# An Unexpected Pleasure

Candace Camp

Secrets…or lies? Had Theo Moreland, the Marquess of Raine, killed her brother? And had the treasure the two men sought in South America hastened his descent to an early grave? American journalist Megan Mulcahey had to know. But to find out, she needed to infiltrate the marquess's household.The new American governess intrigued Theo. Wanderlust had always plagued him–until Miss Mulcahey came to Broughton House to teach his young siblings. Now the strange pull of their immediate desire both troubled and excited him. He had seen her beauty once before, in a fever dream his memory could not escape. So why was this delicious vision now snooping around his mansion like a common thief?

## Praise for the novels of Candace Camp

“Camp spins a tale that commands attention.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on An Unexpected Pleasure

“…entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”

—The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure

“This one has it all: smooth writing, an intelligent story, engaging characters, and sexual tension that positively sizzles.”

—All About Romance on Swept Away

“Camp brings the dark Victorian world to life. Her strong characters and perfect pacing keep you turning the pages of this chilling mystery.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Winterset

“From its delicious beginning to its satisfying ending, [Mesmerized] offers a double helping of romance.”

—Booklist

“Camp shows the ability of love to help people overcome something out of the ordinary.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Mesmerized

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

“One of Camp’s best.”

—Publishers Weekly on Indiscreet

“Candace Camp is renowned as a storyteller that touches the heart of her readers time and time again.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Impulse

“…will leave you breathless with laughter and eagerly anticipating the next mishap.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Suddenly

## AN Unexpected PLEASURE. CANDACE CAMP


## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

## PROLOGUE

New York, 1879

The shriek cut through the night.

In her bed, Megan Mulcahey sat straight up, instantly awake, her heart pounding. It took her a moment to realize what had awakened her. Then she heard her sister’s voice again.

“No. No!”

Megan was out of her bed in a flash and running through the door. Theirs was not a large home—a narrow brownstone row house with three bedrooms upstairs—and it took only a moment to reach Deirdre’s door and fling it open.

Deirdre was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide and staring, horrified. Her arms stretched out in front of her toward something only she could see, and tears pooled in her eyes before rolling down her cheeks.

“Deirdre!” Megan crossed the room and sat down on her sister’s bed, taking Deirdre’s shoulders firmly in her hands. “What is it? Wake up! Deirdre!”

She gave the girl a shake, and something changed in her sister’s face, the frightening blankness slipping away, replaced by a dawning consciousness.

“Megan!” Deirdre let out a sob and threw her arms around her older sister. “Oh, Megan. It was terrible. Terrible!”

“Saints preserve us!” Their father’s voice sounded from the doorway. “What in the name of all that’s holy is going on?”

“Deirdre had a bad dream, that’s all,” Megan replied, keeping her voice calm and soothing, as she stroked her sister’s hair. “Isn’t that right, Dee? It was nothing but a nightmare.”

“No.” Deirdre gulped and pulled back from Megan a little, wiping the tears from her cheeks and looking first at Megan, then at their father. Her eyes were still wide and shadowed. “Megan. Da. I saw Dennis!”

“You dreamed about Dennis?” Megan asked.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Deirdre responded. “Dennis was here. He spoke to me.”

A shiver ran down Megan’s spine. “But, Dee, you couldn’t have seen him. Dennis has been dead for ten years.”

“It was him,” Deirdre insisted. “I saw him, plain as day. He spoke to me.”

Their father crossed the room eagerly and went down on one knee before his daughter, looking into her face. “Are you sure, then, Deirdre? It was really Denny?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. He looked like he did the day he sailed away.”

Megan stared at her sister, stunned. Deirdre had a reputation in the family for having the second sight. She was given to forebodings and premonitions—too many of which had turned out to be true for Megan to completely dismiss her sister’s “ability.” However, her predictions usually ran more to having a feeling that a certain friend or relative was having problems or was likely to drop in on them that day. The more pragmatic side of Megan believed that her sister simply possessed a certain sensitivity that enabled her to pick up on a number of small clues about people and situations that most others ignored. It was an admirable talent, Megan agreed, but she had her doubts whether it was the otherworldly gift that many deemed it.

Deirdre’s looks, she thought, contributed a great deal to the common perception of her. Small and fragile in build, with large, gentle blue eyes, pale skin and light strawberry-blond hair, there was a fey quality to her, a sense of otherworldliness, that aroused most people’s feelings of protectiveness, including Megan’s, and made it easy to believe that the girl was in tune with the other world.

But never before had Deirdre claimed to have seen someone who was dead. Megan was not sure what to think. On the one hand, her practical mind had trouble accepting that her brother’s spirit was walking about, talking to her sister. It seemed much more likely that Deirdre had had a nightmare that her sleep-befuddled mind had imagined was real. On the other hand, there was a small superstitious something deep inside her that wondered if this could possibly be true. The truth was, she knew, that like her father, she wanted it to be true—she hoped that her beloved brother was still around in some form, not lost to her forever.

“What did he say?” Frank Mulcahey asked. “Why did he come to you?”

Deirdre’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Da, it was awful! Dennis was scared and desperate. ‘Help me,’ he said, and held out his hands to me. ‘Please help me.’”

Frank Mulcahey sucked in his breath sharply and made a rapid sign of the cross. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What did he mean?”

“He didn’t mean anything,” Megan put in quickly. “She was dreaming. Deirdre, it was just a nightmare. It must have been.”

“But it wasn’t!” Deirdre insisted, gazing at her sister with wide, guileless eyes. “Dennis was here. He was as clear to me as you are. He stood right there and looked at me with such pain and despair. I couldn’t be mistaken.”

“But, darling…”

Her younger sister gave her a look of mingled reproach and pity. “Don’t you think I know the difference between a nightmare and a vision? I’ve had both of them often enough.”

“Of course you have,” their father responded, and turned to glower at Megan. “Just because there are things you cannot see or hear, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Why, I could tell you tales that would make your hair stand on end.”

“Yes, and you have on many occasions,” Megan responded, her tart tone of voice softened by the smile she directed at her father.

Frank Mulcahey was a short, wiry man, full of energy and a love of life. At the age of fifteen, he had come to New York from his native Ireland, and he was always ready to tell anyone who would listen how his dreams had all come true in America. He had built a thriving business as a greengrocer, married a beautiful blond American girl and raised a family of healthy, happy children. Only those who knew him well knew of the hardships he had endured—the years of working and scrimping to open his grocery, the death of his beloved wife shortly after Deirdre’s birth, the hard task of raising six children on his own and, finally, the death of his oldest son ten years ago. Many another man would have broken under the blows of fate, but Frank Mulcahey had absorbed them and moved on, his spirit wounded but never vanquished.

In coloring he resembled his daughter Megan; his close-cropped hair was the same warm reddish brown, though now liberally streaked through with gray, and if he had allowed it to grow longer, it would have curled just as riotously. The line of freckles across Megan’s nose came from her father, too, and her eyes were the same mahogany color, their brown depths warmed by an elusive hint of red. They were alike, too, in their drive and determination—and, as Deirdre had pointed out more than once, in their sheer bullheadedness, a fact that had caused them to clash on many occasions.

“Clearly you did not listen to the tales well enough,” Frank told Megan now. “Or you did not keep an open mind.”

Megan knew she would never convince her father of the unlikelihood of her brother returning from the grave, so she tried a different tack. “Why would Dennis come back now? How could he need our help?”

“Why, that’s clear as a bell,” her father responded. “He’s asking us to avenge his death.”

“After ten years?”

“Sure, and he’s waited long enough, don’t you think?” Frank retorted, his Irish brogue thickening in his agitation. “It’s me own fault. I should have gone over there and taken care of that filthy murderin’ English lord as soon as we learned what happened to Dennis. It’s no wonder he’s come back to nudge us. The sin is that he had to. I’ve shirked me duty as a father.”

“Da, don’t.” Megan laid a comforting hand on her father’s arm. “You did nothing wrong. You couldn’t have gone to England when Dennis died. You had children to raise. Deirdre was but ten, and the boys only a little older. You had to stay here and work, and see after us.”

Frank sighed and nodded. “I know. But there’s nothing holding me back now. You’re all grown now. Even the store could get by without me, with your brother Sean helping me run it. There’s nothing to stop me from going to England and taking care of the matter. Hasn’t been for years. It’s remiss I’ve been, and that’s a fact. No wonder Denny had to come and give me a poke.”

“Da, I’m sure that’s not why Dennis came back,” Megan said quickly, casting a look of appeal at her sister. The last thing she wanted was for her father to go running off to England and do God-knew-what in his thirst to avenge his son’s death. He could wind up in jail—or worse—if his temper led him to attack the English lord who had killed Dennis. “Is it, Deirdre?”

To Megan’s dismay, her sister wrinkled her brow and said, “I’m not sure. Dennis didn’t say anything about his death. But he was so distraught, so desperate. It was clear he needs our help.”

“Of course he does.” Frank nodded. “He wants me to avenge his murder.”

“How?” Megan protested, alarmed. “You can’t go over there and take the law into your own hands.”

Her father looked at her. “I didna say I was going to kill the lyin’ bastard—not that I wouldn’t like to, you understand. But I’ll not have a man’s blood on my conscience. I intend to bring him to justice.”

“After all this time? But, Da—”

“Are you suggesting that we stand by and do nothing?” Frank thundered, his brows rising incredulously. “Let the man get away with murdering your brother? I would not have thought it of you.”

“Of course I don’t think he should get away with it,” Megan retorted heatedly, her eyes flashing. “I want him to pay for what he did to Dennis just as much as you do.”

Her brother had been only two years older than she, and they had been very close all their lives, united not only by blood, but also by their similar personalities and their quick, impish wit. Curious, energetic and determined, each of them had wanted to make a mark upon the world. Dennis had yearned to see that world, to explore uncharted territories. Megan had her sights set on becoming a newspaper reporter.

She had achieved her dream, after much persistence landing an assignment on a small New York City rag, writing for the Society section. Through skill, determination and hard work, she had eventually made her way onto the news pages and then to a larger paper. But it had been a bittersweet accomplishment, for Dennis had not been there to share in her joy. He had died on his first journey up the Amazon.

“Aye, I know,” Frank admitted, taking his daughter’s hand and squeezing it. “I spoke in heat. I know you want him punished. We all do.”

“I just don’t know what proof can be found, after all this time,” Megan pointed out.

“There was something more,” Deirdre spoke up. “Dennis was—I think he was searching for something.”

Megan stared at her sister. “Searching for what?”

“I’m not sure. But it was very precious to him. He cannot rest until he has it back.”

“He said that?” Again Megan felt a chill creep up her back. She did not believe that the dead came back to speak with the living. Still…

“He said something about having to find them—or it. I’m not sure,” Deirdre explained. “But I could feel how desperate he was, how much it meant to him.”

“The man killed Dennis for some reason,” their father pointed out, his voice tinged with excitement. “We never knew the why of it, but there must have been one. It would make sense, don’t you think, that it was over some object, something Dennis had that he wanted?”

“And he killed Dennis to get it?” Megan asked. “But what would Dennis have had that the man couldn’t have bought? He is wealthy.”

“Something they found on their trip,” Frank answered. “Something Dennis found.”

“In the jungle?” Megan quirked an eyebrow in disbelief, but even as she said it, her mind went to the history of South America. “Wait. Of course. What did the Spanish find there? Gold. Emeralds. Dennis could have stumbled on an old mine—or wherever it is you get jewels.”

“Of course.” Frank’s eyes gleamed with fervor. “It’s something like that. And if I can find whatever it is that he found and that murderer stole, it could prove that he killed Dennis. I have to go to England.”

Megan stood up. Her father’s excitement had ignited her own. For ten years she had lived with the sorrow of her brother’s death, as well as the bitter knowledge that his murderer had gotten away. Part of her passion as a journalist had come from her thwarted desire for justice for her brother. She had known she could not help him, but she could help others whose lives had been shattered or whose rights as human beings had been trampled. Among her peers, she was known as a crusader, and she was at her best in ferreting out a story of corruption or injustice.

She could not entirely believe that her sister had seen their brother. But her father’s words made sense. The man who had killed Dennis must have had a motive…and greed had always been a prime motive for murder.

“You’re right,” she said. “But I should be the one to go.” She began to pace, her words tumbling out excitedly. “I don’t know why I never thought of this before. I could investigate Dennis’s death, just like I do a story. I mean, that’s what I do every day—look into things, talk to people, check facts, hunt down witnesses. I should have done this long ago. Maybe I can figure out what really happened. Even after all these years, there must be something I can find. Even if it’s something that wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, at least we’d have the satisfaction of knowing.”

“But, Megan, it’s dangerous,” her sister protested. “I mean, the man has murdered already. If you show up there asking questions…”

“I’m not going to just walk up to him and say, ‘Why did you kill my brother?’” Megan retorted. “He won’t know who I am. I’ll think of some other reason to talk to him. Don’t worry, I’m good at that.”

“She’s right,” their father said, and his daughters turned to him in astonishment. He shrugged. “I’m a man of reason. Megan has experience in this sort of matter. But,” he added with a stern look at Megan, “if you think I’m going to let you run off and track down a murderer alone, then you haven’t the brains I credit you with. I’m going, too.”

“But, Da—”

He shook his head. “I mean it, Megan. We’re all going. We’ll track down Theo Moreland and make him pay for killing your brother.”

## 1

Theo Moreland, Lord Raine, rested his hands on the railing and gazed down at the grand ballroom below, a look of discontent upon his handsome face. His green eyes, fringed by smoky lashes so long and thick they would have looked feminine on any face less ruggedly masculine, moved lazily across the floor below, crowded with dancers.

He wondered, not for the first time this evening, what he was doing here.

He was not the sort for elegant parties. He liked much more to be out-of-doors, preferably in some exotic locale, doing something more intriguing…and possibly dangerous.

Of course, Lady Rutherford’s ball was dangerous in its own way—ambitious mothers and their daughters circling like sharks—but it was the kind of danger that he assiduously avoided. He wasn’t sure why he had come here this evening. He had simply been bored and restless, as he had been many times lately, so much so that at last he had flipped through his stack of invitations, usually ignored, and settled on Lady Rutherford’s party.

Once he got here, he had regretted the impulse. Besieged by flirtatious women of all ages, he had finally retreated upstairs to the card room. That, too, had paled, and he’d wound up here, gazing down moodily at the wide expanse of floor below.

“Lord Raine, what a surprise,” a sultry voice behind him said.

