentrate on the worthy tomes. She had been taught well in languages both modern and ancient but her book learning served her poorly in a hopeless case like the Marquis of Neathe's. She picked up a scone and bit into it, the delicate flavour of cheese tasting like sawdust in her mouth. She felt tears prick her eyelids and looked up as John came running through the garden towards them.

"Miss Arina. The surgeon is here from Falworth. He wouldn't wait in the parlour. He went right up to his lordship's bedroom." John had seen the arrogant tilt of the surgeon's head and his London clothes that certainly didn't resemble those of a country doctor's so he added, "You should perhaps stay here until he's gone."

Arina frowned. Then she shook her head and stood up. If there was anything else she could be doing she should know about it. It was ignorance that killed, not knowledge; and this man had experienced the training she would have died for. So she made her way upstairs quietly and hurriedly. The voices that greeted her were heated. The surgeon was very annoyed.

"What is the marquis doing here? He shouldn't be in this state. He should be at Lotheringham, attended by properly trained staff."

Arina made her way into the room as silently as possible, deliberately disappearing into the background.

"He's actually been well tended, sir. Especially after being told by one of your kind that there was nothing that could be done but to finish him off with laudanum," Grossin spoke calmly over Charles's feverish body.

"Well, that was no doctor I would recommend. I would not give up on a patient in such a disgracefully cavalier fashion." He bent over Charles, lifted back the sheet and investigated the wound site. "Thankfully his stitching is a sight more professional than his opinion." The doctor put the strong smelling poultice back on the wound and prodded around the area with none too gentle fingers. He frowned as he saw the skin change colour and muttered under his breath. "I can't believe the wound's actually healing under that disgusting bilge." He began to examine the patient in more depth, prodding and poking and listening to his heart even whilst Charles moaned in pain.

When finally he finished he looked up at Grossin in contempt. "I presume his wound was fairly recent but remained unattended?"

"It's three months old sir and it was treated at the time but my lord could not afford to rest so it festered."

"Three months?" The doctor's jaw dropped, then he shook his head. "That's impossible. Why hasn't it been dressed properly?" He watched the young valet's eyes swivel to Arina who was standing in the shadows. He followed his gaze and looked her up and down. A servant girl, he assumed, but then her eyes flickered up at him and he realised who had been responsible for the disgusting poultice. For an instant an almost consuming hatred flashed inside him and he looked away. He addressed all his questions to the valet. "How long has he been like this?"

"He's had the fever over a week," explained Grossin, sensing the man's intense hatred towards Arina and puzzled by it.

"How long has he been delirious?"

"A little under two days," Henry said and folded his arms over his chest, aware by the expression in the surgeon's face how little time they had left.

"Two days!" The doctor looked down at the patient and shook his head. "It's disgraceful. He can't remain here without proper treatment. I'll inform his grace that he must be moved to Lotheringham immediately."

Arina moaned, shaking her head. It was the first sound Grossin had heard from her and he nodded reassuringly and faced the doctor. "I'm sorry sir but as a doctor you surely realise that moving him whilst he is running such an unnatural fever would be tantamount to killing him?"

Whilst Arina shivered with relief and came forward to put a cool damp cloth over Charles's forehead the doctor spluttered. "There's a remote chance that with proper care he'll recover but if he remains here he will most certainly die."

"Both his grace and my lord have been informed of that already sir, so that does not surprise me. What does surprise me is that you are advising me to move him which will most certainly quicken his death." Grossin was angry. He was furious that a doctor who professed to aid his patients was actively intending to kill one.

The doctor's eyes narrowed spitefully. "You are a servant, Grossin. My lord's valet. Whom do you think the duke will believe? Certainly not you nor this girl who is incapable of speech. Why, I am sure his grace will understand the situation completely when I inform him that he has been aiding and abetting a woman to perform medical acts on an aristocrat of the first water without a licence. I am sure neither his grace, nor yourself or this girl will fancy your chances once behind bars. You would probably survive but she would be transported."

Grossin barely restrained himself from punching the doctor out cold. His eyes turned steely grey and he forced himself to smile. "I would never presume to put words into the Duke of Hansforth's mouth." He bowed carefully and said with a great deal of irony. "And I shall look forward to his grace's reply to your comments sir."

The surgeon read the words he left unsaid and glowered. "Whatever his grace says, this man is dying. There is nothing that will save him now. You should make his death easier by giving him laudanum."

"Thank you so much for your helpful and kindly advice." Grossin took the man's arm and forcibly removed him to the door. "It was so considerate of you to come all the way from Falworth to inform us of your expert opinion."

The doctor, however, still hadn't finished. "You have no idea what you are doing, do you? I do for I have heard of this girl. She is a menace to decent society, using treatments that can only be construed as the practice of heathen paganism. She deserves to be tarred and feathered like the witch she is, not protected by the likes of you."

He turned his gaze on Arina who was staring at him whether she wanted to or not. "Without proper medical training you will kill someone. And the day you took on this man you made a big mistake. Even if he improves it will only be temporary. If he was wounded three months ago his heart and internal organs will now be so far damaged that he will not make it through the recovery period. He will die and you will have your first publicly recorded death on your hands." He smiled. "And it will then become a matter for the local magistrate."

Grossin took one look at Arina's tired, frightened face and felt anger that he thought long dead flood through his veins. She had done no evil. She had done everything she could for a man whom the medical profession wanted to mutilate or drug to death. He escorted the doctor briskly down the stairs and out to the front door. "I wish you a good day sir," he said coldly and insincerely.

The doctor mounted his horse and put his hat on and smiled. "I will be back within two hours. Make sure my lord is washed of that slime and ready to move as soon as we arrive. I suspect his grace will be giving you notice as of today. You won't be able to protect the girl. No matter what happens I will make sure the county knows her as the murderess and whore she is. Even in the best scenario she may be free to practice her medicine but you must understand that once this news gets out her safety will no longer be assured."

Cook, who had been listening at the door, shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "Oh the poor dear, I knew it would come to this. So did Miss Emma. We tried to tell her, but she wouldn't...couldn't listen. Oh my sweet Arina, she is ruined."

John grimaced. "Why can't we just kill the bastard before he says anything?"

"You will not," said Grossin, commandingly. "Not unless you wish to be hung for it. And killing, I assure you, does not bring peace, it breeds only more hatred." He frowned, seeing the doctor gallop away, swerving to avoid knocking down a young woman who was standing in the middle of the road. All three heard him swearing as he rode away, cursing the girl who had fallen down behind him.

"And that's a doctor?" asked Cook, hurrying, as did the two men, to help the woman to her feet.

"Oh no... 'tis Mary and the baby." John quickened his steps.

Henry reached the woman first. She was trying to get up, her arms wrapped protectively around her little bundle. She was the prettiest thing he'd seen in years but she was in a right mess. It looked as if she had been punched in the face and she was crying--had been crying for some time he noted from the redness of her eyes and the tears streaking her face.

"I came for Miss Arina," she gasped, ignoring Henry, hardly able to see him through her tears as he helped her gently to her feet. She looked only at Cook. "Please. It's not for me. She has to help my baby. I think he's dying.

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