The Sinister
Spinster

Joan Overfield

The Sinister Spinster

Joan Overfield

Copyright 2001, 2014 by Joan Overfield

This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Barbara Elizabeth Smith Overfield.

February 21, 1925–December 20, 2000

With love always.

To his horror her eyes began filling with tears. "Don't ask that," she implored, raising her hand to cover his. "Please don't."

Panic filled Adam, panic and an overwhelming sense of aching desire. As a gentleman he knew he should release her, let her walk away and never importune her again. He should, but he could not.

"Why?" he demanded, slipping his hands down to gently cup her face. "I think of you as Elizabeth. My Elizabeth. My beautiful Elizabeth," and he covered her mouth with his own.

Her lips were soft and warm beneath his, and he was helpless to resist their sweetness. Fighting the desire exploding inside of him, he drew her closer, savoring the feel of her pressed to his hungry body. It took every ounce of will he possessed to keep from taking more, but he cared for her too much to risk frightening her. Reining in his passion, he slowly raised his head, his heart pounding as he gazed down into her flushed face.

"Adam." His name slipped breathlessly from her parted lips, and her eyes were slumberous as she lifted her heavy lashes.

"Ah, my sweet, the things you do to a man's resolve," he murmured, tracing a finger along the bow of her mouth.

Her cheeks grew rosy, but to his delight she made no move to end their embrace. "You also have a deleterious effect upon my good sense," she said, smiling sadly. "But this changes nothing."

"You are wrong," he disagreed. "It changes everything."

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

One

Derring Hall,

Kent, England

1814

"Gad, but I am bored!" The young dandy gave a theatrical sigh, glaring out the library window at the curtain of steadily falling rain. "Does nothing ever occur in the country?"

Adam Darrach, Marquess of Falconer, glanced up from the book he'd been reading, his tawny eyes flashing in annoyance. He'd been enjoying the quiet, tucked away amongst the books and fine paintings, and he couldn't like having his peace disrupted by a pack of indolent care-for-nothings.

"Many things, Derwent," he said, his voice edged with cold disdain. "Birth, death, struggle, and triumph; it is all there if one but takes the time to look." And possesses the wits to see, he added in silent derision. Geoffrey Derwent and the rest of his useless set were proving a sore trial for him, but unfortunately he had no choice but to suffer their company. This visit to Derring's country estate was his last chance to secure the cagey earl's support before the arrival of the Czar and his court.

"I meant anything interesting," Derwent qualified, tossing back his exquisite mop of gold curls. "We've been here for three days, and not one scandalous things has occurred. It is not to be borne!" He turned to the young man sprawled in a high-backed chair.

"Wills, you are our host's son," he said, gesturing dramatically. "It is your duty to see we are properly entertained. Do something!"

The pimply-faced youth's thick lips protruded in a sullen pout. "What do you suggest?" he demanded, in an equally petulant manner. "Can't hunt; the blasted rain's seen to that. And if it's bedroom sport you mean, you can jolly well forget it. The only maids m'mother hires are plain as mud and twice as thick. They shriek like the very devil if you so much as pinch 'em."

"Aye, that's true," the third dandy, Charles Colburt, said, rubbing his hand. "And they bite as well."

Adam remained silent, his lean countenance showing no trace of the cold fury he was feeling. Half the country was in desperate want of the most common necessities, he brooded, and all these worthless sots could do was whine about the maids rejecting their vile advances. He wished he had the raising of them for a few weeks. Or better still, he wished he might turn them over to his friend, Viscount St. Jerome. His lips lifted in a rare smile at the thought of the terrified dandies being put through their paces by the hard-faced former sergeant in the Rifles. If they managed to survive the experience, there might even be some hope for them.

"When are the rest of the guests to arrive?" Derwent paused in front of the mirror to admire the impossibly high points of his starched collar. "Perhaps there will be some sport to be found there?"

"The first group is set to arrive tomorrow after luncheon," William said in a glum tone. "Mama is already in high alt, running that new companion of hers ragged and planning every manner of entertainment. But I shouldn't bother looking there. Tiresome virgins for the most part; dandle with one of them and it's the parson's mousetrap for you."

