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

"She is a pretty bit, but her sister looks more your taste," Adrian Hughes said, warming the tails of his coat at the fireplace.

James Treadway, voice roughened by the rasp of brandy, drawled, "You put your finger on it. But the dear Pater don't care for my taste. He is determined on this match. Has approached Ridgemont already and all but signed the marriage contract." He turned the snifter around and around in his long fingers, peering at it as if the spirits were tainted. "Unless I wish to seriously displease him, I will betroth myself to Miss Ridgemont, though she is a far cry from my ideal." Papers shifted as he leaned against the beveled lip of the walnut desk and blew to warm his fingers. "Can't abide insipid chits. He says she was in town last year; don't remember her at all. But the Pater is determined."

Hughes ran his finger along the frame of an indifferently painted ancestral portrait, dislodging a small clump of beeswax. The drip fell; he stooped and picked it up, depositing it in the pen tray. "Heaven forbid you displease the old martinet."

"And heaven forbid I displease the old martinet. He don't like widows, but Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont has a lushness that speaks to me, a flamboyance that urges me to get to know her better, even in crow black. Margaret Ridgemont is much too staid for my taste."

A wisp of sound made Treadway turn toward the library door, at the same time inhaling the heady scent of heliotrope. Framed between the moldings of the double door entry like Guinevere and her handmaiden were the two ladies he referred to. Mrs. Christine Whitmill-Ridgemont, the wearer of the sophisticated perfume, had her arm entwined with that of Miss Margaret Ridgemont, the young lady his father had requested, nay, ordered him to wed.

The first was unmistakably a widow. In a worked muslin gown the color of mourning, Christine Whitmill-Ridgemont was a vision. She wore the dress high around the bust, the tiniest twist of crape confining her bosom, accentuating her finest feature. The hall candles backlit her skirt, lending the black muslin a touch of transparency. His attention seldom slid that high, but her face was acceptable, with arched brows over brown eyes and slightly hooked nose.

To James Treadway, the widow was a picture of perfection with intriguing flashes of passion.

Margaret Ridgemont did not compare in form or style. Dark hair, light dress--what more was there to say? The thick jaconet muslin, plain and tight to the hips with a fall of concealing lace at the bodice, was more than a year behind the fashion. In dull debutante white, Miss Ridgemont was a watercolor wash of dun. She was too petite to suit Treadway, too demure to intrigue, too insipid to inspire. Worse, she epitomized what his father wanted for him. At least she didn't have spots.

No matter his thoughts, Treadway felt the first faint tinkle of his life shattering. The doors to the hall were not far enough from where he stood. The library was too blasted small, the desk too close to the doors. His words could have carried that far. He picked up the scattered papers and tapped them into a tidy pile with numb fingers. They went askew when he set them down.

What he had said was not proper drawing room fare. Gentlemen did not discuss ladies in a derogatory fashion. Especially ladies one contemplated wedding. It just wasn't done. Not publicly, not privately. He glanced from one to the other.

Had the girl heard? Would she complain to her father?

"Ladies," Hughes said. "You are a breath of tropical air in the Arctic. Please, come in."

"I hesitate to interrupt," Miss Ridgemont said. Hughes moved forward.

"No, no interruption. We were about done."

She stood like a block in the doorway, no expression on her face. He'd seen more appealing cows, though to be fair, she wasn't portly. But there was no life to the chit, nothing of passion. No, she must not have heard, else she would be having the vapors and screaming for Papa to call him out. Treadway sighed and turned his attention to the widow. Had she heard?

Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont propelled her sister into the room. "Our stepmother requests your attendance in the drawing room." Her long lashes fluttered, laying spiky shadows against pearly skin. "We were lonely without your company in any event, were we not, Margaret?"

The cow flushed, nodding agreement with her sister's pronouncement. Impulsively, Treadway revised his opinion. Margaret Ridgemont wasn't a cow, but a merino. Cows flapped their mouths a lot. Sheep were merely dull.

No, there was no sign the widow had heard.

Crow black glided across the room, swaying to a stop when the widow's feet touched the elaborate medallion curled on the center of the rug. Glancing at the meager fire, she said, "The drawing room is warm with a big blaze in both fireplaces. Not like this chilly old library. Brrr, I need a muff in here."

James smiled. "It is cool, but with the weather, not surprising. Many rooms are hard to heat."

The sheep commented, "Step-Mama thinks too warm a fire encourages must in the books."

"The only thing that could thrive here is icicles." Giggling at her own weak humor, the widow's bodice expanded in an interesting manner. Most affected laughs had Treadway running for the door, but not this one. It sounded like the mating call of the female rake. He responded with the instinct of a full-blooded male. He just couldn't act on it.

"Mold is a concern with books," Hughes said. "It causes the musty smell. Cool temperatures inhibit mold. She is right to be vigilant, especially if Sir Denison has any valuable tomes."

"Papa has an old copy of Sir Thomas Mallory's history of King Arthur." Miss Ridgemont gestured vaguely to the far wall. "I do not know if it is valuable, but he fusses over it. He showed it to me once; it has beautiful illuminations. He keeps it under lock and key."

Hughes raised his eyebrows. "Really. An illuminated Morte D'Arthur. That is rare enough to justify all manner of precaution. I would love to see it."

"If you ask Papa, I am sure he would bring it out."

"Do you know who illuminated it?"

"No, only it was done in an abbey. Papa said something about a rose tint to the gold that makes it English. French is darker, I believe."

The widow smiled. "You must come to the drawing room. If you freeze in here, Sir Denison will be irritated. Besides, he specifically desired your presence."

Hughes set his glass on a table and sketched a bow. "We have holed up here too long. My apologies for detaining Treadway, Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont. Wanted to gain his advice about an investment and added too much detail. He's a devil with the funds, y'know." Under his breath, he added, "By Balan, I hope she didn't hear."

Treadway's lips barely moved. "She couldn't have." Before he could extend his arm, the widow tittered and attached herself to Hughes's sleeve. Diaphanous black muslin floated about his legs.

"Investments are boring," she chided. "Better to flirt with me."

"They are my life blood," Hughes protested. "Investments and music. I can't resist violins." The two left the library, the widow's draperies fluttering. Treadway's attention went with them.

Leaving the papers in a smear, he crossed the room and held his arm out to the other lady, the quiet one wearing modest white muslin. The staid one his father had ordered him to wed. "Shall we go to the drawing room? Lady Ridgemont may become impatient and that would not do." Miss Ridgemont dumbly laid a hand on his sleeve. "Hughes and I should not have spent so much time in the library--our poor excuse must be the investment we discussed is involved. He is enthusiastic and I lost track of the minutes.

"My mother raised me well," he continued with a desperate flash of teeth, "though sequestering myself away from the party may not show my manners to best advantage. I shall exert myself to behave better in the future." Ignoring what Treadway trusted may have been taken as a roundabout apology, the chit kept her eyes averted. He paid little attention to her reply.

"I readily forgive your delay, though I had not noticed you gone from the company overly long," she said. "In my experience, gentlemen are forever immersed in their own concerns. During my season at Camelot, ladies complained men hid in libraries discussing the quest for the Ark of the Covenant and other matters rather than dancing. I thought much of the time they merely avoided dancing."

Mismatched in height and step, they walked through the library door and started across the marble-floored hall. Boots tapped an even beat while slippers pattered and skipped. "Step-Mama will not be impatient, I believe, no matter what my sister said. She understands gentlemen must be indulged when they fail to note the passing of time. It is my father who wishes to hasten the business."

"Business," he repeated, bored beyond belief with her colorless conversation. "What business may that be, Miss Ridgemont?"

