Praise for Deborah Simmons

‘Simmons guarantees the reader a page-turner …’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Deborah Simmons is a wonderful storyteller and brings historical romance to life.’

—A Romance Review

‘Deborah Simmons is an author I read automatically. Why? Because she gets it right. I can always count on her for a good tale, a wonderful hero, a feisty heroine, and a love story where it truly is love that makes the difference.’

—All About Romance

‘But Miss Sutton claims her waters were never associated with miraculous cures,’ Westfield said, turning towards Glory as if for confirmation.

‘And I spoke the truth, as far as I can tell,’ Glory said, hesitant to contradict the Duchess.

‘All mineral waters are known for their healing,’ the Duchess said with a wave of dismissal. ‘But those from Queen’s Well are unique in their benefits.’

‘And what might they be?’ Westfield asked.

The Duchess smiled slyly. ‘The waters here have a certain propensity for bringing about unions.’

Glory blinked in surprise, while Westfield looked dubious.

‘Unions?’ he asked.

‘Romance, dear, romance.’

AUTHOR NOTE

I hope you like my latest Regency, set at a faded spa resort with a rich history—and a mystery. As my readers know by now, I’m fascinated by old legends, hidden treasures, and secrets of the past, and I love creating my own.

Although Queen’s Well is my invention, spas were once the prime destination for members of fashionable society eager to ‘cure’ various ailments. They enjoyed the polite company and entertainments provided, along with drinking and bathing in the mineral springs. And, since such waters were thought to have healing powers, other rumours might have swirled around them, long forgotten, just waiting to be revived …

About the Author

A former journalist, DEBORAH SIMMONS turned to fiction after a love of historical romances spurred her to write her own, HEART’S MASQUERADE, which was published in 1989. She has since written more than twenty-five novels and novellas, among them a USA TODAY bestselling anthology and two finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s annual RITA® Award competition. Her books have been published in 26 countries, including illustrated editions in Japan, and she’s grateful for the support of her readers throughout the world.

A previous novel from this author:

THE DARK VISCOUNT

Glory and

the Rake

Deborah Simmons

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Ruth and all of the book club members:

Darlene, Ellie, Frances, Grace, Kim,

Melissa and Pat. Thanks for your support

and for many memorable afternoons.

Chapter One

Glory Sutton slipped into the Pump Room, blinking in the dimness. She should have brought a lantern, for the curtains that were drawn to foil gawpers also kept out the light of the fading day. But she hadn’t realised how late it was when she’d remembered that she had left her reticule here.

The workmen had gone, but the smell of fresh paint lingered, making it easy to envision the final touches that would enable the spa to re-open. Queen’s Well had been in her family for centuries, and Glory took pride in her efforts to preserve that heritage.

But a low noise made her glance warily about. It was just the creaking of the old wood, Glory told herself, yet she renewed her hunt for her reticule. Although she had never been the type to start at sounds, since arriving in the village a month ago, she’d been aware of the mixed feelings of the residents.

That alone wouldn’t unnerve her; what did was the sensation she often had that someone was watching her. She didn’t mention it, for her brother Thad would say her feelings were proof of the enmity of the locals. And Aunt Phillida would only worry—or faint dead away. Neither of them shared Glory’s hopes for the spa and would seize upon any excuse to abandon the once-thriving well she was trying to revive.

Although Glory kept her concerns to herself, she had slipped a small pistol into her reticule. The precaution would have horrified her aunt and her brother, but Glory’s father had instilled in her the good sense to watch out for herself—even in such a seemingly benign locale as the village of Philtwell.

However, a pistol would do no good, if she did not have it at hand, Glory realised as she turned to scan the deserted room. The shrouded furniture made the place look ghostly, as well as shielding her view, and she had to swallow a cry of surprise as a stray draught caught at a sheet. Finally, she spied a dark object lying on one of the benches that lined the walls. Had she put it down when inspecting the refurbished pieces? She couldn’t recall. Perhaps one of the workmen had moved it there.

Hurrying into the shadows, Glory reached for the item, relieved to feel the soft material of her bag and the heft of the weapon inside it. But then she heard a noise again and spun round in alarm, for it sounded like the creak of a door.

Had someone followed her inside? Glory was tempted to call out the question, but held her tongue. Who would be entering a darkened building that had been closed for decades? It might just be a curious villager or one of the workers returning, but something made Glory shrink into the shadows.

A glance towards the main entrance showed that it remained firmly shut. However, she had come through the rear of the building, using her key. Had she left the door open? She had so much on her mind, so many details to tend to before the re-opening, that she might have been careless. The wind was sometimes fierce in Philtwill and could be to blame, Glory told herself. Still, she slipped the pistol from her reticule and inched behind the sheeted tables, keeping to the edge of the space.

But the rooms at the rear of the Pump Room were even darker, and Glory cursed her own foolishness as she shied away from the shadows. Finally, she saw the door standing open ahead and moved towards it, eager to leave the eerie atmosphere of the building. Hurrying over the threshold, Glory released a sigh of relief, only to catch her breath again as a shape loomed up in front of her.

Jerking backwards in alarm, Glory lifted her weapon with a shaking hand and called out in an even shakier voice, ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot.’

‘Excuse me?’

The low drawl wasn’t what Glory had expected, but she was not about to lower her guard. ‘Stand right there. Don’t move,’ she said, inching away from the presence. Although it was lighter outside, tall sycamores shrouded the Pump Room’s exterior, and she could see little except a dark form, tall and menacing.

‘Do you know who I am?’ it asked.

Although definitely male, the figure was too large to be Dr Tibold, who had made himself a nuisance with his insistence that the well waters be given freely to all—so that he could more easily line his own pockets.

‘No,’ Glory said, even as she wondered whether the physician had hired some thug to ensure her submission. Her heart thundered and her grip on the pistol faltered. This fellow seemed too smooth, his speech too refined, to be a ruffian, and yet all her instincts told Glory that, whoever he was, the man was dangerous.

‘Should I?’ she asked, with more bravado than she felt.

‘I assume that’s why you’re robbing me.’

Glory blinked in surprise. ‘I’m not robbing you,’ she protested. But in that unguarded instant he made his move, knocking the pistol aside and pulling her to him.

The weapon fell to the ground and Glory found her back up against the man’s body, while his arm closed tight across her chest, holding her fast. Gasping at the startling intimacy, Glory felt her wits desert her. Although rarely at a loss, she was bombarded by unfamiliar sensations: the man’s obvious strength, the hard form pressed to hers and the heat that enveloped her.

Even as she drew in a sharp breath, Glory was assailed anew by the scent of warm male tinged with a subtle cologne. Her heart thundered, her pulse pounded and then there was a brush of warm breath on her hair as though of a whisper …

‘What the devil?’ Thad’s shout rang out, cutting off whatever words Glory imagined she might hear. And she blinked as her brother appeared on the path, silhouetted against the setting sun. ‘Unhand my sister!’

‘Work in tandem, do you?’ The deep drawl close to her ear sent shivers up Glory’s spine. She told herself it was because the villain didn’t seem the least bit wary of Thad charging to her rescue. The voice itself, rife with confidence, had nothing to do with the peculiar quickening of her body, a loss of control that alarmed her more than anything else.

But perhaps that’s what fear did to a person, Glory thought, although the man had not hurt her, simply disarmed her. In fact, she appeared to be in more jeopardy from Thad, who suddenly launched himself towards the stranger, despite the fact that Glory was standing in front of the man, unable to move. Her assailant, a bit more aware, quickly set her behind him.

‘Don’t make me regret this,’ he said, as he released her, and Glory wondered at the kind of thug who would set her free. Perhaps one who thought far too highly of himself, she mused as he faced Thad.

But the man’s confidence was not misplaced. Even in the dim light, Glory could see that Thad’s efforts were clumsy and erratic, while his opponent’s were perfectly controlled, as practised as a boxer’s. Although that was not unusual, for even Thad wanted to take up the gentleman’s sport, this fellow had the skills of a professional. He could easily have been one of the bruisers who were paid to bloody each other in a milling-match, and Glory feared for her brother’s life.

Indeed, Thad was soon knocked to the ground, and Glory cried out in protest. Automatically stepping towards him, she nearly tripped on the forgotten pistol. Relief swamped her as she leaned down to retrieve it.

‘Stop right there!’ Glory shouted, and this time her hand was steadier as she pointed the weapon at Thad’s assailant.

But neither male paid any attention to her threat. Thad sat up, rubbed his jaw and eyed his silent foe with what might have been admiration. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’

‘Gentleman Jackson’s.’

‘No! Really?’ Thad said, his voice rising with excitement. ‘I’d love to learn from the master, but my sister doesn’t approve. Instead, she dragged me here to the ends of the earth, where there’s nothing for a game fellow to do.’

As Glory watched dumbfounded, Thad’s opponent stretched out a hand to help him to his feet. ‘So you’ve taken up thievery?’

‘What? No! I’m no thief, but what … what are you?’ Thad asked, apparently coming to his senses. His tone changed to a challenge as he straightened. ‘What were you doing with my sister?’

‘I was wondering why the door to the supposedly closed Pump Room was standing open when your sister threatened to put a bullet in me,’ the man said.

They both turned towards Glory, who got her first good look at her assailant as the setting sun struck him. Tall, dark and good looking, he was dressed immaculately and reeked of power, wealth and arrogance. Or was it simply confidence? Shaken, Glory drew in a sharp breath.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Since circumstances have conspired against a formal introduction, you may call me Westfield,’ he said, with a slight nod.

‘You’re the Duke of Westfield?’ Thad’s voice held both awe and horror, and Glory might have swayed upon her feet, had not the nobleman reached out a steadying hand—to turn away the pistol she was pointing at him.