"Only if you're caught," Colburt smirked. "And there's always the mamas. Some of them ain't so bad, and more willing than you might think."

The crude observation put paid to the last of Adam's patience. He was about to administer a blistering scold on the proper conduct of gentlemen when the door to the library opened, and a slender young woman with her light brown hair drawn back in a tight bun started into the room. At the sight of the four men lounging about, she came to an uncertain halt.

"I beg your pardon, sirs, my lord," she said, her thin face pinking with embarrassment. "I thought the library was deserted. My apologies for disturbing you." And she made to withdraw.

"Pray do not leave on our account," Derwent drawled, turning to study the woman with a look Adam couldn't trust gleaming in his pale eyes. "Come in, by all means."

A panicked expression crossed the young woman's face. "No, that's all right," she said, backing toward the safety of the hall. "I'll come back another time. Good day."

"Oh, but we insist!" Charles Colburt rose to his feet and began advancing on her with predatory intent.

Genuine alarm had the woman's misty blue eyes going wide. "No, really, sirs, I—"

"Get in here, Mattingale," William barked, his face reddening in temper. "Do as you are told, or I shall have Mama turn you off without a character. We'll see how soon you manage to find another position given your reputation!"

The young woman jerked at the threat but remained where she was, her eyes downcast and her hands clenched at her sides.

More furious than he could remember being in years, Adam surged to his feet, his powerful body rippling in a subtle show of strength. He sent each of the other men a deadly glance and then turned to the woman standing in the doorway.

"It is quite all right, Miss Mattingale," he said, his deep voice gentle as he offered her a smile. "These gentlemen and I were just leaving. Our apologies for keeping you from your duties." And he stepped around her, opening the door wider before turning back to the three dandies. It took but a single lift of his jet black eyebrow to bring them dragging after him.

He closed the door behind them and then led the way to the small study he remembered from an earlier visit When he had secured that door he turned to face the other men, all trace of the gentleness he'd shown Miss Mattingale quite gone.

"I am going to say this but once," he said, pronouncing each word with icy menace. "Gentlemen never impose themselves on those who are weaker or lack the means to defend themselves. You appear to have forgotten that. Forget it again, and it will be my pleasure to put a bullet through you."

William sulked, Derwent pouted, and Colburt gave an incredulous laugh. "Oh, come, Lord Falconer, do you expect us to believe you'd call us out for trifling with a companion?"

Adam studied him with cold contempt. "Yes."

"But that's ridiculous!" Charles blustered, clearly stunned. "She's a companion, for heaven's sake, and one whose reputation is not all it should be, if what Wills says is true."

Adam turned to the first dandy. "Derwent, what am I called in the shooting clubs?"

" 'Six-shot Falconer,' " the younger man provided, looking decidedly ill at ease.

"And why am I called that?"

"Because you can hit six out of six targets in under two minutes, including reloading time."

Adam gave that a second to sink in, and then eyed each man in turn. "Six shots," he said coldly. "Six shots, and there's only three of you. Remember that." And feeling there was nothing left to be said, he turned and quietly left the room.

As soon as they knew themselves to be alone, the three remaining men collapsed onto the chairs.

"Gad, I need a drink," Derwent said, fanning himself with his hand. "Wills, ring for some brandy, won't you? The marquess has quite overset my poor nerves."

"You don't think he means it, do you?" William asked, after doing as he'd been bid. "He can't mean it. I am his host's son. Can't kill me. It would be bad form."

"Oh, he meant it, right enough," Colburt muttered, looking murderous. "Stiff-rumped prig. It's not as if we meant the wench any harm; just having fun was all. She looks as if she could use a bit of sport. And what was that crack about her reputation?" he asked, turning back toward William. "Never say that fiercely grim mama of yours hired a fashionable impure to keep her company?"

"If only," Wills mourned, shaking his head. "No such thing, though. I merely meant Miss Mattingale's family's a bit odd. Travel everywhere, and her father writes those dull and dusty tomes no one can make any sense of. Only reason Mama hired her was because she was bosom bows with her grandmother, and the old gel begged Mama to give the chit a position. Papa didn't like it above half, I can tell you," he added darkly.

