# Regency High Society Vol 6: The Enigmatic Rake / The Lord And The Mystery Lady / The Wagering Widow / An Unconventional Widow

Anne O'Brien, Diane Gaston, Georgina Devon

Includes: The Enigmatic RakeMiss Sarah Russell, newly appointed housekeeper, knows little of her new employer, apart from his rakish reputation! Lord Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon’s proposal of marriage takes her by surprise – and leads her to wonder: just what are this intriguing man’s secrets?Includes: The Lord and the Mystery LadyReturning from war, Sir Hugo Fitzsimmon is stunned to find a lady working on his estate. If Annabell remains under his roof her reputation will be torn to shreds. Curiously, the fiercely independent widow seems immune to Society’s opinion. But she isn’t immune to Hugo’s touch….

Regency

HIGH – SOCIETY AFFAIRS

The Enigmatic Rake Anne O’Brien

The Lord and the Mystery Lady Georgina Devon

The Wagering Widow Diane Gaston

An Unconventional Widow Georgina Devon


www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Enigmatic Rake


Anne O’Brien

## About the Author

ANNE O’BRIEN was born and has lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. There she taught history before deciding to fulfil a lifetime ambition to write romantic historical fiction. She won a number of short story competitions until published for the first time by Mills & Boon. As well as writing, she finds time to enjoy gardening, cooking and watercolour painting. She now lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches. You can find out about Anne’s books and more at her website: www.anneobrien.co.uk

## Chapter One

Autumn 1819—Paris

This wing of the vast house was silent, the windows and the rooms behind them unlit with curtains securely drawn, the garden beyond dark and shadowed. Sounds of distant merriment drifted on the mild air, of music, laughter, the hum of a large gathering, but here there was nothing to disturb the midnight stillness. With its towers and turrets, gravelled drive and formal gardens, it was a formidable château on the very edge of Paris, the home of the Comte and Comtesse de Charleroi, where a celebration was being hosted for the forthcoming marriage of the heir. An event of notable interest and comment to the blue and noble blood of the Parisian beau monde. But here on a stone-flagged terrace of the west wing, overlooking a rigidly ornamental parterre, the felicitous event played no part in anyone’s mind.

The terrace was not as deserted as it might first appear. A dark figure merged into the inky shadow of the house where the twisted stem of a wisteria hugged, then overhung the wall to give protection. Beyond the fact that it was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, a solid outline, no other detail could be ascertained. Dark clothes allowed him to blend with the background and he was careful to keep the pale skin of hands and face from attracting any stray glimmer from a fitful moon. He wished to be neither seen nor identified. He was waiting. Un-moving, breathing silent and shallow. Waiting.

At last a noise. A careless scrape of a footstep on stone. Two figures emerged as darker shapes against the dark surround—one from the corner of the wing of the château, the other on the short rise of steps that led up from the garden to the terrace. An assignation, carefully planned. The hidden watcher tensed, but otherwise remained motionless.

There was nothing of moment in either figure, both as sombrely dressed as the one who waited and watched. They met at the top of the steps. A low-voiced conversation—brief and hurried—took place and something changed hands from both sides. Perhaps a letter and a flat packet. Then one turned and vanished once more into the garden, the black density of a yew hedge soon swallowing him and any possibility of footsteps. The whole scene took less than two minutes. The other made no move to return to the house, but stood in full sight, moonlit, against the terrace’s carved balustrade, head lifted as if in anticipation. Or perhaps he too was listening.

The watcher, after a brief moment to assess the quality of the stillness that was once again total, stepped out from concealment to advance cat-like with grace across the terrace. The man turned. This meeting, it would appear, was also not unexpected.

‘Well, monsieur?’ The watcher spoke in soft, low tones.

‘I have what you require, my lord.’ Hardly more than a whisper.

‘The list of names?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The gentleman took from his pocket the letter that had only a moment before come into his possession. ‘Will you keep the agreement? That my name and identity be deleted from any further investigation into this delicate matter?’

‘Of course.’ Teeth glinted in the dark in a hard and particularly cynical smile. ‘I will keep my word, you may be sure.’ The watcher inclined his head in a gesture of some irony as he took a bulky package from his pocket.

‘Would you sneer, my lord?’ The gentleman, still holding the letter, breathed in with some hauteur. ‘Your involvement is not beyond criticism. Blackmail, for whatever purpose, leaves a particularly unpleasant taste in the mouth.’

‘True.’ The smile again. The glint of an eye. ‘But then—I do not sell the names of my compatriots to the enemy for money, knowing that it could mean their death, for a mere few thousand francs.’

The gentleman turned his face away, perhaps embarrassed by the justice of the accusation, then surprised his companion when he laughed softly.

‘As it happens, neither do I, my lord.’

There was absolutely no warning. No sound, no movement of air. Merely a deeper shadow within shadows, which advanced noiselessly from the shelter of an artistically clipped shrub in a marble urn. Before the watcher could react, a heavy blow was dealt to the side of his head from the butt of a pistol, almost robbing him of his senses. He groaned on a sharp intake of breath, automatically raising his hands in defence. But before he could gather his wits to respond to protect himself further, he found himself forced back against the stone balustrade by a pair of strong hands and the force of a well-muscled body. Next moment he had lost his balance, thrust by a wide shoulder and hard-driven thigh against and over the stonework. His fingers scrabbled to find some purchase in the lichened carvings, but he was falling, helplessly, to land heavily and ignominiously into the clipped box edges and fragrant plants of the garden some considerable distance below.

After which all consciousness and all knowledge left him.

In the fashionable quarter of Paris, some days later, in the home of the British Ambassador Sir Charles Stuart and away from the sumptuous reception rooms where visiting dignitaries were entertained and suitably overwhelmed, there was a small anteroom usually set aside for informal or private transactions. This particular interview was to be conducted not by the Ambassador, but by a gentleman who made it his business to remain unknown and unrecognised except by a very few. For the head of British espionage it was good policy to remain anonymous, particularly when it was hoped to discover the names of British politicians attempting to undermine British foreign policy, such as those who would find it politic to bring about the downfall of King Louis XVIII of France and the restored Bourbons. Politicians who might even go so far as to plot the restoration of the deposed Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte—if that ailing exile, imprisoned on the distant island of St Helena, lived long enough to see the day.

There was nothing about the gentleman to draw any attention. Indeed, he worked hard to achieve exactly that, being addressed in his public life as Mr Wycliffe. Neat, slight of figure, no longer young and with a quiet demeanour, he sat behind a desk with a document in his hand, a deep frown between his brows, as the door opened. He looked up, the frown growing heavier at the interruption, then rose to his feet with a quick smile as he saw the identity of his visitor.

‘My Lord Faringdon! Come in, my dear man. I had not expected to see you so soon. Come in and take the weight off your feet.’

The gentleman entered slowly, without grace: Lord Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon.

Those closely acquainted with the family would have given the opinion that Lord Joshua was typical of the Faringdon mould. Above average height with dark hair, although prematurely silvered to a gleaming and stunning pewter, and with the fine, distinctive features of all the men of the family. The straight nose and dark brows, the dramatically carved cheekbones and seductive mouth, the aura of power and self-will were all instantly recognisable. Under different circumstances he was acknowledged to be both elegant and graceful. Well-defined muscles would have rippled beneath the expensive cloth of his fashionable garments. But on this occasion as he walked forward into the room it could be seen that he was in considerable discomfort. His exquisitely tailored coat fit more closely than might have been usual, with evidence of heavy padding around chest and one shoulder. Furthermore he walked with a heavy limp, making use of an ebony cane, which was not merely for affectation. He lowered himself to a chair as invited with a grimace and a distinct lack of co-ordination, lips tightly pressed into a thin line.

‘How are you, sir? We have been concerned.’ Wycliffe resumed his seat behind the desk, eyes narrowed on his visitor.

‘I have been better.’ Lord Faringdon abandoned his cane on the floor beside him and eased his shoulders with noticeable effort.

‘I had not expected you to have left your bed. There was no need. We had been informed of—and accepted—your present inability to continue your mission.’

‘Perhaps you see no need, but since you would not come to me, sir, of necessity I must come here.’ The tone was not conciliatory. Wycliffe found himself pinned by a hard stare from predatory eyes, more austere grey than friendly blue. ‘I need to know your intent.’

Not willing to be cornered into any revealing or sensitive disclosures, Wycliffe deflected the demand. He had spent a lifetime in doing such. ‘There is time and enough for that. Joshua… ‘ he lapsed into a more intimate form of address, hoping to placate, although his words were not guaranteed to achieve that end ‘… you could have been killed.’

‘I am aware. It has crossed my mind to wonder why I was not. I could not have defended myself, and one dead English spy must have its attractions to those who would work against us.’ Lord Faringdon stretched out his right leg, easing torn ligaments of thigh and knee. ‘And although it shames me to admit it, I must consider that I was very neatly set up. I had no notion that I too was watched and my cover undermined.’

‘Hmm.’ Wycliffe steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the desk, to cast a shrewd glance over one of his most able, if most unlikely, employees. It would never do to underestimate the powers of comprehension of Joshua Faringdon. In the circumstances he owed him some degree of honesty. ‘It would seem that the Bonapartists have more skill—and certainly more determination—than perhaps we gave them credit for. They had no intention of handing over the names of those who would work to restore Napoleon and they also escaped with the money that you agreed to exchange for the list. You will not be surprised to learn that Monsieur Blanc—such an obvious name!— ‘ his lips curled in distaste ‘—who lured you to the Charleroi château, has disappeared from all his known haunts in the city.’

‘Very sensible of him.’ His lordship winced as he shifted his bruised and battered body in the exceedingly uncomfortable straight-backed chair. ‘I have a debt to pay there! But as I said before—where do we go from here?’

Wycliffe pursed his lips. There was no point in skirting the issue. ‘The problem is, my lord, that your role and your cover here in Paris may have been compromised, although to what extent we cannot yet guess. Perhaps it would be wise for you to remove yourself from the scene in the short term. It may be that you can no longer pose—as you have done with considerable success—as the careless and unprincipled libertine visiting Paris with an eye merely to his own interests and pleasures.’

‘No. I agree.’ Lord Joshua thought for a moment. ‘I still wonder why they did not kill me when they had the chance.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, returning to this one aspect of the night’s débâcle as if it had been keeping him awake at night, along with the physical pain, a memento of crashing from the terrace into the shrubbery. ‘Someone had sufficient affection for me not to wish to hear of my being discovered as a rotting corpse in a garden. So who do you suppose it was who broke my cover?’

Wycliffe pressed his lips into a thin line of distaste. ‘As to that, I could not guess. We have no traitors in our camp. Our security is second to none.’

‘Marianne?’ His lordship’s voice was soft, dangerously so. ‘Our security was appallingly suspect when dealing with that lady. You may have conveniently forgotten the details. But I cannot.’

‘Marianne is dead!’ The slight flush along Wycliffe’s cheekbones might have hinted at embarrassment if one did not know him better. Lord Faringdon watched him with a sardonic twist to his mouth. His Majesty’s spy master clearly did not wish to prolong any discussion of Marianne, the lady who had once had the honour of being Lord Faringdon’s vivaciously attractive wife. ‘The most crucial matter, since you are so concerned with our next step, is that your value, in this investigation at least, has been destroyed.’

‘So?’

‘I think that you should go home.’ On firm ground again, Wycliffe relaxed and allowed himself a more generous smile. ‘Regain your strength. Pick up the reins of your life in England and let the dust of this particular storm settle. I will contact you when things become clearer here and we may see a way to using your services once more. Besides, if Bonaparte dies—and it is my understanding that his health is poor and declining—our work here will be at an end and we shall simply close down this operation. So, as you can appreciate, there is no reason why you should not return to London until the dust clears.’

‘I suppose I could.’ Lord Faringdon showed no particular enthusiasm. He made to cross one leg over the other, remembered and came to a halt, fingers digging into the screaming muscles of his hip. ‘It is true that I have a motherless daughter who will no longer recognise me if I stay away longer. It is over a year since I last saw her.’

‘Well, then. Go and see your family.’ Wycliffe leaned forward persuasively.

‘Very well. You have more confidence than I that I shall be made welcome. I fear that gossip and speculation has made free with my name. I have it on the best authority that my mother considers my remaining in Paris to be of considerable benefit to the family in general and herself in particular, so that she does not have to make excuses for the scandalous behaviour of the head of the family.’ His lips curled to show his teeth, but his eyes were cold and flat, accepting of the situation that he had himself created as a prerequisite for his present occupation. Brows raised in polite enquiry, he looked again at his employer. ‘How do you suggest that I explain my physical state—considering that I have been here on a private visit of debauchery and excess, and am now returning with an obviously incapacitating injury?’

‘Oh, that’s easy to explain.’ The main business out of the way since Lord Faringdon had, it would seem, agreed to leave Paris, Wycliffe rose to pour two glasses of port, one of which he carried over to his guest. ‘I am sure that you can concoct some tale of a jealous husband who disapproved of your attempts to seduce his young and innocent wife. Disapproved sufficiently to dissuade you with a show of force. As you say, you have a reputation that is not inconsiderable—such a tale will be accepted by all. And if you can see your way to it being spread around the fashionable drawing rooms…’

‘Why not?’ A jaundiced shrug and a bland expression signified agreement. ‘It is not a résumé that I would have chosen, but I should have expected no less. I suppose I will have to tolerate the fact that, given my injuries, the jealous husband was able to beat me to within an inch of my life. How ignominious!’ His laugh had a brittle edge. ‘But who am I to cavil at being branded a ravisher and seducer of innocent—or not so innocent—girls? Government service demands a high price indeed.’

‘The cause is great, Joshua.’ Wycliffe was not unsympathetic. ‘Your efforts will not go unrecognised or unrewarded.’

‘I am not looking for a reward. I believe in what we are attempting to achieve. A stable government in France—a democratic monarchy with no repetition of revolution or the overthrow of law and order to unsettle the peace of Europe. I need no reward if we achieve such an outcome.’

‘Then let us drink to our success.’ Wycliffe raised his glass and the two men drank.

‘I shall leave next week,’ Lord Joshua stated, his decision made.