Suppressing a groan, Theo turned. “Lady Scarle.”

The woman before him was one of the beauties of London and had been for years. Her coloring was vivid, with jet black hair and deep blue eyes, and a strawberries-and-cream complexion. If the color in her cheeks was not entirely natural or a stray white hair or two had to be plucked out whenever they appeared, well, only her personal maid knew about it, and she was paid well to keep secrets. Most men, truth be known, found it difficult to lift their eyes above Lady Scarle’s magnificent white bosom, which was, as was customary, spilling out lushly over the low neckline of her purple evening gown.

“Now, now,” she said, smiling archly and laying a hand on Theo’s arm. “I think that we know each other well enough for you to call me Helena.”

Theo shifted uncomfortably and gave her a vague smile. He had never been good at dealing with rapacious females, and he found women like Lady Scarle even more unnerving than giggling young debutantes.

When he had left London on his last expedition, Lady Helena Scarle had been married to doddering old Lord Scarle, and while she had flirted with Theo, she had been interested in nothing more than a light affair, which he had avoided with little problem.

But when he’d returned a few months ago, he found that Lord Scarle had died, leaving the lady a widow. And the widow was interested in finding a new husband—as long as it meant moving up the social or economic scale. Unfortunately for Theo, he fit both requirements.

Lady Scarle had been on the hunt for him ever since.

“I was very disappointed not to see you at Lady Huntington’s musicale last night,” Lady Helena went on silkily.

“Mmm. Not my sort of thing,” he replied, looking about, hoping to see some means of getting out of the situation without seeming rude. Lady Scarle, he had found out, was impervious to almost anything short of rudeness.

“Nor mine,” she replied with a flirtatious glance. “But I had thought…well, when we talked last week, we discussed whether we might run into one another at the musicale.”

“We did?” Theo blurted out, surprised. He did remember running into Lady Scarle when he was out riding in the Park one day last week. She had chattered on for some time before he could get away, but he had not really been listening to what she said. “I mean, well, I must have forgotten. I apologize.”

Temper flashed in her blue eyes—she was not used to being forgotten by any man—but she hid it quickly, turning her eyes down and looking up at him beguilingly through her lashes. “Now you have wounded me, Raine. You must make amends by coming to my rout on Tuesday.”

“I…um…I’m almost certain I have an engagement that day. My, uh…Kyria!” He spotted his sister walking across the room, and he waved to her.

Kyria, taking in the situation in a glance, grinned and walked over to him. “Theo! What a pleasant surprise. And Lady Scarle.” Kyria’s gaze swept over the other woman’s overexposed chest. “My goodness, you must be chilled. Would you like to borrow my wrap?”

Lady Scarle gave her a stiff smile. “Thank you, I am perfectly warm, Lady Kyria. Or should I say Mrs. McIntyre?”

“Either is all right,” Kyria responded calmly. Tall, flame-haired and green-eyed, Kyria was easily the most beautiful woman in the house. She had reigned as the leading beauty of London society since her coming out, earning the appellation “The Goddess” for her beauty and cool confidence. Even now, approaching the age of thirty and a wife and mother, there was no one who could match her.

Lady Scarle, several years older than Kyria, had been married by the time Kyria had made her debut, but it had put her nose out of joint to watch Kyria assume all the acclaim she had once held. The two women had never been friendly.

“Theo.” Kyria turned to her brother and linked her hand possessively through his arm. “I had been wondering what had happened to you. I believe I promised my next dance to you.”

“Yes.” Theo brightened. “Yes, you did.” He turned to the other woman and bowed. “Lady Scarle, if you will excuse us…”

Lady Scarle had little choice but to smile and murmur, “Of course.”

Quickly Theo swept Kyria away down the stairs. She leaned closer to him and murmured, “Now you owe me.”

“I am well aware of that. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was trying to wriggle out of going to some rout of hers next week. I cannot think what possessed me to come here tonight,” he added feelingly.

Kyria laughed. “It isn’t like you. I was very surprised to see you.”

Theo shrugged. “I was bored, I think. I’m not sure what’s the matter with me lately. I’ve felt…restless, I suppose.”

“Ready to go off on one of your adventures?” Kyria guessed.

Theo, the eldest son of the Duke of Broughton, had spent most of his adult life exploring the globe. He had always been fascinated with new and exotic locales, and the physical work and even danger that his explorations entailed only added spice to his trips, as far as he was concerned.

He had returned only a few months ago from his last trip, which had been to India and Burma. Usually he rested and recuperated, spending time with his much-loved family, for a while, before he began to itch to travel again.

“I don’t know.” He frowned. “Edward Horn is setting up a trip to the Congo. He wants me to go.”

“But it doesn’t sound as if you want to.”

“Not really,” Theo replied, puzzlement settling on his features. “I told Horn not to count on me. It’s very strange. I’ve been feeling so restless, yet I don’t really have the urge to travel anywhere, either. Perhaps I am getting too old for it.”

“Oh, yes…the grand old age of thirty-four,” Kyria teased. “You are quite decrepit, really.”

“You know what I mean. Everyone has always told me that someday I would grow up and tire of travel. Maybe I have.” He gave her a crooked smile. “All I know is that every time I think of leaving, something holds me back.”

Kyria studied her brother’s face, her puzzlement turning to concern. “Theo…are you all right? You sound almost…unhappy.”

It was not an adjective she was accustomed to using to describe her brother, who had always entered into everything he did with great zest.

Theo looked at her, his expression serious. “You know me, Kyria. I’m not the sort to examine my life. I don’t sit about thinking about what I’m doing, or whether or not I’m enjoying myself. I don’t brood.”

“No. You are more one to charge into things. You generally know what you want and go after it.”

He nodded. “Which is why I think I’m so at loose ends. I feel as if there is something missing. But I don’t know what it is. Something I should be doing? Some place I should go? I only know I want something else, something more.”

Kyria thought for a moment, then began hesitantly. “Well, perhaps, have you thought that you are at an age where you want to settle down? Mayhap what you are missing is a wife—a home and family.”

Theo let out a low groan. “That is certainly what they would all like to convince me of,” he said, jerking his head toward the mothers and chaperones massed along the wall, watching their charges dance. “I think I have been introduced to every mother of an eligible girl tonight. I can’t tell you how many have hinted that it’s time for me to settle down. It’s enough to make me run for cover. Are they always this voracious?”

Kyria chuckled, nodding. “Yes. There is nothing more dangerous than a mother out to make a good match for her daughter.”

“Aren’t these the very same women who have long complained that I am lacking in a proper sense of duty and consequence—always off gallivanting about the globe instead of staying here and preparing to take over the title? The ones who call us the ‘mad Morelands’?”

“Yes. But surely you must know that it does not matter how mad one is if one is going to be a duke someday. A title makes up for a great number of sins, and the higher the title, the more sins it obviates. And if you possess a great deal of wealth in addition, well, you could have two heads, and it wouldn’t matter.”

“What a cynic you are.”

“Only truthful.”

“It isn’t that I am against marriage,” Theo mused. “It is simply…well, I cannot envision tying myself to any of these girls, even one as lovely as Estelle Hopewell.”

“Estelle Hopewell! Good heavens, I should hope not. The girl hasn’t a thought in her head.”

“Do any of them? Perhaps it is just being under the watchful eye of their mamas, but every girl I spoke to tonight could do nothing but smile and agree with whatever I said. None of them seemed to have the slightest opinion of her own or the least interest in the world. And then there are eager widows like Lady Scarle, who frankly frightens me. Can you imagine any of them as part of our family?”

Kyria laughed. “Good Lord, no. Perhaps you need to find a country girl, as Reed did.”

He smiled. “I think Anna is rare, even in the country.”

“Yes. You are right. But I still hold hope for you,” Kyria told him. “I have seen one brother find a wonderful woman for a wife. I have the utmost confidence that you will be able to, as well. Just think, four of us ‘mad Morelands’ have managed to find our loves. Your day will come.”

“Will it?” A faint smile crossed Theo’s lips. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps what I am waiting for is the perfect woman. But for now, I’ll just have to settle for a dance with the most beautiful woman in London.”

And with those words, he swept his sister out onto the floor.


MEGAN MULCAHEY STOOD at the window of the bedroom she shared with her sister Deirdre in the house her family had rented in London. With a sigh, she leaned her head against the cool pane of glass. It had taken her a month to get here, but now she wasn’t sure what to do.

No matter how hard she had tried, she had been unable to dissuade her father and sister from accompanying her to England. She would have preferred to investigate this matter by herself, without having to worry about them.

However, Frank Mulcahey had had an answering argument for every objection she raised. Her younger brothers, Sean and Robert, were quite capable of taking over the store, so his presence was not needed there. And she would need his help. Women rarely traveled alone, he pointed out; the entire journey would go more smoothly if she had a male escort. Moreover, there might be places where a woman could not even enter. Both those things were true, Megan knew, much as she hated to admit it. And she had no argument against his major point, which was that he had a right to be involved in bringing his son’s killer to justice.

Deirdre, despite her usually biddable nature and her general air of fragility that made everyone want to take care of her, had been just as stubborn. She had every bit as much reason as Megan to see their brother’s killer brought to justice, she reminded her sister, and she was, after all, the one to whom Dennis had come in a vision.

“Besides,” Deirdre had concluded, “if I don’t go with you, who’ll do the cooking and cleaning for you and Da?”

That had been a telling argument. Megan had never been one who liked doing domestic chores, and she had been quite content with their family arrangement for the last few years, in which she had gone out and worked each day as their father did, and Deirdre had taken over the household chores for the three of them.

Megan had expected her oldest sister, Mary Margaret, to agree with her that Frank and Deirdre should not go. The eldest of the Mulcahey children, Mary Margaret had helped their father raise all the younger children from the time she was twelve, and had always been the most responsible and levelheaded member of the family. Now married to a prosperous attorney and with three children of her own, Mary Margaret was the very picture of a conservative matron.

Much to Megan’s shock, Mary Margaret had agreed that Deirdre and their father should accompany Megan—or, as she put it, “go along to keep Megan out of trouble”—and had even offered to help pay for the trip.

So, finally, Megan had boarded the steamship to Southhampton with her father and Deirdre, and the three of them had arrived in London a few days ago. They had spent the first two days there finding a house and settling in. It had taken Megan another day to obtain Theo Moreland’s address—something that would have taken less time if they had known his father’s titled name.

This afternoon she had gone out to take a look at the house, just to get a sense of what she was facing. It was an imposing edifice, taking up all of a small city block, visible proof of the wealth and importance of the duke’s family, as well as of their longevity. They had been dukes since long before Europeans settled the New World, and they had been earls for a couple of hundred years before that. The house itself looked as if it might have been standing there since New York had been New Amsterdam.

However, far from being overwhelmed by the imposing house, Megan was perversely roused to an even greater determination to take down the duke’s son. She had taken on New York slumlords and powerful factory owners; she wasn’t about to retreat just because this family had a longer history than the others she had gone up against.

However, it did cause her to wonder how in the world she was going to get inside the mansion to investigate Theo Moreland.

Megan turned away from the window and walked over to the small dresser. Opening the top drawer, she reached inside it and pulled out a small pink case. It was her box of treasures, a childish pink music box with a rose on top and a little ballerina rising out of the middle of the rose. Once the ballerina had danced when the top was opened, but the mechanism that propelled her had long since died. Still, Megan had kept the box, treasuring it as a link to her mother, who had died when Megan was only seven years old.

She reached inside the box and pulled out a small piece of smooth glass. Although cylindrical in shape, it was not perfectly round, but had several flat, smooth sides.

Megan had never known exactly what it was. She had found it one day years ago—it had been, in fact, not long after Dennis had died, when she had been filled with sorrow. While cleaning her room, she had stumbled across this piece of glass in the dusty area beneath her bed. Pulling it out, she had held it up to the light. It was clear glass, a prism, she thought, with the flat sides, and shot through the middle were tiny strands of silver. She had no idea how it had gotten there; she had never seen it before, and Deirdre, who had slept in the same bedroom with her at that time, had denied all knowledge of it.

Megan had stuck it in her pocket, and had carried it with her, changing it from dress to dress. It had become something of a lucky charm for her. She had found it soothing to rub the flat sides as she thought or worried about something, as she had been in the habit of doing before with the religious medal she had worn much of her life.

That, an oval silver medallion with the raised portrait of the Virgin on it, had been a present from her mother on the occasion of Megan’s first communion, and it was all the more precious to her because her mother had died not long afterward. Megan had worn it always, putting it onto a longer chain as she grew older.

But a few weeks before she found the glass cylinder, she had lost the medallion. She was not sure what had happened to it. She had searched high and low, all over the house and even outside on the sidewalk and in her father’s grocery, but she had finally given up. The chain, she thought, must have broken, and it had slipped off without her even noticing. The odd piece of glass had seemed, somehow, a replacement.

Though Megan no longer carried the good luck charm with her, she had not wanted to leave it behind, despite the limited space in their trunks. In facing Theo Moreland, she thought, she would need all the luck she could get.

Absently, she rubbed the piece of glass for a moment, then shook off her thoughts, and put it away. She left the room and ran lightly down the stairs to find her sister.

Deirdre was sitting at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes for their supper that evening, and she smiled at Megan’s entrance. Megan sat down, and took up a knife and a potato to help her sister.

“Did you go to see Broughton House this afternoon?” Deirdre asked.

“Aye, I did, and it’s as grand as you might imagine.”

“Have you ever wondered about him?” Deirdre asked. “Theo Moreland, I mean.”

“Wondered? Wondered what?”

“You know, what he’s like. How he looks.”

“Oh, I can imagine that perfectly,” Megan responded. “He has English coloring, of course—blond hair and pale, lifeless skin—and doubtless a weak chin. He’ll have that supercilious expression, as if he looks down on the rest of the world with all the arrogance and contempt of a man who’s going to be the Duke of Broughton someday. His eyes are probably a cold blue.”

“Do you think he feels guilty over what he did to Dennis?”

Megan shrugged. “I don’t know. All I care about is that I make sure he pays for it till his dying day.”

“What are you going to do? I mean, how are you going to find out what happened? How are you going to prove it?” Deirdre asked.

“Well, it’s essential that I interview the other Englishmen who were there. Mr. Barchester, of course, and the other one. Julian Coffey.”

