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

London:

Large veins stood out on Lord Moorland's beet-red forehead and a froth of spittle rimmed his mouth. "Miss Pennington!" he roared in a most unseemly display of ill temper. Society prided itself on its ability to adopt a negligent demeanor no matter the situation. An arched brow and a bored yawn elegantly executed behind a gloved hand were adequate responses for every occasion. Only gentry, such as herself, were allowed raised voices and flushed faces and they should show moderation. For her own part, Clementine Pennington was determined to refrain from such crass behavior no matter the circumstances.

She took a step backward fearing Lord Moreland on the verge of an apoplexy and, truthfully, could think of no one more deserving. Lady Agatha's butler, Malcolm, normally in full possession of a stone face stood with down-turned mouth. Gentry did not indulge in such emotional excess. It simply wasn't done. Particularly not when dealing with staff. If anyone were to dismiss Clementine it should be Malcolm. Not that the dear man ever would. Unfortunately, Lord Moorland was so anxious to have the deed done he'd barely waited for the last of his mother's mourners to leave the house before summoning her to the library.

"You poisoned her mind against me!" he ranted, waving his arms. "You fooled her, but not me! I knew you for what you were right from the start. A leech on the unsuspecting. A blight on society. You and your good-for-nothing-father with his hideous musicals!"

His vile insult to her father's memory brought Clementine's chin up and stiffened her spine. She'd have walked out then and there had she not vowed to refrain from deviating in the smallest way from propriety. By the stars, she would leave this house with her dignity intact.

"You needn't pull your high and mighty act on me, missy," Moorland continued, voice shaking with rage. "I'm on to you. You've spent your entire life sucking your bed and board from your betters. No more!"

He sounded as triumphant as if he had just solved some great social injustice instead of sealing the fate of one insignificant female. His voice rose higher still as falsehoods continued to pour from his mouth. She knew there was no point mentioning her letters of recommendation. They would not be forthcoming. She gave an inner sigh. Poor Lady Agatha. She'd known her son was thoroughly disagreeable, but she'd thought him at least honorable. He hadn't a shred of honor. After promising his mother on her deathbed that he would see Clementine suitably settled he was turning her out of the house on the heels of the dear lady's last mourner.

Clementine gazed around the room where she and Lady Agatha had spent many pleasant hours, and her eyes filled with tears. Moorland Hall was the only home she'd known since her twelfth birthday. Lady Agatha had been like a mother to her. And now it was all gone: Her father, Lady Agatha, and these familiar rooms.

"I want you out of this house by nightfall!" Moorland flung out his arm in a dramatic gesture that sent a valuable porcelain flying. The vase struck the newel post and shattered. "Your fault! All your fault!" Spit sprayed and she took a step back to escape it.

He'd not been a frequent visitor although it had not been for want of trying. Lady Agatha had turned avoiding him into a game she played with great enthusiasm. Her small conspiracies had provided the ailing woman with grand entertainment and she'd smothered delighted laughter behind thin fingers each time he stormed out of the house, thwarted in an attempt to inflict her with his company. Clementine had been her willing co-conspirator. It had seemed harmless at the time but, unfortunately, he'd viewed the pranks as a malicious effort on Clementine's part to steal his mother's affections. The sad truth was that his own thoroughly disagreeable nature had done that without any assistance from her.

"Out!" he now shouted with another wild gesture. Luckily this one missed all things of value.

Refusing him the satisfaction of seeing that his actions had distressed her in the slightest, Clementine swept from the room keeping her head high and her back straight. The hem of the black serge dress she wore, the same dress she'd worn to her father's funeral just a year earlier, swept the carpets of Moorland Hall with a graceful whisper as her quick steps carried her to the room she had called her own for almost fifteen years.

* * *

"Dear child, what will you do?" asked Mrs. Benton, the housekeeper, who'd come to help Clementine pack.

Clementine smiled at the sad-faced woman. "I have my fortune. I'll take a room at Mrs. Lidger's boarding house and stay there while I seek employment." She patted the housekeeper's shoulder. "Dear Bennie, do cheer up. You know I'm a strong, capable female. I'll be just fine."

Bennie shook her head in sad disagreement. "You know I was devoted to Lady Agatha. She was the finest of ladies, but she did you no kindness. She made you a lady when you weren't one." She clasped Clementine's hands inside her own work-worn ones and turned them palm up. "Soft as silk they are." She reached up with rough fingers and touched her hair. "Like spun gold it is. Eyes as blue as a summer sky. The face of an angel is what you've got. No, child, she did you no favor. She's left you betwixt and between. You're common born and quality reared." The housekeeper heaved a huge tear-filled sigh. "If only your papa was here to protect you."

Her father had not been dead a year and thinking of him brought a sting of tears to Clementine's eyes. He'd been such a dear man, the best of fathers and the finest of musicians. They had been so happy here under Lady Agatha's generous patronage. The woman had wanted the whole world to hear his music and had treated Clementine like a daughter. But those days were over. Her dear papa and Lady Agatha were both dead and Clementine was left with a handful of broken promises and little blunt in spite of her claim to having a fortune. Her father had done his best and Lady Agatha had promised that she would find her a husband "when the time was right." But the right time had never come. She had been so disinclined to lose Clementine's companionship that she'd dithered and dallied and the years had slipped by unnoticed by both of them.

Clementine folded the last garment into her trunk, a sad smile on her lips. Marriage would have been an enjoyable experience. She was quite fond of children. She sighed knowing that even if she had received a proposal she'd not have been able to accept it. Lady Agatha and her father had required her full attention.

"The man's here for your trunk, Miss Clementine," Bennie's husband said from the doorway. George's plain face was as sorrowful as his wife's. At his words, Bennie flipped her apron up over her face and burst into tears.

"Now none of that." Clementine gave Bennie's plump shoulders a good hug. "If you don't leave off I'll be joining you, and what will Mrs. Lidger think of me if I arrive on her doorstep all tear-stained?"

"You'll come by now and then for tea, won't you?" Bennie sniffled. "You'll not be forgetting us?"

"Of course I won't forget you. How could I? You've been my family. Now, wish me luck. I'm off on a whole new adventure."

Clementine's cheery words elicited lusty sobs that followed her down the hall and to the foot of the stairs where Lord Moorland waited to see her out the door.

* * *

At the rooming house Mrs. Lidger led the way up the stairs, lumbering along on swollen slipper-clad feet. She flung the house rules over her shoulder between panting breaths. "Supper's at seven. Clean linens weekly. No gentlemen guests and no drunkenness."

"Yes, ma'am."

She cast open the door to a small room with a single window on the uppermost floor. "So, it's a position you're after is it?" She looked Clementine up one side and down the other. "Doing what?"

"Honest work."

The woman gave a disdainful snort.

When she left, Clementine walked to the window. It provided an unobstructed view of the roof next door beyond which lay a forest of soot-blackened chimneys bristling from soot-stained roofs. The house stood wall-to-wall with the houses on either side of it on a narrow close off a well-traveled street. She knew if she were to open the window the stench of overflowing gutters would envelope her. None of these old structures boasted such modern conveniences as indoor plumbing.

However, the room itself was neat and clean. A bed stood against one wall with a clothes press opposite. A washing stand with a bowl and pitcher on top housed a chamber pot beneath. She unpacked what little she would need day to day then spent an hour tidying her trunk. Lord Moorland had accosted George on his way out the door to paw through her trunk like a rooting pig. He'd claimed he needed to make sure she'd not buried the family flatware between her petticoats and drawers. Luckily, her so-called fortune was hidden under the trunk's false bottom, every pound honestly come by. The drayman waiting outside had witnessed the search and regarded her askance. He probably thought she'd been dismissed for thievery.

The evening meal consisted of poorly seasoned cabbage soup with a few shreds of ham floating in it and rib-sticking bread. The boarders acknowledged her presence with silence and one or two muffled greetings, far too intent on getting their share of soup and bread to be distracted by a new face. Clementine excused herself the moment she finished eating and returned to her room. When darkness fell she blew out her candle and slipped between the coarse sheets of the single bed. The spirits she'd refused to let flag plummeted, and she allowed herself the luxury of a good cry.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Clementine came to a full understanding of what Bennie had meant. She'd thought her lack of letters would be the greatest impediment to employment, but they were not. It was her beauty and aura of refinement that most objected to. Even the lady at the placement agency held out little hope she'd find employment.

"You're far too attractive to be trusted at the post of governess, which by its very nature puts you in close contact with all family members," Miss Clawson said, mouth puckered primly. "No wife in her right mind would allow you near her husband."

Seeking lower posts proved as fruitless. Housekeepers and cooks in need of strong backs and tireless hands fell into fits of laughter as they viewed her delicate features and slender form.

The small purse Lady Agatha had given her, and the meager savings her father had left her--her fortune--dwindled at an alarming rate as she paid for her room and board and small necessities. Being a homeless, penniless waif on the streets of London in the middle of winter fast became a real, and frightening, possibility.

Desperate, she answered a private advertisement in the paper placed by a Mr. Weymouth for a governess.