‘Excellent! I expect that you will play the role with your usual panache. If I might make a suggestion?’

‘Well?’

‘I suggest that you take the Countess of Wexford with you. She will not be unwilling and will reinforce your cover—your, ah, libertine tendencies. I believe she has more than a tendre for you.’ Wycliffe’s tone was dry as he noted the glitter of suppressed temper in Lord Faringdon’s eyes. ‘It should give the town tabbies all the ammunition they need to destroy your character and mask any further queries concerning your sudden return or the reason for your incapacity. You can embroider on the situation and your liaison with the fair lady as you see fit. There will certainly be no difficulty in persuading her to accompany you. No one will question your arrival in London.’

‘No. But my family might question whether they wish to associate with me! The Countess of Wexford. God help me! A more voracious woman I have never had the misfortune to meet.’

‘But Olivia is very beautiful.’

‘As well as self-seeking, manipulative and unprincipled. She would like nothing better than to get her claws into me and her fingers on my purse-strings. You have given me a hard path to follow, sir.’

‘I have every confidence in you, Joshua.’ Wycliffe rose to his feet, intimating the end of the conversation. ‘Take Olivia Wexford with you.’ It was more command than advice.

Lord Faringdon duly drained his glass and dragged himself to his feet, rescuing his cane, cursing as his limbs had stiffened.

‘On second thoughts… ‘ Wycliffe stretched out his hand, his frown deepening again. ‘About Marianne. I think that—’

‘No.’ The white shade around his lordship’s lips owed nothing to physical pain. His words and the manner of their delivery were harsh. ‘As you intimated so forcefully some few minutes ago, the subject of my wife is not up for discussion, Wycliffe.’

‘Even so—’

As you said, Marianne is dead.’

‘Very well.’ Wycliffe accepted the finality in the statement, if reluctantly. ‘I must wish you a speedy recovery, my lord. I know that you will do everything necessary to protect yourself. The identity of The Chameleon must not be allowed to suffer further revelations.’

Lord Joshua Faringdon left the British Ambassador’s home, lingering on the front steps to take a breath of fresh air. The Chameleon! A changeable thing, a creature of caprice, of quicksilver versatility. How fanciful. An identity acquired from those who saw only the glamour, the allure of a life dedicated to espionage. Yet, in reality, how sordid. Of course he could play the role of rake and libertine—had he not done so for years?—but that did not mean that he would enjoy doing so. If he needed to spread the gossip in London before his arrival, his sister Judith could be relied upon to do so. But he most certainly would not dance to Olivia Wexford’s avaricious tune or welcome her into his bed. He hoped, fleetingly, that the Prince Regent realised the sacrifices being made by some of his subjects to bolster the traditional monarchies of Europe in his name.

But he doubted it.

## Chapter Two

Autumn 1819—London

‘Judith, I really must not—indeed, I cannot—live on your kindness any longer!’ Or on your charity!

Two ladies sat at breakfast in one of the elegant and supremely fashionable town houses in Grosvenor Square. A gentleman, the Earl of Painscastle, hid with deliberate concentration behind a copy of the Morning Post and determined to stay there. This was not the first time that such a statement had ruffled the early morning calm. Given the decisiveness in the tone on this occasion, matters were about to come to a head.

The two ladies, one his wife, the other his guest, faced each other across a spread of white linen. Much of an age, their appearance and character were very different, yet within the past months they had become fast friends. The red hair and green eyes of one spoke of a lively and energetic lady, dressed in the latest fashion despite the early hour. The other was of a quieter disposition with fair curls and calm blue eyes, her morning gown neat rather than fashionable. A quiet composure governed her every movement.

‘Dear Sarah!’ The redhead was in no way disturbed by this announcement. ‘Why ever should you not? I enjoy having your company.’ Judith Faringdon, now Countess of Painscastle, poured tea into her china cup with a flamboyant gesture. ‘Until you have decided what you will do next, where else should you stay? You are never a burden to us.’

‘You have been too kind, Judith. You are my dearest friend—but I would not outstay my welcome. I have finally made some decisions,’ replied Mrs Sarah Russell, a youthful widow and mother of a nearly six-year-old son.

‘Ah.’ Judith took a sip of tea. ‘Will you then go back to New York? To Henry and Eleanor and the children?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ The Countess frowned a little. ‘I was sure that you would and I know that they would make you welcome. In her letters, Eleanor writes that she misses you.’

‘I have thought of it,’ Sarah acknowledged. ‘But I cannot allow myself to be dependent on them either. It was bad enough that Lord Henry had to pay the cost of my passage from New York. It is time that I determined the future for myself and John.’

‘So what have you decided? Will you perhaps visit Thea and Nick at Aymestry?’

‘No.’ Another uncompromising answer.

‘They too would be pleased to see you. I know that Thea feels that she owes you much in achieving her present state of sublime happiness.’ Judith smiled at her romantic recollection of the recent wedding that the family had celebrated, of the love that had so palpably wrapped around Nicholas and Theodora, soft as velvet, strong as forged metal.

Mrs Sarah Russell sighed. That was the problem. Her friends had nothing but good intentions towards her and her young son, however unlikely it might appear that they would be willing to give any thought to her happiness or comfort. Amazingly, her history had become closely interwoven with that of the Faringdons. Instrumental in aiding and abetting her brother Edward Baxendale to make a fraudulent claim against the Faringdon estate, she knew that she did not deserve any consideration from them. There were no extenuating circumstances, even though she had been driven by her conscience to unmask her brother and his trickery. But they had forgiven her, a knowledge that still had the power to warm her heart. Sarah had severed her connection irrevocably with her brother and had been taken under the collective wing of the Faringdon family.

Sarah had aided Eleanor in her elopement to join Lord Henry, Judith’s cousin, in America, and Lord Henry had taken her in and given her a home in New York when she had most needed one. Her decision to return to England had been prompted by the fraught relationship between Lord Nicholas, Henry’s younger brother, and Sarah’s own unknown sister Theodora, an adventurous lady who had been adopted outside the family and brought up by Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux. Reconciled to Thea, Lord Nicholas had made Sarah welcome at Aymestry Manor, both for her own sake and, of course, as a member of the family when he had married Theodora. Judith—well, Judith and Simon had simply held out the hand of friendship. Thus, Sarah knew that her debt to the Faringdons was immeasurable. She could never repay such kindness and they would never ask it of her. But it was more than time that she stood on her own two feet. For herself and her son. Her pride would allow her to be dependent no longer.

‘What will you do, then?’

Sarah drew in a breath, anticipating the opposition that would meet her carefully thought-out statement, but would not be deterred. ‘I must find a position, some form of employment. I need an income and a settled home for myself and my son. John is now more than five years. He needs a home. So do I.’

‘Sarah! No!’ As expected, Judith put down her cup with some force.

‘I only have a small pension from the navy since my husband’s death.’ Sarah laid out her argument as clearly and plainly as she could. It had sounded very well at three o’clock in the morning when sleeplessness had finally forced her to weigh her options. ‘I shall receive no further income from my own family, the Baxendales, either now or any time in the future. I made an enemy of Edward, did I not, when I uncovered his nefarious pursuits? So,’ she repeated, folding the napkin on her lap with careful precision, ‘I need a position of employment and an income.’

‘You must not work!’ Judith was suitably aghast.

‘Why not? Many women in my position, women of good family who have fallen on difficult times, would find no hardship in seeking some form of occupation.’

‘But what would you do? Tell her, Simon! It is not suitable that Sarah take employment. Indeed it is not! I cannot imagine what my mama would say if I allowed it. Or your sister Theodora.’ Judith stopped and blinked at the prospect. ‘Although perhaps I can. Thea has a sharp tongue and an apt turn of phrase. She would be horrified.’

The Earl lowered his paper at last. His eyes spoke of understanding and compassion for the lady’s predicament. ‘Sarah must do exactly as she wishes, my dear. Whatever it is, we will help. But I do agree, Sarah, with my wife. You must consider carefully before you take up any position that might be unsuitable for you. I understand your concern over your situation.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you sure that there is not a life for you in New York?’

‘No, I will not go back.’ On that one point she was adamant. ‘But thank you, Simon. I knew that you would understand. I shall remain here in England.’

‘And do what?’ Judith returned to the crux of the matter.

‘I think I could be a governess.’ Sarah’s lack of experience for any position troubled her, but at least this one, based on her own education and upbringing, held a possibility. ‘I have some skills appropriate for the education of a young lady. Or I could be a housekeeper, I expect. Would you give me references, dear Judith?’

‘No, I would not! I am not at all in favour and so refuse to aid and abet you in this ridiculous proposal.’ The Countess reached across the table to grasp Sarah’s restless fingers. ‘I will tell you what I think. You should marry again. You are so pretty, Sarah, it would be quite the best answer.’

‘Judith…!’ Sarah shook her head in frustration but returned the warm clasp. ‘I am twenty-five years old with a son. And little to recommend me in the way of good looks. Not like Thea, or Eleanor—both of them so beautiful. I fear that I would never draw all eyes if I stepped on to the dance floor at Almack’s as they would. I have no income of my own, no influential connections—nothing to recommend me. Who would consider marriage to me?’

Judith frowned and tapped her thumb nail against her pretty teeth, ignoring much of Sarah’s reasoning, selecting the one omission in Sarah’s explanation. ‘So you are not actually averse to remarriage.’

Sarah thought about this. A marriage of convenience? Never. The memory of her husband, John Russell, a captain in the Royal Navy, slowly crystallised in her mind. It was more than five years since he had died at sea in the final year of the Napoleonic Wars, before Waterloo. She was shocked at how unclear his image had become with the passage of time. She had been so young, he some years older, and she had been dazzled by the attention of this grave gentleman in flattering uniform with gold braid. Meeting her at the home of a distant relative in London, he had rescued her from an unsatisfactory home, carried her off and married her in the face of family disapproval. She smiled as she remembered him, a warm, caring man, considerate of his young wife’s inexperience and insecurity. It saddened her that she had seen so little of him during their brief marriage—a matter of months—and he had never set eyes on his splendid son, meeting death in a bloody skirmish at sea within weeks of the child’s birth.

Had she loved John Russell? Well—yes…if love was a deep affection, a warm, gentle, caring emotion.

Her mind flitted to more recent events where her memory was stronger, her emotions more recently engaged. Where she had seen a quite different interpretation of love. She had seen the strength of love possible between Henry and Eleanor, a bright, all-consuming passion that could sweep all before it. And more recently the unshakeable bond created from the heartbreaking difficulties between Nicholas and Theodora, where love had finally triumphed against all the odds. Love, it seemed, could be found in many different guises.

So, no, she realised, she could not accept a marriage simply for money or comfort or future security. Her heart must be engaged.

She became aware of Judith awaiting her answer with growing impatience.

‘No, I am not averse to marriage,’ she replied with a little smile, a ghost of regret. ‘But only if I find someone I can love. I will not marry for less.’ Catching a flash of interest in the Countess’s emerald eyes, she raised her hand, but laughed as she recognised the gleam of a plan being formed. ‘And I would be grateful if you did not set yourself to put me in the way of a suitable husband, Judith!’

It was almost, Sarah decided only a half hour later that same morning, as if fate in a coquettish moment had determined to take a hand in the game. Although for better or worse, she was as yet unsure. It was one thing to be adamant that she needed some gainful employment, quite another to secure a position that she would consider suitable for herself and her son. But wily fate, in the guise of Lady Beatrice Faringdon, imposing in puce and ostrich plumes, decreed that her dilemma be settled with almost unseemly speed. Simon had taken himself to Tattersall’s, leaving Judith and Sarah to finish their desultory conversation over the breakfast cups, when the door opened to admit Lady Beatrice, Judith’s mama. She waved Matthews, the butler, aside when he would have announced her, greeted the ladies and settled herself at the table where she accepted a cup of tea from her daughter.

Lady Beatrice, large and dominant in the small room, had an air of ruffled displeasure about her, causing Judith to eye her askance.

‘Well, Mama. This is early for you to be visiting.’

‘Well!’ The stout lady took a breath and squared her ample shoulders, thus causing her fading red curls and the plumes in her bonnet to shiver. ‘There has been a development.’

Judith and Sarah exchanged glances, but waited in silence. Not for long.

‘It is your brother Joshua. He plans to return to London next week. And not simply a passing visit.’ The expression on Lady Beatrice’s face could only be described as sour. The return of her firstborn, Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon, to her maternal bosom obviously did not fill her with pleasure.

In comparison, Judith’s immediate smile lit her face with delight. ‘Sher! Why, that is splendid news. It is so long… But I thought he was fixed in Paris for the duration. Why the sudden change of plan?’

‘I do not know. Your brother did not deign to tell me in the letter that I have just received. What he did do is issue a list of instructions—as if I had not better things to do with my time.’

‘Ah!’ Judith understood perfectly. ‘And you thought that I would be willing to take them on.’

‘Why not? You have a much closer relationship with Joshua than I.’ Beneath the chill and patent disapproval there was undeniably the slightest layer of hurt, although Lady Beatrice would have been the first to deny it. ‘I have heard not one word from him for over a year and then all he can do is send me a list—as if I were his secretary’

‘You have not heard from him, Mama, because you are too critical of him and too ready to listen to scandal.’ Judith had inherited her mother’s predilection for plain speaking. ‘You can hardly blame Sher for keeping his distance. It seems to me that—’

Lady Beatrice lifted her hand to bring a halt to any further discussion of her lack of compassion toward her son. ‘I will not discuss your brother’s habits and amusements. They are extreme and—’ She closed her lips firmly on the subject. ‘Suffice it to say they bring no credit to the family. Sometimes I am ashamed to own him.’

Judith sighed. The estrangement was nothing new, with no spirit of compromise or hope of reconciliation on either side. Sher continued to conduct his life with a cavalier disregard for the forms of behaviour that would make him acceptable to the haut ton. Lady Beatrice would tally his many sins and see no good in her only son. ‘Very well, Mama. Tell me what it is that he wants.’

Lady Beatrice extracted a much-folded sheet of paper from her reticule and viewed it with distaste. ‘To open up his town house in Hanover Square,’ she read. ‘To arrange for the child to travel up from the country to join him there. To arrange for some suitable staff—cook, butler and so on—so that all is in readiness for his return—by the end of next week.’