Their brother had set sail ten years ago on an expedition to the Amazon led by an American explorer named Griswold Eberhart. In the only letter they had received from Dennis after he left, he had told them that all the other men on the expedition had either fallen ill or given up by the time they had started up the Amazon, leaving only him and Captain Eberhart. Dennis had been exuberant, however, about their good fortune in coming upon a group from England, similarly depleted, with whom they had decided to join forces.

The English party had consisted of three men: Andrew Barchester, Julian Coffey and Theo Moreland. All of them were “excellent men,” he had written, especially Theo Moreland, who was only four years older than he and, according to Dennis, “great good fun.”

Some months later, Frank Mulcahey had received a short, formal note from Theo Moreland informing him of his son’s death and extending his sympathies. But it had been Andrew Barchester who had written to give them a longer account of Dennis’s death, revealing the unexpected news that Dennis had died at the hands of Theo Moreland himself.

“What he told Da wasn’t very specific,” Megan said now.

Deirdre nodded. “It’s been ten years, too. Da’s bound to have forgotten some things.”

“Unfortunately, I imagine Mr. Barchester probably has, too. Still, I have to talk to him.”

“What about Moreland?” Deirdre asked. “Are you going to question him?”

“I doubt he would even talk to me. He lives in a grand house, with a footman. I’m sure some unknown woman would not get past the door.”

“I’ve known you to lurk about until someone you want to interview comes outside and then accost him as he’s getting into his carriage,” Deirdre reminded her, her eyes twinkling.

Megan grinned, a dimple deepening in her cheek and her eyes glowing with mischief as she agreed, “’Tis true I’m not shy about throwing myself in his path. But for the moment, at least, I think it’s better not to do so. He’ll not admit that he killed a man. I need to use subterfuge here. I have to get inside his house and spy on him. If he took something from Dennis, as Da suspects, it’s most likely that he has it in that house. If I can track it down, it will give me proof—and will be something I can use as leverage. If I’m lucky, I’ll trick it out of him in some way.”

“How?”

Megan shrugged. “A number of men are talkative when they’re in their cups. I remember one fellow at Tammany Hall who let out quite a few secrets. He was a regular drinker at O’Reilly’s Tavern, and I was able to get hired on as a tavern maid.”

Deirdre shook her head in rueful admiration. “I remember the fit Da threw when he found out how you’d gotten that story.”

“You’d think I had taken up walking the streets, the way he carried on. I did nothing but serve drinks—and I showed no more bosom than many an evening gown I’ve seen on an elegant lady.”

“I don’t know how you have the nerve. I’d have died of embarrassment—not to mention being too scared to go in the door. Weren’t the men forward? Even, well, forceful?”

Megan shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. It helped having been around newspapermen for several years.”

Megan had had to fight for respect in her field—indeed, she had had to fight for everything she had gotten in her profession, from her first chance to write a story to her present job. She had known from the first that she could never reveal any weakness or others would seize upon it as proof that women were not competent to be reporters.

She had never told Deirdre about many of her experiences, knowing that they would have frightened her delicate sister—enough that Deirdre might even tell their father about them. And while Frank Mulcahey had been proud of her and ready to fight any man who dared suggest that his girl wasn’t as good a reporter as anyone, he had also bombarded her with constant worries and warnings about her safety. If he had heard about some of her more dangerous exploits, she wouldn’t have put it past him to come storming down to the newspaper to have it out with the editor for putting her in harm’s way.

“But that sort of thing won’t work this time,” Megan told her sister now. “I have no idea what tavern Theo Moreland frequents—if he even goes to any place so plebeian. He probably drinks at some gentleman’s club, with no women allowed inside. What I really need is to get inside the house. So I’m going to apply for a position as a servant there.”

Deirdre dropped the potato she had been peeling and stared at her sister, then burst into a merry peal of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Megan asked indignantly. “It’s a perfectly good idea.”

“You? As a maid? Or maybe a cook?” Deirdre said after a moment, when she finally paused in her laughter and wiped away the tears her laughter had brought. “I should like to see that.”

“You think I couldn’t clean or cook?” Megan asked, putting her fists on her hips. “It’s not as if I haven’t done such things. I cooked and cleaned enough when you were growing up.”

Deirdre tried, not entirely successfully, to compress her lips into a straight line. “Perhaps—when Mary Margaret was cracking the whip. But that has been years.”

“I haven’t forgotten how. I’m sitting here paring potatoes, aren’t I?”

“Yes. But look at the pile of peelings in front of you.” Deirdre gestured toward the newspaper spread on the table between them. In front of Megan, there was a handful of peelings. Across the table, before Deirdre, lay a mound three times that size.

“You started before I did,” Megan pointed out. At her sister’s look, she went on, “Oh, all right, I’m not as fast as you. But they won’t know that.”

“You’d be fired in two days. For answering back, if nothing else. I know you, Megan Mulcahey, and taking orders won’t sit well with you.”

“You’re right about that. But I will simply have to accept it. I don’t see any other way to get into the house. Cleaning rooms will give me a perfect opportunity to look for something that Moreland might have stolen from Dennis.” She paused and looked at her sister a little tentatively. “Umm, I wonder—about those things that Dennis, uh, was looking for…”

Deirdre sighed. “No, I don’t know anything more about them. I haven’t heard or seen anything from Dennis since that night. I have no idea what he wants back so badly.” She paused, then went on, “I know you don’t really believe that Dennis came to me.”

“I don’t think you’re fibbing,” Megan assured her hastily. “I know you believe Dennis appeared to you—in actuality or a dream or something. I just find it—well, it’s—”

“I know. It’s much too otherworldly for you. You believe in tangible things, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You deal in facts, in the practical world. I know that. But, Megan…” Deirdre leaned forward, her brow wrinkled earnestly. “I’m not crazy.”

“Deirdre, I never meant…!” Megan cried, reaching her hand to her sister.

“No, I know you don’t think I’m insane. But there would be those who did if they knew some of the things I’ve seen and heard. But I know what I saw. It was Dennis, and he spoke to me—whether he was right there in the room with me or in a dream, I’m not entirely sure. But I know it was he, and I know he was desperate. He wants whatever was taken from him. It means a great deal to him. And he came to us for help.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Megan told her honestly. “’Tis hard for me to believe in such things, but I know you are neither crazy nor a liar, and as long as there is any chance that Dennis did come back from the grave, asking for our help, I shall strive to do what he wants. And I’ll take any help you can give me, even if it does come to you in a dream.”

“I only wish I could help you.” Deirdre sighed. “I wish this sort of thing was not always so uncertain. Every night when I go to bed, I pray that I will hear from him again. That he will tell us how to help him.”

Megan hardly knew how to respond to her sister.

Deirdre’s unquestioning faith in her visions amazed her and left her feeling, frankly, a little envious. It must be comforting, she thought, to be without doubt or questions. It was not a state, she feared, that she would ever be in. Her entire life was built upon questions, it seemed.

They continued to talk as they finished peeling the potatoes, and afterward Deirdre put the potatoes on to boil and checked the roast in the oven as she continued to put the evening meal together. Megan went upstairs to wash up before supper, then sat down to record her notes about Broughton House in a small notebook.

It was her custom on any story to keep notes this way. It helped her to plan her actions, she found, as well as think about the story in depth, and it also kept her quotes as accurate as possible. Over the course of the years, it had become an ingrained habit.

She only wished she had more facts to go on.

Finally she went downstairs to supper, finding, to her surprise, that her father had not come home yet. After waiting for him for some time, she and Deirdre sat down to eat, glancing now and again at the clock in the dining room, then at each other, their worry palpable.

He still had not arrived by the time they were through with their meal, and Megan helped Deirdre wash and dry the dishes as they talked, their vague concern growing.

It was with a great deal of relief that they heard the front door open a few minutes later, and then their father strolled in, whistling a tune.

“Good evenin’ to you,” Frank Mulcahey said, grinning and taking off his cap.

“Where have you been?” Megan asked. “We’ve been worried about you.”

“Worried? No need for that. I’ve been out investigating.”

“Investigating?” Megan cocked an eyebrow at her father as he drew closer, though she could not suppress a smile. “Is that what you call it?” She made a show of sniffing the air. “Smells more like ale to me.”

“Aye, well, that was where I was investigating,” he replied. “Is there a bite of supper left for your poor old da? I’m famished.”

“So you’ve been investigating a tavern?” Megan asked teasingly as they sat down at the kitchen table and Deirdre took out the food from the oven, where she had been keeping it warm for their father.

“Nay, but that’s where I made me inquiries.” Frank winked at his daughter, looking pleased with himself.

Megan straightened, intrigued. “What do you mean? What inquiries?”

“I’ve been thinking about how you’re to get inside that great house to expose the villain.” He shook his head. “I went to see it, and it’s an imposing looking place.”

“You’re right about that,” Megan agreed. “I was telling Deirdre that I think my best chance is to get hired on there as a servant. It’s such a grand house, they must need a lot of servants. I would think there are openings pretty often.”

“And I told her she wouldn’t last a week,” Deirdre put in, sitting down across from Megan and their father.

Megan grimaced. “I could manage.”

“That’s if they’d even hire you in the first place. You don’t look like a servant. You’re much too attractive for one thing, and you haven’t a servant’s demeanor,” Deirdre went on.

“I can put on an act,” Megan said. “I’ll wear the drabbest dress I have.”

“Ah, but nothin’ can hide those sparkling eyes of yours,” her father said, reaching out to pat her cheek fondly. “Don’t worry, lass, I’ve a better idea for you.”

“What?” Megan and Deirdre chorused.

“Well, I went to all the taverns last night that were close to Broughton House, and again this afternoon, and it happens I hit gold this afternoon. There’s a footman from the place comes in for a wee nip every evening if he gets the chance to slip away. Name’s Paul, and our Paul’s an informative lad.”

“Really? What did you find out?” Megan leaned forward.

“First of all, I found out that Lord Raine is in residence at Broughton House.”

“Lord Raine? Who’s that?”

“Seems that’s Himself.”

“I thought his name was Moreland,” Megan said.

“Aye, well, ’tis, except it seems he gets a title, see, because he’s next in line to be the Duke of Broughton. While his da’s alive, he’s another sort of lord. The Marquess of Raine. Don’t ask me to explain it. It took me a bit even to figure out that our Paul was talkin’ about the very villain I was interested in. Anyway, he’s at home, which is our good luck—for I’ll tell you, girl, I was worried we might get here and find that he was off in Timbuktu or some such place.”

“Yes, it concerned me somewhat, too.”

“But according to the gossip, the man’s not looking to go off on one of his adventures for a few months yet.”

“That’s good.”

“Even better is what else he told me. Seems they’re in terrible need of a tutor for two of the boys of the family.”

“A teacher?” Megan looked at him, puzzled. “Da! Are you saying I should go there as a tutor? You can’t be serious!”

“Why not? You’ve a much better chance of convincing them you’re a teacher than a scrub maid.”

“You were always first in your class,” Deirdre pointed out, adding, “Well, I mean, your grades were. It was just because you kept getting in trouble with the nuns that kept you from taking honors.”

“Aye, and you went to the best convent school in New York,” Frank added. “You learned Latin and history and all those high muckety-muck writers you’re always quoting, didn’t ye? All you need is enough to get by for a few weeks. ’Tisn’t as if ye’re actually going to be a teacher.”

“Yes, but—I don’t have any training, any experience. No qualifications, in short. They won’t accept me.”

Her father waved away her objections. “Easy enough to make up, now, aren’t they, when all your references are thousands of miles away in America? It’d take weeks to get a reply from any name you put down. And they can’t wait. They need someone now.”

“But even if I made up the grandest qualifications for myself, why would they hire an American? There must be plenty of Englishwomen who would take the job—and who would have references right here in London.”

Mulcahey grinned. “Seems they’ve already run through most of the lot. Got a certain reputation, these lads have.”

Megan looked at him doubtfully. “What are you saying? They’re such hellions they’ve frightened off all their other governesses?”

“Governesses, then tutors when they got too old for governesses.”

“Too old? How old are they?”

Frank shrugged. “Old enough that Paul was saying any other family’d send ’em off to Eton soon, but the Morelands are an odd lot. I think they must be twelve or thirteen.”

“Thirteen-year-old hellions? What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Ah, you’ll have no trouble. You’re no prissy English-woman. You grew up with boys. Just handle ’em like you did Sean and Robert—give ’em a good knock on the head when they get too rowdy.”

“Da…they’re English aristocrats. You can’t just go knocking their heads together when you feel like it.”

“Come, now, Megan. I’d back you against a couple of spoiled adolescents any day. You’ll do just fine.”

“They wouldn’t hire a woman to teach their precious sons,” Megan argued. “Not when the boys are that old.”

“I’m tellin’ you, they’re desperate. Besides, it appears that the Duchess is an odd one. A free thinker, according to Paul. Believes in women’s suffrage. Equality of the sexes and all that.”

Megan cast her father a disbelieving look. “A Duchess? Da, I think this fellow was pulling your leg.”

“Well, only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Mulcahey smiled at his daughter challengingly.

Never one to ignore a dare when she saw it, Megan squared her shoulders.

“True. Well, I had best get to bed, hadn’t I, if I’m going to be interviewing for a position as a tutor tomorrow?”

## 2

Megan arrived at Broughton House early in the afternoon the following day. When she reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, she hesitated for a moment, gazing up at the grand edifice. Her stomach was a knot of nerves. Soon she would meet the man whom she had hated for ten years. All her grief, all her regret had been channeled into fury, and the fact that the villain had gotten away had only served to increase that anger. Megan wasn’t sure how she would be able to face Moreland without revealing how much she despised him. It was going to take every bit of skill she had.

She clasped her hands together, pushing up her gloves in a nervous gesture. She would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all her father, but she could not help but be a trifle intimidated by the task ahead of her. She had bluffed her way through many a situation in search of a story, but no story had ever been as important to her as this one, and never had she felt so afraid of failing. She could not help but think that the duchess was going to take one look at her and send her packing.

She tugged down her dark blue jacket, quite plain except for its rather large silver buttons. She hoped it would be sober enough to make up for the small straw bonnet perched atop her head, which, with the brim curling jauntily to one side and the cunning cluster of cherries pinned there, was really too stylish for a tutor. Megan had a weakness for hats, and, frankly, she did not possess one that was dowdy enough to suit a governess. Standing here now, she wished that she had gone to a millinery this morning and bought the plainest dark bonnet she could find.

It was too late to do anything else now, she told herself, and, quelling the sudden flutter of nerves in her stomach, she reached up and brought down the heavy brass door knocker.

A moment later, a footman opened the door.

“May I help you?”