"I'd work a month for board and room and let you judge my suitability," she told the lady of the house.

Mrs. Weymouth stepped protectively toward her husband. Clementine eyed the florid-faced, middle aged Mr. Weymouth with his mouth full of rotten teeth and barely managed not to burst out laughing.

One telling look from Mrs. Weymouth had him hustling Clementine out the door. Not the proper thing at all. She arrived on the pavement so rapidly that her skirts flapped around her ankles.

The advertisements in the newspaper were soon exhausted and she found herself reduced to relying on the servant's gossip chain. Someone's cook's niece's employer had heard from someone else's lady's maid that a midtown solicitor was interviewing applicants for the position of housekeeper in a gentleman's country home. Applying for the position was presumptions of her for she had no real experience in household management. She'd been Lady Agatha's hostess and personal helper. Bennie had managed the household with utmost efficiency. Clementine had observed, but certainly hadn't participated. But with winter at hand and her funds running low, Clementine decided she would dissemble if need be to secure a post and then pray earnestly for success. She loathed dishonesty, but consoled herself with self-assurances that her desperate situation justified desperate action. Surely, once through the door her own good sense and willingness to work would stand her in good stead. After all, how complex could a home in the country be?

* * *

The solicitor's office was too far from the rooming house for walking, forcing her to invest some of her dwindling funds in a hired hack.

"Watch your step," the carriage driver cautioned as he gave her a hand down when they reached their destination.

She looked up at the front of the fashionably located offices of Mr. Alexander Silverton, Solicitor, and her insides gave a nervous tremble. She tucked a stray curl back under the brim of her modest bonnet and she smoothed her skirt with shaking hands.

Watching her, the driver smiled. "You look fine, miss."

"I do hope so." She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and mounted the steps, wishing her modest bonnet with its narrow brim was more fashionably high in the crown. Her stomach was in knots and her hands cold and clammy. If she failed here she was finished. A small bell tinkled as she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Tapestry wallpaper provided a tasteful background for a row of Chippendale chairs. A thin young man who seemed in eminent danger of being buried alive in a mountain of papers, inkpots, and quills sat at a desk tucked into an alcove by a bay window. He peered at her over the top of wire-framed spectacles.

"I do hope you have an appointment," he said, ink-stained hand poised in mid flight to a sheet of foolscap.

"I'm afraid I don't."

He gave a gale-force sigh.

"I've come about the position of housekeeper." Her voice quavered slightly and she cleared her throat to steady her composure.

"Your letters, please." He held out an imperious hand.

"I fear I have none."

Dismissal leaped into his eyes.

"I was companion to the late Lady Agatha Moorland," Clementine hastened to explain. "Her son, in a fit of pique, withheld my letters of recommendation even though he promised his mother on her deathbed that he would issue them. I served Lady Agatha with loyal efficiency and she had not a word of criticism to level against me. Why I..."

"You state your case most eloquently."

This interruption, stated in a resonant male voice came from behind her. She spun around to find a distinguished looking gentleman elegantly clad in a suit of dove gray, studying her with eyes of the clearest slate blue she'd ever seen. Her heart gave a startled leap.

He bowed with courtly grace. "Alexander Silverton at your service."

The clerk cleared his throat. "Lord Chatham," he announced as if to further impress on Clementine how inappropriate her presence was.

This man was not just a solicitor, but a peer of the realm. Not only that, but he was one of those mavericks of Society who openly engaged in trade. Of course, being a solicitor was not quite the same as being a haberdasher, but Society clucked their tongues nonetheless over these impetuous young men turning their backs on endless days of self indulgence and idle nothingness.

Never had a man's name better suited his appearance. Though he looked little older than she, his hair was pure silver and cut short in the latest fashion. He was clean shaved, neither beard nor moustache detracting from his extraordinary good looks.

"Miss Clementine Pennington," she somehow managed. "I've come about the position of housekeeper, your lordship"

"Please. Mr. Silverton. My father is his lordship and I pray will continue to be. I find my title more a hindrance than a help in my work," he added, casting a censoring glance at his clerk.

Undaunted, his clerk squared his shoulders and announced. "She has no appointment and no letters of recommendation." His tone of voice indicated that she should now slink out of the office without saying another word.

"Oh, please," Clementine said, determined not to be so easily dispatched. She held her hand out in supplication. "I did explain that deficiency."

"Pennington did you say?"

"Yes," she replied..

He stepped away from the doorway and waved her into his office. "I have a few minutes to spare."

The clerk cleared his throat. "Sir, you have an appointment at nine."

"Keep him occupied for a bit." He motioned Clementine to a chair and closed the door behind them.

Faith, but he was tall and ever so elegant, long in the leg and broad through the shoulder. A man who looked more suited to athletic endeavors than fusty paperwork. He stood behind his desk, the fingers of his right hand tucked into the front pocket of his trousers. His well tailored waistcoat and jacket were without a single wrinkle. His snow-white neckpiece was flawlessly folded and secured with a solitary diamond-headed stick-pin. A gold watch chain dangled across his midriff. His clothes alone set him apart from the rank and file of tradesmen should anyone be inclined to mistake him for a commoner. She doubted that the fact he defied the current masculine fashion of dark colors relieved only by buff trousers would go against him at any gathering. His choice of gray so suited him that he'd make a favorable impression regardless.

He fished out his gold pocket watch and noted the time, then looked straight at her, his gaze appraising. She lifted her chin seeking to impress him with her poise and confident manner. After what seemed an eternity during which she feared he would dismiss her out of hand after all, he invited her to sit. Relief flooded her at the invitation making her legs tremble. She sank into the chair gratefully.

He, too, sat down. The elaborately carved desk only added to his countenance. "So, why was it that Lord Moorland refused you letters of recommendation?"

"He felt I had alienated his mother's affections."

"And had you?"

She shook her head. "He managed to do that without any assistance from me."

Silverton's fine-lipped mouth quirked in the hint of a smile casting a dimple into his cheek. Her breath hitched in her throat.

"Then it's your contention that Lord Moorland falsely besmirches your reputation?"

"Not directly, but he spreads broad hints that my honesty and morality are questionable. He has done so with such a liberal hand that he has made my quest for a position most difficult." His eyes were most remarkable, the color perfectly suited to the silver hue of his brows.. "There's not a grain of truth in anything the man says."

"Perhaps you should seek reparation."

"His slander would be difficult to prove. It consists of innuendo and suggestion. A lifted brow and cleared throat at the right moment can be the essence of eloquence."

"True." Mr. Silverton smiled. "But a capable barrister could overcome that small difficulty."

"I do not wish to go to court, sir. Nor can I afford to. I merely wish to find honest employment."

"A commendable goal." He steepled his fingers and arched a brow. "Are you, perchance, the daughter of the late Jeffery Pennington?"

"I am." She braced herself for mention of the scandal surrounding her father's death, but the comments never came.

"I had the pleasure of attending one of your father's concerts," the solicitor said instead. "He was a fine musician, his death a tragic waste of a great talent."

She said nothing, hoping he would say no more on the subject of her father's demise. That her dear papa had died in a maelstrom of scandal following an illegal duel over another man's wife was still incomprehensible to her. The official who had brought her the sad news was adamant, snidely commenting that fathers did much their daughters knew nothing about. Some fathers, perhaps, but not hers.

"I've upset you. Forgive me. Do you drink coffee?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He summoned his clerk and ordered him to fetch a pot of Turkish blend and a tray of sweet cakes. The clerk gave another of his gusty sighs. "I'm not quite finished with Mr. Ramsey's papers," he said, obviously hoping to get out of running the errand. He shoved his spectacles up the bridge of his prominent nose with the tip of a finger and cast Clementine a disapproving look.

"Mr. Ramsey's papers can wait," Silverton said.

"And Mr. Ramsey?"

"He may wait as well." Silverton smiled at Clementine. "I have a more pressing concern to attend to."

The warmth of his gaze made her insides flutter. She turned her attention to his desk to restore her composure. It was every bit as cluttered as his clerk's, albeit the piles were not as high. How ever did he find anything?

He noted the direction of her gaze. "I suspect I've a need for a modicum of organization. Neither Raymond nor I seem to find time for housekeeping. I'm considering engaging a female secretary to attend to the task. I've heard they can be quite handy." He attempted to tidy some of the stacks as he spoke. "Some of my constituents have given that a go and they tell me that the ladies not only enliven their offices with their beauty and charm, but seem quite deft at arranging papers."

Clementine stifled a twinge of irritation, but couldn't resist saying. "Women have many talents and abilities other than homemaking."

"Sadly, too many lack the formal education required in the business world."

She could not disagree. "I'm fortunate that my father encouraged me in the pursuit of learning. I read, write, and factor and am fluent in French and can read a little Latin." She hoped to overwhelm him with all that she could do, diverting his attention from what she could not do. Perhaps, if he did not feel her qualified for the position of housekeeper, he would employ her in his office. "I don't read Latin as well as Papa would have liked. I fear I had little interest in it. It's a dead language which I do believe deserves a decent burial."