"Indeed, and why is that?" Charles asked, intrigued. His pride was still stinging from Lord Falconer's reprimand, and he was eager to make someone pay for the blow he'd taken.

William gave a derisive snort. "Thinks she's a French spy," he said, his lips twisting in a sneer. "Can you imagine anything so foolish? Female don't say but two words half the time, and goes skittering about like a demmed mouse the rest of it."

"Why should he think she's a spy, and a French one at that?" A footman had delivered the decanter of brandy and several glasses, and Derwent was wasting little time in helping himself.

"Because she's lived in France for any number of years, and she's only just come from America," William answered, cocking his head to one side as he considered the matter. "Her papa's still there, and Father has forbidden her to write him so long as our soldiers are busy killing one another. Shouldn't be surprised if she ain't defying him, though. Saw her sneaking into town the other day, and I'll wager it wasn't just to take the air, as she said."

"That's it!" Colburt exclaimed, slapping his hand on the arm of his chair. "It's the perfect answer!"

"Eh?" William blinked at him owlishly. "What is?"

"The answer to poor Derwent's ennui, of course," Charles said, cleverly keeping his plans for revenge private. "We shall start a rumor Miss Mattingale is in reality a notorious French spy!"

"What?" This from William.

"Charles, that is inspired!" Derwent beamed his approval.

"Don't be daft," William said, for once the voice of reason. "No one would believe it! Not of that milk-and-water miss!"

"Ah, but only think, dear Wills," Charles purred, all but rubbing his hands in glee. "Who else would make the perfect spy but the last person anyone would suspect?"

It took a few moments for William to chew over that. "But if we tell people she's a spy, then that means we suspect her," he said, showing a heretofore unrevealed facility for logic. "And if we suspect her, then how can she be a spy? Besides, wouldn't want people thinking my father would keep a Frenchie spy tucked under his roof. Think of the scandal."

Charles thought for a moment. "Then what we will do," he said at last, "is to tell people we suspect there to be a spy in our midst. We'll . . . oh, I don't know, say some of your father's papers are gone missing. He's still a member of the Privy Council, isn't he?" He glanced at William.

"I suppose so." William lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "Carries a box of papers with him he keeps locked up in his study. And even if he ain't a member, Falconer is, I'll warrant. Papa said he's close to the prince, and he's helping him plan the fête for the Czar and his sister."

"Even better," Charles decided. "We'll hint some papers relating to the Russian court's visit have vanished, and that is why Falconer has come. We can get the other guests to try to guess the spy's true identity, tossing out just enough hints to make them believe what we want them to believe."

"Charles, I am in awe," Derwent said, leaping to his feet and sweeping low in an exaggerated bow. "You are brilliant; truly brilliant. I had no idea."

"I don't know," William said, annoyed to find he had a conscience after all. "May not care for Miss Mattingale, but that don't mean I want her taken up as a spy. They hang spies, you know."

But having come so close to savoring victory, Charles wasn't ready to quit the field. "Dunce, we won't let it get that far!" he said cuttingly. "If it gets too out of hand, we can always say it was all a hum, and the matter will be forgotten."

"I'm not certain . . ."

"Oh, don't be so tiresomely dull, Wills!" Derwent pouted at him. "This is going to be wonderful! Think of all the fun we shall have; planting notions in people's minds, raising a hue and cry, and then settling back to watch the others scurrying about chasing after mare's nests. How can you be so cruel as to deny me the one bit of enjoyment I have had since coming to this dreary place?"

Put like that, William did think it would be rather churlish of him to act the spoiler. Still . . .

"Tell you what," Charles interposed, taking William's measure. "We'll make it a wager, shall we? That way none of us can cry off."

"A wager?" William stirred with interest. "What sort of wager?"

"I'll wager a thousand pounds we can carry it off," Charles said, thinking quickly. "And you, Wills, shall wager a thousand we cannot How's that?"

"We would bet against each other?" William wanted to be certain he understood correctly. "That don't sound quite aboveboard."

"Of course it is," Charles assured him. "It's perfectly acceptable. So long as we don't cheat, of course."

"Cheat?"