Oberon Makepeace, fourth Duke of Westfield, shot his cuffs, straightened his neckcloth and headed up the slope to Sutton House, none the worse for the attempted assault. He tucked the small pistol he had collected into the pocket of his coat, the better to avoid any further unpleasantness. Neither the young man nor woman had put up much argument at that point, and Oberon had made good his escape without the fear of a bullet in his back.

He had not been expecting such an encounter, here on the outskirts of nowhere, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Although the effort had been clumsy and easily foiled, Oberon could not discount the possibility that there was more to what had transpired than met the eye. And it was that prospect, among other reasons, that kept him from tossing his young perpetrators in gaol.

Oberon had learned long ago that people were not always what they seemed, and while the young woman looked like any other empty-headed daughter of the local gentry, genteel ladies did not point pistols at strangers. She might be passing as one of her betters, so that she and her so-called brother could run some kind of swindle, and, if so, they might have stumbled upon Oberon by chance. After all, he had arrived only an hour ago.

However, chance was something Oberon viewed with scepticism, and he tried to remember who knew he was travelling to the village of Philtwell. He hadn’t told many of his plans, just put it about that he had a family engagement. But his mother might have spread the word. She was responsible for the outing, having insisted that he accompany her to visit an ailing relation. Although Oberon had suggested others in his stead, including the family physician, the dowager was adamant. Nor had she accepted what she termed his ‘social commitments’ as a viable excuse.

Acceding to her wishes, Oberon had endured a lengthy journey on barely passable roads to reach Philtwell, a rustic backwater far from civilisation.

The village boasted little more than a rutted main street lined with dilapidated buildings, including the remnants of Queen’s Well, a spa once favoured by Queen Elizabeth. Never a particularly fashionable watering hole, it had not enjoyed the success of Bath or Tunbridge Wells, and its heyday had long passed, its waters closed.

And yet, someone had been skulking about the Pump Room, and not just anyone … At his first glimpse of the shadowy form, Oberon had reacted more strongly than was his wont. Perhaps it was the threat she had presented, but the ennui he had felt since leaving London disappeared, replaced by a surge of excitement, sharp and unfamiliar. He told himself it was only the sudden appearance of a new challenge, a puzzle, here, of all places.

And if the enigma came in a slender body that fit perfectly against his? Oberon frowned. Obviously, it had been too long since he parted with his last mistress or he would never have been so affected by a slip of a female. Far more important than her appeal was the fact that she carried a pistol and had threatened him with it. That made her both foolhardy and dangerous—and worth further inspection, along with the village itself.

Philtwell’s remoteness would be an advantage to those who would meet away from prying eyes, and in the past, many had gathered at spas to hatch their plots. But today? Oberon shook his head dubiously. He was probably clutching at straws in order to occupy himself. Yet, as he left the outskirts of Philtwell to turn into drive of Sutton House, he watched the shadows for any signs of movement.

Nothing loomed ahead except Randolph Pettit’s residence, a sturdy brick building that was small by ducal standards, but would serve well enough for a short stay. Although a couple of centuries old, it had a clean look, thanks to some additions and improvements over the years. More were needed, especially inside, and Oberon wondered just how well his mother’s cousin was situated.

He slipped in a side entrance to avoid any scrutiny and to determine whether he showed any signs of his recent adventure. A quick assessment in his bedroom revealed nothing except a dusty coat, which could be easily remedied by his valet. Reaching into his pocket, Oberon removed the small pistol and deposited it in a bureau drawer.

Looking down at the weapon for a long moment, Oberon wondered whether he should have questioned the young woman more closely. But too much interest on his part would be remarked, and he could not afford to show his hand even in such a distant locale as Philtwell. However, he had no intention of dismissing the incident, and he was already thinking ahead as he called for his valet.

Country hours were kept at Sutton House, which meant an early supper and a long evening of boredom to follow. But now Oberon’s senses were alert, and the upcoming meal became like so many others, an opportunity to listen and learn and ferret out the information he sought.

However, when he made his way to the dining hall, Oberon found it deserted. Obviously a part of the original structure, the room remained much as it must have looked when built. Although most of the house had been refurbished, here the dim lighting cast only a faint glow that did not reach the corners. The furniture, too, was heavy and dark, Oberon noted, as he walked slowly around the perimeter. He was approaching one wall where the paint appeared to be mottled with age when he heard footsteps.

Turning, he saw only his mother on the threshold. ‘Your cousin is unable to join us?’ he asked, masking his disappointment. It appeared he would learn little about the locals tonight.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But he does seem to be improving.’

Oberon wouldn’t know, having been shooed away from the sickroom of a man he could not recall. And he wondered, again, why his mother insisted that he accompany her when she would have been better served by a physician, companion or man of business who could put her cousin’s affairs in order, if necessary.

But he was here, whether he liked it or not, and he took a seat across from his mother, hoping that the food would be palatable.

‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

Accustomed to hiding his reactions, Oberon gave only a non-committal nod in answer, for he was not prepared to share the details of his unexpected outing with his mother, at least not now. Perhaps not ever.

‘Did you see the Pump Room?’ she asked. ‘That’s where your father and I met, you know.’

Oberon nodded. Despite her sharp wit, his mother seemed to have succumbed to nostalgia. Since receiving her cousin’s summons, her usual pragmatic comments had been replaced by such reminiscences, and Oberon was not quite sure what to make of them.

‘I understood that it is no longer in use,’ he said.

‘Yes, not long after your father and I were here, the spa was struck by a fire that consumed some of the buildings and resulted in its closure. That’s when the owners sold Sutton House, but it seems they held on to other properties.’

‘And yet I thought I saw some activity there,’ Oberon said, carefully.

‘Perhaps it was the Suttons. Randolph says they have returned to rebuild and re-open Queen’s Well.’ She seemed absurdly pleased by the prospect, while Oberon wondered what kind of fool would attempt such a venture.

Although watering holes like Bath still had their adherents among the elderly and barely genteel, the Prince Regent had made the seaside, most notably Brighton, the fashionable destination. And from what little he had seen, a lot of money would be required to make Queen’s Well presentable, with little prospect of return.

‘And did you meet anyone when you were out?’ Something about his mother’s innocent tone made Oberon suspicious.

‘I hardly think I would be approached without an introduction, even in such a place as Philtwell,’ he said.

His mother loosed a sigh of exasperation, whether directed at her son or the strictures of polite society, Oberon did not know. And he had no intention of finding out. Instead, he turned the conversation towards the village in the hopes of finding out what he could. But his mother had not visited Philtwell in decades, making her less than knowledgeable of current residents, including a pair of possible thatch-gallows whose names Oberon had not obtained. At the time, he had not bothered to ask, suspecting they might answer falsely.

Now he wondered whether they played some part in the revival scheme. And if he was more intrigued by the female half of the duo, Oberon told himself it was because no woman had ever held him at gunpoint. Whatever else he had felt when subduing his opponent was not something he was ready to admit, even to himself.

Glory would probably have remained where she was, gaping in shock, had Thad not hustled her away. So scattered were her wits that she had walked some distance from the Pump Room when she remembered the open door.

‘Thad, wait,’ Glory said, halting in her tracks. ‘I’ve got to go back and lock up.’

‘Well, I’m coming with you,’ he said. ‘It appears that you can’t take two steps on your own without getting into trouble.’

The statement was ludicrous coming from Thad, but Glory didn’t argue. She was too grateful for his presence as they turned back towards the Pump Room. She had never been wary of the place before, but now the deep shadows gathering under the trees seemed ominous and menacing, as though anything, not just a handsome stranger, might be hiding there. Waiting. Watching.

Glory tried to ignore the sensation, but a creak revealed the door was still swinging, and the back of her neck tingled. She wished she had her pistol back. Fie on the Duke of Westfield for taking it! But surely he hadn’t been the one creeping about the deserted Pump Room.

Or had he? Now that she had recovered from the shock of his identity, Glory realised that a title was no guarantee against bad behaviour, and she shivered. Somehow the thought of the tall, dark and attractive duke intending harm was more disconcerting than some nameless, faceless pursuer. Was he mad or simply … bad?

Pushing aside such speculation, Glory stepped towards the opening, only to flinch at a sudden flash of brightness. She whirled around, smacking into Thad, in time to see a lad passing by with a lantern. Seizing upon the opportunity, Glory sent Thad to borrow the lamp, so she could see what she was about.

Thad grumbled, but did as she bid and was soon holding the light near the open door. Fingering the key, Glory was wondering whether they ought to look inside, just to make sure the place was empty, when something caught her eye.

Leaning forwards, she stretched out her arm to keep Thad where he was and knelt down to get a better look. The mark was just outside the building on the first of the flagstones that led towards a gravel path. Crouching close, Glory saw it was in the shape a curve as though the painted outline of part of a boot heel. Tugging off one of her gloves, she reached out to touch the mark and lifted her finger. Fresh paint.

‘Lud, Glory, I think you’ve gone a bit too particular about the damned well, if you’re bothered by something back here that no one can see without crawling on the ground,’ Thad said. ‘Just lock the place and let’s go home. Isn’t it enough for one evening that you assaulted a duke?’

Ignoring the question, Glory snatched the lantern from her brother and carefully walked over the threshold. Inside, she found another stain and then the source: a drip that had landed on the floor.

‘Here’s where they stepped in it, but when? And who?’ Glory asked aloud.

‘Are you playing at detective now?’ Thad asked, with a snort. ‘What can it matter? Are you going to sack the workmen for a stray drop or two?’

Glory did not answer, but found her own lamp in one of the rear rooms, so that she could return the lantern, along with a coin, to the boy waiting patiently at the exit. Once he had hurried away, Glory closed the door and turned her attention back to the marks.

Although they could have been made by one of the painters who had left the building before she had returned, Glory felt certain that was not the case. And she took a good look through the entire place, Thad at her heels. With her brother beside her and even the far corners and heavy curtains illuminated by her lamp, the Pump Room no longer seemed threatening. Nor did she find anything amiss.