Silverton threw back his head in a burst of hearty laughter. Encouraged by his mirth she plunged on.

"I ride well and can deal with a brace of trotters if they're not too high spirited. Papa enjoyed bird hunting and frequently took me along. I'm a fair shot and enjoy it when the hunt is for food." She paused thoughtfully. "As a sport it escapes me. I fail to understand how anyone can puff out their chest and take pride in having cruelly murdered a fluff of feathers weighing less than a kitten."

Silverton's laughter wrapped around her once more. "You do have a way with words once you get launched."

She bit her lip, fearful she'd gone too far and been too forward, something easily done with Silverton's easy manner for encouragement.

"Oh, please," he said, seeing her expression. "I find your openness utterly charming."

Her pulse quickened at his compliment.

After announcing himself with a single rap on the door, the clerk entered carrying a napkin-covered tray. His fine brown hair was wind blown and his lean face flushed with exertion. He edged papers aside with a practiced elbow and deposited the tray on the corner of the desk.

"Mr. Ramsey will be here at ten," he said. "He is always prompt."

"Bless him," Silverton said, unperturbed.

Face wrinkled with disapproval, the clerk closed the door with a tad more force than necessary. Silverton chuckled.

"I fear Raymond does not approve of me altering my appointment schedule." He picked up the china coffeepot and began to fill one of the tiny, hand-painted porcelain cups. "I do hope you have a taste for the Turkish blend. I should have asked you before I ordered it."

"With sufficient cream and sugar I find it most agreeable," she said.

"Then we have similar tastes." He added liberal amounts of cream and sugar to her cup and stirred it with a Sterling silver spoon. His large hands were not the least clumsy as he performed this womanly task. She found him innately graceful without a hint of the effeminate daintiness adopted by many of the young men about town. Beneath his polished veneer she detected a man of strength and intelligence.

His slate-blue eyes caught every detail and in the short amount of time she'd been in his company she felt as well studied as the most complex scientific oddity. She prayed he approved of what he saw. Her appearance, which she'd long considered an asset, had recently proved otherwise.

Silverton handed her her cup. He gestured to the tray of pastries. "Do help yourself."

She'd suffered an uncommon fit of nerves this morning and been unable to eat Mrs. Lidger's porridge. Now the mouth-watering essence of apple tarts seasoned with nutmeg and cinnamon proved irresistible. She bit into the crisp sugary crust with enthusiastic hunger.

He took a sip of his coffee. "How long were you with Lady Moorland?"

"Nearly fifteen years. She became Papa's patroness when I was twelve."

"Your mother?"

"Died when I was three."

"Were there no relatives who could take you?"

She shook her head. "No one. Many of Papa's patrons found the presence of a small child, no matter how well behaved, inappropriate. Not that I was a paragon of flawless behavior," she hastened to assure him not wanting him to think she suffered an excess of pride.

"Children are children," he said, smiling. "It's their nature. And no one can deny that the life of a musician without personal fortune is fraught with difficulty."

"Most musicians live with the same uncertainly as Papa and I did, their livelihoods dependent on the whims of their patrons."

"Being widowed and having a small child to care for I'm surprise your father did not consider teaching."

"Papa's lack of patience and his passion for music left him with no other career to pursue." Her smile was one of fond tolerance for his shortcomings. "His life was performing and Lady Agatha proved the best solution. We were blessed to have had her protection."

"She was good to you as well?"

"Oh, yes, very good to me. Not only did she treat me kindly, but she taught me all the finer points of ladylike behavior, most of which were quite beyond dear Papa. I fear he'd been raising me to be a gentleman rather than a lady."

Silverton's expressive eyes sparkled. "He was bound for disappointment for I seriously doubt your figure would suit breeches and top coats."

She laughed.

"How prettily you laugh," he complimented.

She flushed with pleasure.

"How old did you say you were when Lady Agatha became your father's patroness?"

"Twelve. She maintained that she found us just in the nick of time."

He nodded. "She was quite right. A budding young female of your beauty would be considered fair game by certain unscrupulous types."

Undaunted by the inappropriate topic of conversation, she said, "I have a friend who learned that sad fact too late. She was cruelly deceived by a smooth-talking gentleman who neglected to mention he had a wife. He took her innocence and left her with a child and all of the blame." Clementine made no effort to hide her indignation. "I find it highly unfair that it is only the women in these situations who are painted with the broad brush of immorality while the men walk away untarnished to continue their vile seductions."

"Ah, you are a champion of causes."

"No, merely someone who knows her good friend was a trusting innocent taken cruel advantage of."

"You make a good point. The man does walk away relatively unscathed. However, fate tends to catch up to such rakes in due time."

"That is small consolation to those like Amelia who now lives in hard scrabble poverty. Her father closed his door to her. A fallen woman with a small child has little hope of marriage save for one of the poorest variety."

"Sadly true. You avoided her pitfall but have not married. Why?"

"My duties with Lady Agatha left little time for courtship."

"Surely she realized that you would one day leave her employ. Had she made no plans for that event?"

"She talked of finding me a suitable husband, but by the time I was old enough to wed, her health was failing. Ours became, by necessity, a retiring household. Our social activities were limited to musicales."

"And you found no young men among her guests who caught your fancy?"

She smiled remembering the caliber of the majority of men who attended. They too often trotted dutifully at their demanding momma's heels totting fluffy dogs, parasols and footstools. "I really wasn't free to look. Papa and Lady Agatha kept me well occupied. Now, of course, I'm too advanced in age for marriage."

"Yes." A smile flickered along his mouth. "I can see that you are teetering on the brink of antiquity."

His gentle teasing put an enchanting dimple at the corner of his mouth. She was unable to contain a responding smile. "I am twenty-six, sir. That's hardly the bloom of girlhood."

"Nor is it middle age," he countered. "A mature female can be the perfect selection in certain instances."

"Men of senior years usually seek brides in the first bloom of youth."

His eyes gleamed with wicked mirth. "Not always wise on their parts. A young bride can lead a man of mature years on a merry chase."

Her cheeks pinked at his risqué implication, but she was unable to smother a smile.

He continued. "Can I assume then that had you felt yourself free to accept a proposal you would have?"

"It would have been the sensible thing to do."

"Just sensible?" His voice was gentle.

She looked him straight in the eye. "I would have welcomed the opportunity, but it could not be. There was Papa to see to and Lady Agatha's health deserted her. I did not trust Lord Moorland to find a suitable caretaker. Now, of course, I'm quite securely on the shelf."

"Lady Agatha was most selfish to cleave to you."

Clementine came quickly to the woman's defense. "Not at all. She was kind and generous, the loveliest of ladies. Most fair in all ways. Why she even..." The twinkle in his eye stopped her. He had baited a trap to test her loyalty and she had stepped right into it. She sat back, hands folded in her lap. "I do not believe, sir that I'd care to face you across the wood rail of a courtroom."

He beamed. "Should I become a barrister I shall remember that delightful compliment." Then his expression sobered. "I will admit to setting a small snare for you with my questions, and it pleases me that you are so loyal. It is a commendable trait." He left his chair and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he stood looking out. It was several minutes before he turned around and faced her again.

"The gentleman for whom I'm conducting this search is much more than a client. Denby is a dear friend of long standing and I am quite determined to find exactly the right person for him; a female of charm and beauty, intelligence and poise."

These were the requirements for a housekeeper?

"His housekeeper, the ever-reliable Margaret Weeks, fell down the spring house stairs and suffered a badly broken leg," he went on. "She's confined to bed in splints. He needs someone who can manage while Margaret is indisposed. Someone who can stay on afterwards and provide the house with a woman's touch. Since his wife's death there has been no one." He returned to his desk. "More coffee?"

"Please," she replied. He'd paused in his narration to partake of a portion of one of the remaining tarts. Where would he be off to now in his journey of questions? So far, their conversation had, in her opinion, had little to do with housekeeping skills.

"I must warn you," he said as he refilled their cups, "more than two cups of this stout Turkish blend is sufficient to set pulses flying."

"I doubt we need flying pulses," she replied, laughing.

"What a lovely sense of humor you have." It was a compliment with a note of seriousness attached. "A good humor and much forbearance will be needed in dealing with Denby. He was not an easy man before his accident and has been twice difficult since."

"He was injured?"

He arched his brows in surprise. "You did not recognize the name?"

"Should I?"

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I should have been more forthcoming. The gentlemen for whom I seek a housekeeper is the Duke of Denby, but I expect you better knew him as James Tansy."

Her cup found its way back to the saucer with an abrupt clink. "James Tansy the pianist?" Was there anyone in or out of the world of music who did not know who James Tansy was? Young, flamboyant, and extraordinarily talented, he had dominated the world of piano here and abroad. Until his death, that is. "He's not dead?"

"No, he's not. The rumor received large circulation, but has no foundation in fact. It was his wife who died that night, not Denby. He was seriously injured, however."

"Then he's an invalid?"

"Not exactly." Silverton studied his well manicured fingertips for a moment. "He suffered a fracture of the skull and hovered on the brink of death for weeks. It was three months before he regained consciousness."