All of this plotting and scheming was proving harder than Charles anticipated. He was trying to think of some way to explain when help arrived from an unexpected quarter.

"Slowtop," Derwent said, with exaggerated patience, "if we tell anyone this is all a game, and that there are no missing papers and, therefore, no French spy, that would be cheating. To carry off our wager in an honorable fashion we have to take a vow here and now that under penalty of forfeiture we can never, ever reveal the truth." He looked at Charles. "Is that not right?"

"Aye," Charles said, nodding. "Exactly so."

"Then," Derwent said smugly, "are we agreed?"

"Aye," Charles repeated, and glanced expectantly at William.

William nodded. "Aye," he said reluctantly. "We are agreed."

"Filthy, useless, parasitic fops!" Miss Elizabeth Mattingale's aquamarine eyes flashed with temper as she paced up and down the narrow confines of her small room. "Stupid, small-minded little nothings! How dare they treat me so!"

It wasn't often Elizabeth allowed herself to lose her temper; but then, it was seldom she was offered such deliberate provocation. She'd heard several of the maids complaining of the grabbing and pinching they'd encountered from Mr. Derwent's London friends, and had done her best to keep out of their way. Thank heaven Lord Falconer had been there, she thought, breathing a mental sigh of relief. She shuddered to think what might have happened had she been forced to deal with the wretches on her own.

The memory of the decisive way the handsome marquess had routed the younger men filled her with reluctant admiration. She'd met him the first night he'd arrived from London, and at the time had thought him quite the coldest man she had ever encountered. Having had the opportunity to observe him in action, she now considered him one of the most dangerous men as well. She knew she would not wish to make an enemy of his lordship; something told her he would be a merciless opponent.

After taking a few more minutes to compose herself, Elizabeth splashed some cool water on her face and went back downstairs to the drawing room. Her new employer was just as she'd left her, pouring over another of her endless lists. She glanced up when Elizabeth opened the door, her thick brows meeting in a disapproving scowl.

"There you are, Miss Mattingale," she said, sounding as if Elizabeth had been gone for days instead of a mere quarter hour. "Did you find the book I wanted?"

Since her hands were plainly empty, Elizabeth thought the answer to that rather obvious, but she kept such thoughts to herself.

"No, my lady, I did not," she said, returning to her chair. "Are you quite certain you left it in the library? I looked everywhere."

The countess pursed her lips. "I am almost certain I did," she said, tapping her finger against her chin. "Although I suppose I may have left it in my sitting room just as well. Ah, well, it is of no moment. I didn't need it after all."

Elizabeth choked back a cry of fury. She'd risked a pawing, if not worse, for some foolish book about the peerage, and now her employer decided it was of "no moment"? She eyed the pot of tea setting on the table in front of Lady Derring before giving a wistful sigh. However tempting it might be to upend the contents over the older woman's head, it was best she resisted the impulse. She'd only just secured this position, and Grandmother would be quite put out if she lost it in less than a sennight.

"I thought of holding a Roman ball for Robert's birthday," Lady Derring said, the matter of the missing book already forgotten. "Classic themes are always best, don't you think?"

An image of the portly earl in a toga, his balding head draped in laurel, flashed in Elizabeth's head and nearly proved her undoing.

"Indeed, my lady," she managed, albeit in a somewhat strained voice. Her vivid imagination was her greatest gift as well as her greatest curse, her father had once told her, but lud, how dull life would be without it.

Lady Catherine cast her a suspicious look. "Are you all right, Miss Mattingale?" she asked sharply. "Your voice sounds queer."

"A tickle in my throat, ma'am," Elizabeth assured her, hiding a smile behind her teacup. "I shall be fine in a moment."

"And so I should think," the countess replied with a grumble. "People who fancy themselves invalids are tiresome beyond enduring. For myself, I have always enjoyed the best of health."

"Yes, my lady," Elizabeth repeated, wisely not mentioning that only yesterday Lady Derring had laid claim to the most delicate constitution in the shire.

