Stephanie Laurens lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters. To learn more about Stephanie’s books visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com.

Also by Stephanie Laurens

THE REASONS FOR MARRIAGE

AN UNWILLING CONQUEST

A COMFORTABLE WIFE

A LADY OF EXPECTATIONS

TANGLED REINS

FAIR JUNO

FOUR IN HAND

IMPETUOUS INNOCENT

STEPHANIE LAURENS

Fair Juno

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Fair Juno

Chapter One

Martin Cambden Willesden, fifth Earl of Merton, strode purposefully along the first-floor corridor of the Hermitage, his principal country residence. The scowl marring his striking features would have warned any who knew him that he was in a foul mood. A common saying among the men of the 7th Hussars had been that if any emotion showed on Major Willesden’s face the portents were bad. And, thought ex-Major Willesden savagely, I’ve every right to feel furious.

Recalled from pleasant exile in the Bahamas, forced to leave behind the most satisfying mistress he had ever mounted, he had landed in gloomy London to face an uphill battle to extricate the family fortunes from the appalling state they had, apparently unaided, tumbled into. Matthews, the elder, of Matthews and Sons, his and his family’s man of business, had warned him that the Hermitage was in need of attention and would not, in its present state, meet with his approval. He had thought that was all part of the old man’s attempt to persuade him to return to England without delay. He should have recalled Matthews’ habit of understatement. Martin’s lips thinned. The grim look in his grey eyes deepened. The Hermitage was in even worse case than the investments he had spent the last three weeks reorganising.

As he paced the length of the corridor, the crisp clack of boot-heels penetrated his reverie. In a state bordering on shock, Martin stopped and stared down. There were no runners! Just bare wooden boards and, to his critical eye, they were not even well-polished.

Slowly, his grey gaze lifted to take in the sombre tones of decaying wallpaper framed by faded and musty hangings. A pervasive chill inhabited the gloom.

His frown now black, the Earl of Merton swore—and added yet another item to the catalogue of matters requiring immediate attention. If he was ever to visit the Hermitage again, let alone reside for more than a day, the place would have to be done up. Downstairs was bad enough— but this! Description failed him.

Setting aside his aggravation, Martin resumed his determined progress towards the Dowager Countess’s rooms. Since his arrival eight hours ago, he had postponed the inevitable meeting with his mother on the grounds of dealing with the problems crippling his major estate. The excuse had not been exaggeration. But the critical decisions had been made; the reins were now firmly in his grasp.

Despite such success, his hopes for the coming interview were less than certain. Curiosity brushed shoulders with a lingering wariness he had not thought he still possessed.

His mother, Lady Catherine Willesden, the Dowager Countess of Merton, had terrorised her household for as long as Martin could recall. The only ones apparently immune from her domination had been his father and himself. His father she had excused. He had not been so favoured.

He halted outside the plain wooden door that gave access to the Dowager’s apartments. Despite all that lay between them, she was his mother. A mother he had not seen for thirteen years and whom he remembered as a cold, calculating woman with no room in her heart for him. How much of the blame for the decay of his ancestral acres could be laid at her door? The question puzzled him, for he knew her pride. In fact, he had a good few questions, including how she would deal with him now; the answers lay beyond the door facing him.

Recognising the instinctive squaring of his shoulders as his habit when about to enter his colonel’s domain, Martin’s lips twitched. Without more ado, he raised a fist to the plain panels and knocked. Hearing a clear instruction to enter, he opened the door and complied.

He paused just beyond the threshold, his hand on the doorknob and, with a practised air of languid ease, scanned the room. What he saw answered some of his questions.

The tall, upright figure in the chair before the windows was much as he remembered, more gaunt with hair three shades greyer, perhaps, but still retaining that calm air of determination he so vividly recalled. It was the sight of the gnarled and twisted hands resting, useless, in her lap and the peculiar rigidity of her pose that alerted him to the truth. They had told him she kept to her room, a victim of rheumatism. He had interpreted that as a fashionable response to a relatively minor ailment. Now, reality stared him in the face. His mother was an invalid, bound to her chair.