“I am here to see the Duchess of Broughton,” Megan said calmly, looking the man squarely in the eyes.

Once she began, as always, her nervousness receded, turning into a sort of low-level hum that kept her alert and ready for anything.

She saw the footman sweep her with a quick, assessing glance, taking in everything about her and no doubt classifying her immediately as to social status, dress and country of origin.

“May I ask if you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” Megan lied. She had always found it best to go on the offensive. Boldness generally won the day. “I am here concerning the tutoring position.”

The man’s expression changed from aloof and faintly forbidding to almost eager. “Yes, of course. Let me see if her grace is ready to receive you.”

He stepped back, and Megan entered the house. She found herself in a large formal entryway. It was floored in marble, and across from her, elegant stairs rose to the second floor. A hallway stretched in either direction, with another leading toward the rear of the house.

“If you will be so kind as to give me your name?” The footman said politely, directing Megan toward a low velvet-cushioned bench that stood beneath an enormous gold-framed mirror.

“Miss Megan Henderson,” Megan responded. She had decided that it would be too risky to use her real last name, as there was a chance that Moreland would connect it with the man he had known ten years earlier.

“Very good, Miss Henderson.” The man turned to go, and just then a shriek echoed from down one of the hallways.

Both Megan and the footman turned toward the sound. As they watched, a young woman ran out of one of the doorways, followed a fraction of a second later by another, older, woman. Both were richly dressed—rather overdressed, to Megan’s sense of taste—with intricately coiffed hair, and there was about them a tangible air of privilege and wealth.

That appearance was somewhat spoiled at the moment by the fact that both women were emitting high, piercing squeals, holding up their skirts and almost dancing about as they peered down at the floor around them.

Megan stared, and the footman let out a groan. As they stood watching, a number of small furry creatures scurried out of the doorway behind the women and raced off down the hall toward the front door, followed an instant later by two adolescent boys and a dog.

The women’s shrieks grew louder and higher, if that was possible, and they ran and jumped up onto benches on either side of the hallway. The mice, obviously the object of all the hysteria, scampered along the elegant marble hallway, darting behind vases and under tables in their dash toward freedom.

The dog added to the noise, barking excitedly and jumping up to snap at the enticing ruffles on one of the women’s skirts, then darting after the fleeing mice, then whirling back to leap again at the ruffles, which were fluttering as the woman jittered agitatedly atop the bench.

One of the boys dived under a narrow hallway table to grab one of the mice and knocked against one of the legs. The vase of flowers on top of the table wobbled and overturned with a crash, spilling blossoms and water. The boy let go of his quarry and whirled around, reaching out just in the nick of time to catch the vase as it rolled off the table. He let out a whoop of joy at this feat and jumped up, setting the vase back on the table and rejoining the chase.

As Megan watched in fascination, the footman hurried into the fray, grabbing the frantically barking dog and pulling him away from the offending ruffles. The women, she thought, were abysmally silly; their screeching and dancing about were only serving to excite the dog even more.

“Hush, Rufus! Down!” the footman shouted.

His words seemed to have no effect on the dog, who whirled around, breaking the man’s hold on his collar, and ran after the boys, barking like mad. His long tail caught a tall, slender vase standing on the floor as he passed, and it toppled over. At that, a wail went up from the footman, and he rushed to the vase to examine it.

Megan reached up to her hat, untying it and whipping it from her head. As the tiny mice ran toward her, she squatted down, putting her hat on the floor in front of her like a scoop, and quickly swept up several of the mice as they tumbled into it.

She folded the edges of the bonnet together, trapping the squealing, squirming mice inside. Turning toward the dog, now barking and jumping and whirling in delirious circles in front of her, she raised her voice, saying in a sharp, firm tone, “No! Rufus! Down!”

The note of command in her tone reached the dog, and, amazingly, he stopped whirling and barking. Instead, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of his mouth in a foolish doggy grin, he gazed up at Megan.

“Good boy,” she told him. “Sit.” She pointed down at the floor.

Rufus promptly sat, and Megan reached down with her free hand and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Good boy, Rufus.”

“That’s wizard!” one of the boys said, sliding to a stop beside the dog. He held a box in one hand, and from the scrabbling noises issuing from it, Megan assumed that it held some of the mice. “Rufus did exactly as you said. He hardly ever does that.”

The other boy let out a cry of triumph, pouncing on a mouse that had just emerged from the fringe encircling a gold settee. Sticking the little animal in one of the pockets of his jacket, he trotted up to join his brother.

Megan looked at the boys. These must be the charges who had run off almost every tutor in the city. They didn’t look, she thought, like such monsters.

They were twins, identical in looks, and though they were a little messy—their black hair tousled, a smudge of dirt across one’s forehead, the other’s shirttail hanging out in back—they were undeniably handsome lads, and intelligence shone out of their green eyes. She had expected them to look arrogant and spoiled, but she saw neither of those qualities in their faces. Instead, she saw interest and an unabashed admiration for her dog-handling skills.

“It isn’t that hard. It’s the tone of voice one uses,” Megan explained. “You see, Rufus wants to be good.”

“He does?” The first twin looked surprised and glanced down at the dog.

“Yes. You just have to let him know how to do that. Praise him when he’s good and let him know when he has misbehaved. A firm voice—you don’t have to be loud, but he has to know you mean it.” She bent over the dog, rubbing her hand back over his head. “Isn’t that right, Rufus?”

The dog’s tail thumped, and he leaned into her hand, gazing at her with a silly, infatuated look. With a final pat, Megan straightened up.

“I’m Alex Moreland,” the twin holding the box said politely. “And this is my brother, Con.”

“How do you do?” Megan extended her hand to shake each of the boys’ hands. “My name is Megan M—Henderson.”

“Miss Henderson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Con replied with exquisite politeness.

“Now, I believe these are yours?” She extended her other hand, still holding the bonnet edges firmly clamped together.

“Yes, miss. Thank you ever so much for catching them.” Alex opened the lid of the box of mice, and Megan slid her catch into the box with the others.

Con quickly pulled another couple of mice from his pocket and smiled at her. “You didn’t scream or anything. Most girls do.”

He cast a contemptuous glance back down the hall, where the footman had helped the ladies down from their perch. The older of the women was now sitting on the bench, leaning back with her eyes closed, her hand to her head, moaning, while the younger woman fanned her vigorously.

“Not all girls are used to such things,” Megan told him, grinning back. “I had the advantage of having three brothers, you see. But may I ask what you are doing, carrying all these mice about the house?”

“They’re to feed our boa constrictor. That’s where we were taking them. Would you like to see the boa?”

“We have a parrot, too. And a salamander and some frogs,” Alex added.

“My goodness. I’ve never seen a boa,” Megan said. “That does sound interesting.”

Their words apparently reached the fainting woman, for she sat straight up with a little cry, her eyes flying open. “A snake! In this house?”

The younger girl glanced around her uneasily, and Megan wondered if she was going to climb back onto the bench. “A snake? Where?”

“He’s upstairs. You needn’t worry,” Alex assured her.

“In a cage,” Con added.

“That’s horrid!” the older woman exclaimed, agitation propelling her to her feet. “Is the duchess aware of—of these wild animals?”

“They aren’t wild,” Con protested. “Well, I mean, I suppose they aren’t tame, but they don’t do anything. They’re in cages. Well, the salamander and frogs are in a terrarium, but they can’t get out.”

“Or, at least, almost never,” Alex added gravely, and Megan was certain that she saw a flash of amusement in his eyes as he spoke.

The girl let out a shriek and clapped her hand over her mouth at Alex’s words. “Almost!”

“You wicked creature!” the older woman cried, starting forward with such anger on her face that Megan instinctively moved to block her way to Alex.

Alex, however, seemed to need no help, for he squared his shoulders and came up beside Megan, as did his twin, facing the older woman’s wrath.

“Someone should take you in hand!” the woman exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be allowed in polite company. Bringing vermin like that into the room.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t insisted we come into the drawing room and see you,” Con retorted heatedly.

“And the mice wouldn’t have gotten loose if you hadn’t kept on about wanting to see what was inside the box,” added Alex.

“Oh!” The woman’s face turned bright red. “How dare you speak to me that way?”

“I am sure that Alex and Con did not mean to be disrespectful,” Megan said quickly, trying to head off further disaster. “They would never want to offend one of their mother’s friends. Would you, boys?”

She cast a significant look at Alex, then at Con.

Con’s chin jutted out obstinately for a moment, but then he heaved a sigh and said, “No.”

“Now, I think you should apologize to these two ladies,” Megan went on, giving the twins a little push at their backs, adding in a whisper to the two boys, “You wouldn’t want them gossiping about how poorly your mother has raised you, would you?”

This notion seemed to have an effect on both the lads, for they were quick to step forward and give the women polite little apologies.

“Thank you, my dears,” said a warm voice down the hall, and all the occupants of the hall turned to look.

At some distance behind the footman and the two visiting women stood a tall, slender woman of regal carriage. Her upswept hair was a dark auburn, streaked at the temples with wings of white. She wore a plain blue dress, but the cut and material were clearly of the finest, and the color was a vivid reflection of the color of her eyes. She was a woman of great beauty and poise, and Megan was instantly sure that this was the Duchess of Broughton.

“Mother!” the twins exclaimed and went to her.

Megan noted that she smiled at the boys with warmth and affection, bending to give each a kiss on the cheek. Then she started down the hallway toward the rest of the group, while the twins seized the opportunity to hurry away.

“Your grace.” The footman turned and bowed toward the duchess. “Lady Kempton and Miss Kempton.”

The other two women turned to face the duchess, now smiling.

“Duchess. Such a pleasure to see you,” Lady Kempton said, stepping forward, hand extended. “I’m sure you remember my daughter, Sarah.”

“Yes, of course,” the duchess replied coolly, shaking Lady Kempton’s hand. “What an unexpected pleasure. Miss Kempton.”

She looked past them toward Megan. “And to whom do I owe my thanks for bringing order out of this chaos?”

“Miss Henderson, your grace,” the footman told her. “She is here about the tutor’s position.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” The duchess smiled much more warmly than she had toward her other visitors, and she came forward to shake Megan’s hand. “Miss Henderson. How nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” Megan replied, taking the duchess’s hand. She was not sure how to address the woman. The footman had called her “your grace,” but Megan’s tongue balked at speaking such a reverential title.

The duchess turned toward the Kemptons, saying, “Please accept my regrets, Lady Kempton, but as you can see, I have a prior engagement. Had I but known you were coming, I would have arranged another time.”

The other woman’s face tightened, and Megan felt sure that Lady Kempton was insulted by the duchess choosing to interview a prospective employee over conversing with Lady Kempton and her daughter. Still, there was little she could do other than accept what amounted to a dismissal.

“Of course,” she said through thinned lips. “Perhaps another time. Come, Sarah.”

The two women walked past them, and the duchess turned to Megan. “Come. I think the garden would be a pleasant place to chat this afternoon, don’t you?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“We’ll have tea in the garden,” the duchess said to the waiting footman, then started down the hall, sweeping Megan along with her. “I am sorry about your hat,” the Duchess said, a smile quirking at the corners of her mouth. “I shall replace it, of course.”

“Thank you. That’s very generous of you.”

The duchess smiled at her. “It’s the least I can do. You handled the twins expertly. I must say, it isn’t something that most people are able to do.”

Megan smiled. Unexpectedly, she found herself rather liking this woman. “I had two younger brothers. I learned a good bit about boys…and dogs.”

“Ah, yes, Rufus. He is something of a handful. The boys found him in the woods, badly mauled. It is a miracle that he lived, and I fear that everyone has somewhat spoiled him as a result. He responds to the tone of authority in one’s voice, and I fear several of the more timid servants have no control over him at all.”

The older woman cast a sideways glance at Megan, the hint of laughter in her eyes. “I fear that a number of people would say that the same is true of Constantine and Alexander, as well.”

“They seem like lively boys,” Megan admitted. “But I don’t think that they willfully misbehave.”

They had reached the end of the hallway, and the duchess ushered Megan out the door onto the back terrace. A large garden lay behind the house, and beyond its carefully manicured walkways was an expanse of green lawn and trees, a quiet, verdant oasis in the midst of the city. The duchess led her down the wide, shallow steps and along the pathway to a graceful arbor. Shaded by the arching roof upon which roses tangled sat a small wrought-iron table and matching chairs.

“I often have tea out here,” the duchess explained. “It is one of my favorite spots. I find it quite soothing to the soul.”

“It’s lovely,” Megan agreed honestly.

“I hope that you will join me in a cup of tea,” the duchess went on.

“Thank you,” Megan answered, surprised by the courtesy. It was not one usually extended to employees. Or prospective employees, she reminded herself. She felt a trifle guilty at the other woman’s kindness, and the feeling prompted her to say, “I am sorry you were not able to visit with your friends. I could easily have waited.”

The duchess let out a little chuckle. “Oh, it was no hardship. I was glad of an excuse to get out of Lady Kempton’s call. The woman is no friend of mine. She comes, as many ambitious mamas do, not to visit me, in whom she has no interest, but to ingratiate herself with the mother of a future duke. As if Theo would have anything to do with an insipid miss like Sarah Kempton.”

“Oh. I see.” Megan’s pulse sped up at the mention of Theo Moreland, and she cast about for some way to keep the conversation about him.

However, the duchess was already moving on, saying, “Although I must admit that I don’t remember having an appointment with you. Did the agency send you?”

Megan found it difficult to look into the duchess’s calm blue gaze and tell a lie. So, hoping that her father had been correct in what he had told her of the woman, she said candidly, “No, ma’am, I am afraid that I was not entirely truthful with your servant. The agency did not send me.” Skirting around the edges of the truth, she went on, “They did not feel that it would be appropriate to send a female candidate for the position of tutor to your sons. However, I feel that a woman can do an equally good job educating a child as a man can, regardless of whether the child is a boy or a girl. So I took it upon myself to make my application directly to you, for I had heard that you were a woman of progressive thought and a believer in the equality of the sexes.”

“Bravo, Miss Henderson,” the duchess said. “I couldn’t agree more. You were quite right to approach me yourself. I could see quite clearly this afternoon that you are more capable of handling the boys than most of the male tutors that I have employed.”

At that moment, a grave-looking gentleman arrived at the table, carrying a tray of tea things, and they were silent for a moment as the duchess went about the task of pouring tea for the two of them.

The duchess took a sip from her cup, then said, “I presume you have references, Miss Henderson.”