"So, it is decided, then." As usual, the countess was oblivious to Elizabeth's wry tone. "A Roman ball for his lordship's birthday, and a costume ball for the first week. Now"—she picked up her quill and frowned thoughtfully—"all that is needed is something truly spectacular for the last evening our guests are here. Something that will be all the talk when we all return to London." She looked at Elizabeth, clearly expecting her to pull some wondrous idea out of thin air.

Elizabeth didn't disappoint her. "All things Russian seem to be quite the thing at the moment," she said, remembering the gossip she'd overheard between her grandmother and their neighbor. "A ball with Russian foods and music should prove quite entertaining for your guests."

"A Russian ball?" The countess stirred in interest.

"Yes," Elizabeth said, warming to her theme. "We could serve salmon and other delicacies, and vodka for the gentlemen."

"Vodka?" the countess asked, clearly unfamiliar with the term.

"A potent drink that is much favored in Russia," Elizabeth explained. "Rather like whiskey in Scotland."

"Well, if it is popular in Russia, then we must by all means serve it here," the countess said, her dark brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "And you are right about the popularity of all things Russian. The last edition of La Belle Assemble did have several fashions that were à la Russe." She paused and cast Elizabeth a speculative look.

"You seem rather knowledgeable about Russia," she said, her tone frankly suspicious. "Never say you have been there?"

"As a matter of fact, my lady, I have." It was all Elizabeth could do to keep the smugness out of her voice. "My parents and I spent two years in St Petersburg while my father was writing a book on the history of one of the more prominent families. Prince Zaramoff, as I recall."

"A prince?" Lady Derring gasped, all but clapping her hands in glee.

"Yes, my lady." Elizabeth hadn't the heart to tell the older woman such titles were common in Russia, and every other person of note was either a prince or a count of something.

"When was this?"

It took Elizabeth a moment or two remember. "Three . . . no, four years ago," she said, remembering her sadness at leaving the stunning beauty of the port city. "It was shortly before my mother took ill and died."

"And you know a prince; fancy mat," Lady Derring said, ignoring Elizabeth's mention of her mother. "What was his name again?"

"Zaramoff," Elizabeth provided, smiling at the memory of the jovial prince with his huge mustache and booming laugh.

"Zaramoff." Lady Derring was tapping her chin again. "I know I have heard that name before, but I can't think where. Ah, well." She shrugged. "It hardly signifies, I suppose. But your idea for a Russian ball is excellent, Miss Mattingale, thank you. See to it, won't you?"

Elizabeth thought of the work involved in arranging such a ball and gave the teapot another wistful glance. "Yes, my lady."

Dressing for dinner that evening, Elizabeth took special pains with her appearance. From her limited knowledge of men, she knew the three dandies who had attempted to accost her would now regard her as a challenge, and would do their best to set up a flirtation with her. Since she couldn't expect Lord Falconer to spend his entire stay rescuing her from their importuning, she would have to find some other means of dissuading them.

After donning her plainest gown, Elizabeth reached for one of the starched caps she'd purchased when she'd decided to become a companion. She hated the thought of wearing one, for if she had any vanity it was her hair. It was the same warm golden-brown as her mother's hair and, unbound, it flowed almost to her waist. Still, if it came down to wearing a cap or being mauled, she knew which fate she preferred. Sighing, she bound up her hair and stuffed it beneath the starched square of muslin.

By hurrying, Elizabeth managed to be the first to arrive in the dining room. Her employer let it be known that she expected Elizabeth to make herself useful whenever possible, and that meant seeing to things that were normally the province of the hostess. She'd just finished checking the seating arrangements when she heard a noise behind her. Thinking it was the housekeeper coming in for a chat, she glanced casually over her shoulder. The sight of Lord Falconer, dressed in a black velvet jacket and cream satin breeches, had her starting in alarm.

"Oh, Lord Falconer," she said, bobbing a hasty curtsy. "I beg your pardon, sir, I hadn't heard you come in."

"There is no reason you should have," he replied, the deep voice she remembered devoid of any expression. His black hair was brushed back from his forehead, throwing the sharp bones of his face into prominence. It was a handsome face, she thought, but cold. She brushed the thought aside and gave him a polite smile.

"Is there something I can do for you, my lord?" she offered in the diffident tones she had spent days perfecting. Companions were expected to be diffident, and although she'd yet to perfect the skill, she was determined to succeed.