Pity stabbed him, sharp and fresh. He remembered her as an active woman, riding and dancing with the best of them. Then his eyes locked with hers, chilly grey, haughty as ever—and more defensive than he had ever seen them. Instantly, he knew that pity was the very last thing his mother would accept from him.

Despite the real shock, his face remained impassive. Unhurriedly, he closed the door and strolled into the room, taking a moment to acknowledge the round-eyed stare of the only other occupant of the large chamber—his eldest brother’s relict, Melissa.

Catherine Willesden sat in her high-backed chair and watched her third son approach, her features as impassive as his. Her lips thinned as she took in his long, powerful frame, and the subtle elegance that cloaked it. The light fell on his features as he drew nearer. Her sharp eyes were quick to detect the hardness behind the elegance, a ruthless determination, a hedonism ill-concealed by the veneer of polite manners. It was a characteristic she was honest enough to recognise.

Then he was before her. To her horror, he reached for her hand. She would have stopped him if she’d been able but the words stuck in her throat, trapped by her pride. Warm, strong fingers closed over her gnarled fingers. Her surprise was swamped beneath a sudden rush of emotions as Martin’s dark head bent and she felt his lips brush her wrinkled skin. Gently, he replaced her hand in her lap and dutifully kissed her cheek.

‘Mama.’

The single word, uttered in a gravelly voice deeper than she recalled, jolted Lady Catherine to reality. She blinked rapidly. Her heart was beating faster. Ridiculous! She fixed her son with a frown, struggling to infuse an arctic bleakness into her grey eyes. The slight smile which played about his mouth suggested that he was well aware he had thrown her off balance. But she was determined to keep this black sheep firmly beneath her thumb. She could, and would, ensure he brought no further scandal upon the family.

‘I believe, sir, that I sent instructions that you were to attend me here immediately you reached England?’

Entirely unperturbed by his mother’s icy glare, Martin strolled to the empty fireplace, one black brow rising in polite surprise. ‘Didn’t my secretary write to you?’

Indignation flared in Lady Catherine’s pale eyes. ‘If you are referring to a note from a Mr Wetherall informing me that the Earl of Merton was occupied with taking up the reins of his inheritance and would call on me at his earliest convenience, I received it, sirrah! What I want to know is what the meaning of it is. And why, once you finally arrived, it took you an entire day to remember the way to my rooms!’

Observing the unmistakable signs of ire investing his mother’s austere features, Martin resisted the temptation to remind her of his title. He had not expected to enjoy this discussion, but, somehow, his mother no longer seemed as remote nor as truly hostile as he recalled. Perhaps it was her infirmity that made her appear more human? ‘Suffice it to say that the Merton affairs were in a somewhat deeper tangle than I had understood.’ Placing one booted foot on the brass fender, Martin braced an arm against the heavily carved mantel and, with unimpaired calm, regarded his mother. ‘However, now that I have managed to spare you some time away from the damnable business of setting this estate to rights, perhaps you could tell me what it is you wish to see me about?’

By the conscious exercise of considerable will-power, Lady Catherine kept surprise from her face. It wasn’t his words that shook her, but his voice. Gone entirely were the light, charming tones of youth. In their place, there was depth containing a great deal of hardness, harshness, with the undertones of command barely concealed beneath the fashionable drawl.

Inwardly, she shook herself. The idea of being cowed by this scapegrace son was ludicrous. He had always been impudent—but never stupid. Such languid insolence would be a thing of the past, once she made his position clear. Wrapping herself in haughty dignity, Lady Catherine embarked on her son’s education. ‘I have much to say concerning how you should go on.’

Exuding an attitude of polite attention, Martin settled his shoulders against the mantelpiece, elegantly crossing his long legs before him, and fixed his mother with a steady regard.