‘Lud, Glory, what’s this about?’ Thad asked when they stood back in the main room.

Glory drew a deep breath. ‘Why do you think I pointed a pistol at Westfield?’

‘I don’t know,’ Thad said. ‘You’ve gone barmy over Queen’s Well? And what were you doing with a gun anyway?’

‘Don’t say anything to Aunt Phillida,’ Glory warned.

Thad snorted. ‘I’m hardly likely to tell tales, especially since I don’t care to lug her lifeless form about should she hear that you were threatening a duke,’ he said, with a frown. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘When I came back to fetch my reticule, there was someone in here, hiding in the shadows.’ The tone of her voice made Thad look over his shoulder in alarm.

‘What?’

‘It’s not the first time I’ve felt like someone was watching me,’ Glory said, explaining the odd sensations she had experienced since they had arrived in Philtwell. ‘And that’s not all. The men who were hired to tear down the remains of the burned buildings aren’t doing the work. It’s as though someone is hindering our efforts to re-open the spa.’

Having finally given voice to her suspicions, Glory felt a sense of relief, but Thad appeared both uneasy and sceptical. Finally, he shook his head. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past some of the locals to turn a blind eye to work, especially considering the attitudes we’ve seen from them.’ He paused, and Glory waited for him to try to talk her out of her plans. Again.

However, when he spoke, it was not about ‘Glory’s Folly’, as he had dubbed her efforts to revive the family heritage. ‘The villagers might be up to mischief, but Westfield? I can’t see him sneaking about here in the dark, intent upon attacking you.’

Although Thad’s dismissive tone made her suspicions seem ridiculous, Glory was fairly certain someone had been inside the building with her, someone who hadn’t made his presence known. And it chilled her.

Perhaps Westfield was not the thug she had originally thought him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Glory shivered at the memory of being held tightly against him, disarmed and helpless. And if she was suddenly flushed with heat, as well, it had nothing to do with solid feel of his muscular form or the scent of him, so very close …

Drawing in a deep breath, Glory pushed such thoughts aside. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘But I’d like to take a look at his boot.’

Chapter Two

The Dowager Duchess of Westfield paused before the bedroom door and knocked gently. Although she thought she heard movement, there was no answer. In other circumstances, she might have left quietly, in order not to disturb the occupant, should he be sleeping. But Letitia only knocked louder.

‘Come in.’ Randolph’s voice was frail and breathless when he finally answered, and Letitia slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The curtains were drawn, and she peered into the dimness of the room, finally spying the man lying prone among the covers of the elaborately carved four-poster.

As she approached, he turned his head slightly and groaned, as if in pain. Then he opened his eyes and focused upon her.

‘Oh, it’s only you,’ he said before abruptly sitting up. ‘I hope you’ve brought me something to eat. The broth they’re giving me isn’t enough to keep a sparrow alive.’

‘I’ll tell the cook we need to build up your strength,’ Letitia said.

Randolph sighed. ‘Well, please do. And I am ready to be rid of this room, as well.’

‘Not yet,’ Letitia warned. ‘Oberon is not slow-witted. He’s already giving me the eye. If he finds you’ve recovered, he might leave, which would bring us to nothing.’

Randolph protested, ‘I would think my health would be worth something.’

‘Of course it is, but the only reason I brought Oberon is because of the girl, and I won’t have him slip away without throwing them together.’

While Letitia was pleased to see Randolph’s illness had passed quickly, she was not about to relinquish this opportunity. When he’d written to her that the waters of Queen’s Well might be available once more and that the new owners included an interesting young woman, she had seized upon the prospect like a drowning man, investing all of her hopes and dreams in someone she had yet to meet.

‘I’m sorry I ever wrote to you about her,’ Randolph said, reaching under his pillow for a deck of cards.

‘No, you aren’t,’ Letitia said, pulling over a small table, which he used to deal out hands. ‘Because you know as well as I do that it’s high time Oberon settled down.’

Randolph nodded. ‘I agree, but I would have preferred simply to throw a lavish entertainment and invite both your son and the promising prospect.’

Letitia shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have come. I could barely get him here by claiming you were at death’s door. You don’t know how stubborn he is. He’s just like his father.’

When Randolph lifted both brows in a sceptical glance, Letitia sighed. ‘All right, he might have inherited a bit of obstinacy from me,’ she admitted. ‘But if he thinks anyone’s trying to put forth an eligible female, he turns his back upon her. Literally.’

‘Well, did he run into her last evening?’ Randolph asked, taking up his cards.

Letitia frowned, as she took her cards. ‘I don’t think so. He didn’t say, but then he’s not the most forthcoming even at the best of times.’

‘Cool. Quiet. Strong,’ Randolph said. ‘Far too handsome, and with a bit of stand-offishness that is like catnip to the females. I would think he’d have no trouble finding a duchess.’

Letitia made a sound of derision. ‘Oh, he’s had mistresses. Don’t think I’m not aware of them! But he won’t have anything to do with marriage-minded misses or their mamas. Too arrogant, by half, I’m sure.’

‘Just like his father,’ they both said at once, and Letitia smiled fondly.

‘That’s why I wrote to you and asked you to keep an eye out for someone here, where I met my husband,’ she said, though at the time she’d had little hope that Queen’s Well would ever resume operation.

‘I cannot assure you that they will get on,’ Randolph warned.

But Letitia refused to be discouraged. ‘Well, I can assure you that a typical débutante would be no match for him. Why, he’d chew them up and spit them out before they knew what he was about. He needs someone attractive enough to hold his attention, but strong enough to stand up to him, an independent young lady with a mind of her own.’

‘Like the one his father married,’ Randolph said.

Letitia smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ she acknowledged before growing sombre. She hated to interfere, for she was not a meddling mother, but she had given her eldest son plenty of time, and he was no closer to marriage now than when first weaned. She shook her head. ‘The Makepeaces are not easy matches …’

She had not even finished before Randolph nodded and spoke what was on her mind. ‘Which is why we need the waters.’

Stepping outside, Oberon viewed the cloudless sky and surrounding peaks with a jaundiced eye. Although not one to admire the picturesque, he was reminded of just how long it had been since he’d stayed at Westfield, the family seat. He knew a sudden yearning for those rolling hills, followed by other yearnings for all that went with a home, and paused in surprise.

He had put such desires behind him long ago, so why they should strike him here and now, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was all his mother’s talk of meeting his father at Queen’s Well. They’d had a devoted marriage, but at what cost? Oberon had seen his mother’s devastation at her loss, and he remembered his own pain at the death of his father. It had left him vulnerable to those who did not have his best interests at heart, and he’d vowed never again to be that … weak.

And he had never been tempted to break that vow. Most of the women who pursued him were cold and calculating, seeking the title of duchess as a business transaction. The younger ones and those less determined were usually vapid, pretty vessels that held nothing of worth. That was the sum of feminine society, at least in the circles in which he moved, an endless round of balls and routs and salons peopled by many of the same faces, the same deceits, the same falsehoods, year after year.

Oberon shook his head at his bleak thoughts. What the devil was ailing him? He had slept like a stone and eaten an enormous breakfast, unusual behaviour that his mother claimed was brought on by ‘the air’. And now he was sunk in introspection of the kind for which he had neither the time nor the inclination.

Oberon flexed his gloved fingers, an old habit, caught himself and then headed into Philtwell. Since his mother had shooed him away from the sickroom again, he was off to take a closer look at the village. Assuming the air of a common visitor, Oberon kept his eyes and ears open as he strolled the main street, but he did not see anything out of the ordinary. The people seemed to be locals; there were no obvious foreigners or strangers.

That came as no surprise, for Philtwell appeared never to have recovered from the fire his mother had mentioned. Several blackened buildings lingered, as eyesores and possible dangers to passers-by, while the weeds and brambles that grew around them threatened to overtake the neighbouring shops.

In fact, the only place that appeared well tended was the Pump Room. From his position across the road, Oberon got a good look at the front of the building for the first time. In the bright light of day, he could see that the older structure sported a fresh coat of paint over its simple, columned façade. And a man was tending to the grounds, preparing to put in some new plantings.

It seemed that someone was going to re-open the well, or at least they were making a show of the prospect. Oberon turned, intending to cross the road to casually question the worker, when a door burst open nearby. Immediately alert, he stepped out of the way, but the man who exited swung towards him.

‘Good sir, you must be new to our fine community!’ he said, bowing deeply. ‘As the pre-eminent physician in residence, Dr Tibold by name, I am pleased to offer my services to help you achieve complete health, no matter what your ailments.’

‘Do I look like I’m ailing?’ Oberon asked, with a lift of his brow. Had the fellow been watching from his rooms for potential patients? That possibility, along with his rather shabby attire, did not inspire confidence in his self-proclaimed abilities.

‘Certainly not! You are the picture of health, sir.

But even those who appear robust can be suffering from some sort of inner disorder, and that is why a course of treatment is beneficial to all, even a fine specimen such as yourself.’

Tibold paused to peer at Oberon, as though assessing the worth of his clothes and the size of his purse, in order to charge accordingly. ‘Have you been bled lately?’

Oberon did not deign to comment.

‘But, of course, that’s not always called for,’ the physician said, nodding and smiling as he changed tactics. ‘The waters, that is what we are famous for, and that is what you need.’

Again, Oberon lifted a brow. ‘I thought the well was closed.’

The physician’s face twisted, as though ill pleased by the reminder. ‘Sadly, at the moment, yes, but soon we shall ply you with our famous remedy. Of course, the waters should be available at all times, for all persons, and not at the whims of a single family.’ He paused to draw a deep breath before continuing in a louder voice, ‘Title to such things ought to be illegal. How can a person own water? It’s like taxing the very air.’

‘If you feel so strongly, perhaps you should put down a new well and open your own facilities,’ Oberon said.