Judith laughed aloud. ‘Well, that sounds fairly much in character! Anything else?’

Even Sarah, a silent observer of this conversation since she had neither met Lord Joshua nor had any knowledge of him, smiled. Another Faringdon! It seemed to her a familiar response by the men of the family, to issue orders and expect them to be carried out quickly and effortlessly.

Lady Beatrice had not finished. ‘He also states that he needs an educated and proficient person to act as housekeeper and also governess to take over the care and education of the child—what is her name? I can never remember—something French. Why he could not have insisted on a good English name I will never understand! Our family have always had English names.’

‘Celestine,’ Judith provided somewhat absently, her mind already occupied with the project and shutting out her mama’s habitual complaints and wilful rejection of the Italian derivation of her own name. ‘Very well. I will talk to Simon about arranging for the provision of staff and… ‘

Sarah’s interest in the proceedings, fairly mild until this point, now found a sharp focus. Lord Joshua Faringdon. Judith’s brother. Needed a housekeeper and governess for a young girl called Celestine. In London. An educated and proficient person. Why not? She managed to remain silent in a blaze of impatience until Lady Beatrice completed her diatribe and took herself off, delighted at having passed the burden of her son’s return into Judith’s not unwilling lap. Then Sarah fixed her gaze on Judith, who was still perusing the list that her mama had thoughtfully left.

‘I can do that.’ A strange breathlessness gripped her.

‘Hmm?’

‘It is exactly the sort of position that I need. Which I can do. Housekeeper and governess.’

Which statement made Judith look up with an instant frown. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It would be too… too demeaning! You know my opinion on the whole foolish project. But to have my friend in my brother’s employ—I will not consider it.’

‘I need a position, Judith. It is the ideal opportunity, I do assure you—consider the advantages for me.’

‘No!’

‘It will enable me to remain in London.’ Sarah leaned forward, slender hands spread on the table cloth, urgency in every line of her body.

Judith’s silent displeasure was answer enough.

‘I shall be able to educate both my son and the child. I shall regain my independence. I shall have a home.’

‘I do not think that you should.’

‘I do.’ Sarah dropped her eyes from her friend’s searching glance, her voice low. Unaware, her fingers interlaced and gripped tightly. ‘It will also perhaps help me to regain some self-respect.’

‘But, Sarah—’

‘I owe your family much.’ Now, her mind made up, her gaze was direct and steady again. ‘Here is the best opportunity I can imagine to pay off that debt, dropped into my hands as if it were a precious gift. How can I possibly turn my back against it? Let me do it, Judith. Don’t stand in my way, I beg of you… as my friend.’

As a final argument, Judith had no answer against it, and could only continue to frown her distaste for the development. Yes, she was Sarah’s friend, and knew better than most the agonies the lady had suffered as a result of her brother Edward’s malicious scheming and her own part in his clever fraud. Perhaps this means of earning forgiveness—although Judith could not see the need for Sarah to be forgiven!—would allow Sarah to achieve some essential peace of mind and put the events of the past finally to rest. Furthermore, Judith had to acknowledge that Sarah Russell could, when challenged, be a lady of considerable determination. It was rare to see her cornflower-blue eyes shine with quite that depth of emotion. Sarah was not to be dissuaded.

So, it seemed that in Sarah’s mind the matter was settled. But Judith was not at ease with the outcome.

Wisely, Sarah allowed Judith some space in which to ponder the advantages of her taking up the appointment in Lord Joshua Faringdon’s household, holding to the thought that she would soon see the sense of it. Then, when she knew that the Countess of Painscastle had spent some frustrating time in undertaking to engage the required staff for her brother, with limited and haphazard success, she broached the subject again as if the matter were indeed settled.

‘Will you tell me about him, Judith? Lord Faringdon? After all, he will be my employer and I would wish to have some knowledge of his requirements.’

Judith tutted—but in reluctant agreement. Finding an experienced butler and cook at such short notice was proving difficult enough, even without the educated and proficient per son. So if Sarah was quite determined…

‘Are you indeed sure?’

‘Certainly I am. I think that heaven has smiled on me in dropping this chance at my feet. I would be foolish to ignore it.’

The ladies were taking an airing in Judith’s barouche.

‘I would not put it quite in those words. Neither, I fear, will you after living under my brother’s roof. He can be somewhat—ah, unreliable.’

‘Unreliable?’ This was not what she had expected, although Lady Beatrice’s unexplained disapproval could not be overlooked. ‘I wish that you would tell me about your brother. I do not think I have ever heard you speak of him. And why your mama is so…so…’

‘So unforgiving,’ Judith supplied with a rueful smile. ‘Well, now. He is older than I by a little less than ten years—so we were never close as children. I admired him—the splendid older brother, as you might imagine. He had no time for me, of course—the younger sister still in the nursery—but I worshipped from afar.’ She wrinkled her nose a little as she searched her memories. ‘By the time that I had my coming-out Season, he was no longer living at home. I suppose the truth is that I do not know him very well, although he was never unkind to me as some brothers might be,’ she added ingenuously.

‘Does he have red hair like you?’ Sarah cast a quick glance at Judith’s fiery ringlets.

‘No.’ She chuckled, reasonably tolerant of her own dramatic appearance, even though it prevented her from wearing her favourite shade of pink. ‘Fortunately for him, Sher is dark like the rest of them. I was the only one to be afflicted by Mama’s colouring. How unfair life is! But his eyes are grey—sometimes almost silver—not green like mine. He is outrageously handsome, of course.’

Of course. Sarah knew only too well, claiming close acquaintance with the charm and good looks of both Henry and Nicholas Faringdon.

‘And he lives in Paris, I understand.’

‘Yes. Mostly. Although he has property in England. Sher married a French lady—before I was myself married—Mademoiselle Marianne de Colville was her name. The marriage was very sudden, so I think it must have been a love match. I only met her twice, once when they were wed, but I remember that she was an arresting lady—not a beauty exactly, but one of those dazzling women who take the eye, with dark hair and dark eyes. Very French, you understand, with a most stylish wardrobe. I remember being highly envious as a young girl, when fashion meant far more to me than it does now…’ Judith did not notice Sarah turning her head to survey an approaching landaulet and to hide a smile at this remarkable admission. ‘But anyway, she died in Paris more than three years ago now. It was all very sad and sudden—quite tragic—some sort of fever that did not respond to any of the advice given by the doctors. We were all quite taken by surprise—from what we knew of the lady, Marianne had always seemed so full of life. But there… She was buried in France, probably at her family home somewhere in Provence.’ Judith lifted her hand in recognition of the occupants of the landaulet. ‘I did not know Lady Portinscale was back in town. But where was I…? Sher does not talk about Marianne and her death. I expect that he was stricken by remorse, losing the love of his life. Not that you would guess from the manner in which he has conducted his life since,’ she added drily. ‘But perhaps I should not have said that.’

Sarah thought about this. Knowing Judith well, there was no need to ask the lady’s enigmatic meaning. The Countess would assuredly confide every detail to her friend before they completed the first circuit of Hyde Park. ‘Why do you call him Sher?’

‘It is a family name—Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon. A childhood thing—Hal and Nick always called him that. I think I got into the habit because Mama disapproved. It was not the thing, she said. But Sher did not object—he always did what he could to annoy her.’

‘And so he has a daughter?’

‘Yes. Celestine. She must be a little older than John. Perhaps eight years old now.’

‘And has lived in the country.’

‘Sher sent her to England, even before her mother died, when she was quite a little girl, hardly more than a baby,’ Judith explained. ‘He has a house at Richmond on the edge of the Park, so the child has grown up there. He thought it better than keeping her in Paris—or even coming to London. She travelled with her nurse. One cannot but pity her, brought up by servants, with no other company and no one to play with. Perhaps I should have brought her to live with us—but that was before the birth of Giles and we set up our own nursery. Celestine would have been just as lonely in Grosvenor Square as in Richmond.’

‘Poor child. She will have missed her mother.’

‘I suppose. It will be better for her to be in London with a governess. I barely remember her, but on the one occasion Sher brought her to visit us when he was last home it seemed to me that she was a very plain child, silent for the most part and quite timid. As I said, she has not had an enviable life.’ Judith slanted a glinting smile at Sarah. ‘Perhaps it is a good plan after all—that you take over the care of her.’

Inclined to agree, Sarah sat quietly, piecing together her newly acquired knowledge. Poor child indeed, robbed of both parents. Had her father done anything to keep in touch with her? Sarah decided that, as a prospective employee, it was a question too delicate to ask. For herself, she could not imagine abandoning her own son in quite a different country, to be raised by paid employees who had no personal connection with the child. But, she supposed, that was not for her to question.

‘Why does your mama not talk of him?’ She returned to the blank spaces in her knowledge. ‘As the only son and heir and now head of the family I would have expected her to welcome his return.’

‘Not at all!’ Judith took a breath. Here it came! Gossip was the spice of life to her. ‘Sher has… well, he has a reputation. If you had been out and about in polite society, dear Sarah, you would undoubtedly have heard.’

‘Oh.’ Sarah nodded thoughtfully. Lady Beatrice’s caustic words had suggested that such might be the case.

‘A string of mistresses. And very expensive.’ With little encouragement necessary, Judith now had no compunction in filling in the detail. ‘When he was younger, Sher was often in debt and, when Papa was alive, he expected him to bail him out. Gambling, you understand. Horses and cards. He lost a great deal of money playing vingt-et-un at one of the gaming hells in Pall Mall. I think it was the cause of some harsh words between him and Papa. Understandable, of course, but words that became unforgivable—on both sides.’

‘I see.’ Sarah’s eyes widened in amazement. She had had no idea.

‘And then there was the notorious Grayson affair in London.’ Judith leaned confidingly toward her friend, all animation. ‘The lady was married! And her family was one of the foremost of the ton. I remember nothing of it but I am told that it was all very embarrassing. That was the occasion on which Sher first went to Paris. Papa sent him there until the gossip died down, refusing to pay any further debts unless he complied and put his life in order. It was the talk of every withdrawing room in town. I think that might have been the final straw for Mama, to hear the whispering come to a halt every time she entered a room. So Mama prefers it when he makes his home in Paris. Although,’ Judith confided, finally, ‘she had not entirely given up on the thought of his remarriage to reform his wicked ways. Although who would agree to marry him, I cannot imagine. Even though he is very rich, most mamas of hopeful débutantes would not willingly look for the connection.’

‘I can well understand,’ Sarah agreed in lively horror and some degree of fascination.

‘So, you see, Sher acquired the reputation as a rake and something of a ne’er-do-well. I think perhaps he did not deserve it. He was very young.’ Judith’s pretty lips pursed as she tried for an honest judgement on her brother. ‘I am extremely fond of him. But there was also the scandal of the ladies of the chorus at Covent Garden!’

‘Really?’ Sarah found the recital riveting. ‘More than one? I had thought that all Faringdons had an eye to propriety.’

‘Not Joshua. He has an eye to every pretty member of the female sex.’ Judith sighed. ‘I shall say no more! Except to suggest that you might—indeed you might—be advised to reconsider your application for a position in his household.’

Sarah laughed and reassured her, knowing that as housekeeper her path would rarely cross with that of her noble employer. How Lord Joshua Faringdon might choose to live his life would have nothing whatsoever to do with her and have no bearing on her own duties in his establishment. But Judith’s artless confidences left her to consider that she was not the only one to have a brother in the form of a skeleton in the family closet. She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. And that Faringdon skeleton was now her employer.

Two days later Judith’s reluctant acceptance of Sarah Russell’s new status had undergone a sea change. On receipt of a letter from Paris, she was indeed prepared to say more, and did so unequivocally on running Sarah to ground in the private garden at the centre of Grosvenor Square where, despite the blustery weather, she threw a ball for John to chase and catch.

‘Sarah! I have just received a letter from my brother. I am entirely convinced that you should not take up the position in his house.’ The fact that the letter was remarkably frank and detailed had given her only a moment’s pause. If she had known how painstakingly Lord Joshua had constructed it, how much time he had spent in plotting the scandalous content, and how much he was prepared to gamble on his flighty sister’s inability to remain silent when in possession of a delicious piece of scandal, she would have been astounded. But she did not know any of these things and so jumped to the hoped-for conclusion. Presumably Sher did not care one jot about the comment that he was about to provoke in London. He was entirely without principle and honour, despite his birth and upbringing as a gentleman. As a Faringdon! It all went to prove that Sarah should not find herself in the role of housekeeper in the resulting den of iniquity.

‘Why on earth not? What can he have said?’ Sarah handed the ball to the nursemaid who accompanied her and joined Judith on one of the wrought-iron seats, which provided some limited degree of comfort and shelter from the wind. The day was too cool for them to sit long.

Judith did not reply directly, but allowed her thoughts on her brother to develop. ‘I had thought that with age his lifestyle might be less rackety. After Marianne’s death I had thought he was a little sad. And he has a daughter to consider, of course… But it is not so. He is as irresponsible as he ever was.’ She frowned down at the closely written sheets that she still clutched in her hand as if she might detect the reason for her brother’s outrageous manner by absorption from the paper and ink.

‘More scandal?’ Sarah enquired.

‘Scandal! Sher has written to tell me the reason for his return. I am not surprised that he did not tell Mama!’

Sarah merely tilted her head in enquiry.

‘It seems that he has suffered some injury. Caused by the husband of the lady whom he…’ she leaned close and whispered sotto voce ‘… the lady whom he was intent on seducing. That gentleman was unfortunate enough to discover Sher and his… his most recent flirt in a secluded anteroom at a reception at the British Embassy where they were… Well, I am sure you can imagine—but the gentleman was irate—there was some violence —and the result is a terrible scandal in Paris. As well as being physically incapacitated, Sher is not being received. So has decided to return to London until another on dit takes its place and he will be accepted again.’

‘He told you that?’ Sarah could not imagine a brother regaling his sister with such salacious detail. Clearly he had.

‘Yes. I did think…I wonder why? But perhaps he thought that news would spread and lose nothing in the telling—so he would tell me the truth first.’