"No, thank you, Miss Mattingale," he said, his golden eyes remote as he studied her. "I only wanted to make certain you had recovered from this afternoon's unpleasantness. Should it happen again, I want you to come to me at once. I shall attend to the matter for you."

"How? By calling them out?" The question slipped out before Elizabeth could stop it. She bit her lip in mortification, but it was too late to call the words back.

He smiled; not the gentle smile he'd given her earlier, but something hard and deadly. "Yes, that is precisely what I will do."

Elizabeth wasn't certain how to respond. Thanking someone for offering to kill another human being seemed wrong, but good manners dictated she say something. She thought for a moment.

"Hopefully it won't come to that, my lord," she said, then, because she thought that sounded rather abrupt, she added, "Thank you for your concern. It is very kind of you."

He studied her for several seconds before inclining his head with regal hauteur. "You are welcome, Miss Mattingale," he said. "But I mean what I say; I want you to tell me if anyone bothers you."

Sensing his implacable determination, Elizabeth's sense of curiosity was piqued. "Why?" she asked, thinking not only of her employer's younger son and his equally pestilent friends, but also of many of the other members of the so-called aristocracy it had been her misfortune to encounter. Men who felt their wealth and titles entitled them to behave however ill they desired to those they considered beneath them. And, of course, to such men everyone was beneath them.

The marquess continued regarding her, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "Because I am a gentleman," he replied, as if somehow privy to her thoughts. "I was raised to believe that means more than a mere accident of birth; it means I have an obligation to protect those who are under my care." His gaze sharpened as it met hers. "I take my obligations very seriously, Miss Mattingale."

Elizabeth was surprised to feel her heart pounding in her chest. Disconcerted, she blurted out the first thing to pop into her mind.

"I am not under your care."

He raised an elegant eyebrow. "Are you not?" he asked softly. "I shouldn't be so certain of that if I were you." While she continued gaping at him, he smiled again, offering his arm with a low bow. "If you are ready to join the others in the drawing room, Miss Mattingale, it would be my honor to escort you."

Two

Adam awoke the following morning to bright skies and birdsong. After two days of pouring rains, the sight was enough to have him leaping out of bed and ringing for his valet. With his host's permission he'd had his latest purchase from Tattersall's sent down, and he was itching to take the full-blooded Arab gelding for a proper gallop. By rushing through his breakfast and morning ablutions he was soon on his way, whistling beneath his breath as he started down the main staircase. His good mood vanished at the sight of the three men making their way up the stairs toward him.

"Lord Falconer." Geoffrey Derwent gave him one of his annoying smirks. "Off for a ride, are you?" he added, indicating Adam's green jacket and doeskin breeches with a sweeping gesture of his hand. "How ambitious you are. 'Tis scarce twelve of the clock."

"I thought to ride out to the ruins," Adam replied, eyeing the three warily. He'd come to think of them as the enemy, and he'd learned from St. Jerome never to trust an enemy.

"Heavens, the thought of such industry quite fatigues me," Derwent sighed in his die-away fashion. "I must now repair to my rooms and rest, lest I show the ladies a haggard countenance. Come, Charles." And he minced away, leaving Colburt to trail in his wake. To Adam's annoyance William remained behind, shuffling his weight from one foot to another as he stood blocking Adam's way.

"Is there something you wish, Mr. Carling?" Adam asked, taking care to show no emotion as he tugged on his riding gloves. The lad was up to something; all that remained was discovering what that something might be.

William's face reddened. "No," he began, and cleared his throat. "That is to say," he continued, his gaze fixed on his feet, "a moment of your time, my lord, if you would. There is something I should like to discuss with you."

Adam kept his surprise hidden behind a mask of indifference. "As you wish," he said coolly. If the lad was about to stammer an apology, he would take great delight in reminding him that it wasn't he who was owed an apology

He followed the earl's younger son down the stairs and into the elegant drawing room the countess had set aside for her guest's use. A bouquet of lilacs and tulips in a crystal vase was set on the polished mantel, and he wondered if Miss Mattingale was responsible for the charming arrangement. He doubted his flighty hostess possessed the wits to do something so original.