Frowning, Lady Catherine nodded towards a chair. ‘Sit down.’

Martin’s lips twisted in a slow smile. ‘I’m quite comfortable. What are these facts you needs must inform me of?’

Lady Catherine decided not to glare. His very ease was disconcerting. Much better not to let on how disturbing she found it. She forced herself to meet his unwavering gaze. ‘Firstly, I consider it imperative that you marry as soon as possible. To this end, I’ve arranged a match with a Miss Faith Wendover.’

One of Martin’s mobile brows rose.

Seeing it, the Dowager hurried on. ‘Given that the title now resides with the third of my four sons, you can hardly be surprised if, in my estimation, securing the succession is a major concern.’

Her eldest son George had married to please his family but Melissa, dull, plain Melissa, had failed lamentably in satisfying expectations. Her second son Edward had died some years previously, part of the force which had successfully repelled The Monster’s invasion. George had succumbed to the fever a year ago. Until then, it had never dawned on the Dowager that her impossible third son could inherit. If she had thought of it at all, she would have expected him to die, somewhere, on one of his outlandish adventures, leaving Damian, her favourite, as the next Earl.

But Martin was now the Earl; it was up to her to ensure that he toed the line.

Determined to brook no opposition, Lady Catherine fixed her son with a commanding eye. ‘Miss Wendover is an heiress and passably pretty. She’ll make an unexceptionable Countess of Merton. Her family is well-respected and she’ll bring considerable land as her dower. Now you are here and the settlements can be signed, the marriage can take place in three months’ time.’

Prepared to defend her arrangements against a storm of protest, Lady Catherine tilted her chin at an imperious angle and regarded the lean figure propped by the fireplace with keen anticipation. Once again, she was struck by the changes, enveloped by a unnerving sense of dealing with a stranger who was yet no stranger. He was looking down, his expression guarded. Unexpectedly curious, Lady Catherine studied her son. Her last memories of Martin were of a twenty-two-year-old, already steeped in every form of fashionable vice—drinking, gambling and, of course, women. It was his propensity for dabbling with the opposite sex that had brought his tempestuous career to a sudden halt. Serena Monckton. The beauty had claimed Martin had seduced her. He had denied it but no one, least of all his family, had believed him. But he had steadfastly resisted all attempts to coerce him into marrying the chit. In a fury, her husband had bought off the girl’s family and banished his third son to a distant relative in the colonies. John had regretted that action bitterly, regretted it to his dying day, quite literally; Martin had always been his favourite and he had died without seeing him again.

Intent on finding evidence that the son of her memories had not in truth changed, Lady Catherine acknowledged the broad shoulders and long, lean limbs with an inward snort. He still possessed the figure of Adonis, hard and well-muscled through addiction to outdoor pursuits. His long-boned hands were clean and manicured; the gold signet his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday glowed on his right hand. The hair that curled about his clear brow was as black as a raven’s wing. All that she remembered. What she could not recall was the strength engraved in the chiselled features, the aura of confidence which went further than mere arrogance, the graceful movements that created an impression of harnessed power. Those she could not remember at all.

Unease growing, she waited for some show of resistance. None came.

‘Have you nothing to say?’

Startled from his reverie, induced by memories of the last time his mother had insisted he marry, Martin lifted his gaze to the Dowager’s face. His brows rose. ‘On the contrary. But I would like to hear all your plans first. Surely that’s not the sum of them?’

‘By no means.’ Lady Catherine threw him a glance that would have wilted lesser men and wished he would sit down. Towering over her, he seemed far too powerful to intimidate. But she was determined to do her duty. ‘My second point concerns the family estates and businesses. You say you’ve been acquainting yourself with them. I wish you to leave all such matters in the hands of those retainers George hired. They’re doubtless better managers than you could ever be. After all, you can have no experience of running estates of such size.’

A muscle at the corner of Martin’s mouth quivered. He stilled it.