“Oh, yes.” Megan handed her the list over which she had labored for some time.

It was, she thought, artfully deceptive, listing her own education at the St. Agnes convent school, then adding a stretch of two years at a small, progressive women’s college that she knew had gone out of business many years ago, and following that with several years of schooling the children of Mr. and Mrs. James Allenham, whose address happened to be that of her sister Mary Margaret.

After much thinking on the matter, she had decided that it would be better to go with a simple background that would stand up to the duchess’s checking into it, rather than a tissue of more elaborate lies that would sound impressive enough for the children of a duke but would dissolve under the least scrutiny. She could describe the classes at the New England experimental college quite well, as she had done an article about the men and women who had banded together with high hopes to provide a superior education for young women. Megan was counting on the duchess’s intellectual leanings, and the fact that the family was desperate to find a tutor, to get her a job.

“I am afraid that my references are all in the United States,” she said apologetically.

“Yes, I noticed that you are American. But, frankly, I think it would be an educational experience for the boys to have a teacher from another country. Could I ask why you chose to come to England to seek employment?”

Megan spun a tale of a lifelong desire to see the country about which she had read all her life. Unable to afford a tour of the country, she had saved her money, she explained, to sail to England, with the hopes of then earning her way while she stayed here. Fortunately, Megan had always been an avid reader, so she was able to intersperse her story with praise for, and even quotes from, Chaucer, Shakespeare, and the more recent poets such as Byron and Shelley.

When she wound down, she braced herself for a more thorough examination of her knowledge in areas other than literature. However, somewhat to her surprise, after a passing reference to the duke’s insistence upon a solid grounding in the classical languages, the duchess went on to a subject that clearly interested her more: the condition of workers in the United States.

Having written articles exposing the wrongdoings of a tenement landlord, as well as having investigated a factory that was notorious for its mistreatment of employees, Megan had no trouble fielding the other woman’s questions, and they were soon absorbed in a lengthy discussion of the plight of the working class.

The scrape of a boot heel against the flagstone walkway interrupted them, and both women looked up.

A tall, broad-shouldered man was coming down the steps toward them. His hair was pitch black and thick, a trifle longer and shaggier than was customary, and it was shoved back carelessly, a lock falling waywardly across his forehead. His eyes were a light color in his tanned face—it wasn’t until he was closer that Megan could make out that they were a clear, compelling green. He had a square jaw and prominent, sharp cheekbones, the strength of his face softened by the curve of sensuously full lips.

He was, Megan thought, the handsomest man she had ever seen. His gaze locked on hers, and a jolt shot through her.

She had never felt anything like this sensation before. It was stunning, paralyzing, slamming through her almost like a physical blow. Her nerves hummed, her muscles tightened, and for the briefest, strangest instant she felt as if she knew the man—not in the way she knew other people, even those she had known all her life, but in a deep, visceral way.

Even as she stared at him, the man halted abruptly and stood for a moment, staring back at her. Then, a little jerkily, he started toward them.

“Ah, there you are,” the duchess said pleasantly, motioning him toward her. “Come here, dear, I want you to meet someone.”

He reached them and bent down to kiss the older woman on the cheek. His eyes strayed almost involuntarily to Megan.

“Dear, this is Miss Henderson. She will be tutoring the boys,” the duchess said. “Miss Henderson, this is my eldest son. Theo.”

## 3

Megan continued to stare. This? This was the man she had hated for the past ten years?

“Miss Henderson.” Theo sketched a polite bow to her. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Megan murmured a polite reply, not even sure what she said. She was finding it difficult to bring her scattered thoughts together.

“So you are brave enough to take on the twins,” he went on, his eyes twinkling. If he found it odd that a woman was being hired as a tutor for his adolescent brothers, he concealed it well.

“I—I’m not sure that I am their tutor—I mean—” Megan glanced toward the duchess. Had the woman actually hired her? She could scarcely believe it, but the duchess’s words a few moments ago had certainly sounded as if she had given Megan the job.

“I am so sorry,” the duchess said. “I did not give you a chance to refuse, did I? I confess, I was so eager that I was rude. Will you accept the position as their tutor, Miss Henderson?”

“Yes, of course.” Megan could scarcely believe her good fortune. She had been certain that her father’s plan would fail. Yet here she was, ensconced in the bosom of the family.

She stole a sideways glance at Theo and found his gaze on her, subtle lines creasing his forehead. She had the sudden, frantic notion that he knew who she was and why she was there. She told herself that was impossible. Ludicrous. It was merely her nerves making her see things that were not there.

Theo looked toward his mother, a smile forming on his lips, and Megan breathed a little sigh of relief. She had to get rid of this edginess.

“Perhaps Miss Henderson ought to see more of the twins before she makes her decision,” Theo warned, grinning. “Has she visited their menagerie?”

“Theo, really,” the duchess said repressively. “Don’t scare Miss Henderson off. I have only just found her.”

“I like animals,” Megan replied sharply, aware of a certain resentment that Theo Moreland was not at all as she had imagined him to be. “And I found the twins quite polite in a difficult situation. Indeed, they are lively lads who—who doubtless need a challenge in their schoolwork.”

As soon as her sharp words were out, Megan regretted them. It was not part of her plan to antagonize Theo Moreland.

To her surprise, his dark eyebrows lifted in amusement. “Well done, Miss Henderson. I see the boys have a champion.” He turned toward his mother, saying, “Perhaps it has been a mistake to give Con and Alex male tutors all these years. Given the way Olivia, Kyria and Thisbe feel about them, as well as Miss Henderson, it is obvious that women have a soft spot for the rascals.”

The duchess let out an inelegant snort. “Not Lady Kempton and her daughter.”

“The devil take it! Are they here?” Theo’s face assumed a hunted expression, and he glanced around, as if the women might be hiding somewhere among the trees and bushes, about to jump out at him.

“Not any longer,” the duchess assured him. “I was quite rude to them, I’m afraid. But they made me angry—criticizing Alex and Con in my own home! I hadn’t even invited them. They simply came calling, hoping, no doubt, to surprise you at home—though, of course, they pretended that it was me they had come to call on. Abominable women.”

“Thank heavens you sent them packing,” Theo remarked. “I scarcely dare attend a party anymore for fear Lady Kempton will pop up with one or the other of her daughters in tow. Which did she have with her today—the silly one or the spotty one?”

“I’m not sure. I am afraid I didn’t look at her closely,” the duchess admitted.

“She was definitely silly,” Megan offered. “As if those mice could do her any harm!”

“Mice?” Theo asked, a smile starting. “There were mice involved?”

“Oh, yes, and Rufus, as well,” the duchess said with a resigned air.

“Rufus wouldn’t have snapped at her ruffles if she had not jumped up onto the bench and danced about like that,” Megan said, defending the dog.

Theo threw his head back and laughed. “This sounds like a scene I very much regret missing. No doubt it would have been worth even having to converse with Lady Kempton.”

“Well, I would rather you had been there,” the duchess retorted. “I am sure then she would have been all honey and courtesy.” She sighed. “Much as I love having you at home, dear, I must say it is easier when you are off on one of your travels. Then I don’t have all these ambitious mothers trying to be friends with me.”

“Shall I set sail tomorrow?” Theo joked.

“Of course not.” The duchess rose and patted her son’s cheek fondly. “Now, dear, if you will do me a favor and show Miss Henderson about the place…I really must get back to my correspondence. I am right in the middle of a very important point to the prime minister.”

“Of course. It would be my pleasure,” Theo replied, and his eyes went over to Megan.

Panic fluttered through her. She didn’t want to have to face Theo Moreland alone right now. Indeed, she did not want to be around him at all, even accompanied by the duchess. She was feeling much too uncertain and confused.

She could not understand the feeling that had flashed through her when she first saw Theo—the visceral tug, the bizarre sensation that she knew him. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before.

But even putting that whole odd moment aside, she found Theo Moreland’s presence distinctly unsettling. She had expected to feel something as soon as she saw the man—but she had not expected the something she felt to be attraction!

She knew logically that it was unreasonable to expect the man to look the way she had envisioned him for years. The fact that a man was a villain did not mean that he would look like one. A handsome face and form could hide all sorts of wickedness. She had met venal, cold, selfish—even evil—men before in the course of her work, men who had appeared to be quite ordinary or pleasant looking, even handsome. She knew better than to take someone at face value.

Yet she had trouble reconciling this square-jawed, handsome, smiling stranger with the weasely-faced murderer she had always imagined. It wasn’t just his looks, she knew; it was his smile, his frank and open demeanor, the charming twinkle in his eyes—none of these things seemed to suit a murderer.

Most of all, she could not deny the sensations that rushed up in her in response to this man—the flutter in her stomach when he smiled at her, the strange heat that crept through her when his gaze settled on her. It was disturbing, even a little frightening, that a man she hated could make her feel so…so fizzy and unaccountably warm.

And why had he kept looking at her? After that first unnerving moment when she had been pierced by the sensation that he had somehow figured out who she was, Megan had noticed him sneaking glances at her as the three of them talked. There was a certain warmth in his eyes that she knew denoted an appreciation of her face and figure, but there was something else, as well, a questioning, considering quality that she could not quite understand.

She told herself that he was curious about her only because it was odd for a woman to tutor two boys. Even knowing his mother’s espoused causes, he would have to wonder about Megan for applying for the position. It was unorthodox.

He could not suspect her true reason for being here. It had been ten years since he had killed Dennis; he surely would not connect her arrival with that.

As for the interest in his eyes when he looked at her, there was nothing remarkable in that. She had heard a number of tales of wealthy employers trying to seduce—or even force their attentions upon—governesses and maidservants. It meant nothing other than that she could add vile seducer to his list of sins.

Theo presented his arm to Megan, smiling. “Well, Miss Henderson? Shall I give you the grand tour?”

Megan pulled herself from her worried thoughts and pasted a smile on her lips. “Of course, uh, my lord. I would appreciate it very much.”

She hesitated for an instant, then stepped forward and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. His arm was rock solid beneath her fingertips, and even though she kept her hand as lightly on his arm as she could, it was impossible not to feel the firm muscle beneath his jacket.

“You have trouble with ‘my lord’?” he asked as they strolled through the garden. “I find Americans often do.”

Megan cast a look up at him. He was gazing down at her, not quite smiling, but his green eyes were alight with life and amusement. Megan realized that it suddenly seemed more difficult to breathe.

What was the matter with her all of a sudden? Why did this man affect her so strangely? She had never felt so tongue-tied and nervous, so unsure of herself.

“I always tell them just to call me Moreland if it makes them feel better. Or Theo.”

“Oh, I could not do that,” Megan said hastily, then mentally castigated herself for sounding so missish.

“As you like,” he replied equably, guiding her around toward the side of the house, where they entered by a different door from the one Megan and the duchess had taken earlier.

“This is the gallery,” Theo told her. One wall of the long hall was a bank of windows overlooking the garden. The opposite wall held portrait after portrait. “Countless generations of former dukes,” Theo explained carelessly, gesturing toward the paintings. “Nothing much of interest here, although it makes a great long expanse for rolling hoops down or turning cartwheels.”

“Activities of the twins?” Megan asked, smiling. She could well picture the boys using the grand, somber gallery for such occupations.

“For all of us at one time or another,” Theo replied. “I fear Reed and I were rather like the twins when we were young. Of course, we were not able to communicate with one another without words as Con and Alex can, which I suppose put us at a disadvantage in the area of creating trouble. And we didn’t have quite the number of animals to add to the mix—Mother blames me for that.”

“Oh? Did you bring them Rufus?”

“No. Reed was responsible for him. Alex and Con found him in the woods near Reed’s house last fall, rather badly torn up. An old farmer there patched him up for them and nursed him back to health. Then they brought him back here to terrorize the household. But I am the one who sent them the parrot and the boa and a number of other unseemly pets.”

“Indeed? Those are rather unusual pets.”

“I travel a good deal,” Theo responded. “Only the fear of Mother’s wrath keeps me from sending back more. I wanted to bring them a koala bear from Australia, but then I would have had to transplant eucalyptus trees for them to eat, as well, so I gave it up.”

“That’s fascinating. Where else have you been?” Megan kept her voice light and casual, though her heart sped up a little at finding herself so quickly on the threshold of the subject matter in which she was interested.

“Africa, China, the United States. India.”

“South America?” Megan suggested.

He looked off into the distance, and something in his face changed subtly, hardened. “Yes. There, too. Went searching for the headwaters of the Amazon.”

“And did you find them?” Megan watched him carefully, alert for even the most subtle signs.

Theo shrugged. Megan was about to ask him another question, but as they reached the end of the gallery and turned into the large open area of the foyer, Theo caught sight of a woman coming down the stairs, and he lifted his hand in greeting.

“Thisbe!” He turned toward Megan, saying, “Come. You must meet my sister Thisbe.”

Megan swallowed her irritation at the interruption and walked with him to the elegant staircase. She studied the woman coming down the steps.

She was tall and slender, as the duchess had been, but her hair was the rich black of Theo’s, and her eyes were an equally vivid green. Small spectacles perched on her narrow nose. She was dressed plainly in a dark skirt and white shirtwaist. Megan noticed that one cuff was ink-stained, and there was a smudge of something greenish on the blouse. She wore an abstracted look, but it vanished as she saw Theo, and she smiled broadly, her face lighting up.

“Theo!” She held out both her hands. “I haven’t seen you in—” she frowned “—well, in a long time.”

“That is because you have been locked in your shed out there for the better part of two days,” her brother replied teasingly, taking her hands in his and smiling down fondly into her face. “What have you been doing?”

“Experiments,” she replied. “I’ve been corresponding with a scientist in France regarding the effects of carbolic acid on—”

Theo raised his hands as if in surrender. “No. Please. You know I won’t understand a word of what you say.”

“Heathen,” Thisbe retorted without heat.

Theo turned toward Megan, saying, “I am the only member of my family who dislikes education.”

“No, not education. You merely dislike books,” Thisbe put in. She smiled at her brother and then at Megan. “And writing. He is the most dreadful correspondent—which is really quite horrid, as he is off traveling most of the time.” She extended her hand to Megan. “Hello, I am Thisbe Robinson, Theo’s twin.”

“I’m sorry,” Theo said. “You can see that I am equally abysmal with social skills. Thisbe, please allow me to introduce you to the twins’ new tutor, Miss Henderson.”

Thisbe looked faintly surprised, then pleased, and shook Megan’s hand heartily. “What a splendid idea. I am sure that a woman will deal much better with the boys. Have you met them yet?”