William stood in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. "I was wondering, sir, if you've spoken with m'father this morning," William asked, still not meeting Adam's gaze.

So that was it, Adam realized, his lips twisting in well-bred scorn. The young whelp was terrified he had tattled to his papa. He needn't have worried. Adam wasn't one to carry tales, although he had no intention of letting William know that.

"No, I've not yet had the pleasure," he drawled, deliberately infusing a note of unspoken menace in his voice. "Why? Is there anything you wish me to say?"

William jerked, his gaze flying up to meet Adam's before he lowered it again. "No, no such thing," he said, shuffling. "I was only wondering if you'd seen him, and how he seemed to you."

The question took Adam aback. "How should he seem?" he asked, frowning in thought. The earl wasn't the most loquacious of men, but as he himself had often been accused of being as closemouthed as a clam, he didn't consider that to be a failing.

"I don't know," William admitted. "I'm almost certain it's all a hum, but one never knows." He lifted his head to send Adam a strained smile. "Sorry to have bothered you, my lord," he said, bobbing his head in apology. "Enjoy your ride."

The odd conversation was much on Adam's mind as he rode over the hills and down to the sea. Had it been anyone else, he would have suspected them of deliberately planting the uneasy doubts in his mind, but he didn't think William possessed the cunning. Derwent did, most assuredly, and he didn't trust Colburt so much as an inch. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with the earl, perhaps there was. In any case, it would do no harm to ask. With the Czar's ambassadors due to arrive in London within a week, it was best not to leave even the smallest detail to chance.

Relieved he'd decided upon a course of action, Adam threw himself into the ride. He spent the next hour riding hell-for-leather across the countryside, taking Shalimar over hedgerows and fences as he raced away from the house. Along the way he lost his hat and the veneer of smooth sophistication he wore as easily as other men wore their fine lawn shirts and elegant velvet jackets. With his black hair tumbling about his forehead and his cheeks flushed from wind and the sheer pleasure of riding, he looked little like the man who had set out from the Hall. The knowledge pleased him on same basic level, and feeling quite satisfied, he turned Shalimar around and started for the stables.

On impulse he decided to ride through the village instead of the fields, with the idea of stopping for a pint of ale at the tiny inn. He had just dismounted and was about to toss the reins to a linkboy who'd run up to greet him when the door to the milliner's shop across the lane opened, and Miss Mattingale stepped out. The hatbox swinging from her arm explained her presence, and he wondered if she had come in one of the estate's many carriages. When she turned and began walking in the direction of the Hall, he had his answer. His lips thinning in fury, he remounted his horse and set out after her.

"Miss Mattingale," he called out, urging his horse into a trot. "Hold there!"

He thought she hesitated for a moment, but when she turned to face him a smile of cautious welcome was pinned to her lips.

"Good day, Lord Falconer," she said, dropping a graceful curtsy. "You are up and about at an early hour this morning. Did you enjoy your ride?"

"Very much so," he replied, taking in her maroon cloak and gown of cream-and-gold-striped cambric in disapproval. Although the sun was quite bright the wind was sharp, and the thin cloak looked inadequate to the task of keeping her warm.

"How did you get into the village, if I may ask? Surely you didn't walk?" he queried, thinking that when he spoke with the earl he would also drop a flea in his ear about the shabby way his wife was treating her companion. As master, it was his responsibility to make certain those under his roof lacked for nothing.

"No, my lord," she replied, a spark of annoyance shimmering in her silvery blue eyes. "I rode in the gig with Mrs. Keys, the cook. But she is visiting her sister, who is the vicar's housekeeper, and rather than wait for her, I decided to walk back to the manor. It's such a lovely day, even though I fear it may rain again."

Adam was in no mood to discuss the vagaries of the weather. "It is over four miles to the house," he reminded her, angered at the thought of her walking that distance on what was certain to be muddy and slippery roads. He recalled his journey from London, when the horses had struggled through deep ruts.

"Only if one keeps to the road," she answered coolly. "If you cut through the meadows, it is less than half that. And I don't mind walking. Indeed, I quite like it." This last was added with a defiant lift of her pointed chin.