Lady Catherine, absorbed in ordering her arguments, missed the warning. ‘Lastly, once you and Miss Wendover are married, you will reside here throughout the year.’ She paused to eye Martin speculatively. ‘You may not yet realise, but it is my money that keeps the Merton estates afloat. Remember, I wasn’t a nobody before I married your father. I’ve allowed what passed back to me through settlements on your father’s death to be drawn upon for living expenses as the estates are unable to pay well enough.’

Martin remained silent.

Confident of victory despite his impassivity, Lady Catherine advanced her trump card. ‘Unless you agree to my conditions, I’ll withdraw my funds from the estate, which will leave you destitute.’ On the word, her eyes flickered over the long frame still negligently propped against the mantelpiece. The subtle hand of a master showed in the cut of his dark blue coat; the pristine state of his small clothes was beyond reproach. Gleaming Hessians completed the picture. Martin, his mother reflected, had never been cheap.

The object of her scrutiny was examining the toe of one boot.

Undeterred, the Dowager added a clincher. ‘Should you choose to flout my wishes, I’ll see you damned and will settle my fortune on Damian.’

As she made this final, all-encompassing threat, Lady Catherine smiled and settled back in her chair. Martin had always disliked Damian, jealous of the fact that the younger boy was her favourite. Knowing the battle won, she glanced up at her son.

She was unprepared for the slow smile which spread across his dark face, softening the harsh lines, imparting a devilish handsomeness to the aristocratic features. Irrelevantly, she reflected that it was hardly surprising that this son, of the four, had never had the slightest trouble winning the ladies to his side.

‘If that’s all you have to say, ma’am, I have a few comments of my own.’

Lady Catherine blinked, then inclined her head regally, prepared to be gracious in victory.

Nonchalantly, Martin straightened and strolled towards the windows. ‘Firstly, as regards my marriage, I will marry whom I please, when I please. And, incidentally, if I please.’

The stunned silence behind him spoke volumes. Martin’s gaze skimmed the tops of the trees in the Home Wood. His mother’s suggestions were outrageous, but entirely expected. However, while her machinations were unwelcome, he understood and respected the devotion to family duty that prompted her to them. Even more to the point, they confirmed his supposition that she had had no hand in the decline of the Merton fortunes. As she was tied to her room, her household under the sway of an unscrupulous factor he had derived great satisfaction from verbally flaying before evicting him in the time-honoured way, he doubted his mother had any idea of the state of the rest of the house. Her chambers were in reasonable condition, better than any others in the rambling mansion. The factor had succeeded in intimidating the rest of the staff and, very likely, had gulled Melissa and possibly even George into believing that the decay was unavoidable. And if the section of gardens he could now see was the only fragment of the grounds still deserving of the title, how could his mother know the rest was wilderness? Martin paused by the window, his fingers drumming lightly on the wide ledge. ‘Apropos of Damian, I should point out that he will hardly thank you for rushing me to the altar. He is, after all, my heir until such time as I father a legitimate son. Considering his current pecuniary embarrassments, he’s unlikely to appreciate your motives in assisting me to accomplish that deed, and in such haste.’

Lady Catherine stiffened. Martin spared a glance for his sister-in-law, huddled back in her chair, listening intently to the exchange between mother and son while ostensibly absorbed with her embroidery. One brow rising cynically, Martin turned to his mother’s fury.

‘How dare you!’ For a moment, rage held the Dowager speechless. Then the dam broke. ‘You will marry as I say! To think of any other course is out of the question! The arrangements have been made.’

‘Naturally,’ Martin replied, his voice cool and precise, ‘I regret any inconvenience your actions may cause others. However,’ he continued, on a sterner note, ‘I am at a loss to understand what gave you the impression that you were empowered to speak for me in this matter. I find it hard to believe that Miss Wendover’s parents were so ill-advised as to imagine you did. If they have, in truth, done so, their discomfiture is the result of their own folly. I suggest you inform them without delay that no alliance will occur between Miss Wendover and myself.’

