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  In her bedroom she examined the gowns from Madame Letty hanging in the armoire. It hadn’t occurred to her to dress in anything but the brown serge that morning—it had been a rather brown serge kind of morning—but sunlight seemed to be running in her veins again as she planned her campaign, and the crisp, dainty muslins looked most appealing … not as dramatic as peacock-blue taffeta, of course. But there was no point dwelling on battles already lost.

  She tossed aside the brown serge and slipped the sprigged muslin with the cornflower-blue ribbons over her head, twisting to fasten the hooks at the back before tying the sash. There was no mirror in the room, but she remembered seeing a swing mirror on a dressing table in one of the other bedrooms. She went off to find it in a dark and gloomy chamber smelling of mice, where the dust lay thick on the oak floor and faded velvet curtains blocked the light from the mullioned windows.

  She pulled back the curtains to let in the light. She tried to lift the mirror from the dressing table, intending to carry it back to her own room, but it was far too heavy with its mahogany frame. So she had to examine herself in parts, standing on a low stool to see herself from the waist down.

  The clumsy half boots that went with brown serge looked ridiculous with the pale filmy muslin, but there’d been no time yesterday to visit a shoemaker. Chloe kicked off her shoes, pulled off her stockings, and wriggled her toes in the mirror. The barefoot effect was rather alluring, she decided, like a milkmaid or shepherdess. It was to be hoped her guardian found pastoral images enticing.

  She peered at her face in the dust-coated mirror, licking her finger and stroking her eyebrows into a tidy curve, experimenting with her hair, drawing it first into a knot on top of her head, then pulling it away from her face, held at the nape of her neck. In the end she decided it looked more pastoral tumbling unconfined over her shoulders and went back to her own room to brush it until the guinea-gold radiance rippled and shone.

  Falstaff watched with his head cocked and one beady eye fixed on the rhythmic sweep of the brush, maintaining a soft stream of obscenities throughout. Beatrice abandoned her sleeping litter for a few moments and stretched herself in the sunlight on the windowsill, warming her flanks. Dante looked expectant, his feathery tail thumping the floor periodically.

  “I wonder what you’ll all think of London,” Chloe remarked absently, threading a cornflower-blue ribbon through her hair. “We won’t be able to go until you’ve weaned the kittens, Beatrice.” A feline ear pricked. Dante sighed heavily and flopped to the floor, clearly deciding that nothing noteworthy was about to happen. “But then, I expect it’ll take that long to persuade Sir Hugo to agree and to make all the necessary arrangements,” she mused, sitting on the window seat, careful not to crease her dress.

  It was an hour before the lone horseman appeared on the driveway. Chloe sprang to her feet, closed the door firmly on a disconsolate Dante, and ran to the head of the stairs, from where she looked down into the great hall.

  Hugo strode up the steps and into the house, his face set, lines of fatigue etched deep around his mouth and eyes. His red-rimmed eyes were lightless, like dull green stones in a face drawn beneath the sun’s bronzing.

  He threw his crop onto the table and ran his hands through his hair, massaging his temples with his thumbs in a gesture that Chloe was beginning to find familiar. It spoke of such utter weariness that she longed to comfort him, to find some way to bring him peace. What must it be like never to sleep?

  Hugo glanced up suddenly to where she was standing stock-still at the head of the stairs. “Come down to the library,” he said in a flat voice.

  Chloe’s optimistic assurance faltered at his tone. She hesitated, one bare foot raised to take the first stair.

  “Now!”

  She gasped and ran down the stairs as if there were a whip at her back, but he’d already turned toward the door leading to the kitchen.

  “Wait in the library,” he instructed her curtly, and went through the door.

  Chloe obeyed slowly, all her earlier confidence evaporated. He hadn’t seemed to look at her properly, let alone notice her appearance. She stood in the library door, looking around the room where so much had happened. It seemed as gloomy and unfriendly now as it had the first time she’d entered it in search of Lawyer Scranton’s letter.