“Yes.” Megan smiled at Thisbe. She could not help but like the woman, whose candid, unaffected manner was very refreshing, especially compared to the other upper-crust women whom Megan had met, both English and American.

Theo let out a chuckle. “Actually, she met them in a typical situation. They let loose some mice on Lady Kempton and her daughter.”

“I am sure no one deserved it more,” Thisbe commented dryly. She turned to Megan to say earnestly, “There is no harm in Alex and Con, really. They are merely—”

“Lively?” Theo supplied. “Isn’t that how you described them, Miss Henderson?”

“Yes. There is nothing wrong with having energy,” Megan said stoutly. “It simply needs to be directed.”

“Quite right, Miss Henderson.” Thisbe beamed at her. “I say, I think you will deal nicely with the boys. Desmond—that is my husband—and I are always happy to help in the scientific areas. I find traditional texts quite lacking in that field.”

“As are my skills, I am sure,” Megan replied honestly. “I would welcome any help you could supply.”

No answer could have pleased Thisbe more, it seemed, for she seized Megan’s hand and shook it again with enthusiasm, promising that she would meet with her soon regarding her lesson plans. Then, with a quick smile for her brother, Thisbe was off down the rear hall, almost instantly deep in thought again.

“She and Desmond are excellent teachers in all things scientific,” Theo told her. “It is only with such small practical matters as remembering supper that they have problems. So if you want her help, I feel sure you will have to seek her out. The twins can show you where her laboratory is located—it is at the back of the yard, since she set fire to her first one and not only alarmed the servants but did some damage to my father’s workroom.”

“Your father’s workroom?” Megan asked, puzzled. She wouldn’t have expected a duke to have a workroom. She could not have said what she thought a duke did all day, but she would have supposed it involved anything but work.

“There are those who would call it a junk room, I imagine,” Theo explained. “It is a shed where he keeps his potsherds and the other artifacts he is working on. He sorts and identifies them, restores them if it’s possible. The more important pieces, of course, he puts in his collection room in the house—he has one here and one at Broughton Park—but the overflow is consigned to shelves in his workroom.”

“I see. He is interested in…antiquities, then?”

“Yes. Though only Greek and Roman. I am afraid he finds the rest of the world of little importance—the same can probably be said of everything since, oh, the time of Nero, as well.”

“I see.”

“Now, Uncle Bellard is interested in much more modern times—even as recent as the Napoleonic wars.”

“Uncle Bellard?” Megan repeated.

“Great-uncle, actually. He lives here, too. But it will probably be some time before you meet him. He is somewhat shy and usually sticks to his rooms in the east wing.” He grinned down at her. “Don’t worry, that’s about all the people present here at the moment. We are rather down from most years—we usually have a surprising number of relatives pop out of the woodwork when the season arrives. Fortunately, Lady Rochester has decided not to grace us with her presence this year—she chose to torment her daughter-in-law instead—or I would have to warn you to avoid her at all costs.”

Megan could not help but chuckle. There was something infectious about Theo’s smile. She looked at him and once again felt that strange tug inside her. The feeling was bizarre and unsettling, and she could not understand why she was experiencing it. She was not even sure what the sensation was.

However, she was sure that she should not be feeling it for this man. He was her sworn enemy, the man she had hated for ten years.

She put her hand to her midsection, as if to quiet the tumult there.

“I’ll take you up to the nursery,” Theo said. “It’s something of a climb, I’m afraid. In general, Mother has never approved of the notion of sequestering children away in the nursery. However, given the twins’ collection of animals, it seemed the most logical thing to stick them and their menagerie at some distance from the rest of us. So they are up on the third story.”

Megan, never having lived in the sort of wealthy household that had a separate nursery area for the children, was not sure exactly what to expect. From tales she had heard and read, she half expected some sort of gloomy area tucked away under the eaves, but when they reached it, she found that the Moreland nursery was a pleasantly sunny place with a large schoolroom and several smaller rooms leading off from it.

Shelves filled with toys and books lined the two long walls of the rectangular room. Four desks lined up back to back stood in the center of the room, and at one end of them stood a large globe on a stand. A chart of the solar system and an astronomical map of the night sky were pinned to the wall, as were several smaller maps of England, Europe and the world. The world map, Megan noticed, was dotted with pins of various colors, the predominant ones of red. Along the far wall, in the sun streaming in through the windows, were several cages containing animals.

The twins were engaged in feeding their various animals, the dog, Rufus, beside them, gazing hopefully into the cages. Con and Alex turned at the sound of their entrance, and broke into smiles when they saw Megan and Theo.

“Theo! Miss Henderson!” they chorused.

Alex set the cup of fruits and nuts inside the large birdcage and closed the door, and the boys approached them.

“We’ve already fed the boa,” Alex said apologetically. “I’m sorry. If we had known you would come up here, we would have waited.”

“That’s all right,” Megan replied candidly. While she had grown up with boys and their variety of pets, watching a snake swallow several live mice did not appeal to her. “But you could introduce me to your other animals, if you like.”

“But first,” Theo put in, “I’ve brought Miss Henderson up here to tell you that she is going to be your new tutor.”

The two boys stared at her in surprise, but she was pleased to see that their surprise was quickly replaced by excitement.

“Wizard!” Alex exclaimed.

“You’ll be ever so much better a tutor!” Con added. “You’re not at all stuffy.”

“They usually are,” Alex explained.

“Well, I shall try my best not to be,” Megan assured them. “Now, why don’t we look at your animals! That’s a beautiful parrot.”

She pointed to the vivid red-and-blue bird sitting on its perch of a dead branch inside its large cage. It was busily cracking nuts with its powerful beak, but it paused to turn its head and regard her with one bright eye.

Dropping the nut in its beak, the parrot let out a loud squawk. “Hello!”

“Hello,” Megan answered, going over to him.

“Wellie. Treat. Wellie. Treat.” The bird began to shift from one claw to the other on its perch, turning its head this way and that to watch Megan.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Wellington. Everyone calls him Wellie,” Con answered, coming up beside her.

“Don’t put your finger through the bars,” Alex warned, joining them. “Wellington sometimes takes a nip at one.”

Behind them, Theo let out a snort. “Sometimes? Without fail is more like it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful bird,” Megan said. “Where is it from?”

“The Solomon Islands,” Theo answered, coming up behind her. “I sent him to the boys, a fact for which much of my family never stops blaming me.”

“It’s not Wellington’s fault he gets out sometimes,” Con protested. “He only does what’s natural to him.”

“That’s true. A strong argument for leaving him in the jungle,” Theo responded. “There he can fly about all he pleases. I don’t really believe in taking animals from their habitat, but sometimes I find it hard to resist—particularly in this case, where I found him already caged in a market.”

“We’re awfully glad you did,” Con told him. “And Hercules, as well.”

“Hercules?” Megan asked, raising her brows.

“The boa,” Con replied, nodding his head toward the thick snake curled sleeping in another large cage.

“Come, see the others. Here are the turtle and frog.”

Megan let herself be led from cage to terrarium to cage to aquarium, admiring a variety of fish, fowl and reptiles, and even a rabbit and a fuzzy creature that the twins informed her was a guinea pig.

“You must be very responsible,” Megan told the boys.

They looked at her, slightly surprised. It was obviously not an appellation that they were accustomed to having attributed to them.

“Taking care of all these animals,” she explained.

“Oh.” The boys glanced at one another, and Alex said with a smile, “Yes, I suppose we are, actually.”

“Did you hear that, Theo?” Con asked, turning to his older brother.

“I certainly did.” Theo smiled at Megan. “I think Mother may have found the perfect tutor for you boys this time.”

Megan felt warmed all through by Theo’s smile. She could feel a blush rising up in her cheeks, and she looked away from him quickly.

It was crazy that she should react to him this way, she thought. Bizarre. She needed to get away and think this thing through by herself. Everything was different from what she had expected. She had not really thought of what she expected the Duke of Broughton’s family to be, but certainly it was not what she had seen of them. Theo’s sister, the twins, the duchess were warm and friendly, people who, if she had met them in any other circumstances, she would have liked immediately.

Even in these circumstances, she liked them, Megan had to admit. Of course, they were not responsible for what Theo had done. It was not beyond the realm of reason that they should be bright or concerned or humorous. Any family could turn out one bad specimen. Theo was not necessarily like his family.

The problem, though, Megan knew, was that Theo did seem like the rest of his family. He was charming and handsome and possessed a smile that she could feel all through her.

That was what she had to adjust to, she knew. She had to prepare herself to deal not with a cold and obvious villain, but with a man whose wickedness was concealed beneath a pleasant, appealing mask. She should have known that it would be too easy, too simplistic, for Moreland to be the way she had pictured him. After all, had not her own brother sent them a letter shortly after he joined up with Moreland’s party in which he had declared Moreland a “capital fellow”?

The man was deceptive, and she had to guard against his deception. She had to guard against her own feelings. She could not let her liking for Theo’s family color her judgment. Nor could she make the mistake of taking Theo Moreland at face value.

To succeed on her quest, Megan knew that she must be as deceptive as Moreland himself was. She had to pretend to like him, to be fooled by his easy charm, and all the while, inside, she must be like iron.

She had been in worse situations than this, she reminded herself, had faced worse enemies. She would get through this just as she had gotten through those other investigations, with determination and good sense. She had to. She owed it to Dennis.

“I should go now,” she said, and gave the boys a smile, then turned one that was less genuine toward Theo. “I have a great many things to do in order to get ready.”

“Are you coming back tomorrow?” Alex asked.

“No. I am afraid it will have to be the day after tomorrow. There are certain tasks that I must complete first.”

Like talking to the other men who had accompanied Theo Moreland and her brother on their trek up the Amazon. She had not really expected to be hired on here—and certainly not so quickly. She would have to do her interviews with Andrew Barchester and Julian Coffey tomorrow.

She knew that once she began working at Broughton House, she would have very little time on her own to interview people. Servants rarely got more than one day every two weeks off from work, and she suspected that it was probably even more difficult for governesses, who were probably expected to be with their charges every day, even if there were no studies pursued that day. It might be somewhat better for a tutor of boys as old as the twins, who did not need constant watching over as younger children did, but she could not count on that.

The boys insisted on coming down to see her off, a fact for which Megan was grateful. She frankly did not want to have to spend any more time alone in Theo’s company. It was altogether too unsettling.

Alex and Con kept up a steady stream of chatter as they went down the stairs, eliminating any necessity for Megan or Theo to speak.

She turned to the others to say a quick goodbye at the front door. Theo extended his hand to her, and it was impossible not to take it. Megan’s breath quickened as his hand engulfed hers. His palm was warm and a little rough, surprising her. She would not have expected an aristocrat to have worked enough to form calluses. Moreland must have been involved somehow in the menial tasks of his explorations. She had always pictured him riding along on some conveyance or other, with plenty of native servants to do all the work.

Theo held her hand a fraction of an instant too long, releasing it just as her eyes flew to his in question. There was a certain heat in his gaze that sent an answering flame licking through her, but there was something else, a kind of watchfulness that reawakened the uneasy feeling she had experienced when she first met him.

The smile she gave him and the boys was a trifle unsteady. Quickly she turned and walked out the door and down the street, firmly refraining from breaking into a run. She could not shake the notion that somehow, impossible though it seemed, Theo Moreland knew who she was.

## 4

Theo barely heard the chatter of the twins as he stood in the doorway, looking after the retreating figure of Megan Henderson. Who the devil was she?

Con and Alex took off at their usual pace back up the stairs, and Theo turned and strolled through the hallway and out onto the terrace. He took the wide, shallow steps down onto the flagstone path that led to the arbor.

He stopped at the place where he had caught his first glimpse of Miss Henderson and stood, remembering the moment.

Recognition had jolted through him when he saw her, stopping him dead in his tracks. He could not believe it, and yet the fact of it was looking straight at him. Miss Henderson, the twins’ new teacher, was the woman who had come to him in his dream years ago. The woman who at the time had seemed so real to him, but whom he had come to realize must have been a figment of his imagination, a product of his fevered, delirious dreams.

However, now he knew that his assumptions were not true. The woman was very real indeed…and about to be living in his own house.

Theo shook his head in confusion and walked over to the arbor where his mother and the tutor had been sitting. He sat down in the chair Miss Henderson had occupied. The odor of the first blooming roses mingled with the subtler, faintly lavender scent of Megan’s perfume.

He had forgotten how beautiful the woman had been—no, not beautiful, exactly, in that sort of perfect, stunning way that his sister Kyria was beautiful. No, this woman was intriguing, enticing, with a soft, curvaceous body hidden and restrained by the plain dark clothes she wore, her hair warmly cinnamon in color and curling, seeming about to escape from its pins at any moment. And her smile…

Theo let out a groan, sinking his head onto his hands. He remembered that smile perfectly—the soft, wide mouth with its plump lower lip, slightly indented in the center, quirking a little to one side in an enchanting, eminently kissable way, her mahogany-colored eyes warm and inviting.

But she wasn’t real. She was a dream! So how had she turned up here in the Broughton House garden?

It had been ten years, and he had been terribly ill at the time, Theo reminded himself. The odds were he simply did not remember exactly what the woman in his dream looked like, and when he saw Miss Henderson, she had resembled the woman enough that his mind attached the teacher’s face to the image he had seen.

Even as he came up with the logical explanation for the odd occurrence, Theo knew that it was not so. That dream was as real, as vivid to him, as it had been ten years ago. He had only to close his eyes and he could remember the slab of stone hard beneath his body, and the sweat slicking his flesh and dampening his hair. He had been burning up with fever, his mouth constantly dry and parched no matter how much they poured that drink down his throat. The air had been stifling, heavy with the smoke from the incense burners on either end of the slab on which he lay. He remembered the low, rocky ceiling that arched over him, the rough walls, damp with the moisture of the cave.

He remembered, too, the dark, silent girl who had tended to him, wiping the sweat from his face and urging the drink on him, the metal of the goblet cool against his fevered lips. Her low voice had chanted in some foreign tongue. Dennis had been there, too, most of the time, talking to him, urging him to return from the netherworld in which he floated.

But neither Dennis nor the black-haired maiden had been there when the woman had come to him. His fever had been burning more hotly than ever, and he had been assaulted by hallucinations—visions of animals and birds and strange, monstrous people had danced around him. And he had sweated and shivered, aware deep inside that life was slipping from him.