Stunned, Lady Catherine blinked. ‘You’re mad! I would be mortified to do so!’ She sat bolt upright, her hands twisting in her lap, her expression one of dawning dismay.

Martin quelled an unexpected urge to comfort her. She would have to learn that the youth who left this house thirteen years before was no more. ‘I hesitate to point out that any embarrassment you might feel has been accrued through your own machinations. It would be well if you could bring yourself to understand that I will not be manipulated, ma’am.’

Unable to meet his stern gaze, Lady Catherine glanced down at her crabbed fingers, conscious for the first time in years of an urge to fuss with her skirts. Suddenly, Martin looked very like—sounded very like—his father.

When his mother remained silent, Martin continued calmly, his tone dry. ‘As for your second point, I can inform you that, having become thoroughly acquainted with my inheritance, I’ve rescinded all the appointments made by George. Matthews and Sons and Bromleys, our brokers, together with our bankers, Blanchards, remain. They date from my father’s time. But my people are now in charge of this estate and the smaller estates in Dorset, Leicestershire and Northamptonshire. The men George hired were bleeding the estate dry. It’s beyond my comprehension, ma’am, why even you did not question the story that estates of the size of the Merton holdings were, within two years of my father’s death, mysteriously no longer able to support the family.’

Martin paused, tamping down the anger simmering beneath his calm. Just thinking of the state of his patrimony was enough to summon his demons. Surmising from his mother’s stunned expression that she needed a few minutes to adjust to his revelations, he let his gaze wander the room.

Lady Catherine’s mind was indeed reeling. A niggling memory of the odd look old Matthews had given her when, angry at Martin’s inheriting, she had given vent to her frustrations in a long catalogue of his shortcomings, returned with a thump. She had been taken aback by the man’s quietly tendered opinion that Mr Martin was just what the Merton estates needed. Martin, expensive profligate that he was, was hardly the sort she had expected Matthews to support. Later, she had learned that Martin had engaged the same firm his family had long used to represent him in his business dealings. It had come as something of a shock to realise that Martin had the sort of dealings with which a firm such as Matthews and Sons would assist. Matthews’ comment had bothered her. Now she knew what he had meant. Damn him—why had he not explained more fully? Why had she not asked?

After gazing at Melissa’s bent head, pale blonde flecked with grey, and recalling his conclusion of years before that nothing much actually went on inside it, Martin turned back to his mother. As he guessed rather more of her thoughts than she would have wished, his lips twisted wryly. ‘You’re quite right in saying that I’ve little experience in running estates of this size—my own are considerably more extensive.’

Confirming as they did that her third son had changed in more ways than met the eye, his words seriously undermined Lady Catherine’s composure. They more than undermined her plans.

At her thunderstruck look, Martin’s grin converted to a not ungentle smile. ‘Did you think your prodigal son was returning from a life of deprivation to hang on your sleeve?’

The glance she threw him was answer enough. Martin leant back against the window-ledge, long legs stretched before him. ‘I’m desolated to disappoint you, ma’am, but I’m in no need of your funds. On my return to London, I’ll instruct Matthews to call on you here, to assist in redrafting your will. I pray you hold to your threat to disown me. Damian will never forgive you if you don’t. Besides,’ he added, grey eyes gleaming with irrepressible candour, ‘he needs the support that the news that he’s your beneficiary will bring. If nothing else, it should relieve me of the necessity of repeatedly rescuing him from the River Tick. As far as I’m concerned, he may go to the devil in whatever way he chooses. If he uses your money to do it, I’ll be even better pleased. However, regardless of what you may choose to do, no further monies from your settlements will be used for the Merton estates, in any way whatever.’