‘I suppose.’ Sarah hid her doubts—could the gossip be worse then the truth?—but decided that perhaps the reason for the detailed letter was irrelevant.

‘Furthermore—’ anger now flashed in Judith’s eyes and her voice began to rise, regardless of the proximity of the nursemaid ‘—he informs me that he will be bringing with him to London none other than the Countess of Wexford. Would you believe it!’

Sarah remained complacent enough. ‘I think I do not know the lady.’

‘Of course not. No one of good ton would claim to know the Countess of Wexford!’ Bristling with disgust, Judith abandoned the letter and snapped her parasol into place as a stray sunbeam slanted across the garden. ‘I expect that you will not have crossed her path. She is a lady of considerable presence and…and questionable morals. Rumour says that her origins are not what they might be. Merchant class from Dublin.’ Judith wrinkled her nose. ‘But she is quite lovely, a widow, titled and with enough wealth to take her place in polite society. She is accepted by everyone except the highest sticklers—you can meet her anywhere, but she would never achieve tickets of admission for Almack’s. It is generally accepted that she is on the hunt for a lover or a husband. I presume she is Joshua’s mistress! And, would you believe, will be living in the house with him in Hanover Square.’

‘Oh! She will?’ Lord Faringdon’s new housekeeper did not know what she felt about this revelation, but still decided that, in truth, it would have little bearing on her own position.

The Countess of Painscastle thought no such thing. ‘Indeed, Sarah, it is not suitable for you to take on the running of that house. I would even go so far as to forbid it!’

‘Judith…’ Sarah sighed as she watched her son’s limitless energy as he dashed about the garden. ‘Your care for me overwhelms me—but I really do not see why I should not take the post. If Lord Faringdon takes the Countess of Wexford as his mistress, it will make no difference to my position in organising the smooth running of the house or in my appointment as governess to his daughter. And if your brother does not intend to remain here in London any longer than the brief life of the scandal in Paris—then I do not see the problem. Perhaps he will continue to employ me as governess when he leaves, if he approves my work. Presumably the child will then return to Richmond and I could go there with her. My reputation is in no danger, Judith. I see no problem.’

‘It will not be a respectable establishment, Sarah! That will be the problem! And although I hate to admit it, my brother appears to have abandoned all honour and principles expected of a gentleman. To have the Countess of Wexford living with him under the same roof. It is quite disgraceful. I am sure that you take my meaning. I hesitate to say this about my own brother, but you may not be safe in such a household.’

Sarah did understand, all too clearly, but knew with a lowering of spirits that her friend’s concern was not necessary. In a perverse manner, she almost found herself wishing that it was, that she was sufficiently beautiful and desirable to attract the attentions of a notorious rake. There was never any hope of that—not even when she was a young girl. When she looked in her mirror, she accepted what she saw there. Her fair curls did not have the brightness, her blue eyes lacked intensity, her pale skin would have benefited from a hint of delicate colour. No. Sarah Russell would never take the eye of Lord Joshua Faringdon. So she expressed her sentiments with a wry smile and typical honesty. ‘Judith…Lord Faringdon is hardly likely to look at me, now is he? Particularly if an attractive woman such as the Countess is more than willing to accommodate his advances. I am not beautiful. I have no talent or skill beyond the average with which to attract his attention. He will see me as the housekeeper, a servant below stairs. Which is exactly what I shall be. That is if he notices me at all! And if the Countess of Wexford moves on to hunt in other pastures, as you put it, there will always be the ladies of Covent Garden to claim your brother’s attention.’ She silenced Judith’s objections with a little shake of her head. ‘His conduct in the house will have no influence on my life whatsoever. He can have any number of mistresses. He can hold orgies if he wishes. It is simply that this position is too advantageous for me to reject!’

## Chapter Three

Within the week, before she could weaken and change her mind, Sarah saw to the packing up of her few possessions and those of her son, and their transportation over the short distance to Lord Joshua Faringdon’s town house in Hanover Square. She herself followed immediately. Hugged and kissed by Judith, they shed a few tears because, although the Countess of Painscastle promised to come and see her friend, and was lavish in invitations that Sarah should bring herself and John to visit in Grosvenor Square any time she wished, both were well aware of the social divide that Sarah was creating by her wilful decision. But go she would. As she stood on the shallow flight of steps leading to the imposing front door, flanked by decorative ironwork, John’s hand clasped firmly in hers, she wondered what the future would hold for her here, whether she would ever find the acceptance and depth of happiness that she yearned for. But for now she would settle for satisfaction in her new position and a sense of redemption.

Sarah discovered other members of the new household already in occupation and hard at work. The house, elegant and spacious with well-proportioned rooms and tasteful furnishings, had been closed up for more than a year, furniture shrouded in dust sheets and shutters closed. Newly appointed footmen and maids were already cleaning and organising under the strict eye of Judith’s butler Matthews, who had been sent to cast his experienced eye over the proceedings. For the moment, Sarah was pleased to leave the reins in his capable hands.

Sarah first took herself to the kitchen and sculleries to discover and make the acquaintance of the ruler of this little kingdom. Mrs Beddows was a small, thin, nervy woman who had already organised her domain to her exacting standards. Fortunately she appeared not to mind a small boy and sat him down at the scrubbed table, with strict instructions for him not to get under her feet, to drink a glass of milk whilst she cross-examined his mama. After half an hour, Sarah found herself in possession of detailed knowledge of every maid and footman under her authority and decided that she and Mrs Beddows would get along.

Instinct warned her that it would be a different tale with the new butler. Mr Alfred Millington, he informed her within condescending tones and a smooth smile. Former butler at Orford Place to the Marquis and Marchioness of Gainsford. Sarah did not like him. And why was he no longer engaged at Orford Place? Opinionated and superior, conscious of his own elevated status as butler in a gentleman’s establishment, he looked down his thin nose at her. And he made it plain that he did not like small boys. Sarah adopted a cool professional smile and determined to try hard to get on with this individual—she did not desire to make enemies unnecessarily—but he would bear watching. The rest of the new servants were still nameless faces. It would all fall into place eventually.

The house gradually began to come to life as dust and covers were removed. Oriental silk curtains and hangings were brushed and washed and fires were lit in cold rooms. It was sparsely furnished as yet, but perhaps his lordship would do something to remedy that if he planned to remain in London for any length of time. Sarah walked round her new responsibility, enjoying the stillness and order that they were creating, at the same time trying to absorb some sense of the absent owner. There was nothing. No personal possessions, no atmosphere of anyone having lived here. Even the paintings on the walls were impersonal, mostly dark rural scenes or lurid representations of Greek myths in heavily ornate frames. The family portraits, although clearly of Faringdons with their dark hair and well-marked brows, were from a distant age when the sitters wore whalebone stays and lace cravats. Even a farthingale was in evidence. Nothing to indicate the character or the preferences of Lord Joshua Faringdon. It was as if he had never lived here and Sarah, standing within the splendour of the polished wood and the leather-bound books in the library, had to admit to a disappointment. Judith’s brother interested her, despite his wicked ways. Foolish without doubt but she could not deny it.

The rooms set aside for her own use, high under the eaves, had traditionally been used as nursery and schoolroom, but were surprisingly spacious. A small private sitting room and bedchamber for herself, a smaller room for her son and then the schoolroom. Lacking the elegance and comfort of the family rooms of course, but not unacceptable. Beyond it were two rooms cleaned and prepared for the imminent arrival of Miss Celestine Faringdon. She inspected them all with John in tow.

‘Do we live here now, Mama?’ He bounced on the bed that would be his own.

‘Yes. Will you like it?’ She ran a finger along the edge of a small table to check for dust.

He thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Mrs Beddows gave me a sugared biscuit. She said that when Lord Faringdon comes there will be horses in the stable and I can go and see them.’

‘I expect she is right.’ Sarah smiled. Horses were her son’s present passion.

‘Has the little girl come yet?’ John dashed before her into the schoolroom. ‘From the country?’

No.’ Celestine was expected any day. ‘We must try to make her welcome. She will not know anyone in London. Think what it must be like, if everyone is a stranger.’

Opening a cupboard and finding it empty, shutting it again, John came to stand beside Sarah, suddenly anxious. ‘Will you be her mama as well?’

‘No.’ She ruffled his hair, which made him jump out of reach with a squawk. ‘I shall teach her—and you, both of you together. Her papa will soon be here.’

‘Where is her mama? Is she still in France?’ Sarah raised her brows at this evidence that her son listened in to the conversations around him. He was beginning to grow up. It surprised her that she felt a little sad at the prospect.

‘No. Her mama is dead.’

‘Like my papa.’ John pushed a pile of books neatly together, simple acceptance in his voice.

‘Yes. Like your papa.’ Sarah felt a sudden rush of loneliness to meld with the sadness. Then took herself to task. This was no good. She would soon be sinking in a fit of melancholia! They now had everything she had dreamed of. A home and a paid position that would allow them to live dependent on no one for charity. She had still to hear what her sister Thea might have to say to this change in her circumstances. As horrified as Judith and far more outspoken, if Sarah knew anything about it. But she did not care. Self-esteem was a very important thing, and, whatever Judith might say to the contrary, the need to make recompense to the family she had almost helped to destroy. The whole episode had left a stain, ugly and hauntingly persistent, on her soul. But now she nodded as she watched John climb on to the window seat to peer down into the Square, laughing excitedly at his height from the ground and the sudden swooping proximity of a flock of sparrows. Yes. She had done the right thing. She held out her hand to John.

‘Let us go and look at Celestine’s room, and see that it has been made ready for her.’

For better or worse, she was now a housekeeper.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Paris Lord Joshua Faringdon was making his own preparations to transfer his life to London, in the company, as advised by Wycliffe, of the Countess of Wexford. It would have surprised his sister beyond measure to know that her brother found the highly decorative lady to be everything that Judith had described to Sarah. Possessor of a beautiful face, an elegant figure, a range of talents that made her much sought after in some social circles for her undoubted charm, her outer beauty hid a grasping and selfish soul. The smiling lips and glittering eyes, the low provocative voice, were knowing and could be sly. They also masked an utter determination to achieve what would be in the best interests of Olivia Wexford. Her dead husband, Lord Joshua considered, sent to an early grave by a fall from a horse when hunting in the Shires, had had a lucky escape.

But without doubt the lady had her uses. Lord Joshua Faringdon would be seen and condemned by all as an unprincipled dilettante, returning to London in the midst of a scandal of the worst possible kind, in the company of his present mistress. Not only a lady of dubious morals, but one who was prepared to live openly with him under his own roof in Hanover Square. The ton could make of that what they would—and he could imagine every whispered aside. But nothing could be better in covering up his underground activities or the true reason for his return. No one would find a need to look beyond the obvious.

At the same time, he realised, as he sat at his desk to put his paperwork in order, he need feel no guilt over the masquerade. Olivia had been highly delighted to be invited to accompany him to London and made no attempt to hide it. The delicacy of his invitation had been lost on her. He might be little less than crippled with his broken ribs and damaged tendons, but Olivia smiled into his eyes and offered her lips for a kiss. Blatantly offered far more than that when he could manage to climb the stairs to her room without the use of a cane, when he was capable of pleasuring her body with finesse and some physical dexterity. She would like nothing better than to be his mistress and would enjoy ruling over his establishment in London, notwithstanding the resulting gossip. She might even hold out for marriage if she thought it worth her while to become Lady Joshua Faringdon. He stopped to think about that, his hands stilled on a pile of documents, a line engraved between his brows. She was without doubt an attractive woman. And he was not averse to a light flirtation when the object of his gallantry was so willing and responsive.

But no. He frowned at his wayward thoughts and continued to shuffle. His experience with the fair sex had not been felicitous and had left him with a sharp and lingering distrust. A woman’s professed love was conditional on the depth of a man’s purse. Or the value and sparkle of the jewels an unwise man might clasp around her elegant neck. And once she had you in her clutches, her claws would not willingly let go until all blood had been drained, uncomfortably like a leech—his lips twitched in semblance of a smile. Manipulative and untrustworthy. In his mind the image of Marianne was suddenly superimposed over that of Olivia Wexford until he deliberately blinked it away with gritted teeth, smile transformed into a cynical snarl. He would not allow himself to contemplate that episode of marital bliss again. Or willingly repeat it.

No. He would feel no guilt over the fair Olivia’s unwitting role in his return to London. She would get as much out of it as he did. But it struck him forcibly that the greater the distance he could keep between the woman and himself on a personal level the better. Not an easy task but an essential one. For, without doubt, Olivia Wexford had an eye to his body and his bed as well as his guineas.

The days passed, but Celestine Faringdon did not arrive in Hanover Square. No matter how many times John might rush into the entrance hall at the sound of a coach or large vehicle in the street, there was no sign and no letter to explain the delay. Sarah contemplated sending to apply to Judith to discover the whereabouts of the little girl, but decided that she should not. She must learn to accept her new position of service—where the actions of her employers and their family were no concern of hers.

The cleaning and polishing of the house was complete at last, flowers arranged in the reception rooms, the pantries and cellars stocked, all in readiness for the imminent arrival. Then there was nothing for the staff to do but wait on the inclinations of their betters.

So that as chance would have it, when a large and fashionably smart coach and four finally arrived to draw up outside the house early on a bright morning, luggage piled high on the roof, no one within was prepared.

‘Mama! Mama! She is here. The little girl is here.’ John jumped and hopped in excitement by the window flanking the front door. No matter how often Sarah had tried to explain their altered status, or the parts of the house that were out of bound to him—and how difficult that was to a child of nearly six years!—John still saw the new arrival as an object of endless fascination and a possible playmate.

Sarah joined him, grabbing hold of his hand. There was indeed bustle and noise on the pavement. Luggage was being unloaded. But no child emerged from the carriage. She clutched her son’s hand harder.

‘It is not Celestine. It is Lord Faringdon!’