Then she had appeared at the end of the slab, a wondrously normal, heartening sight in his confused world. A plain white gown had fallen straight from her shoulders, and her hair had tumbled down around her shoulders, soft and riotously curling, a warm reddish-brown, slightly darker in the flare of the torchlight than it had looked today in the sun of the rose garden. She had been young, her cheeks pink with the blush of youth.

He had gazed at her then, having never seen her before, yet somehow viscerally knowing her, with an awareness that went much deeper than mental understanding. They were connected in a deep, intense way that he could not have explained yet he understood with every fiber of his being.

“You must not die,” she had said to him, and walked around to stand beside his head.

He had looked at her, unable to speak, too weak even to raise his head. She had smiled down at him then, a wonderful, inviting smile that brought out the hint of mischief in her sparkling brown eyes.

“I won’t let you,” she went on. “Do you understand? You cannot die yet. I am waiting for you.”

Then she had bent and softly kissed his lips. He could still recall the butterfly-soft flutter of her mouth.

Theo had spoken of his vision to no one, not even Dennis. It had been too real and at the same time too bizarre to share with anyone. He could not explain his certainty that he knew the woman even though he had never seen her before. Nor did he want to share the intense flash of hunger that had darted through him at the sight of her.

It was the same stirring of desire that had arisen in him today when he first saw Megan Henderson. There was something about her, something that went beyond all notions of beauty or desirability, to an attraction so deep and elemental that it seemed a part of him. He had not felt anything like it with any other woman.

He remembered what his brother Reed had told him about the first time Reed saw Anna, the woman who would eventually become his wife. It had been like a blow to the chest, Reed had said, and Theo had thought the description overly dramatic. Yet today what he had felt had been as strong as that, as intense, though it had been more of a jolt all through him rather than a blow to his heart.

He had to wonder what that meant about the twins’ new teacher. Not, he felt sure, that he was going to marry the woman. He had realized some time ago that he was apparently missing the romantic streak that seemed to run through the rest of his family. His parents, his brother, his sisters—even his twin—all had married for love. Theo, however, was sure that he had never felt the emotion. He had been attracted to many women over the years, had even indulged in affairs with those who were free and willing to engage in such relationships, both here in London and in some of the other places he had traveled.

There had been one woman—the clever, ambitious owner of a millinery store—with whom he had kept company happily every time he returned to London. That relationship had lasted almost three years, off and on, and had ended amicably when he’d returned from his trip to China to find that she had entered into a more permanent relationship with a man who stayed home. He had enjoyed her company, had found pleasure in her bed, yet he had never felt the sort of heart-thudding joy upon seeing her that he had witnessed on Kyria’s or Olivia’s faces when they saw their husbands.

He would have dismissed such happiness as a feminine trait had he not seen the same sort of besotted expression on his father’s face every time he’d looked upon his duchess during the last thirty-four years. The fact was, obviously, that the Morelands loved deeply and for a long time—except, apparently, for him.

So he felt sure that what he had experienced today was not love at first sight. No, it was more likely astonishment at seeing his long-ago dream suddenly come to life in his mother’s rose garden.

Still…whatever it was, he knew it was something that he had to explore. He had to know why this woman was here in his life ten years after his “vision” of her. He had to understand that strange, intense feeling that had gripped him.

Theo remembered his reluctance to leave London despite the restlessness that had plagued him, as well as the odd sense of waiting that he had experienced. Was Miss Henderson the reason he had been “waiting”? And how the devil had he known it?

Theo stood up, shaking his head slightly, and started back into the house. In the midst of all these speculations, there was one fact he knew for certain: there was no way he would be leaving London any time soon.

He trotted up the steps to the terrace, unaware that he was whistling a merry tune.


MEGAN WENT TO CALL on Andrew Barchester the following day, accompanied by her father and sister. She would have preferred to conduct the interview alone. Much as she loved her father, she was accustomed to doing her work by herself. Her father was all too likely to take control of the interview and send it shooting along some strange pathway. Nor did she really think that Deirdre was likely to be able to give them any pertinent information derived from the “feelings” Frank Mulcahey was sure Deirdre would receive on seeing this man, who was one of the last to see their brother alive. She would have liked to spare Deirdre the pain of hearing firsthand about Dennis’s death. Megan was accustomed to hearing and seeing gruesome things in the course of her work; Deirdre was not.

Her father, however, had been insistent on accompanying her. And Megan could not deny that it would appear more natural for him to be the one making inquiries of the man who had told him of his son’s death. Nor could she keep Deirdre from going along, as her sister seemed determined to do.

She would simply have to work around her family’s presence, she decided, and hope that Deirdre did not hear anything that would disturb her.

They climbed the steps to the front door, and Frank used the heavy brass knocker. Moments later a servant answered the door, and Frank requested to see Andrew Barchester, explaining who he was. The footman, looking rather dubious, replied that he would inquire if the master was home and started to climb the staircase at a majestic pace, leaving the three of them standing in the entryway.

“What a beautiful home,” Deirdre murmured, looking around her.

It was, indeed, quite lovely, and it was clear that no expense had been spared in creating the house. However, to Megan’s eyes, it did not compare in magnificence to the stately Broughton House. While expensively built, there was a certain overdone quality to Barchester’s house, and a newness that bespoke riches recently acquired. The elegant Queen Anne–style Broughton House, however, had a sort of lived-in air, a casual acceptance of its wealth that let one know that this house, this family, had been important long before any of its present occupants were born.

“Is Broughton House this elegant?” Deirdre asked.

Megan nodded. For some reason, which she had not herself examined, Megan had not told her father and sister much beyond the bare facts of her meeting with the duchess yesterday. She had not told them how engaging the twins had been, nor how easy it would be to like the Duchess of Broughton.

As for her meeting Theo Moreland, she had not even mentioned it. She knew that they would not understand the strange feeling that had assailed her when she’d met the man—indeed, she had not even understood it herself! Her father, she knew, would have lectured her about how dangerous it was to take a man like Moreland at face value. He would have pointed out that the man was deceptively charming, so she must keep her guard up at all times. She was fully aware of these arguments, as she had repeated them to herself all the way home. She did not want to have to listen to them from her father, as well.

She would deal with the unlikely tug of attraction she had felt for the man. She was certain that it had been a momentary aberration, a result of her surprise at meeting the man when she had not expected to, had not prepared herself for it. Tomorrow, when she returned to the house, she would have herself better in hand.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she turned to see the footman coming back to them.

“Mr. Barchester will receive you,” he said, looking faintly surprised, and led them up the stairs and into a spacious drawing room.

A man was standing by the windows, looking out, and he turned at their arrival and came toward them.

“Mr. Mulcahey,” he said, reaching out to shake Frank’s hand. “I am Andrew Barchester. I am so pleased to meet Dennis’s father.”

Mr. Barchester was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties, with a high, wide forehead and even features. His eyes were a pale gray, and his hair was blond, and he was handsome in a nondescript sort of way.

“Mr. Barchester,” Megan’s father replied, and introduced Megan and Deirdre to him.

Barchester smiled at Megan and murmured a greeting, but when he turned to Deirdre, Megan noticed that his hand lingered on hers a trifle longer and his eyes took on an appreciative gleam. It seemed that Deirdre’s fragile beauty was once again having its usual effect.

“What brings you to London, Mr. Mulcahey?” Barchester asked, showing them to a blue sofa and chair, and taking his own seat across from them.

“We’re here to find out whatever we can about my son’s murder, Mr. Barchester,” Frank replied.

They had had much discussion the night before over exactly what they should tell Barchester. Frank, not one to trust any Englishman completely, had been concerned that the man might balk at their intent of bringing a fellow Englishman to justice, and it was always Megan’s policy in researching her stories to tell everyone as little as she had to in order to get them to talk. That way, she felt, there was less chance of their stories being influenced by her considerations. Deirdre, however, had been of the opinion that if Barchester did not realize the extent and gravity of their interest, he might very well smooth over details or even conceal some matters in order not to cause them distress. It was, she added with a significant look at her sister and father, something with which she had had a good deal of experience. Megan and her father had had to agree with the logic of Deirdre’s argument, and they had agreed to be candid with Barchester.

Now Barchester stared at Frank Mulcahey for a long moment. “I will be happy to tell you everything I know, of course.” He paused. “But I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean—are you hoping to do something about it? I mean, um…”

“I’m not going to take vengeance myself, if that’s what ye mean,” Mulcahey assured him. “Sure, and I’d like nothing better, you understand. But I’ve promised the girls I’ll not harm the scoundrel. Still, we mean to bring Moreland to justice.”

“Mr. Mulcahey…believe me, if there were any possibility of that, we would have done it ten years ago, when Dennis was killed.” He frowned. “But it happened in the wilds. I’m not sure even what country we were in—Peru, perhaps. We had followed the Amazon River all the way up into the mountains. Where we were was uninhabited. And even when we returned to civilization, it was a foreign country, and we could not prove—I mean, we could not even speak the language, and it would have been just our word against his. Lord Raine’s family is very old and wealthy. His father is a duke. And they are related to scores of influential people in one way or another. The government would have put such pressure on the local police that I am sure they would have let him go. And what government could we have gone to, anyway? We went back down the Amazon into Brazil before we reached a city of any size.”

“Mr. Barchester, we are implying no wrong on your part, I assure you,” Megan put in quickly. “Pray do not think we feel anything but gratitude to you for letting us know what happened to my brother.”

“Aye. It’s no slight to you, lad,” Frank agreed. “It is just that we need to know. We need to do everything we possibly can for Dennis.”

Megan stiffened, afraid that her father would launch into the story of Deirdre’s visitation from Dennis. That, she was sure, would result in Barchester’s being certain that they were quite insane. However, her father said nothing further and she relaxed.

“Thank you,” Barchester said. “I am glad you feel that way. But it was not concern for myself that prompted me to speak. I was merely trying to explain how unlikely it is that you will receive any satisfaction out of this inquiry. We are in England. The crime did not even occur here. And it has been ten years since it happened. Besides, there is still the matter of lack of proof. It is one man’s word against another’s. And when one of those men is the eldest son of a duke…well, I can envision no way that you can receive satisfaction.”

“He doesn’t have to be tried in court,” Frank replied. “It’s impossible, I know. It will be enough for me if we can make people aware of what he has done.”

“Newspapers have a powerful impact, Mr. Barchester,” Megan told him. “I know. I work for one.”

Barchester’s jaw dropped. “You? You’re a—”

“I’m a reporter. I have written stories that revealed terrible working conditions in factories, political corruption, the plight of slum-dwellers. I didn’t have to go to court. Exposing their practices to the general public set demands for reform in motion.”

“I—I see.” Barchester still looked faintly shocked—more, Megan suspected, at the revelation of her job than at their plan to expose a member of the British aristocracy.

“I will dig into it, just as I do with any other story, and when I have found enough evidence, I can write a story. My newspaper will publish it, and I suspect there will be British papers that are eager to put out the story, as well. Nothing sells like scandal among the wealthy—I would imagine it is even truer when that person is not only wealthy but also titled.”

“No doubt you are right.” He hesitated for another moment, then said, “Well…um…let’s see…where shall I start?”

“Why don’t you begin by explaining to us how you and Mr. Moreland—I mean, Lord Raine—joined up with Dennis and his group?”

“Of course.” Barchester nodded. “I had not known Lord Raine before we went to Brazil together. Though we were of an age, we did not exactly move in the same circles. My grandfather made his money in trade, you see.”

Megan nodded. She had started out on the Society Desk, where she had learned enough to be aware that old money did not regard the nouveau riche with respect. She could well imagine that in England the lines were much more distinctly drawn, and that money, new or old, could not cast one into the rarified class of the aristocracy.

“I was in my early twenties at the time. I had gone to university, as my grandfather had insisted. He wanted very much for me to be a ‘gentleman.’ So I did not go into the family business, as my father had. I was, quite frankly, a trifle bored with my life, so when my grandfather suggested that I go on the Cavendish expedition, I was more than happy to oblige the old chap. It sounded like quite an adventure.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it turned out to be far more of one than I would have liked.”

“The Cavendish expedition?” Megan inquired, jotting the name down in her notebook.

“Yes. Old Lord Cavendish was quite interested in the cultures of other times and places. He turned his ancestral home in London into a museum. It was a huge old place, built shortly after the Great Fire, and it was no longer in a fashionable area. The family had built a new home in Mayfair. So he decided to house his collection of artifacts there, as well as whatever other ones he could get his hands on. He was particularly avid about the ancient cultures of South and Central America—Incas, Aztecs and all that—so that was the specialty of the museum. It wasn’t much, really, just a wealthy old man’s hobby, but he wanted to make it into something known all over the country, if not the world. So he hired a curator, and he started sending out expeditions to the Americas to find and bring back information and artifacts for the museum.”

“I see. So Lord Cavendish financed your expedition?”

“Yes.” Barchester nodded. “The curator went along—well, frankly, he was the only employee of the museum at the time. His name was Julian Coffey. I knew him rather well. We had gone to school together and had been casual friends. My grandfather was also interested in artifacts, and he has corresponded and spoken with Lord Cavendish from time to time, and Grandfather had made one or two gifts to the museum, as well. Grandfather suggested to me that I might like to go. It sounded like an adventure, and as I knew Julian…”

“How was Theo Moreland involved?”

“Raine’s father, the Duke of Broughton, was a friend of old Cavendish’s, too. They were both collectors, you see—though the duke’s field was the ancient Greeks and Romans. But I guess he told Lord Raine about the expedition, and he wanted to join. He had caught the exploration fever a couple of years before that after he finished university. Wound up in the Levant, then Egypt, and finally trekked into the Sahara. He liked the adventure, I suppose. He’s been on a number of trips since, so I understand.”

“What was he like?” Megan asked.

Barchester shrugged. “Actually, quite a regular sort of chap. Julian and I were rather surprised when we met him. We had expected him to be a lightweight, full of himself and thinking everyone else ought to do for him. But he was always the first to pitch in, never asked for special treatment. We hadn’t been on the ship a day before we were calling him Theo. It was…well, we all thought it was going to be the trip of a lifetime.”

The man’s blandly handsome face saddened for a moment. “It was, I suppose…just not in the sense that we thought it would be.” He seemed to shake off his moment of reverie and went on more briskly. “The head of our expedition was a chap name Thurlew. Howard Thurlew. He’d done a good bit of exploring and had worked for Lord Cavendish before—dug up some Aztec ruins some place in Mexico, and it was he who had proposed this trip to the old fellow. He wanted to follow the Amazon deep into the interior and perhaps find some Inca ruins. That was what Lord Cavendish was interested in, of course. I think Thurlew was in it more for the exploration—and Theo, too. Julian was a naturalist, and he was eager to see the wildlife and draw it and so on.”