Martin examined his mother’s face, sensitive to the encroachments of age on past beauty. After her initial shock, she had drawn herself up, her eyes grey stone, her lips compressed as if to hold back her incredulity. Despite her ailment, there was a deal of strength and determination still discernible in the gaunt frame. To his surprise, he no longer felt the need to strike back at her, to impress her with his successes, to demonstrate how worthy of her love he was. That, too, had died with the years.

‘And now to your last stipulation.’ He pushed away from the window-ledge, glancing down to resettle his sleeves. ‘I will, of course, be residing for part of the year in London. Beyond that, I anticipate travelling to my various estates as well as visiting those of my friends, as one might expect. I also anticipate inviting guests to stay here. As I recall, during my father’s day, the Hermitage was renowned for its hospitality.’ He looked at his mother; she was staring past him, plainly struggling to bring this new image of him into focus.

‘Of course, such visits will have to wait until the place is refurbished.’

‘What?’ The unladylike exclamation burst from Lady Catherine’s lips. Startled, her gaze flew to Martin’s face, her question in her eyes.

‘You needn’t concern yourself about that.’ Martin frowned. There was no need for her to know how bad it really was; she would be mortified. ‘I’m sending a firm of decorators down once they’ve finished with Merton House.’ He paused but his mother’s gaze was again far-away. When she made no further comment, Martin straightened. ‘I’m returning to London within the hour. So, if there’s nothing further you wish to discuss, I’ll bid you goodbye.’

‘Am I to assume these decorators will, on your instruction, redo these rooms as well?’ The sarcasm in Lady Catherine’s voice would have cut glass.

Martin smothered his smile. Rapidly, he reviewed his options. ‘If you wish, I’ll tell them to consult with you— over the rooms that are peculiarly yours, of course.’

He could not, in all conscience, saddle her with the task of overseeing such a major reconstruction, and, if truth be known, he intended to use this opportunity to stamp his own personality on this, the seat of his forebears.

His mother’s glare relieved him of any worry that she would react to his independence by going into a decline. Reassured, Martin raised an expectant brow.

With every evidence of reluctance, Lady Catherine nodded a curt dismissal.

With a graceful bow to her, and a nod for Melissa, Martin left the room.

Lady Catherine watched him go, then sought counsel in silence. Long after the door had clicked shut, she remained, her gaze fixed, unseeing, on the unlighted fire. Eventually shaking free of her recollections, she could not help wondering if, in her most secret of hearts, despite the attendant difficulties, she was not just a little bit relieved to have a man, a real man, in charge again.

Downstairs, Martin briskly descended the steep steps of the portico to where his curricle awaited, his prize match bays stamping impatiently. A heavy hacking cough greeted him, coming from beyond the off-side horse. Frowning, Martin ignored the reins looped over the brake and, patting the velvety noses of his favourite pair, rounded them to find his groom-cum-valet and ex-batman Joshua Carruthers propped against the carriage, eyes streaming above a large handkerchief.

‘What the devil’s the matter?’ Even as Martin asked the question, he realised the answer.

‘Nuthing more’n a cold,’ Joshua mumbled thickly, waving one gnarled hand dismissively. He gulped and stuffed the handkerchief in his breeches pocket, revealing a shiny red nose to his master’s sharp eyes. ‘Best get on our way, then.’

Martin did not move. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

‘But I distin’ly ’eard you say nuthin’ on earth woul’ induce you to spen’ the night in this ramshackle ’ole.’

‘As always, your memory is accurate, your hearing less so. I’m going on.’

‘No’ without me, you’re not.’

Exasperated, hands on hips, Martin watched as the old soldier half staggered to the back of the curricle. When he had to brace himself against the curricle side as another bout of coughing shook him, Martin swore. Spotting two stable boys gazing in awe, whether at the equipage or its owner Martin was not at all sure, he beckoned them up. ‘Hold ’em.’

Once assured they had the restless horses secured, Martin grasped Joshua by the elbow and steered him remorselessly towards the house. ‘Consider yourself ordered back to barracks. Dammit, man—we wouldn’t get around the first bend before you fell off.’