But his suggestion was met with another scowl. ‘All the prime property is owned by Miss Sutton,’ he said, practically spitting out the name. ‘And her tight grip is felt by all who would do good for the community.’

‘Miss Sutton?’ Oberon asked.

‘Yes, a female, if you can countenance it!’ Tibold said. ‘Though one would hardly believe it, the way she behaves, without even the manners of a gentleman, though she mimics a man. An ape leader, to be sure.’

Oberon soon regretted his query, for Tibold proceeded to blame the woman for everything from the depressed economy to untreated boils. The physician was practically frothing at the mouth, such was his enmity, and Oberon realised he would get little solid information from the fellow. He was considering how to extricate himself when Tibold abruptly ceased his tirade and lifted a hand to point in accusation.

‘There she is, right there!’

Frowning at the doctor’s manner, Oberon none the less looked in the direction of his outstretched arm. From Tibold’s ranting, Oberon expected to see a harridan, a crone fully capable of beating the doctor about the shoulders with her cane. But the female he saw was a plump, but decidedly dainty woman of middle age, holding a parasol, who eyed them with a vague expression of alarm.

It took Oberon a moment to realise the object of his companion’s derision was not that timid-looking creature but another, a trim figure crossing the road with her back towards him. Although the length of her stride marked her as no mincing débutante, the infamous Miss Sutton did not resemble a man, at least from the rear. She wore a simple sprigged muslin gown that delineated a slender female form when caught by the breeze.

In fact, Oberon was contemplating the familiarity of those slim curves when his companion surged forwards, calling out the woman’s name. Concerned for her safety, Oberon followed, ready to step in, if need be. But when she turned with a determined expression that Oberon recognised, he stepped back instead, neatly avoiding the heavy reticule that she sent swinging through the air at her pursuers. Dr Tibold, taken unawares, was struck full force in the stomach by the missile which, more than likely, contained a weight, for the physician doubled over, the wind knocked from him.

Either she didn’t believe in using a more lethal weapon in public, or she hadn’t the time to obtain another pistol to replace the one that was tucked away in Oberon’s bureau. ‘Miss Sutton, I presume?’ he asked with a slight bow.

‘Your Grace.’ The distaste she made no attempt to hide surprised Oberon, accustomed as he was to being pursued for his company, his invitations or his influence. Even more surprising was his own, very different and well concealed, response.

At his first glimpse of her, Oberon felt a slam to the chest, just as though he had been on the receiving end of her reticule, his senses heightened and alert. The force of his reaction was baffling, especially since she had not stepped out of the shadows to threaten him with a gun. But perhaps the threat she posed was more subtle and her dislike stemmed from something more sinister.

For she would hardly draw his interest otherwise.

She was pretty enough; her face was a perfect oval, but her dark hair was unremarkable and her colouring was not pale enough to be fashionable. Still, it suited her, as did the green eyes that sparked with intelligence and strength of will, which had already been in evidence.

‘I’ll have you on charges of assault!’ Tibold said, having finally recovered his breath.

‘It was an act of self-defence, for you and your assassin have attacked me once and would do so again,’ the young woman argued, lifting her chin.

Her fearless behaviour sent a jolt of awareness through Oberon. Although bold, she didn’t appear to be brazen, and, contrary to Tibold’s claims, no man in his right mind would confuse her gender. Oberon considered himself an astute judge of people; he had to be. But Miss Sutton was an intriguing piece of work. Who the devil was she?

‘Ridiculous!’ Tibold said. ‘It is you who attacked me, as my witness can verify.’

Oberon had no intention of corroborating the mad doctor’s claim and would have said so, but for the arrival of the small woman with the parasol. ‘Glory, dear, whatever are you doing?’ she asked, obviously uneasy.

Miss Sutton paid her no heed. ‘Witness?’ she said, scoffing. ‘We both know that the duke is allied with you, and, indeed, is doing your dirty work!’ she said, pointing a finger at Oberon.

‘D-duke?’ the dainty female echoed.

‘Duke?’ Tibold repeated.

‘Westfield,’ Miss Sutton said, with apparent exasperation.

Oberon could well imagine the disdainful glare she was sending his way, but he was occupied with the older woman, who had paled at the mention of his title and now swayed upon her feet. Since no one else was paying any attention to her, Oberon felt obliged to catch her as she fainted dead away.

When Tibold turned to gape at Westfield, Glory did, too, only to see that he was cradling her aunt in his arms. Horrified, she wanted to demand that he unhand her relative, but she feared he would drop Phillida to the ground. Frantically, Glory began searching past the rocks in her reticule for the hartshorn with which to revive her.

Where was Thad? Glory glanced around for her brother, but he had stopped at one of the burned buildings to urge the workers on. Though she held out little hope for his success, Glory was pleased that he was finally offering to help. Now, however, she wished they had not separated. Trying to take care of a business had made her careless, and she had walked the short distance alone. But who would have thought she’d be accosted upon the village’s main thoroughfare, travelling from one property to another?

‘Phillida?’ Glory spoke her aunt’s name sharply, though she doubted she could be heard above Tibold, who was rambling on, as usual. With her aunt prone and Thad nowhere in sight, Glory was at the mercy of the two men and she did not like turning her back on the physician, whose threatening manner had alarmed her more than once.

She felt cornered, and her hand shook as she waved the restorative under her aunt’s nose. She refused to look up at the man who held Phillida, for one glance at Westfield already had robbed her of her breath. Last evening, he had been striking, but now she had clearly seen his tall form, wide shoulders and the body she once had been pressed against.

And that face. It was not beautiful in a feminine sense, for it held no softness, but Westfield might have been sculpted by one of the great artists. Indeed, he could have been carved from stone, for his expression revealed nothing. For some reason—fear, perhaps—the more Glory thought about him, the more her heart pounded.

Thankfully, Phillida snorted and blinked, and Glory eased her aunt upright while avoiding any contact with the duke. Phillida moaned in a dramatic fashion, as though eager to remain right where she was, and who could blame her? If Glory had not known the nobleman’s true nature, she might have been thrilled to wake up to that handsome visage, cradled in arms that she knew were hard and strong.

Suppressing a shiver, Glory forced Phillida to her feet. ‘Come, Aunt, we must be going.’

‘Oh!’ Phillida took one look at the duke and threatened to swoon again, but Glory was having none of it. Grabbing her aunt’s arm, she pulled Phillida away from his grip. The duke said something, but it was drowned out by Tibold’s speech, so they were able to make their escape. No doubt the men would have tried to detain them, if they were not in full view of passers-by.

As she dragged her aunt towards the Pump Room, Glory resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the nobleman. Ignoring Phillida’s horrified mutterings at their undignified progress, Glory did not stop even when the building’s doors closed behind them, but continued on until they reached the privacy of one of the rear rooms.

There, Glory was able to deposit Phillida on a chaise, where she could swoon at her leisure. However, as Glory suspected, the lack of an audience speeded her recovery and she was able to fan herself as she lay prone.

‘Mercy, Glory!’ she said in a breathless whisper. ‘I simply cannot countenance such outlandish behaviour! Whatever has come over you? It’s this place, this wretched village. Oh, to be back in London. Please say that you have come to your senses and we can return to our town house.’

Since Glory heard this litany on a regular basis, she was unmoved. ‘There is no reason for you to become agitated, dear,’ she said, soothingly. ‘Let me get you a glass of the waters.’

‘No reason? Why, I have only to see my own niece in a public shouting match, in the middle of the street, mind you! And with a duke, no less!’ Phillida fell back among the pillows with a shudder.

‘I wasn’t doing the shouting,’ Glory said. ‘It was that awful physician.’ She paused to wonder how the shabby fellow had managed to align himself with a nobleman, but even a creature like Tibold could have connections, she supposed. She only wished they would spirit him away from Philtwell instead of trying to ruin her business.

Her business. Glory felt strengthened by the thought as she hurried to fetch her aunt a glass. Of course, Phillida did not approve, though Glory had assured her that even noblemen had run such resorts. Noblemen, not women, Phillida had argued, and therein lay the rub. If Glory were a man, Phillida probably would let her do what she liked.

But it was precisely because she was a woman, with few opportunities open to her, that Glory had taken an interest in the forgotten spa. Soon she would be aged twenty and firmly on the shelf in the eyes of society. Since she’d spent most of her life taking care of her younger brother after the death of their parents, Glory could not regret her unmarried status.

However, she did not care to spend the rest of her days in social calls or charity work. And she had no intention of settling quietly into a corner, tatting and sewing bonnets for her brother’s future children. Although she would love to spoil babies, Glory thought with a pang, she didn’t want to end up as some batty old spinster her nieces and nephews were forced to visit.

She wanted to do something with her life. But Glory could hardly use such terms to Phillida, who was an ageing spinster herself, though not quite batty. Yet. Instead, Glory had spoken of the family heritage, which was more acceptable and just as true. Queen’s Well had been owned by the Suttons for generations. After the fateful fire, Glory’s father, then a young man, had left Philtwell to seek his fortunes, never to return. It was only after his death that Glory discovered the legacy, rich in history, that he had left behind.

Gradually, she had found out more about Queen’s Well, becoming further intrigued. She couldn’t remember when the idea of reviving the spa first came to her, but it had remained at the back of her mind, a tempting possibility for the future—until Thad’s wayward behaviour had forced her to action.

Although neither he nor Phillida had wanted to make the move, Glory had insisted. She had hoped the fresh air and simple pleasures of a village would change their minds, but Phillida complained of the lack of society and Thad remained sullen and uncooperative, evincing no interest in her venture.

Oddly enough, it was their encounter with Westfield that seemed to have wrought a change in him. Perhaps the presence of such an exalted personage had improved Thad’s opinion of Philtwell, Glory mused. She didn’t like to consider the other possibility: that Thad was simply drawn to a dangerous sort who would do him no favours.