“How did you meet Dennis?” Frank asked.

“Well, Thurlew fell right after we reached Brazil. Poor chap broke his leg—quite badly. It was obvious that he could not travel for weeks, even months. Even once his leg was healed, he wouldn’t have been up to such rugged travel. So there we were, with our equipment, all set to go into the interior, and we had no guide. None of us could have dealt with the native guides and so on. We had no experience, didn’t know the language. But we hated to just give up and turn around and go home—nor could we wait for several months for Thurlew to be up to the journey, as it would have thrown us into the rainy season. Then, as luck would have it, we ran into your son, sir. He and his friend Eberhart, as it turned out, were all that was left of their party. The others had either gotten ill or simply become disenchanted with the idea. Captain Eberhart seemed a knowledgeable sort, and he had already hired some native guides. So we decided to throw our lot in with Dennis and Eberhart.”

“A doomed venture from the very start, wasn’t it?” Frank said, shaking his head.

“I suppose one could say that,” the other man conceded. “But it isn’t all that unusual for some members of any expedition to drop out along the way. Far too many people set out expecting some fantastic adventure, with no realization of the hardships involved, or the dangers. Diseases, accidents—and all miles from civilization, of course.”

“Where did you go?” Megan asked.

“We set out up the Amazon, as we had originally intended. It was a fantastic journey—utterly amazing.” Barchester’s eyes glowed as he remembered the trip. “The things we saw—the parrots, the vines, the trees, even the snakes were just…Well, it is impossible to adequately describe it. One has to see it, feel it, to really understand what it was like. Not pleasant a great deal of the time, of course. The heat was abysmal, and the humidity was almost unbearable. And, of course, there was danger. Anacondas. Jaguars. There was always the possibility that we might come upon unfriendly natives. Even a cut could become horribly infected, and we were miles from a doctor. But it was thrilling, nevertheless. We traveled upriver as far as we could go, and then we took out across land. Then Captain Eberhart died.”

Deirdre let out a soft sound of distress, and Barchester turned toward her. His face softened. “I apologize, Miss Mulcahey. This is not a proper subject to be discussing in front of you.”

“No, please, go on. I want to hear it—that is, I need to hear it. We must find out everything we can so that we can expose Dennis’s killer.”

She looked at him with her large, soft eyes, and Megan could practically see the man melting right in front of them.

“Miss Mulcahey,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “I assure you that I will do everything I can to help you.”

“It is very kind of you,” Deirdre murmured.

Megan cleared her throat and pulled the conversation back to the subject. “What happened to Captain Eberhart?”

“It was one of those tropical fevers that felled him. As we traveled on, he became more and more ill. We stopped and made a semipermanent camp, then stayed there for a few days, hoping he would recover. But he did not. When he died, we were in something of a quandary, not sure whether we should turn back or go on, but finally we decided to continue. It seemed such a waste to turn back, as far as we had gone, and by that time, we had gotten to where we could communicate to some extent with the native workers. So we pressed on. Some of the natives abandoned us. They were a superstitious lot, and they viewed Eberhart’s death as a sign that we should not go farther. We couldn’t understand everything they said, but there was a lot of talk about Inca treasure and the ancient gods’ displeasure and that sort of thing.”

“Inca treasure?” Frank Mulcahey cast a significant look at his daughters.

“Yes. Oh, yes. We had heard tales of Inca treasure from Thurlew even before we left England.” He shrugged. “Just legends, you know.”

“What sort of legends?” Megan asked.

Barchester shrugged. “Oh, the usual sort of thing. I don’t know how much you know about the Incas, but they had an enormous empire, centered in Peru but stretching throughout much of the Andes and up to Central America.”

“They were very sophisticated, weren’t they?” Megan asked, trying to remember some of the things her brother had told her. Dennis had been fascinated by the history of South and Central America. “Had a system of roads…”

“Administratively, they were quite advanced. But not able to withstand European weaponry. Pizarro and his lot came in and took the Inca emperor captive. Demanded a huge ransom from all his subjects. Of course, they killed him anyway, but gold and gems and all sorts of tribute poured in from all the outlying areas. Naturally, there are legends about the treasures—that there were Incas who hid the gold or part of the gold on their way to free their king. The natives said that the ancient gods were angry about what amounted to looting their temples. Much of their gold work, you see, was in the temples—statues of the gods and vessels for the priests and so on. So, of course, there are legends that the treasure is protected by the ancient gods, and that whoever finds it will be subjected to punishment by the gods. That sort of thing.”

“Did you find any treasure?” Frank asked.

Barchester let out a short laugh. “No. Of course not. Julian found a few things—an ancient cup, a small statue, but no treasure trove, believe me. But the natives were scared—always talking about the land being protected by the old gods and all that. Just fear, really, I think, of going any deeper into unknown territory. But some of the natives stayed—we offered them more money. And we still had provisions. We wanted to see as much as we could. It was such an opportunity—an untouched land. But then…” He looked at them uncomfortably. “Then Lord Raine and Dennis…”

“What happened, Mr. Barchester?” Megan asked. “Exactly.”

“They quarreled. And Raine…” His eyes flickered uneasily over to Deirdre again. “Well, Raine killed him.”

“How?”

The man looked startled by Megan’s blunt question. “What do you mean?”

“How did Lord Raine kill Dennis? Did he shoot him or—”

“He stabbed him.”

A hush fell on the room. Megan had heard many sad and wrenching stories in her line of work, but she was unprepared for the stab of pain that went through her at Barchester’s words.

“I’m sorry,” Barchester said, looking wretched. “I should not have said that so bluntly.”

Megan shook her head, shoving down her sorrow. “’Tis not your fault, I assure you.” She paused, struggling to put herself back into her reporter’s role. “You said they quarreled. About what?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t—” He paused, again with an anxious glance at Deirdre. “I didn’t hear it.”

“Could it have been over something Dennis had found?” Megan asked.

Barchester frowned. “Found? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, you said that Mr. Coffey came upon some artifacts. Had Dennis found anything? I don’t know—some sort of object? An artifact? Even a jewel or something like that.”

“Oh, well, yes, I suppose he could have. But if he did, I never knew of it.” He paused, frowning. “But you know…now that I think of it, there was something in Raine’s possession that he was rather secretive about.”

The Mulcaheys glanced at each other, then back at Barchester, their interest clearly aroused. “Something?” Frank repeated.

“Yes. A pendant of some sort, I believe. I didn’t really get a good look at it. As I said, Lord Raine was secretive about it. But as we were traveling back, I noticed that he was wearing something around his neck. It lay beneath his shirt, and I saw him pull it out once or twice to look at it. I never saw it up close. He didn’t offer to show it to me, and I did not ask. I—we—well, obviously things were quite strained between us at that point. We did not speak much beyond what was necessary.”

“Didn’t you talk to him about the murder?” Megan asked in disbelief. “Didn’t you ask him why? Didn’t you put him in restraints or anything?”

“Of course we talked to him!” Mr. Barchester looked shocked. “Theo claimed it was an accident. And I, well, at first I believed him. I mean, I had never seen anything to indicate that he would do something like that. I thought surely it must have been an accident. It was only later that I began to realize the story didn’t quite add up. Raine was evasive in his answers, and I could see that he was not telling me the truth. He was clearly uneasy, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. His story didn’t really make sense.”

Again sorrow tinged Barchester’s features. “It was very hard for me, for both Julian and me, to accept that Lord Raine had murdered Dennis. We had grown to like him so, to think that he wasn’t like other aristocrats we had met. But, finally, I could not deny any longer that he was lying. Julian and I talked about it. We didn’t know what to do. As I said, we were miles from civilization, not even sure where we were. It was a matter of our word against his, and the Morelands are quite powerful. I—there was nothing to do but return.”

His gaze went from Frank to Megan, then lingered on Deirdre’s face. “I pray you will not think too badly of me. If I had had any idea what would happen, if I could have done something to stop it…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Barchester,” Deirdre assured him in her usual kind manner.

Megan was not quite as forgiving as her sister, however.. It seemed to her that Barchester had given up all too easily in the face of Moreland’s denial. However, she could scarcely afford to take him to task over it. His account of the events was the only proof they had against Theo Moreland at the moment, and she did not want to antagonize him. Besides, she reminded herself, it would have doubtless been unwise for Barchester to confront Moreland with his knowledge, given that he had already killed a man. Moreland could have done in the other two men also, and returned to civilization with no one the wiser.

“This other man who was with you—Julian Coffey? I’d like to talk to him. See if there is anything he can add.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure that he could give you more details,” Mr. Barchester agreed. “Capital fellow, Coffey.”

“Is he still the curator at the Cavendish Museum?”

Barchester nodded. “Yes. Julian makes regular trips to South and Central America to acquire new pieces for the museum. He has built up quite a collection over the years. Lord Cavendish died a few years back, but he endowed the place amply in his will, and his widow still supports it, as well. In fact, Lady Cavendish is holding a ball to benefit the museum in just a couple of weeks, I believe. I could talk to him, if you’d like,” he added helpfully. “Set up something for you.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Megan assured him quickly. She preferred to talk to the man without his being influenced beforehand by Barchester. “I should set up an appointment myself. I’m not sure exactly when I will be able to see him. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Mr. Coffey.”

He looked surprised. “Naturally, if that is what you wish.”

“I find I get better results if I have the first thoughts out of one’s head,” Megan said by way of explanation. “You know, without their thinking it over a great deal. It’s no longer fresh then.”

“Of course,” Barchester agreed politely, though he still looked faintly confused.

And well he might, Megan thought, since her glib response was not precisely the truth. She had found that the more witnesses to an event discussed it, the more alike their accounts of the event tended to become, but she had also found that telling people that fact often insulted them. In the same way, she also suspected that Mr. Barchester’s story had probably been somewhat different than it would have been if Deirdre had not been present. The man had been clearly smitten by her sister. Megan wasn’t sure how his story might have differed, of course; no doubt it was subtle. But she had also found that men were not inclined to be entirely honest when they were speaking in front of a woman they admired. She intended to arrange her visit with Coffey so that her father and sister were not present.

They stayed for a little longer after that, making polite chitchat with Mr. Barchester. He offered them tea and inquired about their trip across the Atlantic and their lodgings here, offering to help them in any way possible. He seemed a nice enough man, Megan thought, though a trifle bland. Her sister, however, seemed not to notice this defect, for she smiled and even, Megan realized, flirted with him a little.

For her part, Megan was barely able to sit still and be polite. She wanted only to go back to the house they had rented and talk over the tantalizing possibility of “treasure” that Mr. Barchester had raised. She could see, glancing at her father, that he was fairly twitching to discuss it, too.

Indeed, they had barely bade Mr. Barchester goodbye and walked a few feet from his front door before Frank burst out, “I knew it! Did I not I tell you? That murderin’ English bastard stole that pendant from Dennis. That’s what Den wants back, I’ll warrant.”

“Now, Da, we don’t know that,” Megan pointed out fairly.

“It’s as plain as the nose on your face, girl,” he retorted. “After Dennis was dead, that titled scoundrel was wearing this thing around his neck and being terribly secretive about it. How else did it suddenly appear? And why else would he have been hiding it?”

“It makes sense,” Megan agreed. “But we don’t know that Moreland took it from Dennis, or that he killed him over it. The truth is, we don’t even know what ‘it’ is!”

“A pendant,” Deirdre offered. “That’s what Mr. Barchester said.”

“Yes, but what sort of thing was hanging from it? A jewel or a golden medallion or what? And what was it hanging from? A golden chain or a simple string? It could even have been a little pouch hung on a bit of twine. His description was very vague.”

“Aye, that’s true. It might not have been a necklace,” Frank mused. “It could have been something small that he just carried close to him like that for safekeeping.”

“But clearly it was something ‘precious,’” Megan went on, emphasizing the word Deirdre had used in describing her brother’s loss.

“And clearly Moreland did not want anyone to know about it.”

“Well, at least it narrows down my search,” Megan said. “I know that it’s something small I’m looking for, probably a necklace of some sort.”

Excitement rose in her, as it always did when she was chasing down a story. But this time, there would be a far greater reward if she tracked down the truth. All the little doubts that had been teasing at the back of her mind—the liking she had felt for the duchess and the twins, and her reluctance at deceiving them, the strange feeling that had gripped her when she first saw Theo Moreland—all vanished now. Such minor things scarcely mattered.

Tomorrow she would start stalking her brother’s killer.

## 5

Megan presented herself at her new job the next morning with firm resolve. She was there to find her brother’s killer, and she was determined not to be swayed by other feelings.

Barchester’s story had brought back vividly her own memories of Dennis, making his loss once again a fresh hurt. She could well imagine how Dennis’s imagination would have fired at the tales of the lost treasures of the Incas. She could picture his smile, his reddish brown eyes, so much like her own, lighting with eagerness. He had always been interested in the Inca civilization; she could remember him recounting with horror the bloody takeover of their lands and fortunes by the Spanish invaders centuries earlier.

Dennis would have loved to have found some piece of that empire, however small, some tangible link to that long-ago time. Megan felt sure that he had diligently looked for treasure. What if he had found it? After all, Barchester had said that Coffey had come upon some artifacts. Surely Dennis could have, as well.

Thinking back on it, Megan wished that she had questioned Barchester more closely about Mr. Coffey’s find. At the time, she had been more interested in digging more deeply into the quarrel that had set Dennis’s death in motion.

Well, she reminded herself, she could talk to the man again—or, better yet, she would ask Julian Coffey himself when she interviewed him. It was even possible that he might have a better idea about the pendant that Theo Moreland had kept hidden beneath his shirt.

In the meantime, she could begin looking for the necklace. At least now she had a better idea what she should be searching for.

When Megan arrived at Broughton House, she was taken in hand by the housekeeper, a short, stout, grandmotherly looking woman with snow-white hair pulled back into a soft bun. Her name, she said, was Mrs. Brannigan, though the members of the family called her Mrs. Bee, a name given to her by the first set of twins when they were children. It was clear, from the softening of her face and the faint smile upon her lips when she mentioned this fact, that the housekeeper was sincerely attached to the family.

“The ‘Little Greats,’ now, they can be a trial,” she said confidentially as she led Megan up the back stairs. “But you look like a sensible young woman. I think you can handle them.”