"The business that brought you to Puckeridge, Mr. Treadway." Skipping a step to match his longer stride, she colored. "The business of betrothal. Unless you have altered your intention. My father wishes the matter done. That is why he sent Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont and me to seek you out."

Impertinent chit. He slid his hand to her elbow and stopped them in front of a life-size marble statue of Mercury with wings on his heels, clad in drapery resembling a Scottish kilt. He ignored the vulgar god and glanced at his friend and the widow ahead of them, arm in arm. "Let them go on ahead."

Hughes, the lucky devil, escorted Christine Whitmill-Ridgemont into the drawing room. Schooling his patience, Treadway fastened his eyes on the sheep. "The business of betrothal, hmm. I take it you are aware of why I came to visit."

"Yes sir. My father informed me this afternoon that you intend to wed me. Is that an error?"

"No, but I would prefer to go about this another way. I see no reason to hurry. Would you not like to come to know me better first?" Her eyes flickered to his chin.

"I believe it best we accomplish the matter without delay."

Arthur, she might have been discussing an arrangement to go driving rather than the disposal of her life. Was Margaret Ridgemont made of ice? Was her placidity as bovine as it appeared?

Staid, hah! Dead and laid out inside was more like. Accolon's curse, he was not ready for this. She had little to recommend her at the best of times, but here was the final straw. The sheep could not look him in the eye when she consented to his unstated proposal. She couldn't even wait until he made the proposal to consent. Her clear skin meant nothing if she was as thickheaded as she appeared.

* * *

Running out the door and down the drive was not an option. Margaret had nowhere to go and Papa would only fetch her back. Behind a serene mask, she stamped a mental foot on the marble floor.

Did this man want to marry her? Surely not, not after what she heard. She raised the subject just to get it over and done with. She said something--she hardly knew what--to let Mr. Treadway know she understood. They were to be betrothed. Papa had decreed.

He stopped her with a hand on her elbow. Panicked though she was, Margaret swallowed a giggle. Step-Mama's pretend Greek statue was taller than Mr. Treadway. More handsome too. To be fair, his was an imposing figure: Mr. Treadway, not Mercury. The broad shoulders of a horseman filled a claret-colored coat cut by a master tailor. With a smooth, neat cravat, he looked like someone consequential. Despite a nose a tad too long and a mouth a smidge too wide, Treadway's features were pleasing. But Mercury was more to Margaret's taste.

"The business of betrothal, hmm," he said. He said more, but she only listened with half an ear. She wanted to smack his cheek. She itched to make a fist and push Mr. Treadway's teeth down his throat. The man sounded bored, for pity's sake. She focused to control her hand.

Papa's bald command echoed in her head. She was to marry this man she had scarce laid eyes on before yesterday, who couldn't adjust his stride to match hers, who gazed at her with hazel green eyes, measured and discounted the total she summed up to. 'A far cry from my ideal' he said. If only Papa had not been obdurate.

If Mr. Treadway went down on bended knee, she would scream.

Oh, to smash Mr. Treadway's nose into Mercury's sporran. She had to say yes, had to tell him she would be his wife. Papa--Step-Mama--would accept nothing less. Composed on the surface, she stared at his chin and said what she really did not want to say.

"I believe it best we accomplish the matter without delay."

* * *

"The drawing room door was open," Lady Ridgemont screeched. "I heard. You cannot rescind your promise."

"I do not deny what I said. Upon reflection, I changed my mind." It was their custom to meet in the drawing room before dinner for a glass of sherry or brandy. Strife was Step-Mama's preference, as the current discussion illustrated.

"Change your mind, why, you ungrateful brat. There is no changing anything. Your father made the decision. His was the choice. You will do as you are told." Christine graced a chair, nodding her head in time to Step-Mama's noise. Papa distanced himself, hovering over the wine decanters, leaving his wife to chastise his disobedient daughter. Lady Ridgemont was doing so with relish.

"You said 'No delay,' Margaret. The intent was clear. I consider your statement binding." Lady Ridgemont reclined on the sofa, as smug as a knight tapped on the shoulder by the king. "The Lady knows, unlike your mother--may God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but she was the most intemperate--I tried to instill obedience and a sense of responsibility in you. Obedience to your elders and responsibility to the family name. Those precepts are the foundation of life. You will wed James Treadway. Without delay, as you promised." Step-Mama was over-doing the dutiful wife role. Papa should fight his own battles. Better, he should pretend this was his battle, not his wife's.

"Not an hour ago, you were agreeable to the scheme," Christine purred. "I like Mr. Treadway quite well. He will make a fine husband."

Margaret turned her eyes from her elder to her younger sister, fading into the wall, pretending deafness. Emma did that much too often. But Margaret must counter Step-Mama's plot, not worry about Emma. "You may like him, Christine, but I fear Mr. Treadway and I will never suit."

Step-Mama ranted. "Your father went to a deal of trouble arranging this. It behooves you to be grateful for his efforts. He had to go to London to chase down Carlton Treadway. You know he dislikes town. He was absent an entire fortnight. It's a wonder he didn't turn bilious. It is not as if you managed to attach a gentleman by your own efforts. Your season was a disgrace. No, you will do as you are told. I will brook no more demurrals."

The older woman listed toward the armrest like a top-heavy sloop at anchor. She must have celebrated the betrothal privately with a bottle of sherry. You want me gone, you wicked crone, so you don't suffer comparison with my youth. Or comparison with Mama. Drat you for pushing Papa to this. Thus far, the argument had lasted a quarter hour between her, Step-Mama, and Papa. Papa had said the least.

Aloud Margaret said, "Step-Mama, Mr. Treadway is not to my taste. How can I wed a man I dislike?" Her own thoughts drowned her protest. Where is Emma going? From the corner of her eye, she watched her sister slip out the door to the small salon. She was going to hide, as she did more and more frequently. She wouldn't be at dinner. Lucky Emma.

"Nonsense. I see nothing distasteful. James is a fine young man." Lady Ridgemont's voice rose. "You will have a house in town and an ample allowance; your children will bear a respected name. It's more than you deserve, with this shilly-shallying. Don't think I will put forth the effort to take you to Camelot again, you ungrateful chit. The expense and your father's comfort forbid it."

"The inconvenience," Margaret mumbled.

Christine, dear Christine, heaped coals on the fire. "I wouldn't mind wedding Mr. Treadway. His coats are by Weston. No padding there. And his boots are Hoby. Such a well turned out figure. Margaret is a ninnyhammer. I imagine she has the idea he will mistreat her." She loved to needle her sisters and especially, their brother, Thomas. Margaret likened her elder sister to the knight Blamore, who after siding with Lancelot against the king, died a hermit; Margaret thought his going into seclusion showed a guilty conscience for his perversity, no matter what the history books said. Christine was like that. Someday she would regret her vagary, just like Sir Blamore.

"You may find him a paragon. I do not."

Lady Ridgemont dripped acid. "No man is a paragon. If you look for perfection, you will end your days firmly on the shelf. That will never do. I will not have it said I failed my duty to Sir Denison. He devised a fine match and I will see you obey him."

"The only lack is a title." Christine stretched her hand and admired the massive ruby ring on her finger. "I was not able to gain one; I do not see you doing better." She twisted on the chair. "Papa, Margaret is adamant. You should suggest to Mr. Treadway that I would be amenable to a betrothal with him."

Sir Denison stalked to the comfortable padded chair that was his alone and brandished a wine glass much as the bronze figure on the mantel clock waved her laurel wreath. Sitting, he rested the crystal precariously on his knee and rubbed his hands together. "Nonsense. He's for Margaret, not you, Christine. All settled, not going back on my word. You, Margaret, don't be missish. Nothing objectionable about the Treadway family, nothing wrong with the boy. It's a fine match, a fine match indeed. Settles you most respectably."