In vain, Joshua tried to hang back. ‘But—’

‘I know the place is in a state,’ Martin countered, sweeping his reluctant henchman back up the steps. ‘But now I’ve got rid of that wretched factor, the rest of the staff will doubtless remember how things should be done. At least,’ he added, stopping in the gloomy front hall, ‘I hope they will.’

He had given orders that the household should conduct itself as it had previously, in his father’s day. Enough of the staff remained for him to expect a reasonable outcome. All locals, many from generations of Merton servitors, they had been overwhelmed by the outsider George had installed over them. Freed from the tyrannical factor, they seemed eager to return the Hermitage to its proper state.

Joshua sniffed. ‘What about the horses?’

Martin’s lips twitched but he suppressed the urge to smile, assuming instead a repressively haughty attitude. His brows rose to chilling heights. ‘You aren’t about to suggest I don’t know how to take care of my cattle, are you?’

Muttering, Joshua threw him a darkling glance.

‘Get off to bed, you old curmudgeon. When you’re well enough to ride, you may take a horse from the stables and come on to London. It’ll have to be that hack of George’s; it’s the only animal remaining with sufficient resemblance to the equine species to meet your high standards.’

Not at all mollified, Joshua humphed. But he knew better than to argue. Contenting himself with a last warning— ‘There’s rain on the way, so’s you’d best take heed’—he stumped down the hall towards the faded baize-covered door at its rear.

Smiling, Martin returned to his curricle. Dismissing the wide-eyed lads, he climbed to the box seat and clicked the reins. The carriage swept down the weed-choked drive. Martin did not glance back.

As he passed through the gateposts marking the main entry, through the heavy iron gates, half off their hinges, Martin heaved a heartfelt sigh. For thirteen years, his home had glowed in his memory, a place of charm and grace, an Elysian paradise he had longed to regain. Fate had granted him his wish but, as fickle as ever, had denied him his dream. The charm and grace had vanished, victim to the neglect of the years since his father had had it in his care.

He would restore it—bring back the gracious beauty, the calming sense of peace. On that he was determined. Martin’s jaw set, his eyes glinted, grey steel in the afternoon sun. In truth, he was glad to leave behind the travesty of his dream. He would remain in London until the work was done. When next he saw his home, it would once again be the place he had carried in his heart through all the years of his roaming. His particular paradise.

The road to Taunton loomed ahead. Checking his team for the turn, Martin cast a quick glance to the west. Joshua had been right—there was rain on the way. Pursing his lips, Martin considered his options. If he stopped at Taunton, London the next day would be a tough order. He would make for Ilchester—he and Joshua had passed the previous night at the Fox in tolerable comfort. Decision made, Martin dropped his hands, letting the horses stretch their legs. From memory, there was a short cut, just south of Taunton, which would see him in Ilchester before the coming storm.

Two hours later, the curricle swayed perilously as the wheels hit yet another rut. Martin swore roundly. He reined in his team to peer ahead into the gathering gloom. The short cut, dimly remembered as a fair road, had not lived up to expectations. A low mutter came from the west. Martin scanned the horizons, barely visible beneath the low-lying cloud. He doubted he could even make the London road before the storm struck.

He was gently urging the horses over the rutted stretch, dredging his memory in an effort to recall any nearby shelter, when a scream rent the air. The horses plunged. Rapidly bringing them under control, Martin leapt from his perch and ran to their heads. He caught hold of their bits just in time to prevent them rearing as a second scream sliced through the night. No doubt about it, a woman’s scream, coming from the woods just ahead. Swiftly, Martin tied the team securely to a nearby gate and, grabbing the pair of loaded pistols from beneath the seat, made for the trees. Once in their shadow, he took care to move silently, thanking the years of his misspent youth, when he had often gone poaching on his father’s preserves with young Johnny Hobbs from the village.