  Her feet led her to the couch, and she gazed at the rumpled cushions, at the rusty smudge on the shabby velvet. She’d been bleeding a little when she’d reached her own room, but in the shock of Hugo’s violent rejection on the heels of euphoria she’d paid no attention beyond a superficial mopping up before crawling into bed. She bent to touch the dark mark of her body, trying to reconnect with the joyous moment that had created it.

  At this moment Hugo walked into the library, a glass in his hand. His stomach plummeted with renewed self-condemnation.

  Chloe whirled toward him, her eyes wide with anxiety. “I was only … I was only …” she stammered, trying to find the words for what she had been thinking.

  “I want you to drink this,” he said, brushing the stammered attempt aside, refusing to see what lay in her eyes. He held out the glass.

  Chloe took it and looked at the cloudy liquid it contained, her nose wrinkling at the powerful aromatic fumes. “What is it?”

  “Drink it,” he said.

  “But … but what is it?” She gazed up at him in bewilderment. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “It will ensure that there are no consequences from last night,” he stated, his voice cool and even. “Drink it.”

  “What consequences? I don’t understand.” Her soft mouth quivered in a tentative smile of appeal, the blue eyes turning as purple as the heather on a Scottish moor. “Please, Hugo.” Her hand drifted toward his arm, and he jerked away as if from a burning brand.

  “Naive little fool!” he exclaimed. “I cannot believe you don’t know what I’m talking about.” He swung away from her to the brandy bottle and glass—ever-ready succor. He gulped down a shot and felt the warmth settling in his belly. The tremor in his hands steadied. He drew a deep breath and turned back to face her.

  “A child. That is the consequence. You may have conceived a child. What’s in that glass will ensure that it doesn’t happen.”

  “Oh.” Her expression became grave. “I should have thought. I didn’t mean to be such a simpleton.” She spoke clearly and distantly. Then she tilted the contents of the glass down her throat, closed her eyes against the unpleasant taste, and swallowed. “Does it work?”

  “Yes, it works.” He walked to the window.

  His first time in the crypt, he’d learned about the potion. The woman had asked him for it in the dank drear light of dawn, when the hallucinatory euphoria of the night was fading and the spirit felt cold and dark. He hadn’t known what she’d been talking about, and she’d laughed at his naivete, a harsh and unkind laughter that had lacerated his youthful dignity. She’d called to Stephen and laughed with him at her young lover’s inexperience. But Stephen had not taunted him. He’d been sympathetic and understanding and had taken the youthful initiate to the cupboard where all the strange substances were kept. He’d explained how to mix the contraceptive herbs and a few days later took him to the charcoal burner’s hut in the forest where the herbalist plied her trade.

  Hugo had listened as Stephen and the old woman discussed what new supplies were needed. He watched as Stephen paid in gold for the leather pouches and the alabaster jars. And the next time the cupboard needed replenishing, Hugo ran the errand himself.

  The herbalist still lived in the charcoal burner’s hut. She’d recognized Hugo, even after fourteen years, and to his eyes she hadn’t changed much, maybe a few more lines on the wizened face, and the gray-white hair was thinner and more unkempt. But her eyes were as sharp and her price as high.

  Chloe put down the empty glass and stepped toward Hugo as he stood staring out of the window. She took a deep breath, then reached up and touched his face over his shoulder. “Hugo, I
—” But she got no further.

  He swung around, slapping her hand away with a violence that made her cry out. “Don’t touch me!” he snapped. “Don’t ever touch me again, do you understand?”

  She nursed her smarting hand and stared up at him in shocked silence.

  He took her by the shoulders and shook her once. “Do you understand?”

  “But why?” Chloe managed to say.

  “Why!” he exclaimed. “You ask why? After last night.”

  “But … but I enjoyed last night, it was lovely, I felt so wonderful. And if you feel guilty about it, you mustn’t.” She spoke with fervent urgency, her eyes burning with intensity. “There’s no reason for you to feel bad about it. There’s nothing to regret—”

  “You presumptuous little girl!” he exclaimed. “You have the audacity to tell me what I should or should not regret! Now, you listen to me, and you listen very carefully.” The bruising grip of his curled fingers on her shoulders made her wince, but she could no more move than she could tear her eyes away from the piercing green gaze that held her own.