Why had the man not sent word to warn them? Well, why should he? Swallowing against a sudden brush of panic along her spine, Sarah made a hasty dash to the servants’ quarters to gather up and send as many staff as possible to the entrance hall, where they might formally greet their new lord. They lined up just as the front door was flung open by a young and self-conscious footman. Sarah, the last to arrive, took a place at the end of the line, twitching her skirts and cuffs into place, thinking that it really would not do for her to meet her first employer in a state of disorder. Then realised that John was still watching the arrival in a frenzy of excitement. She should have banished him to the kitchens—this was no place for her child—but too late. Quick as a thought, she pulled him to stand beside her.

‘Stand still, John.’ Sarah managed to smile down at him, as nervous as the youngest scullery maid. ‘Don’t speak unless you are spoken to. Silent as a little mouse, mind!’

Eyes wide, John nodded and grasped his mother’s skirts.

Up the flight of shallow steps and into the entrance hall walked a lady. Tall with a slender, willowy figure, she was immediately the centre of attention. A glorious brunette with dark eyes under dark brows and dark lashes that could only have benefited from the careful use of cosmetics. And with a richly painted mouth that smiled, unlike her eyes, which did not. Rather they looked and assessed and discarded with elegant disdain as if used to better things. She took up a position—posed, Sarah decided—just inside the door as if to draw all eyes to herself. There was no difficulty here.

She was dressed, as Sarah supposed, in the height of Parisian fashion in a delectable shade of lavender. Row after row of ribbon and lace trimmed the hem, the same detail drawing the eye to the pleated yoke above the high waist. The sleeves were long and close fitting into pleated cuffs with little puffed oversleeves. The brim of the satin-straw bonnet was trimmed with similar pleating, the crown with flowers and curling feathers, its long satin ribbons fluttering as the lady glided across the tiled floor in matching satin shoes.

Sarah could not prevent a silent sigh of envy, immediately conscious of her own plain gown fashioned of dark blue silk, high necked, long sleeved, not a hint of decoration. As for the lace cap that she had reluctantly pinned to her rigidly controlled curls…all perfectly suited to her standing, demure and understated and of excellent quality. She had never felt quite so dowdy in all her life.

Sarah surveyed the visitor beneath lowered lashes, understanding at once who she must be. The Countess of Wexford, no less. Judith’s barbed comments came instantly to life and Sarah could well believe the truth of them. Her ladyship said not a word, not condescending to notice such lowly creatures as servants. Drawing off the softest of kid gloves with casual grace and perhaps a touch of impatience about her lovely mouth and a faint line between her brows, she surveyed the entrance hall, the rise of the staircase to the first floor, the side tables and hall chairs—almost as if she were looking for dust. Definitely impatience, Sarah realised, as the Countess tapped one foot, then swept her luxurious skirts out of the way to move back to the doorway to look out. But she smiled, her petulance swiftly disguised. Lord Faringdon was now here.

For Sarah, Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon was a far more attractive subject for her conjecture. She repressed a nervous smile as he came to a halt in the doorway, the sun at his back, casting his features into shadow but rimming him in gold. What would he say if he knew that she was a close friend of his sister, a less than discreet and loyal sister who had seen it in her way to pass on all manner of interesting information. But Sarah had no intention of allowing him this knowledge and had warned Judith of her desires. To Lord Faringdon, she would simply be Mrs Sarah Russell, his newly appointed—if most inexperienced—housekeeper.

It was immediately obvious as he approached the doorway that Lord Faringdon had suffered a number of recent and far from trivial injuries. He moved with a slow and agonising stiffness, using a cane to help him mount the steps, holding himself as if his ribs and one shoulder flared with pain with every unwise movement. Perhaps there was a tightness, a hint of strain around his mouth. But that, although she recalled in some moral indignation Judith’s confidences on the cause of the damage, was not what took Mrs Russell’s attention. From the moment that his lordship set foot inside his own hall, when he turned so that the light could fall full on his face, for Sarah the glory of the Countess of Wexford became a matter of irrelevance, as tawdry as pinchbeck beside fine gold.

She recognised the Faringdon features, familiar as they were, immediately. Beautifully carved features, all firm planes and interesting hollows cast into relief by the bright sunlight that shone directly into the room. A thin, imperious nose and firm lips. But here there were arresting differences. Dense black hair she had expected, but not with the lustre of dull silver. And his eyes were neither disturbingly dark gray nor intensely blue. As Judith had so casually informed her, they were light, silver even, devastating as polished metal, clear as cut glass. As piercing as the gaze of a hunting hawk as he cast an eye over his assembled staff. And at this precise moment, Sarah decided, they were full of an intense irritation, although with whom or what she could hardly guess.

For Sarah it was an uncomfortable instant of shock and inner revelation. She took a deep breath as her heart gave one heavy beat, then sighed and tensed against a little flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach, a shiver of longing that spread its warm heat from her breast to the tips of her fingers. A delicate flush mantled her cheeks. Capable, sensible, practical—unworthy—Sarah Russell, who asked nothing more in life than forgiveness for the part she had played in her brother’s malicious plotting, and the chance to carve out a quiet life for herself and her son. Who wanted never to be dependent on the whim of any man ever again. Sarah Russell, who had lived in the same house with both Henry and Nicholas Faringdon, admiring both, acknowledging the charm of both, but without any danger of losing her common sense where they were concerned—or her heart.

And here, in this one blinding moment, her love for John Russell, although it could never be denied, paled into insignificance as the intoxication of longing swam through Sarah’s blood.

Why did it have to happen now? And with this man?

She took herself instantly to task, in typical stern fashion, despite the hectic beat of her pulse at throat and wrist. How foolish she was to allow so immediate a reaction to simply the sight of the man. Of what value was a handsome face if the owner lacked honour and respectability? Of course it was impossible to fall in love so instantly, so completely with someone of whom she had no knowledge, apart from the most damaging of gossip, and who was so far above her as to make the situation patently ridiculous. With a man who had arrived in the intimate company of the Countess of Wexford, who was certainly expecting to take up residence in the house, with no attempt to disguise her relationship with Lord Faringdon. How scandalous indeed! Of course Sarah could not have lost her heart!

But Sarah’s silent lecture did not at all seem to have the desired effect.

‘Joshua.’ The voice of Lady Wexford, although rich and sultry, could slice through flesh and bone. ‘At last.’ She allowed no recognition of his injuries, placing her hand on his arm in a possessive little gesture that merely confirmed all Sarah’s presumptions concerning their relationship. ‘If you would dismiss your staff, I can discover if there is a suitable room for myself and my maid. That is, if such has been made ready for me.’

‘One moment, Olivia.’ A flicker of some emotion in those remarkable eyes—far keener than mere irritation—was quickly banished. Sarah, watching carefully, was not even in the end sure of its existence. But Lord Faringdon turned from the lady and her demands with slow deliberation to make his halting way along the line, speaking one by one to the servants appointed to run his home. Sarah found herself listening to his voice. Soft, low. A masculine edge to trip along her senses. And his words—he found the exact greeting and comment for Mrs Beddows and Millington. Even the maids and footmen. When he smiled his eyes warmed, his face lit with a charm guaranteed to win their loyalty to the last drop of blood. Sarah looked away. It would be difficult for any woman to stand against it.

At last he came to Sarah, at the end of the line, by chance rather than status.

He saw a slight young woman, not overly tall but well proportioned, fine boned with an air of graceful competence. Far younger than he had expected, certainly immature for the position of authority denoted by her formal and severe clothing, the little high-standing ruff of her gown drawing attention to her face. Her fair hair was swept back into a neat twist, but allowing no curls around her face to soften her features. She wore a little lace cap. He gained an impression of a classically oval face, of pale skin, quiet blue eyes, an unexpected fragility. But also a calm composure, again at odds with her youth, as her gaze met his with no shyness on her part. Although… There might have been some momentary flicker of response there that he could not read. But then it was gone—perhaps he was mistaken. But he was not mistaken in noting the soft glow of colour that invaded her cheeks during his lengthy scrutiny.

‘So you must be my housekeeper?’ he asked at last. A mere process of elimination. He looked at her, cool and assessing. He supposed that Lady Beatrice had known what she was about in appointing so youthful a person.

‘Yes, my lord. I am Mrs Russell.’ Sarah performed a neat curtsy, no expression other than the polite response of a servant.

‘You are younger than I might have expected.’

‘I am not inexperienced, my lord. The Countess of Painscastle recommended me personally for the position.’ She would make use of her connections if she had to and prayed that he would not see a need to question his sister too closely.

‘So this is all Judith’s doing. I should have realised.’ Absorbing Lady Beatrice’s rejection of his initial request for help, his lordship’s eyes grew flat and dark. But what other had he expected? He turned his attention back to the fair young woman who was addressing him again in a pleasingly educated voice.

‘I am also engaged to undertake the education of your daughter when she is in London, my lord.’

‘Ah. Has she arrived?’

‘No. We expect her any day. All is in readiness, my lord.’ A confident voice, he realised, soft and well modulated. Somehow, it matched her appearance exactly. On first impression he approved his sister’s choice.

He would have turned away when his attention was caught by the slightest movement at Sarah’s side. He looked down.

‘And who are you?’

The small boy moved a foot to the left, out of the shelter of Sarah’s skirts, yet still keeping a fold tight in his fist. But he smiled and answered readily, ‘I am John.’

‘What are you doing here, John?’

‘I live here. My lord,’ he added at a slight nudge from Mrs Russell.

‘Well, now. And why is it that you live in my house?’

‘I…’ A question beyond him. John glanced up at his mother with sharp anxiety.

‘He is my son, my lord.’

And he could immediately see the resemblance in the fair hair and light complexion.

‘Is it fitting to have a married person as your housekeeper, Joshua?’ The Countess, resenting the intrusion of servants into Lord Faringdon’s attention to herself, had come to stand beside him, now looking Sarah over from head to foot with frigid disapproval. And with a child? Surely that is not appropriate in a gentleman’s household. Besides, children are so noisy.’ Her glance at the small boy was one of sharp distaste, barely masked.

Sarah stiffened, recognising an enemy in the supremely self-absorbed, supremely beautiful Countess, but addressed her reply with perfect equanimity to her employer. ‘I am a widow, sir, and have been so for five years. Forgive me, my son should not have been here.’ She would not apologise or explain further. ‘He will not be a nuisance—to yourself or to her ladyship, I do assure you.’

The Countess promptly turned her back, walking leisurely towards the staircase, choosing to signal her displeasure by ignoring the situation as one of no interest to her. ‘Has a room been made ready for me?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Good. Then be so good as to direct my maid Hortense with my luggage. I need to rest. Is this the withdrawing room? Perhaps you will send tea.’

Lady Wexford made her languorous way to the withdrawing room, leaving his lordship to remain for a long moment, looking after her with a distinct frown between his brows and making no effort to hide it. Then, with the slightest of shrugs, which caused him to wince, he handed over coat, hat and gloves to one of the waiting footmen and limped heavily after her.

To leave behind him in the entrance hall a flurry of comment and interest. Lord Faringdon and his mistress now in residence! A situation promising much food for gossip below stairs. But for Sarah there was considerable personal conflict. She disliked the Countess of Wexford on sight and knew instinctively that the feeling was reciprocal. Perhaps the lady disliked any woman, even the housekeeper, who took the lord’s attention from her for even a moment. Whereas Lord Faringdon… Sarah pressed her palms to her heated cheeks. She could not believe the immediacy of her response to him. How her heart had leapt, her blood warmed, her pulse beat with furious intensity. But it could not be. It was merely an attack of nerves, brought on by her first meeting with her employer. Love without prior knowledge, without a desire to seek it, so blinding and uncomfortable, was merely a foolish romantic dream that had no place in reality, certainly not for a careful woman as she knew herself to be. Nevertheless, Sarah was forced to accept that entirely the best policy was to banish his lordship from her mind and keep her distance. After all, there was nothing surer than that she would never hold any place in his thoughts.

* * *

Celestine Faringdon followed close on the heels of her father and the Countess of Wexford on the following day, escorted from Richmond by her nurse, Edith Watton, a lady of extreme age who had been nurse to both Joshua and Judith, and who would remain with her young charge in London. Hardly had the two new arrivals set foot inside the house than Sarah was called to the library to be introduced to the girl.

Lord Faringdon was standing by the fireplace, his daughter at his side, and turned to Sarah as she entered.

‘Mrs Russell. This is my daughter Celestine.’ She could read little from his cool manner, but was aware of some undercurrent in the room. If she had not known better, she would have suspected a plea for help in that commanding stare.

The girl made an instant impression on Sarah of being far older than her eight years, a reserved child who perhaps would not readily give affection or confidences. Celestine was, her new governess decided, a child who had grown up much in the company of adults, who had not been encouraged to laugh or play or forget her dignity as Miss Faringdon. How serious she was! With a surprisingly plain and solemn face, her skin was sallow and her eyes so dark as to be almost black. And unblinkingly direct. Her hair, equally dark, was ruthlessly drawn back into a severe braid. She was tall for her age and a little thin, and pale despite country life where she could have run out of doors. And most notably, in Sarah’s quick assessment, was the fact that she did not smile or show any animation, either in her polite greeting to Sarah or her responses to her father.

Not at first glance an attractive girl, yet Sarah thought that one day she would be lovely in a dramatic fashion. Her perfect oval face had excellent bone structure, promising high cheekbones and a straight nose. Her skin had the translucence of rippling stream water, and her hair shone as dark silk. When released from its braid, it might even curl. Now she faced her father in the library, quietly obedient, with nothing to say for herself. She acknowledged Sarah as instructed, but did not raise her eyes above the hem of the lady’s skirts.

Lord Faringdon appeared to be somewhat baffled by this small contained person as he attempted to draw her out, in the interest of Mrs Russell getting to know her new pupil. Did you have a pet in Richmond? Do you like to ride? What do you like doing when not at your lessons? Which lessons do you enjoy best? Finally he gave up after a string of monosyllabic and uninformative answers, and addressed his comments instead to Mrs Watton.

‘I trust that you will be happy here, Mrs Watton. I owe you much for the care of my daughter. Mrs Russell will be in charge of your comfort here… ‘ Again it seemed that his quick glance at Sarah held almost a hint of desperation. Celestine remained distant and silent as her father outlined his arrangements for her, standing straight and prim, hands folded before her, in a dark dress, ruched and beribboned in a manner far too old and sophisticated for her slight figure.