"You don't know the meaning of the word unpleasant," Christine interjected.

"I don't see that he is respectable," Margaret said.

Christine tittered. "Respectable. A fine house in town, fashionable carriages. A box at the Opera. What do you find scandalous?"

"Opera dancers."

Sir Denison narrowed his eyes. "Watch your tongue. You should be glad I arranged a match of stunning advantage for you, girl." He swung his arm in an arc, spraying wine. "James Treadway, despite the lack of a handle to his name, stands to inherit some of the neatest acreage in the Isles. The Treadway estate is chock full of sheep and acres of hops. His father had that fellow--what was his name--Benjamin Franklin; that fellow. Had Franklin to stay with him. Carlton Treadway convinced King George it was better to make trade agreements than war. He helped establish the Crown's relations with the new country of America, for Arthur's sake. Prominent family."

"I care not about acreage or politics, Papa."

Christine laughed. "You must have heard something in town about Mr. Treadway. Margaret, all men are rakes, especially the good looking ones."

"He is handsome," Lady Ridgemont said, dabbing at the wine spotting her skirt, "and possesses enough charm to please any woman. A reputation means nothing. The boy has been sowing wild oats, is all. All spirited young men do. Once you are wed, it is up to you to keep him content and at your side."

"Handsome as Adonis," her sister said.

Margaret didn't care for the tone of Christine's remark. She ran a shaking finger over the mantel clock. "Papa, I would like to refuse."

Sir Denison thundered, "NO. That is final, Missie." Face purple, he shook his finger. "No. No. No. The settlements will be signed. The announcement will be in the papers. We will not discuss it again. You are marrying James Treadway and that...is...that."

At the same time, Lady Ridgemont shrilled, "You agreed to this match. I heard you. I will see you wed or you will spend the next ten years in the wine cellar. You will not disgrace us by jilting him." Under cover of the eruption, Christine flounced out.

"I won't sacrifice my wine cellar. Either she does as she's told or she can take up governessing," Sir Denison bellowed. He kicked the footstool, which rolled over and played dead. "The girl is doing better than her sister by a long chalk," he muttered. "I let Christine make her own choice and look what came of it. Looked around before I set my mind on Treadway. Buck of the first water. Many a chit would be delighted to be hooked with him. Fine family--prominent--well heeled. No one can say I didn't do my duty."

"Did you say something, dear?" Lady Ridgemont asked. "I couldn't hear you."

He shook his head. "Females are the very devil."

Margaret, knuckles white as her hands strangled each other, knew defeat. On that cheery note, the door opened and the two guests, James Treadway and his friend Adrian Hughes, entered. Sir Denison bolted for the decanters. Lady Ridgemont fussed with her hair.

Someone should maintain standards. Margaret said, "Mr. Hughes, Mr. Treadway, please come in. Would you care for a glass of sherry before dinner?"

Lady Ridgemont belatedly donned a brilliant smile. "Come sit with me, dear Mr. Treadway," she trilled. "May I call you James?" Sir Denison cleared his throat and glanced at his wife, who straightened on the sofa and nodded vigorously.

The older man thumped a fist against his amply padded thigh. "Treadway, I see no reason to stick my head down the fox hole. You came to Puckeridge for a purpose and I'd like to finalize it now. Do you agree to a betrothal?"

Both guests looked startled. Treadway paused in the middle of the floor and turned a leery eye toward Margaret. "Ah, Miss Ridgemont and I have not--"

Sir Denison interrupted. "Bah. She's female; she'll do as she's told. Do I have your agreement?" The belligerent words hung in the air. Behind Treadway, Hughes stared at a drooping arrangement of hothouse roses.

"Yes, sir," Treadway said, turning dull red.

"Good. When your father arrives, I'll draft a notice to the papers." Ridgemont stomped to the drinks table and hefted a full decanter. "Shall we have a toast to seal the bargain?"

Lady Ridgemont patted the sofa cushion. "What a wonderful surprise. I couldn't be more delighted you young people have found each other. You will be happy together. Come James, tell me your plans. Shall the wedding be soon? I have it planned: Margaret will wear lace and carry her grandmother's prayer book. She was Pitt's mother, you know."

Margaret fought to contain her blazing temper. Turning a stiff back to the company, she noted the time as told by the mantel clock. Almost half past, her moment of doom. She watched the hand on the dial; it seemed as frozen as her soul.

Under her feet, the carpet smoked. Tiny flames flickered in the wool. Not a lot, not enough for a family immersed in strife to notice, but enough to form pinprick holes over the surface. Pile singed and tiny coals dropped through the jute backing before burning out. Unaware of the miniscule bonfires, Margaret shifted her feet. Embers snuffed out. New ones flared.

Chapter Two

Unobtrusively, Hughes moved away from Treadway. His intention was not to shove his nose into this ignoble sealing of a betrothal. It was Tread's business. He had his own to tend. Now it was on the level of a quest, he could do nothing else. Not that he had objected to the task.

Altogether, it was a situation fraught with danger. He'd likely be knighted if he succeeded. He would gain a seat at the Round Table. And England might not crumble into the sea.

Lady Ridgemont held forth at great length on plans for the wedding. He grimaced, noting Tread's gray face. The betrothal was as new as gas lights and the woman had him cribbed and confined. He could guess why his friend didn't want shackles; Tread was a great man for the ladies who couldn't be termed ladies. Keeping to one woman wasn't something he did well.

Hughes glanced across the room. Miss Ridgemont appeared unsteady, as upset as Ophelia before she drowned herself. That must be Sir Denison's maladroit handling. She had achieved that fashionable pinnacle: the Good Match. Nevertheless, forcing Tread's agreement in front of her was bad nous. Her father should have dragged Tread into the library alone to finalize things, not blurted it out in front of all and sundry. Tasteless. Shaking himself mentally, he concentrated his senses. They skittered.

A clock on the mantel chimed the half hour. Looked like a Dore piece, with the fine detailing of the draperies on the figure. About twenty inches high, with swags, some sort of scepter, and angels on the Cipollino marble base. Maybe Galle did it. And maybe it was offering a clue. His eyes dropped.

The carpet in front of the fireplace glistened. Miss Ridgemont moved to a seat and Hughes took her place at the hearth. He scuffed his shoe along the rug. He wished he could pick the rug up and examine the pile. Would wager his grandmother's annuity there were holes in it. They'd been made recently; from the sparkling residue, within the last hour. He forgot the clock.

The draperies at the window shimmered. Edging over, he pulled out his quizzing glass. A thin line of fire crept down the velvet, then sputtered out. A two inch slit smoked and sparkled, an unmistakable sign of deadly magic.

Yes, it was coming from someone in the house. His deductions were correct. Someone connected with Sir Denison was the source of the magic. But he'd lay odds it wasn't Ridgemont himself. Every sign indicated a female.

Lady Ridgemont nattered at Tread. The torchiere behind the sofa added depth to her fading blond hair. Dropping lids half over his eyes, Hughes let the forceful lady's figure blur. She looked younger, if one allowed the incipient wrinkles, the light tarnish of her hair, to fade into insignificance. A fine figure of a woman. He could see what had attracted Ridgemont. It was a shame her character wasn't as refined. Well, there was plenty of that sort in society.

What he didn't see was the faint phosphorescence the wielding of magic would give her. The glow it would lend her skin, especially her fingertips. She glowed, but more as if she had been at the sherry bottle. Anyway, it wasn't she. Or was it? He couldn't be sure.

"If we are not to remove to London, the ceremony may be at the chapel in the village," Lady Ridgemont was saying. "It's an adorable place, very Celtic. Enough pews to seat anyone we care to invite, but intimate." Poor Tread looked like porridge warmed in a chafing dish.