  “What took place last night occurred because I was drunk. If I’d been sober, it would never have happened. Do you think I’m mad enough to find a naive schoolgirl irresistible?” Another sharp shake punctuated the question.

  “I did not know what I was doing.” He enunciated the brutal words with a cold clarity. “And from now on you will stay out of my way unless I summon you. And I swear on my mother’s grave that if you ever try your temptress tricks on me again, it will be the sorriest day of your life.”

  He released her shoulders abruptly, pushing her from him. “Now get out of here.”

  Chloe stumbled out of the library, too numb for tears. She didn’t seem able to breathe; it was as if she’d been plunged into an icy lake, and she stood in the hall, forcing the air into her lungs until the piercing pain under her ribs diminished. Then instinctively she moved toward the open door, questing the warmth and sunlight of the courtyard to caress her icy flesh and breathe life into her frozen spirit.

  Chapter 8

  CHLOE TOOK HER usual seat on the rain barrel and sat numbly, staring into space. Vaguely, she wondered why she wasn’t crying, but the wound was too deep for something as simple as tears. She wanted to run from this place, from the man who could cut so deeply, but she had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Except Jasper. She disliked her half brother, but he was the only kin she had. Her mother had feared him, Chloe knew, just as she knew what was said about him in the district, that he was a hard man to cross. But he’d never really taken much notice of his little half sister and she couldn’t remember receiving any overt unkindness from him. She’d had much more contact with Crispin.

  The sound of hooves on the driveway beyond the courtyard penetrated her bitter musing, and she looked up incuriously toward the archway. As if in response to her reflections, Crispin Belmont rode into the courtyard. He was alone and astride a black gelding of impeccable pedigree. He looked around, saw Chloe on her rain barrel, and raised his curly-brimmed beaver. He offered her a small bow that seemed to invite a shared joke at this formality.

  Chloe stood up slowly. “Good day, Crispin. What brings you here?”

  “That’s not much of a welcome,” her visitor said with a jovial heartiness that struck a slightly false note to Chloe’s ears. “I come with all goodwill and friendship, Chloe.” His gaze flickered over her and a spark of interest enlivened his features as he took in the rippling mass of shining hair, the slender waist accentuated by the sash of her flowing muslins, the rounded bosom, and the gentle flare of her hips. This Chloe was very different from the grubby, brown-serge schoolgirl eating bread and ham the other morning.

  He dismounted, looping the reins over his forearm, and smiled at her. “Do you always walk around barefoot?”

  Chloe glanced down at her feet and shrugged. “I felt like it.” She stood waiting for him to reveal the purpose of his errand.

  Crispin struggled to overcome his annoyance at this cool reception. He had a task to perform and was in all things obedient to his stepfather’s commands. The new plan, hatched over the breakfast table, was to be initially conducted single-handedly by the intended bridegroom. He now swallowed his anger, reminding himself that eighty thousand pounds compensated for many an insult. Besides, such disrespect wouldn’t survive under Jasper’s roof.

  He smiled again and held out a parcel. “My mother sent you some gingerbread. She was remembering how much you loved it when you used to come up to the big house as a little girl. I think there’s something else in there too. Ribbons or some such frippery.” He laughed in self-deprecation. “Ladies’ trifles, my dear.”

  “Oh.” Chloe took the parcel, looking rather nonplussed. “Well, please thank Lady Gresham for her kindness.” She half turned away.

  Crispin was searching for some way to hold her attention, when Samuel appeared on the steps of the house. Samuel had been watching from an upstairs window and, mindful of the need to keep Sir Hugo’s ward under constant surveillance, hastened downstairs.

  “A word wi’ ye, miss,” he called.

  “Excuse me,” Chloe said with offhand politeness, and went over to Samuel.

  “Who’s ’e?” Samuel wasted no words.

  “Crispin, my brother’s stepson. Why?”

  Samuel scratched his head. He could see no harm in a conversation in the courtyard with a relative, and the sharpness of her tone was belied by the sadness in her eyes.

  “Where’s that dog of your’n?” he asked. “Sir ’Ugo said you was to keep ’im out of trouble.”