"And his condition now?" She knew full well the grave aftermath of head injuries; simple mindedness, fits, crippling paralysis. She also knew that rumor had it that his accident and his wife's death were closely linked, the gossip claiming that he had, at the very least, caused her death. Some claimed deliberately. It was common knowledge that the marriage was rife with conflict.

"His speech is clear and he has total command of his thoughts." He paused. "He is blind, however, with no hope of recovering his sight."

"A small handicap for a musician as gifted as he," Clementine said.

Chapter Two

Silverton regarded her with astonishment. "Being blind is a small handicap? Good lord, woman, what would you consider a large one?"

She toyed with her cup as she framed a careful answer. "I did not mean to sound unsympathetic. I suppose I feel it less a tragedy for a musician to lose his eyesight than it would be for, say, a sculptor. Also, I'm personally acquainted with two blind musicians and while I'll grant you they do not enjoy the acclaim that James Tansy received, they manage very nicely and never lack for engagements."

"Then you feel blindness is something he can overcome?" Silverton leaned forward and spoke earnestly.

"A man of his talent? Oh, most certainly. His brilliance is in his fingers and his mind--not in his eyes."

"Are you a Papist, Miss Pennington?"

She blinked, startled at the abrupt change of subject. "You, sir, do hop and skip about with your questions. No, I am not a Papist. I attend the Church of England. Why would you want to know?"

"You are uncommonly alert," he said with one of his lovely warm smiles.

She did not feel alert. She felt unsettled and off balance, as much from his shrewd and startling questions as from his radiant masculinity. His smiles, expressive blue eyes and deep melodic voice came together in a most disturbing mix.

"This tactic is supposed to get you so rattled and confused that dreadfully honest answers come flying from your lips," he admitted. "It works quite well when questioning witnesses during cross examination. The answers one can get are quite astonishing."

"I've no doubt they are."

"But you are skillfully avoiding my traps so I must resort to blunt honesty."

She would recall his claim of blunt honesty much later, but for the moment she decided that his small bit of courtroom theatrics had been altogether charming. "I was baptized in the Anglican Church and attended services with Lady Agatha when she felt up to it," she elaborated. "She also enjoyed Mr. Wesley's lectures. I find great merit in his advocacy of cleanliness and moderation and do not fully understand the church's objections to his methods."

"I believe you will find their objections rooted in financial considerations rather than ecclesiastical ones. The hierarchy fears he insults the peerage by preaching moderation in food and drink. Myself, I tend to agree with the man. Obesity may well publicly announce wealth, but persons of leaner figure do not suffer the maladies that accompany the currently popular well larded figure."

Their discussion had strayed a long distance from those things he needed to know in order to ascertain her qualifications as housekeeper. The interview seemed more a personal inquisition, but done with such charm she found it difficult not to be forthright in her answers. She did continue to carefully skirt the depth of her experience in household management even though the deception had encountered a difficulty she'd not anticipated. She'd thought the position of housekeeper in the country home of a rustic would have modest social involvement. Lord Denby was no rustic and his social requirements would no doubt challenge an adept hostess with years of experience.

"In the months since regaining consciousness," Silverton continued, "Denby has made little progress toward independence."

"But he shouldn't be discouraged. It will take time, of course, but he has such good examples to draw on:in Monsieur Rochmount and Mr. Pompidou. Mr. Pompidou has been blind since birth and Monsieur Rochmount for many years as the result of an accident similar to Lord Denby's. An injury to the skull. Both men are quite independent and perform regularly. Mr. Pompidou married and has a herd of children."

"You are personally acquainted with these men, then?"

"Yes, I've meet them."

"You felt they handled their infirmity well?"

"Oh, very well," she assured him. "Mr. Rochmount was a guest at Lady Agatha's for a few days and his independence astonished me. After making his acquaintance with the arrangement of the house he went everywhere without an escort, popping up in the most unexpected places like a dormouse." Her hand flew to her mouth in chagrin. Describing a man such as Mr. Rochmount as a dormouse was rude even though he quite resembled a mouse being round and small and having a tendency to quiver and twitch when engaged in conversation.

Silverton's rich laughter signaled his agreement. "Your description is perfect! Edward is exactly like a mouse. All he lacks are whiskers and a tail." Then he sobered. "And he has made a good adjustment to his lack of sight. I had assumed he'd been blind since birth and knew nothing else. Had not had to endure the loss of his sight halfway through his life."

"Monsieur Rochmount was in his early twenties when he was injured in a coaching accident. The conveyance lost a wheel, tipped over and tumbled down a bank with Rochmount and his valet inside. The valet suffered a broken arm and Rochmount a fractured skull."

"An injury similar to James's."

"He performs extensively and travels accompanied only by his valet and a clerk."

"Fewer servants than most," Silverton said. "I've found him to be a man of dignity and refinement."

"Very much so. Every inch the gentleman. Very warm and gracious. He and Papa were good friends and Papa let me take supper with them a few times. I found Mr. Rochmount thoroughly enjoyable."

"Have you ever heard Denby play?" he asked.

"No, I've never had the pleasure. Papa heard him in Paris and was most impressed." Her father had also described him as a sinfully good-looking man with a taste for the ladies.

"Simply put, the man's a genius. I must admit to having envied him. We grew up together, you know. Our father's holdings side by side. I thought James had it all--talent, wealth, and, later, a beautiful wife. In addition to his musical gift, title and wealth, he was the essence of masculine perfection. It seemed to me as if the gods had overbalanced the scales in his favor. Where others struggled, he went forth effortlessly. Did you know he only practices a few hours a day?"

"It sounds as if you know him very well."

"I did and still do. Our lives are intertwined in many respects. We spent as much of our youth in the pursuit of mischief as in sober industry. Denby left off being a drudge to the keyboard when we became friends and more often than not we could be found hanging upside down in trees or stealing tarts from the kitchen. We led our tutor a merry chase. I thought him so blessed." He paused and took a deep breath. "Only a fool would envy him now. He refuses to do anything for himself and has completely turned his back on his music." He got to his feet and began pacing, hands clasped behind his back. "Nothing I say gets through to him. He is charming, and the most gracious of hosts, and I found myself sickened by every one of his bland, meaningless, smiles. He was a man of such emotion. Such fire."

"He did have a reputation for temperamental behavior," Clementine said tactfully. In amongst the many compliments given James Tansy she had also heard him described as temperamental to the extreme. An artist who felt the world should revolve around him and his every whim be satisfied. She had little difficulty believing that he was not dealing well with his loss of sight.

Silverton nodded. "It was a well earned reputation." He gave her a wry smile. "His intensity is a great part of his talent. I cannot imagine that he would play half as well without it, but it also makes for a profoundly stubborn individual. But you are the daughter of a musician. Surely you can appreciate both his temperament and his music. You'll do. Very nicely in fact."

She had a position! Her relief left her breathless.

Not only had he accepted her sketchy summary of her experience, he'd overlooked Lord Moorland's slander. All she need do now was say nothing to alter his thinking and she would be set. She sighed. A conscience was the most inconvenient thing. She had come here prepared to stretch the truth to its limits, to dissemble if need be. Just one position successfully handled would go far in repairing her reputation. Now she found she could not be anything less than honest. Not only were the stakes too high and the person involved too important, but in the final analysis did desperation truly excuse dishonesty? No it did not.

"While it's true I've been Lady Agatha's companion and personal secretary since my youth," she said, "and I did act as hostess at her musicales, we never entertained on the grand scale. Lady Agatha had the most modest affairs. During these last few years she was confined to a sedan chair and tired easily. We did nothing but read novels and play a bit of whist. She had little company save for a few intimates who dropped by now and then to bring her up to date on the latest gossip. And," she concluded, eyes turned down to study her hands in her lap, "she had a full time housekeeper who was very competent."

Silverton arched a brow, his expression unreadable. "My dear Miss Pennington, did you deliberately puff your qualifications?"

"I did, although I'm not totally ignorant of how a household is run having worked in close harmony with Lady Agatha's housekeeper," she said in her own defense. "I had thought to bridge the gaps in my actual experience with intelligence, hard work, and common sense thinking. I hoped that would suffice in the country home of a rustic gentleman." She spread her hands in a gesture of despair knowing her own words might well lay waste to her last chance, but unable to continue her deception. "It was not my intention to deceive you." Then she looked him straight in the eye. "That's not at all true. I was quite prepared to dissemble as much as necessary in order to secure the position. I even purchased a copy of the Trollope to learn all I could know about precedence and rank should he have a dinner party."

"God forbid that someone be seated out of order," Silverton commented in a dry tone.

"Absolutely," she agreed, then sighed. "I find I cannot carry on the deception. All I have to offer is modest experience and an acquaintance with the idiosyncrasies of Society. I have a good education, and am quite willing to do hard work. In spite of my appearance I am a sturdy, durable female."

"Your honesty does you credit, my dear." He studied her for a moment, a thoughtful frown drawing his silver brows together over the bridge of his noble nose. "In another instance your lack of experience would go against you, but in this case it does not. I agree that desire and diligence will fill the voids in your knowledge. After all, how difficult can it be to keep a house free of dust and well polished?"