Hughes allowed his eyes, still unfocused, to linger on Sir Denison and his daughter. The knight was grumpy, guzzling port and thumping an upended footstool. He hadn't said much once he'd badgered Tread into the betrothal, just sat in his chair and glowered.

The daughter; she's a thoroughbred. How long it would take his friend to realize Margaret Ridgemont was a damn fine woman, as admirable as Lynette, Sir Gareth's love? She had cause to indulge in a full-blown case of the vapors, thanks to Tread and his loose lips. She wasn't even sulking. Miss Ridgemont had graceful fingers wrapped around a thimbleful of sherry. She hadn't done more than sip--kept the conversation light when many a girl would have shrieked. He pinched his leg to distract himself from the ephemeral. Didn't matter, not unless she was the wizard.

No. No sign either father or daughter dabbled.

Balked of his prey, Hughes turned his attention to consideration of personalities. The widow wasn't there yet--dinner was held back for her. Probably primping. The shrew, Lady Ridgemont, simpered when Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont sent word she'd be late. Nothing like a little money to grease friendship. Some people don't have the sense to look beyond the bank account and see the mushroom sprouting.

The widow's spouse, gross Martin Whitmill, had keeled over one month after their marriage, cursed by a fish bone in his throat. A man could die of food stuck in his gullet, true, but it was convenient for the widow. Whitmill was a coarse merchant, fattened by a fortune made in coal. Filthy coal, filthy man. His death was too convenient to ignore. Had Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont facilitated his death with necromancy? It was a possibility to keep in mind.

The door opened. Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont slipped into the room. "I am sorry for the delay," she said. "My hem was coming loose. I miss London modistes, don't you, dear Step-Mama? That provincial seamstress didn't knot the thread."

The widow was a feisty armful, willful and passionate. Vulgar. No wonder Tread was interested in her and not the genteel Margaret. He never had much discrimination when it came to females. Hughes unfocused again and eyed the luscious widow.

He rocked on his feet. If he weren't as surprised as Balan. There it was.

He sharpened his gaze and deflated. No, it wasn't. A ray from the candle sconce had fallen on the doorknob. The shimmer of brass was from the light, not the remnants of a spell. Her hands were clean. Could it be the widow? Could she be the bearer of bad magic? He scratched his thumb and pondered his suspects.

He'd narrowed it down to someone in this house. Ridiculous to think a servant could create the havoc. The lower classes hadn't the linguistic training complicated enchantments require; generally, they didn't achieve more than earth wizardry. This rogue was a full wizard. Someone unknown, unacknowledged by the Council of Mages.

It had to be a member of the family. The idea of Sir Denison creating magic was laughable. Better imagine John Bull as an opera dancer. There was a brother at university and a younger sister. The brother was unlikely--the disturbance emanated from this area, not Oxford. It didn't look masculine. The girl was in the schoolroom, too young to join the company. Emma, that was her name. He'd met her by chance, a fleeting introduction when he and Tread first arrived. She was going out to sketch something or other. Could it be her?

How in the crystal cave was he to find out?

Hughes felt such disappointment at not nailing the rogue wizard, he determined to take the harpy, Lady Ridgemont, in to dinner. Let Tread enjoy his meal in peace; his own was already ruined.

* * *

"Have to head back to town," Hughes mentioned over after-dinner brandy. Sir Denison nodded, lost in the mists of too many tumblers, but Tread flinched.

"I can't leave yet," he mumbled. "Thought you were going to stick with me. The wedding is in six weeks, if they get their way. I'll not stay the whole time. But I can't take a flit till after the Pater comes."

"When will that be?"

"Saturday. Four more days."

"So I'll expect you in London Monday?" Hughes ran a finger around the edge of his glass.

"No later than Tuesday, I swear. I'll leave Monday even if the Pater isn't done. Can't you wait?"

"Wish I could, but I need to meet with Haverhorn. Our enterprise is set to go."

"You and your schemes. Well, if you take the carriage, I'll have to go post. Have you no pity?" Tread whined mockingly.

Hughes laughed, knowing the whine was perilously close to real. He set his empty glass on the table. "I have no pity--not when it is my convenience versus your comfort. You will have to be satisfied that I will return to hold you up at the altar."

Sir Denison hummed a ditty popular with naval gentlemen. Hughes leaned his head on his hand to block at least one ear. Tread's path was nigh intolerable. It was bad enough to have to marry where he felt no urge, but to have given her affront was worse.

Margaret Ridgemont wasn't an antidote. She was adept in conversation--had a pretty figure.

Around his glass, individual threads of the damask tablecloth unraveled with a flash. By the Lady, whoever it was, her magic was gaining potency. Hughes prodded the tablecloth and bits of glitter stuck to his skin. If he could only feel.... He closed his eyes, but there was nothing to grab on to.

The prospective father-in-law was slipping down in his chair. "Your civilizing presence is the only thing makes this bearable," Tread moaned. Sir Denison reached for the decanter again and knocked it over. "Maybe."

One servant mopped at the table with a cloth while a footman went for another bottle and Tread propped Ridgemont up. Hughes watched the cloth by his glass as more threads threw out sparks. His gut tightened. No pattern to it, but magic was the logical explanation.

It would be safer to stay and deal with the rogue now, but he needed to bounce his ideas off the duke. Haverhorn would likely know the best way of doing it. A wrong step could be disastrous.

Silent as a ghost, Ridgemont poured brandy from the full bottle into his glass, liberally watering the table in the process. Tread fell into a reverie; not his normal drinking style, but shackles hung heavy on him. The silence left Hughes free to think it out, step by step.

His mind flipped through the calendar. He'd be back in Hertfordshire for the wedding. Not too late, if Merlin's luck prevailed. Not only did Tread deserve his championship at the altar, it would give him an opportunity with the wizard. The sooner the better, if these holes were any indication. He scratched at the tablecloth.

Someone had been fiddling with magic. The Council of Mages knew that much. Not that it was unusual--a lot of people thought they might have ability. With most, a few failed spells made them lose interest. There was nothing better designed to halt foolhardy behavior than failure. A few kept at it, achieving minimal ability to control their environment in one aspect or another. They did no harm; batting away irritants or causing wagers to be successful more than the average didn't make a ripple in the atmosphere.

It was that once-in-a lifetime dabbler who, through talent or determination, managed to corral the essences floating through the air who made trouble. Like the rogue Hughes was in Puckeridge to find.

It had taken five magicians to locate the rogue; the best they had been able to do was narrow her location to Puckeridge. Four magicians had been riding the lanes of the shire for weeks, chasing cloud formations. It was pure chance dropped him here. Or, if not chance, perhaps Merlin was directing events from wherever he was. If he was.

The Council objected to anonymity. Always in the back of their minds was the knowing: witch hunts were set off by a spark. Historically, anonymous spells were a menace. That was the duke's concern.

Hughes had found a further cause for panic. The clouds masked holes in the atmosphere. Holes in hearth rugs and tablecloths were the least of his worries. What if holes riddled the supports of a bridge? Or boat keels? By Merlin, foreheads. He could see people falling like pheasants at a shoot.

Who knew how the atmosphere would react? Was it like punching water? Slap and it slid aside, only to right itself. Or was it like tearing sheets apart? Rip and it fell to rags. A raggedy atmosphere would be worse than random folk with holes in their foreheads. It was imperative: find the magician before serious damage was done. Plotting twists, Hughes let Tread call the footmen when Ridgemont drunkenly slid under the table. He rubbed the charred pattern of holes in the cloth.

Why he was having difficulty pinpointing the culprit, he didn't know. Wise and discerning, discerning and wise. Work on it, my lad. Tonight, while everyone slept, he would solve the problem once and for all. Tonight he would know, with Arthur's blessing.