The uncomfortable episode was brought quickly to an end, and Celestine was sent off with Sarah, who readily imagined the sigh of relief behind her. They climbed the staircase side by side.

‘I will show you to your room, Celestine. And the room where we shall take most of the lessons.’

‘Yes.’

Sarah opened the door and ushered the child in. ‘Here is your room.’

It was a pretty room, light and airy, where efforts had been made to furnish it suitably for a young girl with floral patterns in shades of pale green and primrose and with frivolously frilled curtains on the half-tester bed. Celestine walked round, taking her time, to touch the curtains and the soft cushions on the window seat, to run her fingers along the edge of the little inlaid dressing table. To inspect the paintings on the walls.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps not as comfortable as your room in Richmond.’ Sarah had no idea, simply wishing to persuade the girl to talk. ‘It will soon look like home when you have your own possessions unpacked.’

‘It is very nice.’

‘Tomorrow we shall begin your lessons and see what you can do. But today it is enough for you to settle in. It must all seem very new and strange.’

‘Of course.’

‘Come then, Celestine. I am sure you are hungry after your journey.’ Sarah was turning to leave when Celestine at last ventured an opinion. But not one expected by Sarah.

‘My father does not want me here, you know. He does not like me.’

Sarah angled her head to watch the girl who still stood before the window, looking out at the vista of sky and clouds, hands clasped behind her back and giving the air of a prisoner in a locked room. Why would the child make such an extravagant claim? She tried to keep her expression and her tone light and calm.

‘But why do you say that? Who told you such a thing?’

‘He has never wanted me with him before. Neither did my mother.’

Sarah tried to hide her astonishment, a little unnerved by the cool acceptance of the situation, if it were indeed so, the flat statement of what might very well be true, given Sarah’s knowledge of this troubled household and the child’s solitary upbringing.

‘Do you miss your mama?’

‘No—not really. She was not often in England. I barely remember her.’

‘Did you not live in Paris?’

‘When I was a baby. I do not remember. I have visited since then—but not for long.’

‘I am sure that your father is very pleased to have you here.’

Sarah tried for a reassurance she did not feel. ‘It was his idea that you should join him, after all. And that I should be here to care for you.’

‘Perhaps.’ Celestine made no further reply, as if the truth were clear enough without any clarification from herself.

‘Come and have tea.’ Sarah encouraged the girl through a connecting door into the schoolroom and then on to the door into Sarah’s sitting room, where a table was laid for tea. As Sarah opened the door John burst through it from the outer corridor, hair tousled, eyes shining, cheeks pink with effort.

‘There are even more horses in the stable now, Mama—but not as fine as Lord Faringdon’s. And a coach—’ He slid to a halt, chest heaving.

The two children sized each other up.

‘This is Celestine who has arrived at last. This is my son, John.’

‘Hello.’ John grinned. ‘Why did it take you so long, Cel—Celst…?’ He blushed in some confusion, but was in no way embarrassed. ‘I cannot say it! I do not know anyone called that.’

Sarah chuckled as she reached to draw her son to a halt at her side. ‘I think he finds your name difficult,’ she explained to the formal young lady.

‘It is French.’

‘I know. And very elegant. But John is younger than you and has not met French names before.’

It seemed for a moment as if Celestine might sneer at such childishness, but then said, ‘I have never met a boy your age before. How old are you?’

‘Nearly six.’ John eyed her warily.

‘I have had my eighth birthday. I shall soon be nine.’ The dark eyes watched, weighing up the boy, coming to a decision. ‘I have another name.’

‘And what is that?’ Sarah asked.

‘Elizabeth.’

‘We could call you Elizabeth,’ Sarah ventured, ‘if you did not object.’

Celestine flushed a little, her colourless skin warming to a hint of prettiness. ‘I think I would like to be called Beth. No one has ever called me that. Can you call me Beth, John?’

‘Of course I can! I have been waiting for you for so long, Beth. I have been lonely here with no one to play with. Are you hungry? I am. Mrs Beddows has made a cake for us. Come and see.’

Sarah watched the outcome with interest. Celestine—Beth!—hesitated, but only for a moment. Then stepped out to take John’s hand with all the condescension of her three years’ maturity.

‘Yes. I am hungry. I would like you to show me the cake.’

They sat down at the table, John explaining that after tea he would show Beth his own room and then…

Sarah allowed a silent sigh of relief as she noted the surprisingly tolerant expression on Beth’s face. The way she listened as John prattled on, waving his arms about with typical enthusiasm. The girl took little part in the conversation, but nodded when John looked to her for confirmation of some trivial matter. Well! If Miss Faringdon saw herself in a maternal role toward John, it might just be the means to get this frighteningly composed young lady to settle into the household. As for her relationship with her father—Sarah had no idea. The child felt unloved and unwanted, of which sins Lord Faringdon might very well be guilty for all she knew. One more transgression to lay against his soul if he could be so cruel as to neglect his own child. Yet Sarah found herself hoping that it was not so, for how could she have fallen headlong and ridiculously into love with a man she did not know, one with a contemptuous reputation and who could be so needlessly heartless to his daughter?

But that was a matter for the future, she decided as she allowed the children to leave the table. Enough that today Beth was here and was not averse to her new home.

## Chapter Four

In the following days Sarah could convince herself that it would be an easy matter to keep a distance from Lord Faringdon. The only immediate ripple on the tranquillity of her pool was a note from Judith, hoping that Sarah would be able to find the time to visit for tea in Grosvenor Square. Sarah did not comply, but penned a brief apology, citing pressure of work since Lord Faringdon was now in residence. She knew that she had made the friendship well nigh impossible by her stepping across the social divide. It hurt, but she had deliberately made the decision and must not, therefore, dwell on any regrets. Judith would realise and accept—she was not so naïve as to be ignorant or careless of the situation. In private, Sarah shed a few self-pitying tears.

Her energies were soon directed towards other matters, not least diplomatic negotiations between a number of strong-willed and self-important individuals. Lord Faringdon’s valet, a severe gentleman, was not given to personal chatter, but would hear nothing wrong of his employer, quick to depress any slighting comment with a stern frown and biting words. The Countess of Wexford’s maid, Hortense, was very different—a superior little madam, French, of course, who kept herself to herself, yet demanded the best of everything for herself and for her mistress. Celestine’s nurse, Mrs Watton, was a comfortable old body who did not regret in the slightest passing authority over her charge to Sarah. The child took too much after her mother. Not that they had seen a great deal of Marianne Faringdon before her untimely death. But even so! Blood would always out.

The gravest problem for her was the one most unlooked for. Mr Millington, the butler, developed an unexpected and completely inappropriate tendre for Sarah and followed her with a gleam in his pale eyes. Nor was he averse to glasses of port in the seclusion of his pantry. Sarah avoided him as much as possible after an embarrassing incident in the wine cellar, when the self-controlled housekeeper made her position very plain in a remarkably austere voice, which destroyed all Mr Millington’s pretensions.

The Countess of Wexford was demanding, thoughtless, selfish and patronising. She objected to being woken, but complained when her cup of hot chocolate did not arrive on the instant that she opened her eyes. Hot water was expected to appear at the very moment she required it, earning for one of the maids a sharp and quite unnecessary slap; the same intolerance was applied to the laundering of her beautiful clothes, with never a word of appreciation or a genuine smile.

Her smiles were gifted solely on Lord Joshua, offering a source of much interested gossip and speculation. Not that speculation was needed. Of course she was his mistress. What other reason could there be for a lady to be residing in the house of an unmarried gentleman, and one with such presence and address as his lordship? Fortunately, with his lordship somewhat incapacitated, the Countess was frequently away from the house in Hanover Square.

Lord Joshua proved to be an enigma, spending much time at home, nursing his wounds. The library became his personal domain where he read the Morning Post, drank brandy and wrote many letters. Millington proved to be a fount of knowledge for the household. His lordship had few visitors, but the gentlemen who called at the house did so at unusual times, often late at night. They never gave their names or left a visiting card. Quite respectable, dark-suited individuals, as might be expected from the legal profession, but Millington did not think they were connected with the law. Lord Joshua also received an inordinate amount of mail, over and above the gilt-edged invitations.

Otherwise his life was very quiet, which did not seem to Sarah to be at all in keeping with what she imagined the lifestyle of a notorious rake to be. But, of course, he had the companionship of the Countess. Millington swore on his own authority that his lordship visited her room at night. What man in his right mind would not, with so glamorous and seductive a lady living under his roof and casting out lures. Millington whispered rumours of outrageous orgies and scandalous parties hosted by his lordship in Paris. Not perfectly sure that she knew what an orgy entailed, Sarah’s suspicions were aroused when, on entering the morning room, she encountered the couple unawares. She was able to retreat, but not before she saw the Countess of Wexford brush her hand through his lordship’s hair and reach up to kiss him full on his mouth.

Sarah found herself thinking vengeful thoughts against the lady, disappointed that Lord Joshua Faringdon could not see the Countess of Wexford for what she was. At the same time she admitted, with a blush, that she would like nothing better than to take the Countess’s role in this little scene. Standing in the scullery, a newly polished silver tureen in her hands, her fingers itched to stroke through that silvered hair. Her lips trembled at the thought of the man’s intimate caress. Sarah blinked at the shattering image, putting down the tureen with unnecessary force and little thought to its value.

When Sarah’s cheeks had cooled and she had scolded herself out of her bad temper, her thoughts turned to Lord Joshua’s daughter. So young and yet with a studied and disturbing composure. Beth had already been taught the rudiments of reading by someone in the household in Richmond. She loved to turn the pages of books, poring over the illustrations, and even more to listen to Sarah read the stories, following the words with her small hands. She was soon close to having read all the suitable books in the schoolroom. On the whole Sarah found that her role of governess was not onerous, particularly as Beth took on the role of an elder sister toward John. She reprimanded him and hugged him in equal measure. John at his most good-natured accepted the attention with equanimity.

Given Beth’s blunt statement that she was not wanted, it surprised Sarah that Lord Joshua took it upon himself to visit his daughter every day, although there was little obvious progress in developing a closer relationship. His lordship made every effort, inviting her to ride in the park in the barouche. Beth declined, most politely. He asked if she would care to visit her Aunt Judith. Yes, of course, but first she must finish an exercise for Mrs Russell. Beth rarely raised her eyes from her book, almost as if she feared to make contact with her father. It worried Sarah. How she would have hated if John had reacted so toward his own father. If Lord Joshua wished to learn more about his daughter and was not the careless parent as he had been painted, he was having no success. So, certain of one sure way to the child’s heart, Sarah decided to take some action.

She arranged to visit his lordship in the library one morning, knowing that the Countess was from home. He looked up as she knocked and entered.

‘Good morning, Mrs Russell.’ Although he might be surprised to see his housekeeper seek him out, with innate good manners he pushed himself to his feet and approached.

‘Forgive me if I intrude, my lord. May I speak with you about your daughter?’ There he stood. An imposing figure, a little withdrawn, but not unwelcoming. Sarah swallowed against her breath, which had for some reason become lodged in her throat.

‘Of course. Is there some difficulty? She seems well enough.’ He was blandly gracious.

‘Not exactly a difficulty, my lord. Your daughter is keen to read and she loves books. Would you be willing to allow her to come and read here in the library when you are at home? She is very careful and will cause no damage. Perhaps after her morning lessons? I thought that she would care to see the plant illustrations and the books with the coloured pictures of animals and birds.’ If anything would create a bond between them, this might be the answer. At least it would put them in the same room together. But would he refuse? Would he say that it was her responsibility to entertain and educate his daughter?

‘Of course. Let her come.’ He would have turned away, the matter as far as he was concerned settled.

‘Also,’ she added as an apparent afterthought, ‘she enjoys stories.’

‘Are you suggesting, then, that I should read to her?’ The Faringdon brows rose.

‘It is not my position to suggest that, sir.’

‘No? You are, after all, her governess.’ A line marred his brow as his attention was caught by this fair lady who had such an air of insistence about her.

‘Beth will enjoy it, sir.’

‘Beth?’ The brows rose again.

‘Forgive me, my lord.’ Sarah sighed inwardly. She had forgotten her somewhat high-handed change of the child’s name. ‘Celestine. It is just that John does not pronounce it well. And she enjoys being called Beth.’ He would probably demur, she decided as she awaited his reply. It might be that it was a family name that he would wish to keep.

‘I see.’ He narrowed his eyes at his housekeeper. Neat and self-effacing, yet supremely competent, as he always saw her. But with a strong managing streak, it would seem. He felt as he came under the gaze of her guileless blue eyes that he had been penned very neatly into a corner, although for what purpose he was unsure. Even to the change of name of his daughter! But if it was acceptable to the child…

‘Then Beth it shall be. Let her come here, as I said.’

In considerable relief at this anticlimax, Sarah curtsied and turned to go, leaving Lord Joshua to return to his seat by the window. Without thought, he moved awkwardly so that he took his full weight on his damaged hip, staggered a little, and in so doing brushed against a book on the edge of his desk. It fell to the floor, a minor mishap. Sarah’s immediate instinct was to pick it up.

‘Leave it.’ The order was instant and harsh. ‘I am not a cripple.’

Tension, sharp and diamond bright, crackled in the still room.

‘I was never under an impression that you were, my lord,’ Sarah replied immediately, as if the tone had not startled her. She bent to pick up the book.

‘Leave it, I said.’

She straightened, eyes wide on his face. ‘But why, my lord? There is no need for you to stoop, to put added pressure on your strained joint. It would be foolish of you to do so.’ For a brief moment she saw the raw, unguarded expression in his eyes. A sharp physical pain. But an even sharper humiliation. And she understood without words that such a man would detest his dependence on others. Her instinct, her driving need, was to approach him. To touch, offer comfort, soothe with soft hands and kind words. But she could not. She was a servant and it was not her place. And he was not, she thought, a man to accept such comfort.

Lord Joshua stiffened under the gentle but totally unexpected reprimand. She was looking at him, he realised, as if he were a spoilt child in her care, one who had been ill mannered enough to reject a kind offer. And she was right, of course, he accepted with a disgust as the housekeeper continued to upbraid him with perfect propriety. ‘I am employed as your housekeeper to pick up after you, my lord.’