She couldn't believe that he thought the post of housekeeper was that simple, but felt no urge to enlighten him.

"You have other qualifications that make you eminently suitable."

Such as? But he didn't elaborate. In due time she would think back on that statement and realize she ought to have paid closer attention, but at the moment her relief in being gainfully employed wiped out all other concerns.

"I have the position? Truly?"

"You do." His smile set the small dimple in one cheek causing her already unsteady heart to flutter even more madly. "As you said, you've a good education, which denotes a high degree of intelligence. You are loyal, have a fine sense of humor, an excellent musical background and you're no flighty young fibber gibbet."

She had to smile at that. "No, I'm not young."

"That's to your advantage for you are old enough to be level headed and sensible, while still young enough to be gay. No, Miss Pennington, you are mistaken in thinking yourself deficient. You are exactly what James needs. Exactly."

He straightened in his seat and cleared his throat, continuing with crisp, almost curt dispatch to specify the salary and terms of her employment. He explained that she would be required to stay at Denby Hall for a minimum of twelve months, would receive a monthly stipend and, at the end of the year, a generous bonus.

"Make no mistake," he added. "Mrs. Weeks will be in charge even though she is confined to her bed. When she's back on her feet you will be her assistant. She can be a demanding woman, but I believe she's essentially fair. Mind your step and you'll do well together. Keep a sharp eye out and do whatever you can to assist Denby."

He summoned his clerk and had him draw up the contract, which she signed without hesitation. Her future for the next twelve months was secure and she would end her stay at Denby Hall with letters in hand and, perhaps, even an invitation to stay on indefinitely. Her relief was so great she felt dazed.

"Denby Hall is in the Highlands, a considerable distance from here," Silverton explained casually. "Do you have anyone who could travel as your chaperone?"

"No one," she admitted. Everyone she knew was employed and she had no relatives, she and her father having been quite alone.

"No problem. My clerk, Raymond, will travel with you. It's not as if you're an unworldly innocent with no experience."

What sort of experience did he think she'd acquired while living with Lady Agatha? Regardless, that she, an unmarried female, and his clerk, an unmarried gentleman, travel together was highly improper, but if she could not provide a chaperone what choice did she have?

Silverton's clerk shared her reservations.

"Surely you are not serious?" he sputtered when Silverton informed him. Raymond echoed her surprise, seeming as startled as she felt. It wasn't as if she were a young, eligible female whose reputation needed studious protection.

"Yes," Silverton said, then added with what she felt was a bit too much emphasis, "It isn't as if she's a young eligible female whose reputation needs protection. She's well on the shelf. Not that anyone of consequence will know one way or the other. And I can't send any woman such a distance without a reliable male escort. You are free and you are it."

"An unmarried male escort is hardly proper," she protested.

Silverton arched his brow. "To accompany a self-proclaimed spinster? All you need do is think of him as a footman. Society allows ladies out and about with a household footman in attendance. All quite proper. Unless," he gave her a quizzing glance, "this makes it impossible for you to accept the position."

She shook her head. She had no alternate suggestion.

Raymond cast a desperate glance at his heaped desk. "Really, Mr. Silverton, I hardly think I can leave. Why..."

Silverton brushed his reluctance aside. "Now, now, Raymond, you'll have a fine trip. You rarely poke your head out of this office. The change will do you good, and I'll make it quite worth your while. I'd go myself, but court convenes Monday and I have clients who are depending on me."

"And clients who had hoped you kept a better schedule."

By this time they'd made their way to the waiting room where a glowering Mr. Ramsey sat waiting.

"See?" Silverton said beaming a smile. "Even Mr. Ramsey agrees that I'm indispensable."

Mr. Ramsey cleared his throat thunderously. "I didn't quite say that, young man"

"But what about my work?" Raymond tried again.

"I'll bring in young Wendell."

Raymond wrung his hands. "Please, sir, not Wendell."

"Then recommend someone," Silverton requested.

"Miss Dover," Raymond said hesitantly. "She has a good hand and seems the sensible sort."

"See to it."

Raymond's narrow face took on such a glow Clementine wondered if the man had not found more to admire in Miss Dover than her handwriting and good sense.

They were at the door. Silverton lifted Clementine's hand to his lips and all thoughts of Raymond and Miss Dover fled from her mind. When Silverton kissed her hand the warm touch of his lips settled in her bones.

"Do have a pleasant journey, my dear," he murmured softly. "I will look forward to seeing you in a year's time when you return to London."

"A year is a dreadfully long time," she said.

"It will fly by on swift wings," he promised, his hold on her hand lingering.

"Oh, I pray so."

She turned to the clerk, embarrassed to find his name had flown from her mind.

"Stanley. Raymond Stanley," he provided in response to her blank stare. He bowed, sending his spectacles careening down his long nose. Catching them at the last possible moment, he pushed them back with his finger, somehow losing his balance in the process. He teetered dangerously and turned crimson with embarrassment when Silverton caught his coattail to steady him. Clementine empathized. She felt more than a little unbalanced herself.

* * *

Deciding to take full advantage of her hired hack, and knowing that it was unlikely Lord Moorland would be home this time of the day, she gave the driver direction to Lady Agatha's residence. When she arrived she scooted around to the side door and knocked.

Bennie embraced her in warm welcome. "You're a sight for sore eyes, that's what you are. And still all of a piece. I've been so worried. I've the kettle on. Come, come. Sit."

"Weak tea at most," Clementine told her as she followed her into the cozy familiar kitchen. "I've just had two cups of Turkish blend and my heart is hammering inside my chest like a kettle drum gone runaway." She fanned her flushed face with her hankie, not at all certain the coffee was the culprit, but hoping it was.

"You've good news, I can tell," Bennie said, as she poured the tea.

"Oh, I have." Clementine bubbled with enthusiasm. "I've secured a year's posting as housekeeper in Lord Denby's country home in the Scottish Highlands."

"The Highlands!" Bennie nearly dropped the kettle in her alarm.

"Now, Bennie, be at ease." Clementine patted the woman's plump arm. "Mr. Silverton, Lord Denby's solicitor and very good friend, assures me that it is very safe. And you will never guess who Lord Denby is. James Tansy!"

The cook's expression was blank.

"A pianist, Bennie. One of the world's greatest."

Dear person that she was, Bennie shared none of Clementine's intellectual pursuits. Clementine knew she was fortunate to be going into the household of a man like James Tansy. She should be grateful instead of wishing he resided in London near his silver-haired solicitor.

Whatever was wrong with her? Alexander Silverton couldn't have the slightest interest in her although she had thought, for just a moment or two, that he'd found her personally pleasant. He had seemed drawn to her beyond the ordinary, so warm and courteous in his manner. Then toward the end of their interview she had sensed a measure of withdrawal. His manner had turned crisp and business-like, but he had lingered over her hand in parting. It was most confusing.

Of course, being a man of implicit honor he'd not entertained anything but the noblest thoughts toward a female. He'd never indulge in a casual dalliance. Not that she wanted to participate in such a thing. Absolutely not. Still.... She sighed wistfully. The Highlands were so very far away. It seemed unlikely that he would have many opportunities to journey such a long distance even though he and Lord Denby were lifelong friends. Besides, he probably had a stable of attentive females at his beck and call here in the city. A handsome man such as he couldn't help but be sought after. He'd most likely forgotten her the moment she had stepped out of his office.

"Well?" Bennie prompted, bringing her out of her thoughts.

"You were quite right," she told the housekeeper. "It was a near thing. I fit nowhere and I had despaired of finding anything when this offer presented itself. Going to Scotland is a small price to pay for being comfortably settled."

"I will worry endlessly," Mrs. Benton assured her. "Barbarians is what those Highlanders are."

"It's been some fifty years since the rebellion," Clementine reminded her. "And from all accounts Lord Cumberland removed any possibility of another uprising."

In spite of her words, Clementine wasn't at all sure Bennie wasn't right. Everyone knew that the Highlands were a dank and dismal wasteland populated by shrieking banshees who rode into battle in naught but their nightshirts.

She pinned on a smile. "Mr. Silverton assures me Lord Denby is no Jacobite. I'm sure his family had nothing to do with those awful rebellions."

"And you think you can trust the word of a slick-talking solicitor?" Bennie asked skeptically.

"Oh, yes, most certainly!" Clementine assured her. "If you met him you would understand. He is the most elegant and charming of gentlemen."

"Is he now?" Bennie sank back in her chair and sipped her tea as Clementine related every detail of her visit to the solicitor's office.

They chatted for a full hour before Clementine's driver appeared at the back door to remind her that she was near out of time.

"I must fly," Clementine said. "It's off to Scotland for me."

"I was wondering if you knew where you were going. You've done nothing but rave on about the solicitor, I was thinking that perhaps you'd forgotten where it was that you were planning on going and who it was you'd be working for."

Clementine started to protest then realized it was true. She had spent the whole time expounding Mr. Silverton's many merits.