Then he had to see the duke. Countering the damage to the atmosphere was going to be tricky. He needed advice.

Upstairs, almost as far from the dining room as one could get and still be in the house, a puff of smoke leaked under a door and into the hall. Under the disinterested light of a candle flickering in a polished silver wall sconce, it crept away from the door and became bold.

Bunching into a cloud, it emitted tendrils that writhed across the floor. Along its path, the flat weave of the rug shimmered. Reaching the center of the hall, the smoke resolved itself into a rough oval. The color wavered between wispy gray and a lovely shade of violet. Against the dull brown of the rug, it showed like a smear of chalk etched by a drunken hand.

Floating, the smoke ring reached the opposite wall. It turned, sweeping along the wide molding at the bottom of the wall until every puff was off the carpet and sank into the floorboards, leaving a mist of twinkling lights flickering in the grain of the wood.

The door opened. "Oh, Morgan, it went wrong again." Dainty feet obliterated the glittering particles. The only evidence of the smoke's passing was a charged glimmer of sawdust so faint it required the eyes of a magician to see it.

* * *

Late that night, Adrian Hughes bent from the waist and picked up two more twigs. They couldn't be thicker than his thumb or thinner than his tongue. "Gardeners are too efficient," he grumbled to no one. "It's one thing to keep the park tidy, but this is the middle of the home wood, for Merlin's sake. There's supposed to be litter on the ground."

It was dark; he'd had to mark a trail back. Somewhere behind him, straight ahead if he walked between two blackthorns and veered to the left of a honeysuckle, was the house. Keeping his eyes trained on the ground, he moved further into the trees.

"Ah, there's another. Now, how many do I have?" He tramped to the middle of the clearing and counted. "Twenty-seven. That's enough."

A glimmer showed where the moon would soon rise. "Better hurry. Took longer than I thought." Kneeling, he laid the twigs in a spiraling pile. From his pocket, he took a bun and speared it on the topmost twig.

"Now I need an acorn. A nice, firm, ripe one." Hughes had chosen the clearing partly for its showy stand of oaks. He circled under one, scuffing the ground. "Acorns. There should be plenty. The most zealous of gardeners wouldn't waste time gathering all the nuts." He kicked at a clump of grass. A small knob-like shape bounded across the clearing.

"There you are," he boomed and chased the acorn. "Thank Merlin my eyes are sharp."

Scooping up the nut, he looked back to the sticks. A small squirrel, nose twitching, sniffed at the bun. On its hind quarters, the tower of sticks was just its height. The squirrel waved its plumy tail and leaned forward.

"No!" He threw the acorn at the squirrel. Startled, it snatched the bun in its teeth and bounded across the grass to scale one of the tallest oaks. He watched it scamper up the trunk and jump from branch to branch. Then it was lost in the dark. So was the bun.

"You damned Scotti," he shouted. "What do you mean, taking my bread? I need it for the spell."

Scowling, he kicked the stack of twigs, scattering them. "It's too late now. This spell has to be performed at the rise of the moon. With a bit of bread, by Merlin. There isn't time to get another bun." Squirrels were the most quarrelsome critter. Well, maybe not. Kangaroos kicked. A smile flirted around the corner of his mouth. That roo chasing his brother around the compound was pretty funny. How'd the thing know a well placed kick to the rump would send Christopher flying into the Eucalyptus?

He sobered. Hands thrust in his pockets, the magician contemplated the ground. This spell was a wash. Was there another enchantment that would have the same effect?

No. There was not, not a one he knew. Nothing else would reveal the identity of the rogue wizard at this juncture. He went back over his training; had something been omitted or had he forgotten a detail he could use to his advantage? No.

The old litany, 'What would another do?' failed. Lord Brinston might call the Graces to some effect. That helped not a whit. The Graces ignored Adrian Hughes as an ant in the forest. Hurst, well, to be honest, Hurst should be here. His particular gift was tailored for the situation.

Hurst was in London.

He was so deep in thought, Hughes was not aware a glimmer of magic fell from the sky and caught a patch of grass afire. It smoldered low. After he left the clearing, returned to the house, and fell into bed, the patch of grass sparked, sending a spray of twinkling particles into the air.

Chapter Three

Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont waved one last time at the light traveling carriage as it rolled down the drive. "It is unfortunate Mr. Hughes must leave," she murmured in Treadway's ear. "He will have a miserable drive back to town in this weather."

"The condition of the roads won't stop Hughes. He can drive to an inch; was asked to join the Four Horse Club, but the silly chub declined."

"I have seen the club on their monthly excursion." Christine tossed her head and a strand of her hair whipped his cheek. "They wear those ridiculous striped ties; no wonder Mr. Hughes didn't want to be a member. But why must he go?"

"Has business in town. He is a busy man. For being an idler, that is. His latest is an investment with the Marquess of Brinston and the Duke of Haverhorn. They've been arranging it for over a month. Evidently it is now set to go."

"The Marquess of Brinston--that awful man. I thought Mr. Hughes had more refined taste. Brinston's activities have been questionable, you know, consorting with low lifes and smugglers. On dit is he sold information to the French."

"I believe that was debunked, my dear. The marquess was working to catch foreign agents."

"Is that so? I hadn't heard." The movement of her body released a cloud of perfume on the wind. Treadway breathed heliotrope, could almost see it whirling about his head, worming its way into his skin. Her scent raised his hunting instincts. It figured the widow would use it. She was made for passion.

He pulled his mind back to the conversation. "Yes, it all came out before his marriage. As to Hughes, I can't find it in me to regret his leaving. I don't like to share treats--and your company, my dear, transcends a banquet."

A warm glance promised much more. From the corner of his eye, he could see his betrothed, standing by the door, reluctant to brave the gusting wind for more than a moment. As soon as Hughes's carriage pulled away, she scurried to the shelter of the portico, where she stood like a sentinel. Graceful, he absently noted, but still a guard.

Sir Denison had already retreated to the hall; Lady Ridgemont had not come downstairs. Poor sendoff for Hughes. As if, achieving their goal, they couldn't be bothered with guests. Which was probably true. Ridgemont wanted to settle his daughter--that was done. What else was there to talk about--crops?

A maid slipped out the half open door and curtsied to Miss Ridgemont. He couldn't hear what the girl said, but with a nod, his betrothed called, "Excuse me. I am needed in the kitchen."

Ahh, time alone with the widow. Bad ton to dally under the Ridgemont roof, but she was a good vehicle for thumbing his nose at the elders. Trying not to leer, Treadway said, "Your sister may be occupied for some time. Shall we visit the conservatory?" And visit her heliotrope, her mouth, her breasts. Who wanted plants?

"I can't think of anyone I would rather view it with." There was the giggle again, the one that focused his desire.

* * *

The next afternoon, Treadway's father arrived in Puckeridge. Solicitors showed up next. With great bonhomie, Carlton Treadway and Sir Denison ensconced themselves in the library to thrash out the marriage settlements. It didn't take long. They were in accord before they began.

The younger people congregated in the drawing room. Treadway was desperate for a diversion. It would not do to think about what was happening in the library, how his father was consigning his soul. Might go berserk. Watching Miss Ridgemont's hands as they swooped back and forth, plying a needle, he noted her fingers. Slender, quietly dexterous, but nothing he admired.

Shaking out his cuff, he commented, "The weather looks to be clearing in time for a drive this afternoon. It may be cool, but if you dress warmly, you should enjoy tooling in my phaeton."

Miss Ridgemont looked up from the sheet she was darning, fingering the shears hung by a ribbon around her neck. "The rain has stopped?"