Some distance into the wood, he froze. Before him lay a small clearing, a track leading into it from the opposite direction. Sounds of a struggle came from an ill-assorted trio, waltzing in the shadows in the centre.

‘Keep still, you little…!’

‘Ow! Gawd! She bit my finger, the doxy!’

As one man pulled away, the group resolved into two burly men dressed in unkempt frieze and a lady, unquestionably a lady, in a silk gown which shimmered in the twilight. The larger of the men succeeded in grabbing the woman from behind, trapping her arms by her sides. Despite her efforts to kick him, he managed to hold her.

‘Listen, missus. The master said to hold you ’ere and not to harm a single hair of your head. Now how’s we to do that if’n you don’t stop still?’

The exasperation in the man’s voice brought a sympathetic smile to Martin’s face. The clearing was too large to allow him to creep up on them. Quietly, he worked his way around so that the man holding the woman would have his back to him.

‘You fools!’ The woman and her captor teetered perilously. ‘Don’t you know the price for kidnapping? If you let me go, I’ll pay you double what your master will!’

Martin’s brows rose. The woman’s voice was unexpectedly mature. Clearly, she had not lost her head.

‘Maybe so, lady,’ growled the man nursing his finger. ‘But the master’s gentry and they’re mean when crossed. No—I don’t rightly see as how we can oblige.’

Holding both pistols fully cocked, Martin stepped from the trees. ‘Dear me. Haven’t you been taught to always oblige a lady?’

The man holding the woman let her go and swung to face Martin. In the same moment, Martin saw the second man draw a knife. He had a clear shot and took it, the ball passing into the man’s elbow. The man dropped the knife and howled. His comrade turned to the source of the sound and so missed the pretty sight of ex-Major Martin Willesden, soldier of fortune and experienced man at arms, being laid low by a right to the jaw, delivered by a very small fist. Martin, his attention on the man he had shot, did not see the blow coming. His head jerked back from the contact and struck a low branch. Stunned, he crumpled slowly to the ground.

Helen Walford stared at the long form stretched somnolent at her feet. God in heaven! It wasn’t Hedley Swayne after all! The discharged pistol, still smoking, was clutched in the man’s left hand. His right hand held a second pistol, cocked and ready. She darted forward and grabbed it. Catching her skirts in one hand, she leapt over the sprawled form and swung to train the pistol on her captor, hampered in his efforts to reach her by the body between. ‘Keep your distance!’ she warned. ‘I know how to use this.’

Noting the steadiness of the pistol pointed at his chest, the man who had held her decided to accept her word. He glanced back at his accomplice, now on his knees, moaning in pain. He threw Helen a malevolent glance. ‘Blast!’

He eyed her menacingly, then turned and stumped over to his mate. Helping him up, he growled, ‘Let’s get out of this. The master’s bound to be along shortly. To my mind, he can sort this lot out hisself.’

His words carried to Helen. Her eyes widened in shock. ‘You mean this man isn’t your master?’ She spared a glance for the still form at her feet. Heavens! What had she done?

The men looked at the crumpled figure. ‘That swell? Never set eyes on him afore, missus.’

‘Whoever he be, he’s goin’ to be none too pleased with you when he wakes up,’ added the second man with relish.

Helen swallowed and gestured with the gun. Grumbling, the two rogues made their way to the edge of the clearing where stood a disreputable gig pulled by a single broken-down nag. They clambered aboard and, whistling up the horse, departed down the rough track.

Left alone in the gloom with her unconscious rescuer, Helen stood and stared at the recumbent form. ‘Oh, lord!’

Thus far, her day had been a resounding disaster. Kidnapped in the small hours, bundled up in a distinctly odoriferous blanket, bustled from one carriage to another until the sounds of London had been left far behind, she had spent the day being battered and jostled, tied and gagged, trussed and trapped in a worn-out chaise. Her head was still pounding. And now she had been rescued, only to lay her rescuer low.

With a groan, Helen pressed a hand to her temple.

Fate was having a field day.

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