‘Yet you will disobey me, Mrs Russell.’ Inner fury still vibrated through his body.

‘You can, of course, dismiss me if that is your will, sir. For picking up a book.’ There was the faintest question, a suggestion of censure in her voice and her composure challenged him. He flushed with a sense of shame, even as her forthright words earned Sarah a sharp glance. But he had seen the stupidity of his rejection of her help, born of lack of patience and clumsy frustration at his inability to move about with the readiness of before, his incarceration within the four walls when used to a life of action and involvement. His behaviour was unpardonable. His manners must disgust. He took a steady breath and tightened his control.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Russell. I was not considerate.’ ‘No. But as my employer you do not have to be so.’ She placed the book back on to the desk and went out, leaving him more than a little astounded at the parting shot. So meek and mild as his housekeeper appeared. Nothing like. The lady had teeth! And a confidence above the norm for a housekeeper of such tender years.

Sarah closed her eyes as the door shut behind her and wondered what she could possibly have been about, what fierce dragon she had unleashed from its cave. Seeing the frustration and impatience, she had appreciated its source and her heart had been touched in that moment of physical weakness. But to tell her employer that he was stupid and illogical—if not in so many words—what had she done?

Yet there were no repercussions other than the child spending time in her father’s company, in an undertaking that the little girl could not resist. All those books with their coloured plates and leather bindings with gilt and red tooling. Altogether a neat little plot that Sarah prayed would be beneficial for both.

As it proved to be.

Lord Joshua found his daughter to be not tentative or shy, but painfully reserved with an equally painful desire for approval. She came into the library next day, wished him good morning, chose a book and sat in silence, curled up in a window seat, turning the pages with uncanny deliberation. He looked over at her. What did one say to an eight-year-old child whom one did not know? She seemed content with her own company and yet here was a chance he should not overlook since Mrs Russell had effectively thrown them together. He must make a beginning.

‘Celestine…’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Mrs Russell says that in the schoolroom you are called Beth.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you prefer it?’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Shall I call you Beth?’

‘If you wish it, Papa.’ Not exactly enthusiastic, but it was not an outright no.

‘Then I will. It is a pretty name.’ He smiled at her across the width of the library. And, after a heartbeat, she smiled back.

Which was enough for one day, his lordship decided. Mrs Russell and her stories could wait. They both returned to their silent perusal of the printed word, at least one of them aware that an important bridge had been crossed. Lord Joshua found a smile touch his lips as he watched his daughter and considered the possible tactics of Mrs Sarah Russell.

Lord Joshua met the other child in his establishment in the stables. John withdrew into one of the empty stalls as his lordship came in to inspect the horseflesh. Lord Joshua noted the quick movement and spoke to the silent shadow.

‘Do you like horses?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come here.’

John edged forward. ‘My mama says I must not be a nuisance or speak to you unless you speak to me first, sir.’

He laughed ‘Does she now? Then come and tell me—where were you born?’

‘In London, sir.’

‘Have you always lived here?’

‘I have been to New York in America. I have—’ John would have said more, but then stopped and frowned. ‘My mama says that I must not say.’

The child ran off before tempted into further indiscretions.

Which admission Lord Joshua thought was probably a tall story, embroidered by a child’s desire for adventure—yet there was something about him and his mother that was beginning to take his interest. He sensed secrets here. And the lad’s mother had clearly laid down instructions. What was Mrs Russell? Gently born, of course, presumably fallen on bad times. He wondered idly about the boy’s father. Perhaps he should ask Judith when they next met since she had employed the lady.

But of course it was not of very great importance. His mind turned to other matters.

Meanwhile, imperceptibly the Countess of Wexford began to make her presence felt more and more in the household, encroaching on the reins of power. It was not appreciated. Nor was her antipathy to Mrs Russell. Her intense dislike was patently evident, for what reason no one could guess, but which had no effect other than to unite the servants’ hall against the Countess in support of the housekeeper. What right did she have to look down her supercilious nose at Mrs Russell? If there should be any criticism levelled against the servants, it should be at the hands of Lord Joshua Faringdon. And he appeared to find no cause for complaint in the running of his household.

It had become customary for Sarah to present herself every morning in the breakfast parlour to discuss the menu and any particular needs for the day. It was unfortunate that within the second week the Countess of Wexford was completing her breakfast alone. Her tight smile on seeing Mrs Russell was not pleasant.

‘Ah. Mrs Russell. The menu for another tedious meal.’ She held out an imperious hand for the list. ‘Tell me, Mrs Russell. Where were you last employed as housekeeper?’

‘I have never been in employment as housekeeper, my lady.’ I have never been employed at all!

‘Never? That would account for it, I suppose.’ The sneer was most marked as the lady perused the list. ‘So how can you presume to know the needs of a gentleman’s establishment such as this?’

‘I have had no complaints from Lord Faringdon, my lady.’ The perfect housekeeper kept her hands folded, her eyes lowered respectfully, her intense irritation veiled.

A glint of anger in the Countess’s eyes was hardly masked. ‘Who provided your references for this position?’

Well, there was only one way out of this difficulty. Sarah looked up. ‘I was employed for this post by the Countess of Painscastle.’ She refused to allow her direct gaze to fall. ‘Her ladyship found my abilities highly appropriate. Perhaps you could apply to her if you have some concerns, my lady.’

On which challenging statement, Lord Joshua entered, easily catching the tenor of the exchange. ‘There will be no need, Mrs Russell. I am more than satisfied with the arrangement.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Sarah found it difficult to keep a stern countenance. She was human enough after all to be tempted into what could only be described as a little crow of triumph. But she suppressed the urge.

‘Of course not, Joshua.’ The Countess’s smile was deceptively sweet as she lifted her face towards his lordship. ‘I would imply no other. I merely wondered about Mrs Russell’s history.’ She patted a chair beside her, an obvious gesture that Lord Joshua had no difficulty in ignoring. ‘But another matter, my dear. I would wish to entertain. On Friday. Is there a problem if I arrange a little dinner party?’

‘No.’ Apart from some surprise at the request, he could think of no suitable reason why not. Other than a disinclination to spend an evening in the company of Olivia’s set.

‘Then I would like to hold a banquet for some particular friends. A French banquet—something a little out of the ordinary, to impress, you understand.’ The curl of her lips in Sarah’s direction was lethal in intent. She cast an eye over the light dinner menu for that evening again with delicate disdain. ‘Nothing of this nature, of course. So plain and uninteresting, do you not think? Only two main courses and a mean selection of side dishes apart from the dessert. Do you think that our kitchen might be capable of producing something suitably impressive, Mrs Russell?’ Sarah’s earlier challenge was thus returned in good measure.

‘Of course, my lady. A French banquet.’ I will do it if it kills me in the process. But her heart sank at the prospect.

‘I really do think that we should employ a French chef, Joshua. So much more imaginative and exciting.’ The Countess sighed heavily and dramatically. ‘I suppose that I must leave it in your hands, Mrs Russell, on this occasion. I trust that I shall not be disappointed.’

‘We shall make every effort to ensure your satisfaction, my lady.’

Sarah took herself back to the kitchen, seething in anger.

‘What on earth is the matter, my dear?’ Mrs Beddows replaced a lid on a steaming pan and wiped her hands. ‘Is it That Woman again?’

‘Yes! Of course it is! Can we produce a French banquet for twelve guests on Friday night?’

‘A French banquet?’

‘The Countess wishes to test our mettle, Mrs Beddows. And if we are found wanting, she will insist on his lordship appointing a French chef!’

‘Does she indeed?’ Mrs Beddows bridled, her slight bosom swelling. ‘You tell me what we need and I will cook it. We will not have that hoity-toity madam or a foreigner interfering in my kitchen! What do I cook?’

‘I have no idea. I have never been to a French banquet.’ Sarah thought, tapping her fingers against the heavy dresser with its array of blue porcelain. ‘But I know someone who has.’

Thus a series of notes passed rapidly between Sarah, Judith and her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, resulting in a formal manuscript arriving in Hanover Square, inscribed on thick cream vellum, being a copy of the menu for the French banquet served on the fifteenth of January in 1817 by the Prince Regent himself within the splendours of Brighton Pavilion.

Sarah, Millington and Mrs Beddows sat down to dissect it with varying degrees of horror and near-hysterical laughter at the splendour and scale of it.

‘We cannot do this, Mrs Russell. Indeed we cannot,’ Mrs Beddows finally decided, aghast, slapping her hands down against the table top. ‘Four soups, followed by four fish and then—well, I never!—thirty-six entrées, four of them with side dishes—and thirty-six desserts. Not to mention eight patisserie! And look at this. Turbot with lobster sauce, pike with oysters…eel with quenelles, truffles and cock’s combs.’

‘Roast larks in pastry lined with chicken livers!’ continued Millington. ‘And truffles mentioned six—no, seven times in all!’

‘Such extravagance!’ Mrs Beddows shook her head. ‘With the best will in the world, we cannot—’

‘No, no, Mrs Beddows. Of course we cannot.’ Sarah patted her hand consolingly. ‘But look. We can follow the same pattern of courses and simply select what we require. We can use some of the same dishes, but not the most extravagant. Alter some of the ingredients if necessary. And if we give them their French title… Millington can be sure to tell the Countess when she asks, as she most assuredly will. And since his lordship has placed no restrictions on our expenditure, then I suggest that money should be no object!’

‘Well… If you think so… ‘ A competitive spark had entered the cook’s eye.

‘I do. We have something to prove here. We will also, I suggest, serve it à la française, with the dishes arranged in the middle of the table so that the guests help themselves and then pass them on to their fellow guests. Very fashionable in the greatest houses, I understand, and highly inconvenient for those who wish to sample a dish from the far end of the table, but if that is what her ladyship wishes…’ A wicked little smile crossed Sarah’s face as she contemplated the possibilities. ‘What’s more, I shall write out the menu, à la française, which will be highly uncomfortable for everyone if they do not recognise the dishes. Haute cuisine is what she demanded, so haute cuisine is what she will get. Whatever happens, we do not want one of the Countess of Wexford’s creatures lording it over this kitchen.’

‘Certainly not.’ The agreement was unanimous.

So they would do it. The servants’ hall declared war. The result was a positive tour de force. A French banquet in exemplary fashion, served by Millington and the footmen with style and panache. The guests were impressed beyond measure. Millington, when asked, wielded French phrases as expertly as Mrs Beddows wielded her boning knife. The turbot à l’Anglaise (turbot without lobster sauce) was mouthwatering, the noix de veau à la jardinière (veal with fresh vegetables) exquisite, the côte de boeuf aux oignons glaces (roast beef garnished with glazed onions) a perfect dish, the meat cooked to a tender delight. As for the petits soufflés d’abricots—one of a handful of memorable desserts—what could one say? Olivia Wexford’s guests could not but be impressed.

The results were beyond expectation. Lord Joshua sent his compliments and words of approval to his housekeeper and cook with suave and amused appreciation. Never had he been host to so fine a banquet in his own home. Not a vestige of a grin was allowed to warm his stern features as he recognised Mrs Russell’s throwing down of a culinary gauntlet. It had certainly added an element of tension and comment to an otherwise tedious evening. A frisson of sheer pleasure.

The servants, flushed with effort and triumph, ate well from the left-overs and probably would do so for days. It was a pleasure to toast the achievements of Mrs Russell and Mrs Beddows in the half-dozen bottles of claret spirited magically from the proceedings in the dining room by a cunning and slick-handed Millington.

The Countess of Wexford was furious, her pleasure in the whole evening spoiled beyond measure, but unable to express her true sentiments in the face of such overwhelming satisfaction, particularly from Lord Joshua. She had lost this battle and had to accept it with a gracious smile and flattering words. Her fingers curled around her fruit knife like a claw.

So the evening ended with food for thought. A delicious pun, Lord Joshua thought, much entertained at having seen the light of battle in the eyes of his intriguing housekeeper. And there was an undoubted gleam in his eyes, a gleam that could be interpreted as pure mischief, as the Countess took herself off to her bed at the first opportunity without a word and a disgruntled flounce. He had not been so amused for many weeks.

There was no further discussion of a French chef.

## Chapter Five

Very little communication occurred between the Faringdon households. Lady Beatrice kept silence and her distance, waiting for her son to visit her—which he deliberately chose not to do. Joshua visited his sister once at Painscastle House in Grosvenor Square on his arrival in England to exchange family news and other trivialities, but Judith had not returned the visit, partly because she had no wish to be forced into making polite and edgy conversation with the Countess of Wexford, or even to recognise that lady’s existence. More importantly because she did not wish to compromise Sarah’s situation in any way. Despite her shallow reputation and frivolous approach to life, Judith understood perfectly the reasons for Sarah’s reticence with regard to their friendship. The class division between Countess and housekeeper now yawned between them and Judith had no wish to embarrass her friend. But it concerned her that Sarah had refused all invitations to return to Painscastle House or even to accept a more casual arrangement to walk or ride in Hyde Park. Mrs Russell always had a good excuse, especially now that she had duties to Celestine as well as to the smooth running of Lord Faringdon’s establishment. Certainly, Judith might understand—but that did not necessarily mean that she would rest content with the estrangement.

In the end, when Sarah had once more cried off from a stroll in Grosvenor gardens, the Countess of Painscastle took matters into her own hands with high-handed Faringdon initiative. After discreet enquiries of Millington, she took herself to Joshua’s house at a time of day when she presumed that both her brother and his chère amie would be absent. She stood in the entrance hall to face the new and most supercilious butler, Millington.

‘Good morning, Millington. I would wish for a word with Lord Faringdon’s housekeeper—on a matter of business.’ Although why she should need to give a reason, she knew not.

‘Mrs Russell, my lady?’ Millington could hardly disguise his interest, which Judith promptly ignored.

‘Perhaps I could speak with her in the blue morning room. If you would be so good as to ask her to come?’

‘Very well, my lady. Would your ladyship require refreshment?’

‘No. All I need is a few moments of Mrs Russell’s valuable time.’