"Oh James, you are so clever." Christine dropped a book of verse to the floor and fluttered to the window. "I am impressed no end! I was dying to escape this gloomy house; how did you guess?" She perched on the wide windowsill and traced a sensual finger along the glass. "The clouds are clearing."

The muslin of her gown stretched across her derrière and Treadway's fingers itched. He was careful not to look toward his betrothed. Miss Ridgemont looked too much like a wife already. Darning sheets. That was a chore wives did.

"Been cooped up the past days," he demurred. "Stood to reason."

"I adore riding with you. Your horses are strong...muscular..." Christine touched his sleeve. "Dominating."

"If you like, we could head to the next village. The inn there puts out a decent spread." He kept his head turned to Christine. "You said you like sticky buns--theirs are good. They pour a decent mug of ale, too."

"I like sticky buns, but the prospect of a drive with you is better. I don't mind if we have no fixed destination." She fiddled with her hair, throwing her bosom into higher prominence. The one who would be a wife looked like all the wives in the world. He grinned at the widow's bosom.

The lackluster betrothed gazed through another rain-washed window into the garden. If it rained forever, Margaret brooded, I would not have to drive with Mr. Treadway, barbarian that he is. And if dear Christine catches a chill from the bodice she is almost not wearing, it will serve her right.

Who had his invitation been extended to? A phaeton did not seat three people in comfort and just yesterday morning she had made clear her aversion to the cloying sweetness of sticky buns. Turning away from the pair, her fingers tightened around the sewing shears. In the last novel she read, the heroine stabbed the villain with shears. She saved herself. What a marvelous dream.

* * *

Rubbing his hands together, Sir Denison announced at tea, "It's settled. You can sign the papers tomorrow, after the solicitors finish fair copies."

Carlton Treadway slapped his son on the back. "Ain't that grand, my boy?"

Lady Ridgemont beamed. "So pleasing. Margaret's wedding dress will be done within the week. Isn't it exciting, Emma?"

Emma's presence had been decreed to honor the betrothal. Margaret's sister didn't look honored, but she nodded. A thin girl of sixteen, Emma had spent her adolescence perfecting the art of invisibility. Only her older sister, and occasionally Lady Ridgemont, paid any heed to her. A smaller version of Margaret, but too young to have learned to conceal her thoughts, Emma strangled the glass of lemonade she had carried into the room.

"Emma," Margaret said, stifling a sense of panic, "perhaps you can visit me in London after I marry." The girl looked at her for a moment, then buried her head in her glass. The lack of animation irritated Margaret, but she was distracted by a swerve in the conversation.

"I'll send my man for a special license." Mr. Treadway Senior grinned. "No sense letting moss grow under our feet."

"Yes. No ballyhooing and crying for months on end. Why suffer a lengthy betrothal? Short and snappy. That's what I like to see." Ridgemont rubbed his hands again.

Christine's strangled ejaculation was covered by Lady Ridgemont's crowing. "We can arrange the ceremony for mid-month. The vicar won't mind not posting banns. Such a dreary, dragging process, banns. Two weeks is sufficient time to plan a breakfast."

Too soon! Too soon! echoed in Margaret's head. Whose idea was it to take weeks of freedom away from her? Papa had mentioned May. Now they were talking March. Her father looked pleased as punch, as did Step-Mama and Mr. Treadway Senior. Her stomach churned.

Margaret did not want to keep company with James Treadway. Wedding him was unthinkable. Mucking out the stables would be more to her liking. Anything was better than watching her betrothed and her sister drool over each other.

Now Papa gloated over his triumph. She didn't want to watch. Her chair felt like nails protruded from the seat.

Christine's face twisted in what was surely a grimace of pain. She looked like she had been condemned. Though Margaret hated the feeling, seeing how Christine chased Mr. Treadway, a stab of pity went through her. Poor Christine, Papa should have given him to her. They would have scandalized court with their raking and had a marvelous time doing it. Her life would have been much improved over what it is now.

Good heavens, the thought struck Margaret like a boulder to the head. Did Christine entice Mr. Treadway to assuage grief at losing her husband? Did she miss Mr. Whitmill? Martin Whitmill had been a dreadful boor; eating peas with a spoon was the least of his offenses. Yet Christine had married him. She must have cared.

The idea her sister was trying to recover happiness lost when Mr. Whitmill died skewed Margaret's view of the past week. Deep in thought, she startled when Mr. Treadway grabbed her hand.

Treadway, prodded by his father with a finger in his side, produced a ring from his pocket. Raising her arm with so little grace her sleeve almost ripped, he said, "Then it's time for this. A sign of our union." He slid the ring on her finger.

She felt like a bystander, too numb to object to his crudity. The ring slid up her finger, over her knuckle, and settled. An emerald, crowned at the compass points with diamonds. Heavy gold band, large emerald, four diamonds twinkling like stars. Against her will, she liked the ring. It fit.

"Well, say something," Lady Ridgemont urged. "One would think you unwilling, Margaret."

She felt unaccountably shy. "Thank you." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Emma's look of scorn. Goodness, at whom was she glaring?

Treadway nodded. "I'll go for the license. There's business I need to tend in London."

"Have to prepare the townhouse, I imagine," Mr. Treadway Senior said. "It's been a bachelor establishment. You'll need maids, my boy."

"A shame for you love-birds to be parted." Lady Ridgemont rustled over. "But it will be a short separation. You will hardly notice him gone, Margaret, with all the preparations. We have an amount of work to do. Before the month is out, you will be wed." She patted her stepdaughter's hand. "Such a handsome piece of jewelry. It fits perfectly.

"Wait till you see the dress we have devised, gentlemen. Tiers and tiers of lace. Margaret will be a lovely bride. None of this nonsense about brides wearing satin or silk. Her dress will be of the finest lace, as it should."

As Lady Ridgemont rambled hill and dale of bridal concerns, Mr. Treadway looked over her head at Christine. Margaret could not divine his thoughts. Christine's were all too plain. She looked like she had swallowed a lemon. Poor Christine.

* * *

Clouds blew around the night sky like tea leaves tossed in a pot of boiling water. Not a breath of breeze shivered, but sleepy birds burst frantically from the dubious shelter of trees beginning to leaf. They cowered on the ground, tucking heads under wings.

Two clouds, larger and denser than the others, scudded over the horizon. One from the east, one from the west, they raced toward each other, gathering lesser clouds along their edges as the heavens roiled and heaved.

The massive clouds met. With a cataclysmic cascade of thunder, one cleaved the other in two. The fractured mass scattered, hurling splintered fragments into the treetops. Racing heedlessly on, the victorious cloud scattered minute pinpoints of light across the sky.

The lights twinkled like the aftereffects of fireworks. Drifting in the wake of a rising wind, they hung on the air until the rays of the rising sun burned them out.

With the dawn, nature righted itself.

* * *

And so they were betrothed. The Right Honorable Miss Margaret Ann Ridgemont and Mr. James Conner Treadway would wed as soon as may be.

His belief that Margaret was dull and impossibly countrified meant nothing. Her surety that he was a beast, icy of heart and incurably rakish of eye, also meant nothing. In the eyes of society, it was an eminently suitable match.

Carlton Treadway, father of the prospective groom, patted his stomach in satisfaction. He had been trying to settle the lad for several years, worrying one of those loose widows at Camelot would snap James up or his antics would land him in Newgate or worse. It wasn't only nobility who worried about the future; Mr. Treadway Senior had a family to perpetuate. He promptly sent the notice to the papers so the world would know of Miss Ridgemont's triumph and his son's defeat. An advertisement in the court news incised the engagement in stone--James could not back away and retain a vestige of honor or influence at Camelot.