The sound of a door slamming made Glory nearly drop the glass in her hand; for a moment she feared the duke was striding through the Pump Room, intent upon her. She turned in alarm when she heard footsteps approaching, even though she had told the workmen not to admit anyone.

But who would dare deny a duke?

Caught unprepared, Glory had no weapon except warm mineral water, but she faced the intruder with a hammering heart. She lifted her arm, only to shudder with relief when her brother burst into the room.

‘Thad!’ Glory admonished, lowering the vessel in her grip.

‘What?’ he asked. A moan from Phillida made him glance behind Glory, a questioning look on his face. ‘What?’ he repeated, ignoring his sister’s warning grimace. ‘Did something happen?’

‘Yes, something happened,’ Phillida said, lifting her head. ‘Your sister made a spectacle of herself in the middle of the street, with a duke!’ Phillida fell back, as though too overcome to continue, but she was bound to be disappointed by her nephew’s reaction.

Instead of appearing shocked, Thad frowned in apparent disappointment. ‘You saw Westfield? You might have waited for me,’ he complained, throwing himself into a medallion-backed chair.

‘It was not a social visit,’ Glory said, glaring at her brother. ‘He was with Dr Tibold, who approached me from behind and began shouting at me.’ She did not add that she had swung at the physician in her own defence. Since Phillida had not mentioned it, Glory hoped her aunt had not seen the blow.

‘The bounder! He needs a good thrashing,’ Thad said, and Glory was comforted by his outrage. She had been right to share her concerns with him, for he finally was taking an interest. Or so she thought until he spoke again.

‘But Westfield? I don’t believe it. Why would he even be seen with such a character?’

‘Perhaps they are related,’ Glory suggested, though she did not need evidence of the duke’s true nature. He had demonstrated it last evening, when he had put his hands upon her …

But Thad shook his head. ‘That doesn’t seem likely, or Tibold would have been bragging of his connections. And why didn’t I see Westfield? I suppose that I wasn’t paying much attention after … Well, now that I know he’s out and about, I’ll keep an eye out for him.’

‘And why would you do that?’ Glory asked, warily. She did not want her brother confronting the duke, nor did she want her brother to seek the man’s company.

‘Perhaps Thad can offer his Grace some kind of explanation for his sister’s outlandish behaviour,’ Phillida said, interrupting Glory’s thoughts. ‘I cannot show my face in society knowing that we will be cut by a famous nobleman. The gossip! The rumours! If only you could make amends, dear boy.’ Rousing herself on to an elbow, Phillida sent her nephew a beseeching look.

Glory found the thought of making amends with Westfield disconcerting, but she did not care to admit as much to her aunt. ‘It is not as though you move in the same circles,’ she said.

‘But aren’t you always claiming that the spas are a perfect place to mingle with all manner of people?’ Phillida demanded. ‘Where else might we be included in such company?’

Where else indeed? Glory thought, her own words coming back to haunt her. ‘But why should we aspire to such an acquaintance? Westfield has allied himself with our enemy and proven himself unworthy of our regard.’

At Glory’s words, her aunt dropped back upon the chaise, moaning again, seemingly unable to respond.

Ignoring the dramatics, Glory turned towards Thad. ‘How did you find the work site?’ she asked, eager to change the subject.

‘Oh,’ Thad said, looking down at the tips of his boots. ‘I gave them a good talking to, and they promised to pick up the pace, as they well should.’

Although his words were reassuring, his demeanour was not and Glory bit back a sigh. More likely the men hadn’t paid any more heed to Thad than they had to her, but she was grateful for his efforts.

‘Thank you, Thad,’ she said, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest. Before new buildings could even be considered, the remains of the old needed to be torn down and cleared away. As she had many times before, Glory wondered what would convince men to avoid doing the job they were being paid to do, even at the possible forfeiture of their wages. But this time, an answer came to her.

Westfield.

Chapter Three

Trapped by the blathering physician, Oberon stood watching Miss Sutton retreat to the Pump Room, her Pump Room, which made last evening’s story more believable. But there were still several things that didn’t quite fit. The young woman seemed too well bred to be in trade and too clever to be involved with a hopeless venture like Queen’s Well. Even more jarring was her array of weapons and her inclination to use them.

Her behaviour was odd, to say the least. Having disdained his help, she had raced towards the Pump Room as though fleeing his company, and it was that, most of all, that raised Oberon’s suspicions. She had dragged her aunt down the road, drawing the stares of the villagers in a public display that would have her ostracised in London. Never had a female been so eager to escape him. But why? Did she have something to hide? And, if so, what made her determined to hide it from him?

Oberon’s musings were interrupted by a stream of gibberish from the man at his side, which might better explain Miss Sutton’s hasty exit. Having discovered Oberon’s identity, the volatile physician had turned the full force of his flattery upon Oberon. No doubt he hoped for a fat purse from a noble patron, but finally his words trailed off as he realised where Oberon’s gaze lingered.

‘As you have seen for yourself, your Grace,’ the man said, his earlier tone of condemnation returning, ‘she’s a bold piece, a menace to society. I’m sure everyone in our little community would be most grateful if you could use your influence to liberate our waters.’

Oberon had yet to determine if Miss Sutton was a menace, and he suppressed a startling frisson of interest at the prospect of finding out. However, she was hardly the low female Tibold made her out to be, and Oberon had no intention of letting the man abuse her. He flexed his fingers in an unconscious gesture, then turned to face the physician, his expression impassive.

‘You will stop maligning the young woman; should I hear that you have approached within ten feet of her, I shall have you brought up on charges.’ With a nod of dismissal, Oberon left the doctor sputtering in his wake and resumed his walk.

Again, he watched for anything out of the ordinary, but for the first time in years he was distracted, his thoughts unaccountably returning to Miss Sutton. He was even tempted to turn around and make sure Tibold did not follow her to the Pump Room.

Annoyed, Oberon continued on his way, strolling through a few of the shops and stopping for refreshment at a quiet tavern. Although such places were the best sources of information, the occupants were often slow to warm up to newcomers, and Oberon adopted a casual mien to keep from appearing too curious.

He asked only the most general of questions about the village and its environs, as any visitor might, resisting the urge to probe too deeply into the Suttons. However, he soon dis covered that their arrival was the only significant event to have oc curred recently, at least according to those to be found in the Queen’s Arms.

Opinions about the Suttons themselves were less freely offered. One man praised the family for their efforts and the promise of work to be had in the future. Another grumbled about drawing the kind of sickly and infirm patrons who spent little coin and infected others with their diseases. The rest of the tavern’s occupants appeared to be reserving judgement or were too tight-lipped to comment, although other, more dubious reasons, for their silence were possible.

Oberon kept his own remarks neutral, for he knew that every resident of Philtwell would soon learn of these conversations. There was no hiding the arrival of a duke and duchess, especially when his mother took such an interest in the village. And Oberon never made any secret of his identity. It was part and parcel of a reputation that was well known and carefully crafted.

The Duke of Westfield was a man with a taste for the finer things and fascinating company, a pursuer of pleasure rather than politics, though he took nothing to extremes. An intelligent conversationalist, gracious, but not too friendly, he was the perfect guest, as well as playing host to his own entertainments, where an eclectic assortment gathered. And if the crew in the tavern were not his usual companions, he did his best to appear pleasant, yet aloof enough to avoid undue scrutiny.

By the time he left, Oberon knew the names of Philtwell’s most prominent citizens, the sad state of its economy and some common gossip about the residents. Having stayed longer than he intended, when he strolled away from the Queen’s Arms, Oberon saw that the gardener had left the grounds of the Pump Room, meaning that he would learn no more about the owners today, unless …

Seized by a sudden urge to see if Miss Sutton was still in the building, Oberon firmly quelled the desire, yet he crossed the road in order to take the quicker path behind the building, under the trees. But no slender figure stepped out of the shadows to fix a pistol upon him, and the door to the Pump Room was firmly shut.

Oberon shook his head at his own folly, for he knew better than to court trouble. The last thing he needed was to do something reckless that endangered all that he had worked for these past years, as well as the work—and even the lives—of others. At the thought, Oberon considered returning to London, far from the intriguing young woman. But that would mean turning his back on whatever might be going on here, as well as leaving his mother behind. And he had no good reason to do either.

No matter who or what she was, Miss Sutton could hardly get the better of him. Oberon knew how to keep his head, play a part, and, most of all, maintain control.

Gossip travels fast in close environs, and Philtwell was no exception. Oberon had not yet returned to Sutton House when news reached his mother of the contretemps in front of the Pump Room. It came in through the kitchens first, a delivery boy relating the incident to the enthralled staff, and from there to the upper servants, including Randolph’s valet.

While he intended to relay this information at the earliest opportunity, a couple of callers arrived to pay their respects to the visiting dowager. So it was through a Mrs Malemeyne that Letitia received the first report that her son had been seen in the village with the very young woman she had hoped he might meet.

Her initial pleasure was dimmed by the description of the encounter, which varied according to the messenger. Mrs Malemeyne, eager to ingratiate herself with the dowager, claimed that the duke was a hero for coming to the aid of a fainting woman, while the persons he so selflessly served were ingrates who fled the scene with undue haste. Leaning close, Mrs Malemeyne confided that she thought little enough of the Suttons, for the girl was too bold, by half, and the aunt seemed in ill health, for all the swooning that she did.

Mrs Levet was more circumspect. There appeared to be shouting, she said, though she was sure his Grace wasn’t the one doing it. And there were reports of a blow, though she was uncertain who struck whom. Alarmed at this version of events, the dowager turned to Mrs Goodhew for the truth, an elderly woman who had once been the arbiter of the small society that made up Philtwell.

The dowager found her old friend still residing in a small manor house that had long been the home of the squires that served the area. Having outlived most of her contemporaries, Mrs Goodhew welcomed her visitor eagerly, holding court in a chair near the fire, despite the warmth of the day.