"Never fear, Bennie. I'll remember my place."

"I fear God's not made it as yet," Bennie said with a heavy sigh.

Clementine gave her a light kiss on the cheek and bid her goodbye. She climbed back into the carriage and the driver clicked his sleepy-eyed horse into a lackluster trot. Clementine sank back against the thin squabs, her brows pulled together in a thoughtful frown. Why had she found Mr. Silverton so engaging? Was it because she'd had so little exposure to men of his ilk? The men she had seen at Lady Agatha's affairs had not been of the highest quality. They'd been either dutiful husbands accompanying their wives, or dutiful sons accompanying their domineering mothers. The latter tended to stammer and blush when spoken to directly and rarely looked to the left or the right without permission. She could not imagine Mr. Silverton ever stammering. He had such a commanding presence. Such masculinity. Even without Turkish coffee he would have sent her pulses flying.

She prayed he had been truthful with her. Surely he was too honorable to deceive. But she'd heard little to recommend the Highlands, which left her with a nagging feeling that all was not as he'd described it. She could not shake a sense of uneasiness, and her glib assurances to Bennie had actually been assurances to herself.

Be sensible, she told herself. Surely a year of guaranteed employment at such a generous wage made banishment to the Scottish Highlands worth while. She would end up with sufficient purse to set herself up in a small establishment and teach music to support herself. She'd have traveled to the ancient city of Timbuktu to accomplish that had it been necessary.

Never again would she have to live at the mercy of patrons whose fickle turns of mind could see them out in the street in the wink of an eye. Her departure from Lady Agatha's house had not been their first eviction and she clearly remembered the fear that had settled in the bottom of her stomach each time she and her father had found themselves once again standing on a street corner surrounded by their luggage. It was the worst possible feeling and one she hoped to never again experience.

That night she lay on her narrow cot in Mrs. Lidger's boarding house and made careful plans for her future. She would take custody of her destiny. Take the necessary steps to be sure she was never helpless or vulnerable again. She knew that meant leaving England for the best place for a single woman to find opportunity was in the Colonies.

She knew that the opinions of nobility were not as strictly pursued there as they were in London. People were judged more on ability than on titles and heritage. At the end of her year with Lord Denby she would take her wages which Mr. Silverton said he would deposit in an interest bearing account in the Bank of England and book passage on a ship for the Colonies. Once there she would buy a modest residence in Boston, or perhaps in the Virginias, and teach music, dancing and social graces.

Granted, she did not have her father's great musical talent, but she did have a good understanding of the art, played a commendable piano, and was well trained in dance. She had good manners and knew all the nuances of cultivated behavior. It was said that the prosperous middle class in the Colonies was anxious for their children to acquire the refinements and polish of high society. She felt herself eminently well qualified to instruct them.

Of course, she must first last out the year with Lord Denby or she would forfeit a large portion of her wages. She entertained few fears on that account. Mr. Silverton had seemed convinced she was well qualified in spite of her own reservations. She could not imagine anything that could drive her from Lord Denby's home and cause her to lose the fortune that awaited her at year's end. Nothing would be allowed to deter her from securing her future.

Chapter Three

Tuesday next Clementine and Raymond Stanley sailed from London on the packet ship, the Julianna, riding the outgoing tide down the Thames, past Gravesend and the grass covered marshes of Kent and Essex to the North Sea. Even in early summer the North Sea was formidable, a fierce tumble of water garnished with white-capped waves kicked up by bone chilling winds. Clementine found the voyage invigorating. Mr. Stanley faded to green before the sails were well up and took to his cabin and stayed there. When they docked at Inverness in the Moray Firth, he tottered ashore and all but fell to his knees to kiss the ground in grateful reunion.

They spent the night in a local inn and left the next morning by coach. Unfortunately, the buck and sway of the coach proved no more tolerable for the poor man than the North Sea had. He called repeated halts in order to deposit whatever meal he had been so ill advised as to consume into the shrubbery at the roadside. When they left General Wade's well built roads and turned onto a bumpier track he became a near fixture hanging out the window. Clementine clung to the straps and prayed for patience and forbearance.

"Oh, I do most humbly beg your pardon," he apologized as he collapsed back into the seat. "I've never had a tolerance for things which moved."

"We should have walked," Clementine said, torn between sympathy for his plight and dismay that a man could have such a weak constitution.

He smothered a belch behind his hand, sat a moment in uncertainty, and then lurched for the window.

"Dear God, deliver me," she murmured with uplifted eyes.

"Auuuchgurp," replied Mr. Stanley.

By time the coach came to a stop in the dusty yard of the Rooster and Hound where they were to spend their final night, Mr. Stanley traveled with his head cushioned in Clementine's lap, too ill to sit up. He had a dreadful pallor, his teeth chattered with chills, and what of his skin that was visible was covered with a fine red rash. The only advantage she could find to his semi-conscious condition was that his stomach had settled.

"You'll need to summon assistance from the tavern," she told the driver. "And have the tavern keeper send for the apothecary. The man's ill with something other than the pitch and sway of this miserable conveyance. He has a high fever and spots."

"Plague?" the man asked fearfully, backing away.

"Oh, for heavens sake don't be absurd," she snapped, nerves frayed to such an extent her disposition was in tatters. "There's not been any plague in London since the great fire." At least not the epidemic waves of it as had decimated England in past centuries. "No, it looks like the speckled fever the gardener's children had the winter before last. Measles I believe they said it was."

The tavern keeper was no more comfortable with Mr. Stanley's illness than the coachman. He looked on uneasily as the glassy-eyed, semi-conscious clerk was carried up the stairs.

"I ain't sure I want a man with a dread disease put down in one of me beds," the man blustered as he followed them into the room.

Clementine looked at the thin mattress and grubby bedding. She seriously doubted Mr. Stanley would bring anything new into this unscrubbed quarter. It was far more likely he would pick up something to go with what he already had, poor man. She held her tongue and turned her attention to the tavern owner's son returning from having been sent to fetch the village apothecary.

"Mr. Winterlea's tending the McPhee woman's birthing and he said to tell ye he'll no be coming until morning most likely."

Reluctant to leave Stanley unattended, and with no visible alternative available to her, Clementine wrapped herself in a quilt of dubious cleanliness and settled down to spend the night in a chair at his bedside.

He had fallen into a fevered sleep, twitching restlessly, occasionally babbling nonsensically. His condition deteriorated during the night and by dawn his lungs squeaked and wheezed like a faulty billows and every visible inch of him was covered with a fire-red rash. The apothecary's knock on the door was most welcome.

The man had obviously come straight from Mrs. McPhee. His face was lined from a lack of sleep and his clothes were rumpled.

"I would not have been so long coming, but it was a difficult birth ending with the loss of the bairn," he explained with weary regret, after introducing himself as Angus Winterlea. "We've only one licentiate and he'd no be lowering himself to take care of such as the McPhee woman."

Clementine understood. Licentiates were too few and too dear for all save the wealthiest, and the middle classes relied on apothecaries for their medical care, while the lower classes made due with herbalists and white witches. She felt blessed with her own good health.

"Have they other children?" she asked.

"Be it first or fifth, the loss is as keenly felt."

"I didn't mean..."

He waved her explanation aside. "Forgive me lass. I know ye dinna mean no harm. I'm cranky as a fusty old woman. Comes from having spent a long difficult night. Now, what seems to be the gentleman's difficulty?"

As succinctly as possible Clementine described Mr. Stanley's decline, the clerk too befuddled to answer a single question.

"Well, ye were right in your diagnosis," Winterlea said when she returned to the room having left it to allow him to examine Mr. Stanley. "It's measles without a doubt. He's not only got a full range of spots, but his lungs are inflamed. I take it from what old Bruce says you're no the man's wife?"

"No. Mr. Stanley is my escort to Denby Hall."

A brief smile lit Winterlea's tired face. "No doing much of a job of it, is he?"

"No, he isn't," she agreed without malice. "Between being seasick and this I've done most of the caring. Can he be moved? It's imperative we continue on to Denby Hall."

"I'll no be having ye take him near the children. I dinna recall if they've had the stuff or not, but things are enough of a muddle in that household without adding measles. Have ye had this distemper yourself, miss?"

Children? What children? Silverton had made no mention of children. She gathered her wits sufficiently to answer the apothecary's question. "I believe so. When I was very young."

"Well, that's a help."

"Whatever am I to do about Mr. Stanley? Mr. Silverton was most anxious that I get to Denby without delay and the man's much too ill to be left alone."

"Aye, he is that. And it's for sure your're needed at the house. I've a widow lady who takes patients now and again as a way of earning her keep since her old man passed on. She does well with them and she dinna charge too great a price for her services."

"Payment is no problem," Clementine said, vastly relieved there was such a handy solution available. "I'm certain Mr. Silverton will be happy to pay whatever is required to see his clerk well cared for."

"Aye, young Silverton will pay or I'll hound him into an early grave," Winterlea said with a good natured smile. "Are ye a relative of his lordship's?"

"No, I'm to be housekeeper."