When Mr. Treadway Senior returned home from the Ridgemont estate in Hertfordshire with the marriage contracts negotiated and signed, he found his wife in her favorite chair in the solar, a rosewood writing desk drawn before her. Paper littered the under-tier, held on the shelf by a pierced brass gallery. She laid a clean sheet of paper before her and glanced up as he walked in.

"Carlton," Mrs. Treadway said absently, immersed in the planning of menus. "I did not know you were here. Have you seen Constance? She lost a bit of pudginess, but is recovering. Nurse assures me her appetite is returned, voracious as ever. Ann is distressed over the loss of her favorite doll--it somehow went down the well. Susan looks too angelic not to be responsible. I do wish you would speak to her about it, and if you could comfort Ann--bring her smile back. I have been singularly unsuccessful."

Thankful none of their promising brood besieged the room, with or without dolls, Mr. Treadway Senior broke the welcome news to his lady. "It's all settled--he is to be wed at last."

Menus and children forgotten, Mrs. Treadway squealed. "All favorably, I hope! Do tell. There is none of this modern nonsense of the lady retaining her dowry, is there?" Paper scattered as she thrust the desk away and jumped to her feet. "Oh, Carlton, bless you. I wish I could have gone also. I should have made Miss Ridgemont's acquaintance immediately. I long to meet the darling girl. Nothing was said of my neglect, was there? I could not have left Constance, not while she was ill. I would have been frantic the whole time I was in Hertfordshire, you may be assured."

"No, my love," Mr. Treadway Senior reassured his wife. "I made your excuses, never fear. Lady Ridgemont understood you could not leave Constance to battle an ague alone." She bombarded him with questions about her eldest son's sweet fiancée.

"Is she lovely?"

"A pretty little puss, with manners to shame a duchess," he replied, recalling the stiff, punctiliously polite young lady who signed her name to the marriage contracts with precision and a glare. "Has a pole down her spine, that girl does. She will never turn into a hussy--never be like those London widows, crawling over every man they see. Not tall, dark hair and eyes."

"Is James content?"

He thought back to his son, gallantly turning the pages of Miss Ridgemont's music as she played. "She played the pianoforte nicely, no off-notes or stumbling over the keys. He is perfectly fine," he mumbled, not telling his wife of the bump in the road of his plans.

He had recognized the sister's type; a great deal tiger and little lady. She made eyes at James, no denying. A Guinevere set to ensorcell. Not the sort he wanted for his son, not at all. Too bad if the boy felt drawn in Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont's direction. And he was drawn. The stupid boy's eyes nearly fell out of his head every time the widow's bosom hove into view.

Now he was betrothed, James could be rakish as he pleased--out of sight of Miss Ridgemont. The lad knew his manners. As long as the music continued, James had kept his eyes off the curvaceous widow and on his prim betrothed, as he should.

Miss Ridgemont had endeavored at all times to keep her eyes off James.

"Proper shy, that's what she is." Mr. Treadway Senior convinced himself, ignoring the lack of warmth between his son and his betrothed. That was fine, at least until after they stood before the parson. Then it would perhaps be a bit of a tangle, but nothing he could not clear up. The lad just had to be firm. And stay away from widows. And do nothing to further upset Bow Street.

"I do love weddings. I will hold a betrothal ball when we get to London. A dinner--"

"No you won't. The wedding is as soon as the license is ready and we can get to Hertfordshire. No sense wasting time." Mr. Treadway Senior succinctly told his wife the plan.

* * *

A few days later, Adrian Hughes paced the antechamber of the London office. Mr. Moneypenny offered a chair, but he shook his head. Stalking the perimeter of the good-sized room, he viewed the paintings, all landscapes. Not merely landscapes, but landscapes with vast reaches of sky. Clouds. How dull.

When he was a child, his nurse liked to look at the things. Pulling him to the ground, she would urge him to find shapes in the clouds. Fanciful shapes, like dragons, or humdrum, like sheep. He'd fooled her--Hughes would magic the sky and form bon bons, mounds of potatoes with rivers of butter flowing, lamb chops and cherry tarts. Tarts invariably sent Nurse to the kitchen, her stomach rumbling. Now, with nothing better to occupy himself, he looked for shapes in the painted clouds. He didn't know if painters had the imagination to shape tarts.

Well, may he be walled up in a crystal cave. Right there in the sky above a dull stretch of meadow. It was a woman. Seated, reaching for something. He moved down the wall and stared at the second painting. There she was again, just her torso, arms outstretched.

He viewed the paintings in order around the room. There she was loosely sketched--the sky was pink, the clouds faint. Hughes felt a tremor of excitement. In the next painting, she was less formed, but he found her diving, head tucked, arms straining forward. Finally, curled as if he viewed her sleeping figure from the foot of a bed.

A bell tinkled and the secretary rose to open the door to the inner sanctum. "He will see you now," Moneypenny murmured. Reluctant to abandon his scrutiny of clouds, Hughes stepped through the doorway and closed the door.

"Go back out," his grace called. "You have not finished. There are two more paintings to examine."

"It was only an idle pastime."

The Duke of Haverhorn wagged a finger. "You don't really think that. Now go. I have a pile of letters to sign. I can wait."

Thoughtfully, Hughes returned to the antechamber. Placing himself in front of one of the two paintings he had not examined, he eyed it, rolled his lip and frowned. Ah, there she was, in the classic pose of a sexually dominated woman, arms stretched overhead, elbows bent. He hadn't seen her at first because her lower body was hidden behind a tree. The lover was a dark seething bank of clouds, arms and head barely formed.

In the final picture, the woman was unmistakable. Center frame, hills rising as if to cradle her, she gave her back to the viewer. Hair tumbled and rolled. No more could be seen, but the impression of satisfied wantonness could not be missed.

No longer amused with the childish game, Hughes marched into the inner office and slammed the door. Ignoring the vast floor of polished hardwood, the opulent white and gold furnishings, and the expanse of ebony atop four veined marble pillars that was the desk, he demanded, "Is this your idea of a joke?"

The duke rose from the chair behind his massive desk. "I didn't create her," he said flatly. "She has been forming over the last week, as the person we seek creates havoc in our world. Moneypenny wants her out of his office--feels like a courtesan is looking over his shoulder."

"A sign."

"I fear so." The duke rounded the desk and shook Hughes's hand. "But only written in the sky, thus not permanent." Incongruously average in height, he paced in front of the desk. Haverhorn looked like fifty other men. But once a man looked in the hard gray eyes and delved into the agate honor of the duke, he would never underestimate his grace of Haverhorn. Title or no title, here was power, immutable and eternal. It was sobering to see his concern over clouds.

"If we act fast..." At the duke's nod, Hughes said, "I found him--at least I know where he is. In Puckeridge, Herts. At Sir Denison Ridgemont's estate. And he's a her."

"A female! By Merlin, women and magic don't mix. Act quickly, my lad." The duke turned his head to the side. "Puckeridge..."

"Do you know something?"

"Puckeridge. I know Puckeridge from somewhere. What's the family name?"

"Ridgemont."

"Doesn't ring my bell. Wait--" The duke swung back to his desk. "Moneypenny. Get me DeBrett's Knights Register."

In a moment he was flipping pages in a thick volume. "Ah, here it is. Ridgemont. Married 1788 to..." The duke groaned. "I should have guessed. Blood tells."

"Your grace?"

"Margery Laycock." As Hughes looked befuddled, he said, "Come now, you have heard the tale. Who hasn't?" The younger man shook his head dumbly.

"Margery Laycock was sister to William Pitt. They took to calling her the Laycock curse. Come, my boy, this must jog your memory."

"I am afraid not, sir."

"Where are you from that you've never heard of the Laycock curse?"

"The Antipodes."

A spark of interest lit in Haverhorn's eyes. "Sometime you must tell me of it."

"Yes, your grace."