  “He’s shut up in my room. I forgot to let him out.” The defiant sharpness faded from her voice. She had had very good reasons for thinking Dante might be an unnecessary addition to the scene she had planned in the library.

  “I’ll let ’im out.” Samuel turned back to the house. “But don’t you go leavin’ the courtyard.”

  Chloe walked back to Crispin, still standing beside his horse.

  “Rather peremptory for a servant, isn’t he?” Crispin frowned.

  Chloe shrugged. “He’s not an ordinary servant, more a kind of confidant.”

  Dante came bounding down the steps, barking joyfully. He stood on his hind legs and put his front feet on her shoulders, licking her face. “Would you believe someone tried to steal this silly animal?” Chloe said, laughing as she pushed him away, forgetting her dismal mood for a minute. “He’s such a commoner, surely no one could imagine he’d be worth anything.”

  “He’s unusual,” Crispin said noncommittally, trying to ignore Dante, who sniffed at his boots and pushed his nose into his crotch in a most embarrassing fashion. “And there are so many poachers in the area. There’s no knowing but that one of them saw him and took a fancy to him. He might make a good rabbiter.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he would,” Chloe agreed. “He’s extremely intelligent … Dante, stop that.” She toed him away from Crispin.

  “Where’s your guardian?” Crispin glanced casually around the disheveled yard.

  Drinking himself into a drunken stupor. Chloe bit her lip hard, keeping both the words and the tears at bay. “In the house somewhere,” she said. “I have to go in now. Things to do …” She gestured vaguely. “Thank you for calling, and please thank your mother for the gingerbread.” She turned and ran lightly up the steps without waiting for Crispin’s responding farewell.

  The young man remounted and trotted out of the courtyard, perfectly satisfied with his progress so far. If Sir Hugo believed the dog to be the object of the attack, then he was more of a fool than Jasper thought him, but whatever he believed, he had no proof. And Chloe, at least, was not suspicious. And he’d made a small step toward disarming her. Jasper would be pleased.

  Chloe wandered into the kitchen, averting her eyes from the closed library door as she passed it. She put the gingerbread on the table and began to unwrap it. “Fancy Lady Gresham remembering how I used to like this,” she said, select
ing a piece.

  “Now, don’t you go eatin’ that before nuncheon; it’ll spoil your appetite,” Samuel said sharply, scooping up the parcel.

  Chloe frowned. ’1 don’t suppose it would, but I don’t really want it anyway.” She broke off a corner of the piece she had in her hand and held it out to Dante.

  “Samuel!” Hugo spoke suddenly from the kitchen door. Chloe, unthinking, spun around toward him, then turned away, flushing. “I’m going into Manchester,” Hugo said, his eyes unfocused, his voice heavy. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Runnin’ out of brandy, are we?” Samuel said.

  “Damn your insolence, Samuel!” The door slammed on his departure.

  “Why’s he going to Manchester?” Chloe asked.

  “Always does when the devils is bad,” Samuel observed.

  “But what does he do?”

  “Drinkin’ and whorin’,” Samuel said flatly. “Ell be gone for days, I shouldn’t wonder.” He put a round of cheese on the table. “Sir ’Ugo’s fightin’ some powerful demons, miss. Has been ever since I’ve known ’im, since ’e was nobbut a lad of twenty summers.”

  “And you don’t know what they are?”

  “No.” Samuel shook his head. “E’s never said a word, not even when the drink’s on ’im. Most men babble like a Bedlamite in the drink, but not ’im. Close-mouthed ’e is. Like a oyster.” He cut into the cheese. “How d’ye fancy a morsel of toasted cheese?”

  Chloe shook her head. “No, thank you. I think I’ll go upstairs and lie down. I feel rather tired.”

  When Crispin Belmont appeared in the courtyard the following morning, Samuel called Chloe down from her room. “Ye’ve a visitor, miss.”

  “Oh? Who?” The question was lethargic and Samuel silently cursed his employer, who had to bear the responsibility for the girl’s heavy-eyed pallor. She’d also returned to the brown serge, which didn’t improve matters. A diversion of some kind would do her a world of good.