"Well, you've got work cut out for ye, that's for certain," the man said sagely. "Margaret's leg is badly broke. I had to call out a bonesetter from Inverness to tend to her. The poor woman will be bedfast for at least another month and lame for twice that. She may never walk without the aid of a cane and she's no taking kindly to her predicament. A tarter under the best conditions she's a bit of a harridan now, I fear. Good hearted under it all, ye understand," he qualified tardily, then ruined it by saying. "You'll need God's own patience to deal with that menagerie. And you'll need to keep a wary eye on the Papist. He's no to be trusted."

"Papist? I thought Scotland Presbyterian."

"Appington's from France." His tone indicated that location said it all.

Appington? Who was he? She would have pressed him for more details save for the fact that Mr. Stanley chose that particular moment to sit bolt upright in bed and give a wild cry as if pursued by demons.

"Oh, my goodness," Winterlea said with some alarm. "I'd best be for getting this poor man settled." He went to the top of the stairs and requested help from the taproom below. The promise of free ale resulted in an ample number of volunteers and in a very few minutes Mr. Stanley's limp, speckled form, wrapped in a fairly clean blanket, was headed down the hill toward the village and the Widow Thistlewait's good care.

Clementine prayed she was doing the right thing and the poor man was not being carried off to his doom. Not that he'd know the difference. He was far too ill for clear thinking. As she gathered her things to leave, she discovered Mr. Stanley's letter pouch buried under her cape. It contained a letter to Lord Denby that she'd heard Mr. Silverton request Mr. Stanley personally read it to his lordship. She tucked it into her valise. Mr. Stanley could deliver it when he was recovered. After a final look around to make sure she had everything, she went down to the common room to find the driver so they could be on their way.

"Will ye be wanting a bite?" the barmaid asked on spying her.

"I fear my appetite's deserted me," Clementine said as she flagged a perfumed handkerchief under her nose to drive away the stench of poor Stanley's erupting stomach.

"Could be the gentlemen's puke put ye off a wee bit," the barmaid said knowingly.

"Well said." She sank down on a bench. "Is there a livery in the village? I would like to hire a riding horse." She could not bear the thought of spending another moment in the coach.

"I'll ask me Da to send me brother down to old Johns," the girl said. She disappeared, returning in a few minutes to hand Clementine a mug of frothy ale. "Try it miss. Me Da's a fair hand with a brew. It'll wash the stench of puke from your throat."

"It would be of great help if you would cease to discuss it." The girl's eloquent twist of words was almost as distasteful as the event had been. Clementine forced herself to take a sip of the ale, finding it surprisingly flavorful. She took a long swallow, much refreshed.

The maid grinned. "See. Dinna I tell ye? Best in the county's what it is."

"It's very good. Did your brother go for the horse?"

"Me lad's no going anywhere until I see the color of your money," the tavern keeper said as he joined them.

"I beg your pardon?" Her tone was edgy, her nerves and disposition worn thin.

"English are ye?" the man inquired with obvious disapproval.

Clementine stood, back rigid. "My dear sir, whether I am English or a West Indies witch, is of small importance at the moment. I asked to hire a horse, something I would not have done had I lacked the ability pay!"

"Damn Sassenach," the man muttered under his breath.

She bit her tongue to hold back a tart reply. Her nerves were frayed, her temper short.

"No need to be getting in a froth," he placated, evidently sensing he'd pushed her to the limits. "I'll be sending me lad."

"Thank you. Now, is there somewhere that I might change my clothes?" She needed to change into her riding habit and she did not want to go back up to the room which had not been cleaned.

"There's the privy out back."

The privy's malevolent odor had prompted her to relieve herself in the bushes bordering the stable yard when she had first arisen this morning. Without another word she went back up the stairs. When she returned to the common room a few minutes later she found the coachman slurping down a cup of hot chocolate. The man had not been particularly friendly from the start of the trip. She didn't blame him for being vexed with Stanley's unsteady stomach, but he had no call to be abrupt with her. It was not her fault that Silverton's clerk had fallen ill.

"I've decided to hire a horse and continue the trip on horseback," she told him. "You can deliver the luggage without me."

"You've no liking for my coach?"

"To be honest, I found the padding thin and the springs lacking."

He made a disagreeable sound and strode out the door without a backward glance. Alarmed, Clementine hurried after him. His longer legs carried him at a much faster rate than she could muster and he had swung up on the box and was cracking his whip over the horses' heads when she too, reached the yard.

"Wait, I say! Wait up! I don't know the way!"

He urged the horses to greater speed and left her standing in a cloud of dust.

"You miserable cretin!" she sputtered as she stood in the middle of the yard, her hands on her hips. "God help you if you're still at Denby when I arrive." She turned on her heel and returned to the tavern to get directions, stopped by the arrival of the man from the livery.

She had feared she would get an antiquated, sway-backed hack, and her eyes widened in delight at the sight of the delicately built, red-coated mare dancing around the grizzled stableman.

"What an absolute beauty!" she exclaimed.

"The lad said ye was an experienced rider and on your way to Denby Hall," the stableman said, eyeing her skeptically. "The beast belongs there, but she no be a horse for a beginner."

"I'm no beginner. Is she mean spirited?" She allowed the feisty mare to sniff her hand before stroking her gleaming red neck.

"The lass dinna have a mean bone in her body," he replied giving Clementine a gap-tooth grin. "Just full of the devil."

The mare was nibbling along her arm with velvet-soft lips, mischief in her large dark eyes. Clementine took hold of the bridle and gave it a twitch to tell the naughty creature she would not take kindly to being bitten. The mare tossed her head at this harmless admonishment and acted as if Clementine had taken a stout stick to her tender snout.

"She does carry on," the man allowed.

"I can see that. Would you be so kind as to give me a hand up?"

She set her foot in the cup he made with his hands and he handed her up into the side saddle where she settled comfortably.

He adjusted the stirrups. "She's no been ridden in a while."

She settled herself, tested the length of the stirrup, and found it exactly right. "I'll keep a tight rein," she said even as the mare danced in a graceful circle, anxious to be off. "Would you be so kind as to direct me to Denby Hall?"

"Just follow the road to the first bridge ye come to and turn in. The horse knows the way."

* * *

She had thought the Highlands would be a dank and dismal place with a grim and foreboding landscape. She'd visualized its castles as great dark piles of medieval stone with multiple turrets and towers set above foundations riddled with musty dungeons. The climate would be constant cold and rain, every valley draped in cloying mist. Instead, she'd seen castles as grand as any in England and if there were dungeons they were well hidden.

The seaport of Inverness, and the small towns and villages they had passed through since leaving Inverness, had been much cleaner than London. Of course, there were few cities in the civilized world with London's population and abundance of filth. The combination of dung and coal smoke turned the fog a deadly yellow that clogged the lungs and caused death to the weak and elderly. The large number of people crowded into such a small space, along with the lack of city-wide sewers made for a villainous stench. In most of the city effluent was poured from the windows into open gutters where it mixed with horse droppings and discarded rubbish.

Scotland was so much cleaner and the climate more temperate than she'd expected. The day was beautiful, warm and sunny with a light wind. Being on a mount with a springy step and a forward set to her ears made the road seem smoother and the landscape more pleasing. It was a great relief to no longer be traveling with poor Mr. Stanley. Looking around, she could only conclude that what she had heard had come from uninformed individuals who knew nothing about the land they'd described with such eloquence.

Sadly, she had seen much evidence of the damage inflicted by Lord Cumberland and his minions. There seemed an unlimited supply of burned out cottages and barns along the roadside and considerable evidence of poverty. People in threadbare clothing with thin, pinched faces were oft seen in the villages and along the edge of the roads.

The measures Lord Cumberland had taken against the rebellious Highlanders had sounded very needed and necessary at first, but the tide of public opinion had turned against Cumberland when the full extend of his butchery had become known. His actions took on a different meaning for Clementine as she passed by the charred heaps of stone that had once been someone's home. Having so recently lost the roof over her own head she had no difficulty imagining the anguish the owners of those humble abodes had felt at the loss. Had there truly been anything to fear from the women and children who had lived there? Weren't their men folk already dead or in chains? What good was served by persecuting the innocent?

Lord Cumberland had described the Highlanders as vicious animals unable to understand anything other than brutality. That could hardly be true when among them was a gentleman of such sensitivity and talent as Lord Denby, and another of such masculine radiance as Silverton who had also been born here.

Clementine had yet to see any beasts such as those described by the London gossips that fifty years after the fact still held the Highlanders in disregard. She had found the people decent, if a bit prickly of disposition. That they did not feel kindly toward the English was certainly understandable. Being conquered couldn't be a comfortable thing and suppression continued in the form of taxes and tariffs. Many felt that allowing the Scots prosperity was as dangerous as allowing them to carry weapons.

The landscape was truly splendid in her opinion. A vast, raw land with verdant forests and crystal clear rivers, wide grassy fields and heather-covered glens. Bright orange poppies decorated the hillsides and hedges of wild rose perfumed the air. Everywhere rhododendrons bloomed in profusion, the multi shades of their pink flowers as delicate as orchids.