Adam's lips twitched as he resisted the sudden urge to laugh. The companion's recalcitrant nature put him strongly in mind of his friend's new wife, and he didn't doubt but that Lady St. Jerome would heartily applaud Miss Mattingale's attempts to put him in his place. But however much he might enjoy her spirited defiance, that didn't mean he intended letting her go blithely on her way. Reaching out, he cupped her chin in his gloved hand and tilted her face up to his.

"Miss Mattingale," he began, his lips curving in a wry smile, "you must know I won't let you walk back on your own. It would be a violation of all that I believe in, and I cannot allow it."

There was no mistaking the fury sparkling in her jewel eyes as she glared up at him. "Your pardon, Lord Falconer," she said, freeing herself from his grip and taking a deliberate step backward, "but I don't believe it is within your province to allow me to do anything. You are not my employer."

"No," he agreed, unaffected by her temper, "I'm not. But I still have no intention of letting you do as you propose. And you needn't bother casting daggers at me," he added, as her eyes narrowed even further. "Didn't I tell you I considered you to be under my care?"

For a moment he didn't think she would answer; then she gave a muttered exclamation. "Oh, for heaven's sake, you wretched tyrant! Have it your own way if you must." And with that, she turned and walked back toward the village.

Intrigued as much as he was amused, he trailed after her. "Where are you going?" he asked, easily matching his longer strides to hers.

"Back to the parsonage to wait for Mrs. Keys," she muttered, delicately lifting her skirts as she navigated the muddy lanes. "Although given the way she and her sister were gossiping, I shall be fortunate to see the Hall before next Sunday!"

Adam bit his lip to keep from chuckling at the acerbic observation. "You might take the gig now and send it back for Mrs. Keys in an hour or so," he suggested.

"Yes, as if I should put poor Dobbin and the groom to such bother," she grumbled, clearly unimpressed with his stratagems.

Adam slid her a thoughtful glance, considering several alternatives. Had he come upon her on the road or in the meadow, he could probably have taken her up behind him without risking too great of a scandal. Unfortunately he knew enough of village life not to suggest such a thing now. Pity, he thought with a rueful sigh. He would rather have enjoyed a few more minutes in the tart-tongued lady's company.

That was too close! The moment she reached the sanctuary of her room, Elizabeth flattened herself against the door, her eyes squeezing shut in relief. If she lived to be as old as Granny Dithers, she didn't think she would ever be half so frightened as she'd been when the marquess had surprised her coming out of the milliner's shop. Perhaps it was true what the Bible said about the guilty fleeing where no man pursued, she decided, moving away from the door and removing her cloak. But for herself, she'd never known five more uncomfortable minutes in her life. It seemed she would need to take even greater care if his lordship was going to be popping up when least expected.

After making certain her door was securely locked, she hurried over to her narrow bed and laid the hatbox upon the embroidered cover. The countess's newest bonnet, a hideous concoction of chipstraw and ceramic cherries, lay inside, but it was the box itself that concerned Elizabeth. Employing the greatest care, she ran her fingertips along the papered sides, stopping when she found the seam holding the pasted edges together. Slowly and skillfully, she peeled the paper apart, holding back a soft cry of delight at the letter she found secreted inside. One could say what one wished of the Gentlemen, she thought, lifting out the letter and smiling at the familiar handwriting. They were every bit as reliable as the post when it came to delivering the mail, and a dashed sight faster. She set the box on the floor, taking time to reseal the sides before sitting down on her bed to read the latest missive from her papa.

Dearest Daughter,

      Outrage upon outrage has been visited upon my adopted land. Only wait until I tell you of the foul crime our fine Army has committed against an innocent and unarmed populace . . .

Elizabeth continued reading, her high spirits growing somber at what she read. From her father's last letter she'd known the war in America was going badly for the newly formed nation, but now it seemed matters were even more desperate than she'd believed. The letter listed a litany of atrocities and horrors committed by the British troops, and from the scratchy quality of the handwriting Elizabeth could tell her father was shaking with fury. He concluded the missive with the request Elizabeth had been expecting since he had announced his decision to move to America.