‘It’s a pleasure to see you, Letty,’ she said, her voice still strong.

‘And you, Maisie,’ Letitia said. ‘So much has changed since I last was here that it is a comfort to find you and Randolph carrying on.’

Maisie snorted. ‘Is that what you call it?’ Then she studied Letitia through narrowed eyes. ‘And Randolph? How is he faring?’

‘Oh, much better,’ Letitia said, meeting the older woman’s questioning gaze head on.

Maisie snorted again, as if she was having none of it, but she did not pursue the subject. ‘I hear you brought your son along.’

‘Yes,’ Letitia said. ‘I wanted him to see the spa where his father and I met.’

Maisie sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s not the same, Letty. It hasn’t been since the fire.’

‘Yes, that’s what Randolph said.’

Maisie shook her head again. ‘It was a horrible night. Frank and I were in the Assembly Rooms when it happened, all so quickly that we hadn’t the sense to realise … I heard something, like a cannon ball or some sort of explosion, but I’m sure we all would have ignored it, if Sutton hadn’t made us get out. Our men did the best they could, but the inn was already engulfed and it was spreading. Sutton tried to go in.’

Letitia made a sound of dismay, and Maisie frowned. ‘I’m surprised more people weren’t killed.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘But that was the end, Letty. Sutton’s wife didn’t have the heart for it, probably not the money, either, and something like that irrevocably damages a place’s reputation.’

‘Yet it might recover,’ Letitia said. ‘I understand the Sutton children are back.’

‘Yes, but it might be too late. The village lost its heart. Damn fools haven’t been very welcoming. They blame the family for everything that’s happened since.’

‘Yes, I heard of an odd episode today,’ Letitia said carefully.

Maisie’s expression grew sly. ‘Involving your son.’

Letitia nodded, relieved to hear her old friend was still awake on every suit. ‘I wasn’t certain whether you kept yourself as informed as in the old days.’

‘I do the best I can, aided by a few of my younger friends and my faithful servants, of course.’

Letitia leaned forwards. ‘I would be curious to hear your version of events, for a certain Mrs Malemeyne painted Oberon in quite a heroic light, a pose that seems unlikely.’

Maisie snorted. ‘Malemeyne. A trumped-up clerk’s wife who tries to pass herself off as gentry.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know your son, but I hear he was with one of the shadier characters who’ve invaded Philtwell in the past few years. The fellow claims to be a doctor, but who knows? Nosed around the well as though he wanted to take it over, but he has no legal right to anything.’

She paused. ‘The Suttons still own all but the big house, so Randolph wrote to them, and it wasn’t long before they arrived, the son, the daughter and an aunt. That didn’t sit well with some people, including this doctor. From what I hear, he’s been bullying the girl, who appears to be the one arranging the re-opening.’

‘Ah …’ Letitia sat back. She hesitated to say too much, for age obviously had not dulled Maisie’s wits.

‘My sources tell me that the doctor was shouting at the girl. Outrageous, if you ask me. Why, in my day, he’d have been horsewhipped. But people mind their own business now,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I suspect the doctor latched on to your son as he would any well-dressed gentleman, and, not knowing who’s who in our little community, the duke certainly can be forgiven for not stepping in.’

Letitia frowned at the poor excuse for her son’s behaviour. ‘Although I wouldn’t paint him as heroic, I can’t imagine he would stand aside while a young lady is abused.’

‘Perhaps he did not, for no one was close enough to eavesdrop. And obviously he aided the aunt, for, by all accounts, he caught her when she fainted.’

‘But then Miss Sutton dragged her away.’

‘Perhaps, but it is hardly a matter of consequence,’ Maisie said.

Maisie was right. In the usual course of things, the episode would quickly be forgotten, but Letitia had pinned her hopes for the future upon a felicitous meeting between her son and Miss Sutton and she saw her plans going sadly awry before they had even begun. She did not easily surrender, however, and she set her mouth in a determined line, unwilling to give up on the first decent prospect she’d had in years.

‘Letty?’ Maisie said, sending her a sharp glance.

‘You are correct, as usual, Maisie dear, but I do so want my son to enjoy Philtwell as I have,’ Maisie said, without going into details. ‘Perhaps I should try to set everyone to rights, to avoid any misunderstandings.’

Such a reaction on her part would hardly be suspect, Letitia decided, and from what she had just heard, it was clearly time for her to step in. Leery of being perceived as matchmaking, she and Randolph had hoped to let Mother Nature take its course, but that didn’t seem possible now.

Unfortunately, as everyone knew, the old girl was not very reliable.

Glory lagged behind her aunt and her brother, uncharacteristically dragging her steps, for she did not share their excitement over the evening ahead. Lifting her bent head, Glory forced herself to look at the building that was their destination: Sutton House, the home of her ancestors.

By rights they should be living there, but they were comfortable enough in the smaller cottage that had remained in the family. The larger residence, set back among the sycamores, seemed rather gloomy to Glory when they had visited on previous occasions at the invitation of the current owner.

Mr Pettit seemed to be a staunch supporter of Queen’s Well, but now Glory wondered about him, considering his guests. The duke and his mother must have made themselves at home, despite Mr Pettit’s illness, because it was from the dowager that the invitation had come.

Normally, Glory would have been eager to gain noble approval of her plans, for a nod from a duchess would certainly be a boon to any enterprise. But her dealings with Westfield made her leery of a conversation with either of them, especially if they shared Dr Tibold’s views upon the waters.

Glory might even have refused to go, if given a choice, but it was made clear that she had none. Phillida had practically swooned, with joy this time, when she received the missive. Preening over the correspondence, Glory’s aunt had spent the rest of the day determining what to wear and planning detailed reports to all her London acquaintances of her new ‘friendship’ with the noblewoman.

Thad, too, had been eager for the outing, and since little in Philtwell interested him, Glory had kept her objections to herself, though she was determined to be on her guard. The others might be blinded by titles, but Glory knew that, beneath Westfield’s elegant exterior, there was something dangerous that went beyond the power of wealth and rank.

Westfield handled himself too well. And he had handled her too well, Glory thought, flushing at the recollection. What other man of his position would disarm a pistol-wielding opponent, and so easily? Glory realised that she had not been a formidable foe, but, then, what gentleman would act as he had towards a woman? Westfield had no compunction against pulling her to him, twisting her arm, whispering in her ear …

Glory drew in a sharp breath. She liked to think of herself as capable, for she had held her family together since the untimely death of her father, raising her brother and making the decisions that Phillida was unwilling or unable to bother about. She managed the finances, ran the household and had chosen to revive Queen’s Well, despite opposition. There was little that unnerved her.

But Westfield made her uneasy in ways that she couldn’t even define. He was a threat, if nothing else, to her peace of mind, so Glory looked about warily as they entered Sutton House. But when the butler showed them into the parlour, the room was empty except for a regal-looking woman who could be none other than the dowager duchess. Approaching them with a smile, she apologised for the lack of proper introduction since Mr Pettit was indisposed.

It was not what Glory had been expecting. She had imagined a female version of Westfield—dark, aloof and threatening—and this woman seemed to be none of those things. Although Glory rarely chanced upon members of the ton, the social elite, she knew that often the women were spoiled, shrill and demanding, with contempt for anyone beneath them.

Yet the dowager graciously greeted each of the Suttons in turn, lastly settling her attention upon Glory. Although her eyes were blue, they held the same sharp intelligence as her son’s, and she cocked her head slightly, as though to examine Glory in earnest.

‘Ah, Miss Sutton,’ she said. ‘So you are the one.’

‘The one?’ Glory repeated, uncertain of the woman’s mean ing.

‘Who would re-open Queen’s Well.’

‘Yes,’ Glory said, lifting her chin. Having failed in their earlier intimidations, perhaps Dr Tibold and Westfield hoped to use the gentle arts of persuasion in the form of this woman. But Glory had no intention of giving in—to anyone. The more she was pushed, the more she held fast, determined to make her family’s heritage a success.

Expecting her show of stubbornness to draw the duchess’s displeasure, Glory was surprised at the woman’s slow smile. ‘Wonderful, just wonderful,’ the older woman murmured. Nodding, as if in approval, she left Glory even more puzzled when she turned towards Phillida, who was asking about Mr Pettit.

‘He is doing better, though he won’t be able to join us tonight,’ the duchess said. As she chatted with Phillida, Glory took the opportunity to study her more closely. The duchess did not much resemble her son, for she was not tall and lean, but there was something about the way she held herself that reminded Glory of the duke. And they shared the same bone structure, which made the dowager a handsome woman, if not quite as breathtaking as her son.

While Glory watched, a light came into the older woman’s eyes that made her look far younger. Turning to follow her gaze, Glory was brought up short by the sight of a figure in the shadows at the end of the room. Someone had entered silently and unannounced, but there was no mistaking the tall form. It was Westfield, and Glory automatically took a step back.

Surely he would be on his best behaviour in front of his mother, Glory thought, yet she still felt a frisson of unease. Thus far, her dealings with the man had been unpredictable, untenable, unsavoury …

‘Ah, there you are. Come join us,’ the duchess said, and Glory’s heart pounded far more than was reasonable as he stepped into the light. He moved with the quiet grace of a cat, and not an ordinary pet, but one like those found in menageries … one that was stalking its prey.

Glory held her ground, but glanced away to still her racing pulse. She had learned through experiences with some of the villagers and the workmen not to let her weaknesses show, for surely her opponent, be it a vendor or an enemy, would take advantage. Unfortunately, the thought of Westfield taking advantage of her only fuelled her agitation. All too well, she recalled the feel of him pressed against her back, the warmth of his breath upon her ear …

‘Miss Sutton.’

The sound of the deep voice made her jump, and Glory realised he was speaking to her. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to look into his handsome face. His dark eyes revealed little, and yet Glory suspected that there was nothing that escaped him, including the fact that she was hanging back, as far from him as possible. No doubt that’s why he was making a point of offering her his arm to take her into supper.