"Bah. I was telling you of Margery Laycock. Pitt's sister. She decided to play a trick on him. Magicked a shipment of tea he was puffing off to a dignitary. Set the gaudiest seal she had ever seen on each and every cask. For some reason, no one noticed. A ship loaded and sailed for Boston."

Hughes cocked his head. "Seals?"

"Margery thought they were inspection seals. So she told me. But they were tax stamps."

"There's no tax on tea going abroad, sir."

"No? Well, I wish you'd been on that ship. Might have saved King George a bit of a fracas. The ship landed in Boston harbor. The Americans, fiery souls that they are, ogled the tax stamps and took umbrage. Dumped the casks in the harbor and near started a revolution. George was hard pressed to calm them. That was when, over all objection, he granted the colonies their independence from England. A matter of politics. After all, it wasn't the colony's fault the highest rate of tax stamp was on those casks."

The younger man shook his head in wonder. "But what does that have to do with Puckeridge?"

"Margery Laycock was Ridgemont's wife."

Hughes sank into a chair, his mouth hanging open. "Then it could be any of them."

"It must be one of Margery's get. The one born with the blood."

"It isn't so simple, sir. I have not been able to narrow it. I have three suspects."

Haverhorn ran his finger down the page of Debrett's. "Margery had four children. A boy and three girls. You said it was a female."

"My suspects are the three sisters." His grace heaved a sigh and cradled his chin with his hand. Staring at the wall, he was silent for some moments.

"They could all be blooded. Can't take them out of the way," he said with finality. "Farmer George had a fondness for Margery. Can you neutralize them?"

"I don't believe that is wise."

"What do you believe?"

"That something must be done at once. The phenomena is disturbing."

At the duke's nod, he elaborated. "Pinprick holes are appearing. So far, I have seen them in a carpet and on cloth. There is magical residue."

"The holes are tiny?"

"At least for now. Your grace, I need your advice."

* * *

From the Council offices, Hughes went directly to his rooms in Albany, entering the Rope Walk from Vigo Street. Everyone was sure to be at G1, his flat. As usual, he guessed correctly. Letting himself in, he found a motley collection of men draped around his not so commodious drawing cum dining room.

The rancid smell almost made him turn and leave. Empty bottles littered the floor and one man, Squire Charles Leighton by the tone of his snores, reclined on the dining table. Snuff, cigar ash, and sticky spots speckled the floor. A streak of brandy ran down the veined marble chimneypiece; shards on the hearth intimated a snifter had been thrown.

Ernest Chively announced on his entrance, "Silvester found the betrothal notice in the paper, Hughes. He's reading it for the umpteenth time because Stone can't believe it."

Fueled by a deep gulp of spirits and an ingrained distaste for the married state, Stone pleaded, "Tell me it ain't so. Can't we do something to save him?" Billy Johnstone would have been called 'Silly Billy' if that bloke over in Europe had not already taken the name. Instead his friends gave him the sobriquet 'Stone.' Not for the strength in his arm muscle and not for the weakness of his head muscle, but for the fact he couldn't swim, only sank like a rock.

"We should kidnap Tread and hold him till he comes to his senses. Can't we tuck him in Chelsea or somewhere? Put him in m'brother's love nest, if nowhere else. Not on the same floor as the skirt--Sloane would kill him. In the attic, if it has a lock. When he forgets her, we can let him out."

Chively scooped a Berwick cockle off the floor and popped it into his mouth. "Don't despair. Tread is Tread. He'll come to his senses."

"I don't think so. His father is forcing him to the altar," Hughes said, clearing a seat for himself by dumping a load of wrinkled jackets from a chair to the floor. "The wedding is in a few weeks."

Peter Silvester threw the newspaper on Leighton's head. "His father? Well, I say. That's a scurvy trick. Fathers are supposed to uphold a man, not drag him down."

When Hughes only took a deep pull from the bottle he grabbed away from Leighton's boots, Stone whined, "This means Tread'll have to escort the petticoat. Balls and the like. Won't ever be the same. Who's going to introduce me to Harriette Wilson?"

"Don't know why you want to meet her. She'd never look at you."

Stone raised his chin. "She's done with Leinster. Perfect timing."

Hughes grinned, imagining a twist of fate linking Stone with London's most discriminating courtesan. Half the nobility and all the monied men in Britain would have to fall dead before Harriette looked at Stone. London would be a lot less crowded.

"Worcester is sniffing at her heels." Leighton turned from his front to his side, pillowed his head on the discarded newspaper, and snorted.

"It's enough to make one lose faith," Silvester grumbled under his breath. "If you can't trust your father to protect you from petticoats, who can you trust? Thank Arthur mine is under the sod. He wouldn't have liked it when the magistrate threw me and Tread in Newgate for taking his daughter and her friend to the Cyprian's Ball. But he'd never have made me marry--"

Leighton lifted his head. "You didn't even get to enjoy them, did you?"

"No, I quit when mine cast up her accounts. Tread's girl left with Du Lac. Now, if Tread's Pater wanted retribution, there's the man to flay. Du Lac flashes his bankroll and connections at the ladybirds and they fly to him. It's immoral."

"He won't appear in the Green Room." Arthur, Lord Chively, heir to the Earldom of Wellwood, should be aware of the necessity of siring the next generation of heirs, but was not. His understanding of life was limited to horses and the demimonde. "Tread is a chump to get shackled when Merlin's Gardens has unearthed a promising new crop of beauties to chase. What a bore."

"We should do something to stop this madness. There's a skirt at the Garden made for him. Long legs, huge breasts, just what he likes. A lot like Sloane's doll, come to think of it. How could he pass that by? He's the only one can introduce me to the Wilson, unless you'll do it, Hughes." Stone moaned, overcome by the demise of his hopes for Harriette Wilson, the most notorious courtesan in the Isles.

Leighton rolled off the table, landing flat on his back at Hughes's feet. He groaned and opened his eyes. Leaning over to shove jackets under his head for a pillow, Hughes said, "Not on your life, Stone. Little Harry would eat you alive."

"Don't mention food," Leighton begged.

"Little Harry?" Stone asked.

"Harriette Wilson's nickname, you fool."

Silvester propped his boots on Leighton's hip. The bottle in his hand dribbled on the floor. Leighton closed his eyes again. "Won't be until after the first son is birthed that Tread gets back in form. What will we do without him?"

The meeting was devolving into a wake. Margaret Ridgemont's engaging face before his eyes, Hughes had to say something in her defense. His friends were entertaining drinking and gaming companions, but boorish otherwise. "It behooves us to prop our friend up in his undertaking," he lectured. "Pater Treadway is adamant and unless Tread knuckles under, the poor lad will be miserable. Probably lose his allowance and have to stay in Grassville. That would be worse than leg shackles. The girl's no fishwife--she won't be so bad."

"You met her. What's she like?"

"Agreeable. Shy. Not his type." That Treadway might be cutting off his nose to spite his father was left unsaid. Miss Ridgemont had a pleasant manner and the disposition to match her winsome face. She deserved better than her father had chosen for her.

Unhappy as they were with the thought of one of their own snapped in parson's mousetrap, the men were stymied. There was nothing they could do to save Tread, not with a determined father and the announcement already in the papers.

"Why does it have to happen so soon? Not like he compromised the chit--why wed so soon?"

"He won't have time for a last fling with a skirt from the Gardens."

Hughes squashed a stabbing sense of guilt. "Oh, yes he will. If we arrange it, he can have one night."

Enthusiastically, Tread's friends planned the grandest bachelor's party ever conceived. "Harriette Wilson! Have her be hostess. She has a soft spot for Tread and I can meet her," Stone suggested.

"Brandy," Leighton whined. "More brandy."

To order or learn more!