She gave the mare her head and it didn't take long to catch up with the coach. Clementine fell in beside it, not wanting to be an unescorted female alone on the road. There was no point inviting trouble if, indeed, thugs patrolled the roads hoping to relieve the unwary of their purses. The driver had settled the team to a comfortable trot and their harness jingled pleasantly as they went along, heads up, ears forward. They too seemed to be enjoying the fine day.

Great piles of fluffy white clouds sailed across the gentian blue sky as a light breeze danced through the leaves on the trees. The sweet perfume of lavender mingled with the resonance of the bees going from blossom to blossom. Overhead a hawk rode the air currents in a graceful circle as it searched the hedgerows for field mice and moles.

Granite monoliths jutted straight up from the green of the fields, towering gray and stern into the sky, their nicks and hollows garnished by moss and lichens, narrow skirts of fallen rock surrounding them like tattered hemlines. Meadowlarks sang with industry and she saw robins, wrens, titmouse, and chickadees. She had not thought to find it such a majestic landscape. It was raw and a bit primitive, but had an undeniable splendor.

Bordering the road was a river plunging over a bed of jumbled rocks worn smooth by its passage. The water was so clear she could see the rocky bottom where water grass swayed like pencil thin dancers in the current. Clementine dismounted to let the mare drink, scooping up a handful of the ice cold water to drink herself. Neither she nor the horse disturbed the brown trout tucked into the grass, fanning their tails in the current.

The coach slowed for a flock of sheep. They had seen many such flocks. They were well suited to the rugged terrain. What few cattle she'd seen had been in the grassy glens, square built and muscular with long reddish-brown coats. There was a brief exchange between a shepherd and the driver. The shepherd pointed toward a stone bridge just ahead and they were soon on their way again.

As they neared the bridge she saw that it had uncommonly high sides, the upper section of recent construction. She looked down into the riverbed piled with boulders and jagged stone with a sense of foreboding. At the other end of the lane were the peaked roofs of Denby Hall. Was this where Lord Denby had nearly lost his life? She'd heard that he and his horse had plunged off a bridge into a stream. There were several courses of new stone and newly built abutments fanning out on either side. She shuddered at the rush of water boiling between the rocks.

Beyond the bridge the lane was narrow, a stone fence bordering it on one side, a deep grassy ditch on the other, here and there a large ancient oaks shaded the track. The weather had been dry of late and the coach kicked up an increasingly thick cloud of dust as it wheeled along. The track was too narrow for her to ride beside the coach and she reined the mare back to find clean air. Not pleased with the delay the mare danced sideways, pretending a great startlement over a Monarch butterfly fluttering by. Hopping on stiff legs while giving great gusty snorts she ducked her head and crow-hopped across the track. Clementine remained securely seated, laughing as she reined the mare back and forced her to settle.

"Now see what you've done, you great, silly beast," she chided the animal when she got her straightened out and once more started back in the proper direction. "We've fallen way behind."

The coach had disappeared around a bend in the lane, the driver moving along at a smart pace. She gave the mare her head and she broke into a rocking canter that was nothing short of perfection. As she neared the turn, she heard the driver's raised angry voice.

"Ye filthy little buggers! I get me hands on ye and I'll be taking the skin off your bloody bones!"

It was not the cry of a man in grave danger, but definitely the sound of a man in high temper. She reined in and moved forward cautiously not wanting to plunge pell-mell into whatever difficulty confronted him.

He stood on the box, waving his long whip in an attempt to ward off a hail of eggs flying from the low hanging branches of a nearby tree. Eggshell accompanied by its well-aged contents drizzled down his forehead. A well-aimed missile landed with a splat right between his eyes, depositing a large piece of shell on the end of his prominent nose. She stifled a giggle. The man had been so disagreeable she could not help but take pleasure in his present discomfort. He swept the shell off his nose with a roar of indignation.

Another egg pelted the coach door while another flew through the open window. Smothered childish giggles emoting from the nearby oak tree were a dead giveaway. The culprits had wisely decided not to aim at the driver again, no doubt fearing he could be driven from the coach to give chase if they continued assaulting his person. He was definitely in high temper and had good strong legs, and an impressive whip. They were experienced pranksters who knew exactly how far they could go before being in more trouble than they could handle.

She gave the mare a small nudge in the ribs. The mare sailed effortlessly over the stone wall bordering the lane and landed silently on the other side, her hooves cushioned by the soft sod. Clementine sent her forward, her springy, light step going unnoticed by the three boys perched on the board limbs of the ancient oak. They cheerfully shared a basket of eggs between them. Below them, at the foot of the wall, two younger girls bounced up and down as they implored the boys to give them a hand up so they could join in the fun.

"If ye dinna, I'll tell," the older girl declared stormily.

"Shut your hole," the oldest boy, a lad of nine or ten ordered.

He was a sturdy youngster dressed in a white lawn shirt and knee pants, he had a head of jet-black curls and a handsome face quite ruined by a runny nose that he was not paying the least attention to. He was much too intent on plaguing the coachman and bedeviling his sisters. Brothers and sisters they surely were for they shared similar black curls, square builds, and pansy-brown eyes. The older girl became more insistent and the older boy dropped an egg with deadly accuracy onto the top of her head. She gave a howl of outrage as the shattered egg spread its vile contents through her hair.

"Why you brat!" Clementine gasped. She kicked the mare forward, grabbed the boy by the leg, and pulled him from his perch. He fell to the ground with a squeal of surprise. For an instant he lay in a motionless heap, his dark eyes filled with disbelief. Then he scrambled to his feet and started towards her, lips drawn back in a feral growl. He snatched up a stick and brandished it. The mare backed up, stopped when her rump encountered the stone wall. She gave a startled snort.

"Stop!" Clementine ordered the boy who still seemed bent on striking the horse.

The boy paid no heed, his small face flushed with fury. The mare tightened under her and Clementine knew the animal was poised to bolt. If she bolted out of the corner the boy had pressed her into she would trample him. They were headed toward disaster.

The boy raised the stick. The mare bunched, and her eyes rolled back to show white. The only weapon Clementine had was her riding crop. She lashed out, aiming for the stick. He lowered his arm at the very last instant and her whip found the tender flesh of his cheek. He gave a scream, dropped the stick, and clapped his hand to the fire-red welt. The other children regarded her with wide, fright-filled eyes for an instant and then scattered into the bushes like a covey of startled quail, the boy with them.

"Oh, dear," Clementine murmured as she strove to calm the frightened horse. She was horrified by what had happened. She'd meant to hit the stick, to startle him into dropping it. Never had she meant to hit him.

What in heaven's name were they doing out here running the fields like animals? "Oh, dear," she murmured once more when she spied gray stone towers through the trees. That could only be Denby Hall.

"Are they gone?" the coachman inquired coming up behind her.

"Yes." She sent the mare back over the fence onto the road.

The man was cleaning off as best he could with his handkerchief, but it would take a full scrubbing to rid him of the awful smell. Not wanting to trail behind the odorous coach, she gave the mare her head. The horse raced to the top of a small rise in the road, and skidded to a stop. She threw up her head, and gave a lusty whinny. From somewhere below came a bold masculine trumpet.

"Ah, ha," Clementine laughed. "Now I know why you're so anxious to get home. You're in love."

The stallion trumpeted again and the mare answered him with a whiney filled with hopeful expectation. The light nudge of Clementine's heels was all the encouragement required to send her flying. They arrived in the stable yard in a cloud of dust and a clatter of hooves, the mare stopping within inches of a lean old man who'd not made the slightest effort to step aside. His hair, skin and eyes were the color of the sun-baked earth he stood on. Though bent and gnarled by age and injury, his brown eyes were button-bright and his voice strong and clear. The mare lowered her head to be patted, nuzzling him affectionately.

"And who might ye be?" he demanded of Clementine when she dismounted. "And how come ye by this beast?"

"I'm Miss Pennington, the new housekeeper. I rented her from the livery in the village. The man said she belonged here." She handed him the reins.

"Aye she does. Not that he wants her back here." With that he led the mare off, leaving Clementine where she stood.

Not exactly a warm welcome. She walked across the stable yard to the boulevard leading to the house itself. Denby Hall stood at the end of a broad avenue of finely crushed stone. It could be the background for an equine portrait by an Italian condottiere with its twin towers of pale gray stone rising six full stories on either side of an inset gatehouse. It had stepped gables and large mullion windows. The gatehouse turrets were decorated with panels of molded brick giving it the appearance of a toy fort. A large pond fronted the house, the turrets, chimneys and battlements reflected in the mirror-smooth water disturbed only by a small flock of wild ducks sedately paddling from here to there.

On either side of the drive were well kept lawns, yew hedges, and flowerbeds interspersed between ancient trees. Off to the left was a classic maze of shrubs trimmed to resemble animals.

Her appreciation of the house was marred by the single file march of grim-faced children approaching the great front door. The boy whose face would most certainly bear the mark of her riding crop for days to come was in the lead.

To order or learn more!