Glory was tempted to refuse, but she did not want him to see how easily he had unnerved her. With a curt nod, she assented, but as he led her into the dining hall, she had never been so aware of another person. Her skin tingled where her fingers rested against his sleeve, and she nearly pulled away. When she took her seat, glad to be free of his touch at last, Glory felt his fingers brush against her back.

She was certain the movement had been no accident and wondered if he took liberties because of what had happened the previous night. If so, Glory had more to worry about than his designs upon the spa, and a shiver ran up her spine. She was in no position to protect herself from a powerful lord, and poor Thad had proven himself no match for Westfield. As the implications struck her, Glory was hard pressed not to leap from her chair and flee into the night.

Although she remained where she was, all the Gothic novels Glory had read came back to haunt her in the dimly lit, old-fashioned room. She told herself that even a duke could do nothing while lodged in a gentleman’s home, with her family around her and his mother in attendance. And yet Glory felt as though no one else was present, the two of them existing in some kind of netherworld.

Vaguely, she heard Phillida launch into a lengthy explanation for her earlier fainting spell, including abundant praise for Westfield’s fast action in coming to her rescue. Mention of the incident restored Glory to herself, and she braced herself for Westfield’s comments. But he demurred, saying little and appearing uninterested, though Glory sensed that he was paying more attention than he pretended to.

‘We may have arrived only recently, but I have already heard of this physician,’ the duchess said. ‘It seems he is a most unpleasant sort. What on earth were you doing with him, Westfield?’

Glory looked towards the duke with no little curiosity. Whatever the man was up to, his mother apparently knew nothing of it.

‘The fellow accosted me, offering his dubious services, for whatever might ail me. Then he accosted Miss Sutton,’ Westfield said. ‘Apparently, he has designs upon her … waters.’

Glory gaped in astonishment, but she could read nothing in the duke’s expression. Was he telling the truth? If so, she had misjudged him, yet she could not cast aside her suspicions so easily. There was something about the man that just didn’t ring true …

‘Ah, the famous waters,’ the duchess said in a tone of delight. She went on to praise Queen’s Well, reminiscing about her visit many years ago, in such a manner that could only be deemed genuine. Gradually, Glory’s wariness receded over the course of the meal. She enjoyed hearing about the spa’s past success, for she had little first-hand information about those days. Even Phillida and Thad appeared impressed by the dowager’s enthusiasm.

But not the duke. Yet, even in his silence, he seemed to command Glory’s attention, a dark presence at the head of the table that drew her fleeting glances. And when he finally spoke, she was jolted by the sound, deep and low and seemingly intimate. Or had it simply sparked a memory of him leaning close and whispering in her ear …?

‘Why did you decide to resume operations?’

Although the question was a casual one, Glory sensed a deeper meaning behind the words. Yet she could see nothing untoward in his expression, handsome, vaguely attentive and distant. It was a polite query, nothing more.

Glory drew in a breath and wondered what on earth was happening to her. She had always been the one member of the family with common sense. It was not like her to envision Gothic scenarios or hidden mysteries, threats and dangers with no apparent substance. Stolid and determined, she was not one for fripperies or flirting. So why was her heart pounding so alarmingly?

Westfield.

When she realised that everyone was waiting expectantly for her reply, Glory forced a smile. ‘It is our family’s heritage and should not be allowed to languish when the well is still in good order.’

‘But don’t you think the time for such places has passed?’ the duke asked.

‘No, I think they will always be popular. Mineral springs have served as gathering spots probably since our earliest ancestors stumbled across them bubbling up from the ground,’ Glory said. ‘For a long time many wells were associated with saints and became the focus of pilgrimages for those who would be healed, with some people travelling great distances to partake of the waters.’

Over the years, Glory had done her research and she warmed to the history. ‘Later, when shrines were frowned upon, people still sought the therapeutic waters, along with the entertainments, music, dances, cards and the like, that were added so that visitors could enjoy the pleasures of society in a relaxed and healthful setting.’

‘There isn’t a lovelier setting than Philtwell,’ the duchess said, which made Phillida exclaim about the beauty of the area. Glory found her aunt’s speech so astonishing that she had to bite back a smile as she took a sip of wine. If the dowager could convince her aunt and brother they would be happy here, Glory was not about to argue.

‘But considering the current state of the village, what kind of patrons do you hope to attract?’ Westfield asked.

Although he didn’t elaborate, Glory assumed he envisioned only the most derelict and those who preyed upon them. She lifted her chin. ‘Queen’s Well has always served a fine clientele that has included royalty.’

‘Queen Elizabeth?’ Westfield asked, his tone wry.

‘Yes,’ Glory said. ‘In fact, the well was rediscovered by one of her courtiers.’

‘And has not changed much since.’

‘It has kept the appeal of a small site, of course, but there have been many developments through the centuries,’ Glory argued. ‘A new well and Pump Room were constructed, and Assembly Rooms and inns were added over the years, along with plantings and gravel walks. I’ve already had those cleared and the trees trimmed. I’m having some flowering bushes put in around the Pump Room, but eventually I hope to add new gardens.’

‘Excellent,’ the dowager said. ‘The spa needs plenty of tree-lined groves and secluded walks, where romance can flourish.’

Glory eyed the dowager with bemusement. ‘Perhaps, but I do not want to gain a reputation for that sort of thing, which has been the ruin of many a spa. Young women will not come to visit unless they feel completely safe from importuning adventurers … or any man, for that matter,’ she added, with a glance towards Westfield.

‘Or any one for that matter,’ he replied smoothly.

‘But Philtwell is above reproach,’ the duchess exclaimed. Unaware of any undercurrents between her son and her guests, she proceeded to assure a pale Phillida that the village was decidedly more secure than London.

‘But even if Philtwell is deemed the most bucolic and picturesque site in the country, it is too far out of the way to entice any except the most determined visitor,’ Westfield said.

Although Glory felt the duke’s gaze upon her as he waited for her reply, she refused to look at him. Perhaps he was not allied with Dr Tibold, but he certainly seemed to be against the re-opening of Queen’s Well.

‘Yet in the past the spa was successful, and now the roads are better and travel more common than in those days,’ Glory said. ‘And revivals have occurred before. Other spas have fallen into and out of favour again and again.’

‘Or opened, only to close,’ the duke said.

‘Don’t change her mind,’ his mother said. ‘I do so want to see the place as it should be.’

‘I am simply curious as to how she came to her decision,’ Westfield said. ‘The venture is a large undertaking, especially for a woman, an expensive proposition that may not repay in kind. What sort of investors have you secured?’

‘Don’t be rude, dear,’ the duchess admonished.

Thad looked as though he would speak, but Glory sent him a warning glance. Their finances weren’t anyone’s business, and she was not about to discuss them.

‘It is because I am a woman that you feel I am doomed to fail?’ Glory asked. Reaching for a fortifying sip of wine, she eyed Westfield directly.

‘Certainly not, for I am sure many females, including my own mother, are more than capable of astounding successes,’ he answered, his expression bland.

‘Very well put,’ the duchess said. She turned towards Glory. ‘And I’m sure all of us here, including Mr Pettit, wish for the triumph of what can only be an asset to the community.’

‘Thank you,’ Glory said, though she suspected Westfield did not share his mother’s sentiments. ‘I hope the spa will draw people for the simple reason that Philtwell is a lovely place to stay, with beautiful scenery and bracing air that is far more wholesome than the stench of London. If drinking or bathing in the waters proves beneficial, then that is all the better.’

‘There is a bathing pool?’ Westfield asked.

‘No, but we have private rooms for bathing on the upper floor of the Pump Room.’

‘And how soon can we look forward to seeing it all for ourselves?’ the duchess asked.

‘I can take you around at any time,’ Thad said. The offer took Glory by surprise, though it seemed to be directed to Westfield, rather than his mother.

Not to be outdone, Phillida tendered an invitation to the cottage, as well as a trip to the Pump Room, to ‘taste the waters’ on the morrow.

‘Delightful,’ the duchess exclaimed. ‘I am most anxious to see what you’ve done with it. And for the general public?’

‘Well, I had planned to wait until the old buildings had been torn down, but I’m afraid I’ve had some problems with the local workers,’ Glory said. Although earlier she had suspected Westfield’s involvement, that appeared unlikely now. ‘They seem unable to complete their work in a timely manner.’

‘I’ve spoken to them, so we should be soon set to rights,’ Thad said, and Glory wished fervently that it were so.

‘Perhaps when Mr Pettit recovers, he can have a word, as well, for such behaviour reflects poorly on the community,’ the duchess said. ‘Although I understand that not everyone here has been enthusiastic, I’m sure they will all come around once the Pump Room is open again.’

Her words gave Glory pause, and she fell silent, which gave Phillida an opportunity to launch into a recitation of some of the supposed slights she had received since their arrival. While the duchess made soothing noises, Glory reconsidered her plans.

Perhaps it was the dowager’s encouragement that moved her to make the decision. Or it might have been the duke’s discouragement that made up her mind. But suddenly she was quite certain of what to do. And when Phillida finally ran out of anecdotes, Glory spoke up.

‘I think we shall open next week.’

‘Oh, how lovely,’ the duchess said, in obvious delight.

Trying to keep a defiant expression from her face, Glory turned towards the duke, but he did not appear disappointed. In fact, he seemed only mildly curious when he spoke. ‘Why the hurry?’

‘I was going to wait until more work had been done, but now I think her Grace is right. If the villagers see our newly renovated Pump Room and what a wonderful addition it is to Philtwell, they will “come around” all the sooner.’

Although Glory expected the duke to raise some objection or argument, he made no further comment, and her heady sense of triumph began to fade in the face of his apparent indifference. It disappeared entirely when he began to question Thad about the activities available to young people.

Later, when they removed to the parlour, Glory tried her best to get a good look at the man’s boots, but she could tell nothing except that the size of his feet were proportional to the rest of him. And, no doubt, he had an attentive valet to remove all traces of stains, including paint, from his apparel.

Glancing up from her study, Glory caught him eyeing her, one dark brow cocked in question, and she turned away, flushing. Thankfully, the duke did not comment. Nor did he say anything more about Queen’s Well, but played the part of host with ease until the Suttons took their leave, yet Glory could not dismiss the notion that he was playing a part and that the Duke of Westfield was not what he seemed.

Chapter Four

It was so late by the time Letitia was able to visit Randolph’s room that she wondered whether she should wait until morning to seek him out. But, eager to hear his opinion, she slipped through the door and was glad to see a candle still burning near the bed.

‘Are you awake?’

‘Well, if I wasn’t, I am now,’ Randolph grumbled, but Letitia noticed that he put aside a book, so he must have been reading. His ill mood probably was due to his continued occupation of this bedchamber, a suspicion that he soon confirmed.

‘I feel like I’ve been cooped up here for ever.’

‘You can’t come out now, or Oberon will surely make plans for departure, for he has nothing to hold him here … yet.’

Randolph said nothing, but glared at her over his half-spectacles.

‘Only a few more days,’ Letitia promised. ‘Once we have dosed them, I will have more faith in our plans.’ Without giving him the opportunity to argue, she went on. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think I’m lucky I didn’t get caught sneaking around the house in my nightshirt,’ he muttered. ‘Your son’s valet seems to have eyes in the back of his head.’

Letitia dismissed his complaint with a wave of her hand. ‘Well?’

He sat back amongst the pillows and sighed. ‘I do not like to discourage you, especially since I am the one responsible for your high hopes, but it does not look good to me.’

‘Why?’ Letitia asked.

‘From what I could see, which was precious little, mind you,’ Randolph said, ‘they do not even like each other.’

‘Well, I would be disappointed if they did,’ Letitia said. ‘I don’t want him to befriend her. I want him to fall passionately in love with her.’

Randolph shook his head. ‘I don’t see how that is going to happen when they are barely civil to each other. You could have dined out on their animosity.’

‘Ah, but both are strong emotions, one sometimes standing in for the other,’ the duchess said. ‘And I’m so pleased that he is feeling something that I must account it a good sign.’

Randolph shot her a questioning look, and Letitia wondered if she had said too much. She looked down at the hands in her lap. ‘He was much affected by his father’s death; I fear he was thrust too soon under the mantle of ducal responsibilities. He rose to the occasion admirably, of course, but he changed. I’ve often wondered if something happened while I was … grieving, but Oberon has kept his thoughts to himself. I worry about him, Randolph.’

He said nothing, and she sought to explain. ‘He began distancing himself from his home and his family, spending more and more time at the town house in London until it has been his primary home for years now. I don’t understand why he won’t visit the place he so loved.’ Or his mother, she did not add.

‘It’s not as though he’s gambling away his inheritance,’ Letitia said. ‘Far from it, for he has several gentlemen overseeing everything from the farms at Westfield to foreign investments. So how does he spend his days?’

When Randolph did not answer, she went on. ‘He attends social functions, frittering away his time at one ball or rout or salon after another.’

‘There are worse activities,’ Randolph said.

‘Yes,’ Letitia admitted, for she had told herself that many a time. ‘But there are better ones.’ And she hesitated to think what his father would say, if he knew that his heir was gadding about among a society he had held in contempt. Her husband had devoted his life to his family and public service, championing charities and improvements, so that he had left the world a better place. Letitia felt her eyes well up at the loss of her husband, far too soon, and she swallowed.

‘Somehow he doesn’t seem the type to be engaged in such frippery,’ Randolph said, interrupting her maudlin thoughts.

‘I know,’ Letitia said. ‘He is far too intelligent. He is well read, but beyond that he doesn’t appear to have any interests.’ Even worse, he didn’t seem to care. Although she assumed that her son loved her, he was so composed that she had begun to wonder if he felt anything at all.

But tonight, there had been little hints that he was not his usual urbane self. Perhaps it was not the behaviour she had been hoping for, but it was something. And she was heartened by it. She rose to her feet and smiled to herself.

‘I don’t believe it will be too difficult to turn this passion of his in a more positive direction,’ she said to Randolph. ‘All we need is for Queen’s Well to work its magic.’

Rain had been battering the windows since breakfast, making Oberon wonder why anyone would want to seek out more water. But he did not refuse when his mother insisted he accompany her to the Pump Room for their private tour. What he had learned the evening before only made him more curious about the Suttons and their dubious enterprise.

‘It appears that Miss Sutton has rather grandiose plans for her spa,’ he said casually, once they were settled in the coach for the short drive. ‘I wonder where she is getting the funding for such a venture?’

‘Oberon, please do not be so rude as to enquire again,’ his mother said. ‘It was bad of you to do so during supper.’

‘I don’t see why, for it is a business, is it not? I would think they would be eager to put their case to prospective financers.’ In fact, Oberon was surprised that his mother, stricken as she was with nostalgia, had not been solicited. He slanted her a glance. ‘They haven’t approached you, have they?’

‘Certainly not,’ she answered. ‘Miss Sutton is too gently reared to speak of such things.’

Oberon’s brows shot upwards. Miss Sutton was practically in trade, and he could think of no good reason for her silence on the subject. Although he doubted she was running a swindle, there was always the possibility that her investors wanted to keep their participation quiet. And in his experience, such secrecy meant they were up to something, whether Miss Sutton was aware of it or not.

Oberon frowned, unwilling to believe that she was a knowing participant in anything unsavoury, only to shake his head. Such thoughts led to misjudgements, mistakes or worse, no matter whether he was in London or in a remote village. And he would do well to keep that in mind, he realised, as he entered Miss Sutton’s lair, the infamous Pump Room.

While his mother exclaimed in delight, Oberon assessed the place coolly. Although the main room might be light and airy on a good day, with its tall, arched windows on three sides, the rain cast a pall over the interior this afternoon. Or perhaps the dearth of patrons made it seem devoid of life. The neatly polished parquet floor was empty except for some tables and chairs clustered at the perimeter, where those who did not wish to mill around, socialising, could partake of the waters in seated comfort.

It was at one of these small tables where Miss Sutton’s aunt, Miss Bamford, sat waving her handkerchief in their direction. An empty-headed creature who provided little beyond haphazard chaperonage, she was an odd companion for Miss Sutton. The boy was there, too, though he seemed more like a typical youth than anything else. But where was his sister?

Despite Oberon’s best intentions, he felt a frisson of anticipation as he scanned the area, and when he saw her, his reaction was as baffling as it was difficult to disguise. He had assumed that the long evening before spent acting as host in Mr Pettit’s absence would have inured him to whatever appeal Miss Sutton pre sented—but it had not. He felt just as he had the first time he had glimpsed her standing in the shadows behind this very building, like he had been struck by some powerful force in his gut or perhaps lower …

‘Miss Sutton,’ he said, with a nod.

‘Your Grace,’ she answered. Was there a breathlessness to her tone? Oberon didn’t flatter himself. She probably had rushed to greet the visitors. She took a seat at the table next to her aunt and Oberon joined them. They were not obliged to obtain their own waters, but were served by a robust young female in a starched apron.

‘None for me, thank you,’ Thad said.

‘Nor I,’ Oberon added.

‘Drink up,’ his mother urged. ‘It will do you good.’

Oberon frowned as he eyed the liquid. ‘So it is said of every spring in England, from the fountains of Bath to the meanest dribble coming up from a farm field that the cows refuse to taste. Each is supposed to cure everything from boils to consumption, but I don’t put much faith in those claims.’

‘Actually, Queen’s Well has never been associated with a specific cure,’ Miss Sutton said, which was hardly surprising since she seemed to argue with him at every opportunity. And yet Oberon felt, not irritated, but pleased by the byplay.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ his mother murmured with a sly smile. Apparently, her nostalgia for the waters knew no bounds.

However, after Oberon had downed half of the wretched brew he realised that neither his mother nor Miss Bamford had touched their glasses and he lodged a protest.

‘I’m afraid I’ve had my share this morning,’ Miss Bamford said. ‘I must admit that it is rather nice to have one’s own supply. No more need to buy bottles of Epsom.’

‘And you?’ Oberon asked his mother, lifting a brow. After all, she seemed to be the spa’s chief supporter.

Smiling as though privy to some private amusement, she shook her head. ‘Oh, I’ve no need of it,’ she said. Oberon opened his mouth to enquire further until he remembered that such waters were known purgatives, so he held his tongue.

Since it appeared that the only other person drinking was Miss Sutton, Oberon lifted his glass in a toast. ‘To Queen’s Well,’ he said, speaking words he’d never thought to utter. And somehow the noxious drink was made palatable by her surprised smile as her gaze met his own. Like the finest of emeralds, her green eyes were beautiful, rare and glowing with light, an observation that seemed to send heat surging through him.

Either that or the waters she forced on him were poisoned.

Oberon waited a long moment, but when he felt no queasiness, he allowed himself to be talked into a tour of the building. His mother claimed to have seen it all before, as did Miss Bamford, and though Thad looked eager to show off the facilities, his aunt querulously demanded his attention. That left Miss Sutton with only Oberon to guide around her domain, a prospect that obviously left her dismayed.

In fact, Oberon thought she would demur, but when he rose to his feet and gave her a curious glance, she joined him, her chin lifted. With a few words of explanation, she gestured towards what Oberon could already see: the new floor, the window seats and the curved counter behind which the drinks were dispensed.

The public displays did not interest Oberon so much as the personal, though he hardly expected to find evidence of mysterious doings. Still, he made it his business to investigate and so turned towards the stairway to the upper floor, inclining his head in question.

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