A short time later Sarah arrived with a carefully blank expression belied by a surprisingly fierce light in her blue eyes, followed by Millington, to come to a halt in the doorway of the elegant room where Judith was standing before the fireplace, removing her gloves. ‘You wished to see me, my lady.’

‘Indeed I did, Mrs Russell. There is no need for you to stay, Millington.’

He bowed and departed with ill-concealed disapproval and curiosity, in equal measure.

‘Sarah!’ Judith dropped all formality along with her gloves and parasol on the side table. Seeing the closed expression on Sarah’s face—much as she had expected, of course—she decided to approach the matter head on, immediately on the attack. She wasted no time. ‘Why have you not been to see me? And baby Giles? Should I suppose that you no longer wish to acknowledge me as a friend?’

‘Judith…’ Sarah drew in a breath against the obvious tactics. This would not be a comfortable meeting as she had known from the moment that Millington had delivered the message. If only she could have thought of some reason not to face Judith. But she could not, of course. A housekeeper could not claim the absolute necessity to clean out a fire-grate. ‘You know why I have not visited you. You should not have come to see me here. It will only give rise to unpleasant gossip.’

‘I told you it was a bad idea from the very beginning! I should never have allowed you to come here.’

Sarah could find nothing to say. Neither could she meet Judith’s gaze with its mixture of concern and hurt. But her own resentment died away. All she could do was answer the following catechism.

Are you well?’

‘Yes.’

And John?’

‘He is in good spirits—and enjoying living here, I think.’

‘How is Celestine?’

‘She seems to have settled in.’

Are you content?’

‘Yes.’ Sarah risked a glance. ‘I must thank you. I know you do not like it, but it was for the best.’

‘Sarah! Next you will be addressing me as my lady! In fact, you did just that when you came into the room!’ Judith almost hissed in annoyance. Except that sympathy for Sarah’s plight threatened to bring tears to her sharp and watchful eyes. She surveyed the folded hands, the deliberately quiet demeanour. The lack of any smile or sparkle in Sarah’s face. The plain gown and rigidly confined hair, the lace cap. All in all, the epitome of a competent housekeeper or governess! ‘You must not cut yourself off, you know. I am your friend.’

‘But it is not appropriate for me to be a close friend of the Countess of Painscastle. Indeed it is not, as you are well aware.’

And Judith was aware, but that did not make her retreat.

‘Nonsense. I shall inform Thea and insist that she come to see you and take you in hand if you continue to distance yourself in this manner!’

Which brought a smile to Sarah’s lips. Indeed, she laughed at her friend’s outrageous threat. ‘I thought you would already have done so.’ Which had the effect of spurring Judith into action. On impulse, oblivious to convention, she covered the expanse of opulent carpet between them to fold Sarah in a warm embrace and kiss her cheek.

‘Dear Sarah. You do not know your own worth—that is the problem. You must not allow the past to weigh on you so much.’ Judith kissed her again with another quick hug. ‘I have missed you.’

Only to become aware of the opening of the door into the morning room. And there, of course, stood Lord Joshua Faringdon, dark brows raised in total astonishment at seeing his sister warmly embracing his cool and icily reserved housekeeper. He looked from one to the other. They returned the look, green eyes quite defiant, blue ones with obvious discomfort, perhaps even shame. His mind worked furiously. He could think of nothing appropriate to the occasion to say.

‘Forgive me, ladies.’ He resorted to the banal. Executed a respectable bow, despite the discomfort. ‘It would appear that my presence is decidedly de trop. Judith—I shall be in the library—if you would care to see me before you leave.’ He turned his back, quietly closing the door behind him, leaving the two ladies to look at each other.

‘I shall have to tell him, Sarah.’

Sarah set her shoulders. It had to happen some time, she supposed. ‘As you will.’

And then I shall see if Lord Faringdon truly wishes to employ Sarah Baxendale under his roof!

‘Well?’

‘Well what, dear Sher?’ Judith cast herself down into a chair. Her brother remained seated behind the massive Chippendale desk, if not in comfort, at least where the sharp agony in his knee and thigh was most bearable. He folded his arms on the polished surface and regarded his sister with an accusatory stare.

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Judith. I was aware, I believe, that you had recommended Mrs Russell for the post here. I certainly did not think to find you on such close terms—intimate even—with the lady. So tell me. Who is she?’

Could she bluff and keep Sarah’s cover? Judith had her doubts. She tried an ingenuous smile. ‘I have known Sarah Russell for some years.’

‘Come on, Ju! Perhaps you have. But you do not normally embrace your housekeeper with such obvious affection. I have wondered about her… Who is she?’

Judith sighed. But what did it matter? She would tell her brother the truth. If he did not wish to employ her—all well and good, even if Sarah would not see it in quite that light. It would rescue the lady from a situation that was, in her own eyes, unpalatable.

‘She is Sarah Russell. But her name was Baxendale. She is Thea’s sister.’ Judith awaited the explosion. She was not to be disappointed.

‘What?’

‘Theodora—who married Nicholas—when you were still in France.’

‘I know very well who Theodora is!’

‘Thea was brought up by Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux. But she and Sarah are sisters.’

‘So with such a family behind her, what in the devil’s name is she doing as my housekeeper?’

‘She needed a position and an income—against my advice, I must tell you.’

‘I see.’ He tapped the papers in front of him into a neat pile with short, sharp gestures. ‘Why did you not tell me of this?’

‘You would not have approved. Even less than I. Sarah threatened to take a position elsewhere if not this one. She can be very determined. So I said nothing.’

He thought for a moment.

‘I thought she came from some genteel family who had perhaps born a child out of wedlock and been cast off by her family.’

‘No—nothing of that nature. She is indeed a widow. Her husband has been dead some five or six years now. A naval captain, killed in action.’

‘Wait a minute!’ Lord Faringdon fixed his sister with a fierce stare. ‘Baxendale. Baxendale, did you say? Edward Baxendale? Surely that was the name of the man who laid a claim against the Faringdon estates in the name of his sister—or his wife, as it turned out. I was in Paris so did not know the full gist of it, but I am aware that it rattled Lady Beatrice. She wrote to inform me of it, without one word of censure in the whole letter of my own errant behaviour, which was a miracle in itself. So—was that the name?’

‘Yes—yes, it was. Sarah is sister to Sir Edward Baxendale.’ Accepting the inevitability of it, she sat back in her chair and prepared to be communicative. Sarah would not approve, but her brother, as she knew, could be like a terrier with a rat. ‘It seems that I must tell you the whole story.’

‘I think you must.’ Joshua pushed to his feet, to limp across to the sideboard to pour two glasses of claret, handing one to Judith. ‘This may take some time.’

‘Yes. It is quite complicated.’ So she took a strengthening sip and told him. How Edward Baxendale had devised and executed a plot to present his own wife Octavia, masquerading as his sister, as the legitimate wife of Henry and Nicholas Faringdon’s eldest brother Thomas, who had died in a tragic accident. Thus Octavia would have a claim on the Faringdon estate and her child, Thomas’s son as she claimed, would be the Marquis of Burford. And how Sarah, under severe pressure from her brother, had allowed her son to be used in the charade as the son of Octavia and Thomas Faringdon and had herself taken on the role of nursemaid to the child. Such detail of which Joshua had been unaware.

‘And so,’ Judith concluded, ‘Sarah turned evidence, told Henry and Nick of the deceit, confessed her own part in it and broke all connection with her brother. Henry and Eleanor gave her refuge and—well, the rest you know. She was most cruelly treated by her brother, although she will never admit to it. She had no money of her own and the captain’s pension was very small. Edward threatened to turn her and her child from the door unless she agreed to his scheme. So she did—until she could stand the lies and deceit no more. The Faringdons took her to their collective heart. But Sarah has never forgiven herself for allowing her child to be used in the impersonation or for inflicting so much pain on Eleanor. So there you have it. The secrets and shadows in Sarah’s life. She believes that she has a debt to pay to our family and must make restitution.’ She fixed her brother with an unusually steady gaze, as if he might disagree. ‘She had been a good friend to Thea and Nick in their tumultuous love affair. I should tell you, Sher, I love her dearly and will not have her hurt.’

Joshua said no more throughout the unfolding of events, but his lips were pressed in a firm line when his sister rose to leave some hour later. Judith knew that he was not pleased. But of what troubled him most about the situation, she was unsure.

‘What the devil do you mean by this, Mrs Russell?’

Sarah had been summoned to the library. She knew it must be. And now she stood before her employer and, although his face was devoid of temper, he was finding it difficult to hide his true feelings. Probably, Sarah decided, outrage at having a Baxendale foisted on him without his knowledge. His grey eyes were dark and stormy now as they swept over her. Fierce, commanding. True Faringdon eyes. There was little point in pretending to misunderstand his furious—although patently unanswerable—question, but she had no intention of showing weakness or allowing herself to be bullied. Had she not promised herself that the days when she had bowed before a stronger will were all in the past?

‘Are you dissatisfied with my work, my lord?’ She folded her hands as Judith had seen them earlier, praying for composure. Her eyes, steady enough, met and held those of Lord Faringdon.

‘Of course I am not dissatisfied! How should I be?’

‘Then have I perhaps not fulfilled your wishes towards your daughter, sir?’

His lordship almost ground his teeth. He certainly dragged himself to his feet. He might have to lean heavily on his cane as he made his way across to the fireplace but he would be damned if he would conduct this interview sitting down. ‘Your work—or the quality of it, ma’am—is not the matter at issue here.’

‘Then I fail to understand your displeasure, my lord. If I have fulfilled the terms of my engagement as a member of your staff, I do not see the reason for your obvious disapproval.’ She marvelled at the steadiness of her voice, her ability to stand before him without flinching. She had often flinched when Edward had taken her to task. Had been reduced to tears on more than one explosive occasion. But that had been weakness. Now she was fighting for her independence. For the security and comfort of her son. Pride stiffened her backbone.

Lord Faringdon saw it, but was not to be deterred. ‘You are here as my housekeeper and my daughter’s governess under false pretences, madam.’

‘Hardly that, sir. My name is my own. I have made no attempt to hide my situation.’ Well, not very much. ‘I was appointed by your sister with your agreement. I have worked in your house for any number of weeks without difficulty or any cause for criticism.’

‘And Judith was in collusion with you, as you are very well aware!’

There was no possible answer to this. Sarah remained silent, waiting for the blow when he would surely dismiss her.

‘Why are you my housekeeper, Mrs Russell?’

‘I fail to see the reasoning behind that question, sir.’

‘The reasoning, as you put it, is that it is completely inappropriate.’ He would have paced the floor if he could. He was tempted to fling his cane into the fire-grate. ‘The daughter of a baronet? Your birth is as good as mine and yet you have put yourself in a position of servitude.’ He fumed. ‘Sister to my cousin’s wife. Close friend of my own sister—and, God help me!—my mother. You have actually lived with Judith and Simon… And with Hal and Eleanor in New York. And yet you say that you do not see why I should object?’

But why did he object so much? He looked her over with narrowed eyes. There was courage there, and an apparent fragility that had surprised a need in him to offer protection. He had been touched by her history as recounted by Judith. And astounded by the strength she had shown in asserting her independence. But was that all? Whatever stirred his blood to anger, it hardly mattered, did it? Quite simply, Mrs Russell should not be employed in his household.

‘I do not like it,’ he stated as if that settled everything. ‘It is not right.’

For Sarah, it settled nothing. ‘I can no longer live on the charity of those who have been kind enough to show me friendship. I need the money and the position, sir.’

‘Never!’

‘What do you know of such things? You have never been in the position of having to find the means to feed and clothe your child.’ A hint of desperation, even of futile anger, crept into her voice until she brought it under control with the faintest sigh. ‘What should you know of such needs, my lord?’

‘No, I have not been in such a position,’ he snapped, as if that too might be her fault. He frowned at her. ‘Who was your husband?’

‘A naval officer who was killed in the last year of the war. I have a small pension only.’

‘And your family?’ A slight flush brushed his cheekbones as he remembered the background of her troubled history and the antagonism of her estranged brother. He watched as the delicate colour fled from her cheeks, leaving her paper white, her eyes stark with distress.

‘I presume that Judith has informed you of my family, my lord.’ She would say no more.

‘I refuse to allow the situation to continue, madam.’

‘Then you must dismiss me, sir.’ She hesitated one moment and then asked the pertinent question. ‘Is it my birth you cavil at, Lord Faringdon—or my name?’

Ah! So there it was, he thought. Mrs Russell would have to live with her brother’s sins and her own involvement in them for the rest of her life. ‘No, it is not your name.’ He made an effort to gentle his voice. ‘That has no bearing. I find that I cannot find the words to explain to Nicholas’s wife why her sister is working below stairs in my house!’

‘I can understand if it is my name,’ she persisted. ‘Faringdons have every reason not to love those who bear the name of Baxendale.’

‘Nonsense! It is simply inappropriate, given your connection to my close family, that I should employ you.’

‘Then I hope you will give me references, my lord.’ She dropped a neat curtsy. ‘It would be difficult for me to obtain another position if I were dismissed without a recommendation, particularly after only a few weeks in your employment.’

Without waiting for permission to end the interview, before distress could overwhelm her tenuous composure, Sarah turned her back and stalked from the room, leaving Lord Faringdon with his mind in turmoil.

As Sarah swept through the doorway, Olivia was coming in, dressed as if she had just entered the house. She looked after the housekeeper, who had signally failed to acknowledge or even recognise her presence beyond the, briefest, curtest inclination of the head.

‘A most unpleasant, pert woman,’ she drawled, lips curving unpleasantly. ‘Take my advice, Joshua. You had far better dismiss her and appoint someone more suitable to a gentleman’s household.’

Which was exactly what Lord Faringdon had thought he should do—but for far different reasons.

The days passed, for Sarah, with tense anxiety in the air. She continued with her duties, efficient and outwardly calm as ever, yet waiting for her final dismissal as Lord Faringdon had threatened.

Yet it did not come.

Judith sent a letter of abject apology for being instrumental in revealing her friend’s true identity to Joshua. She never should have visited. She never should have told Joshua. But it was done and Judith hoped that her brother had the sense to leave things as they were if that is what Sarah wanted.

Sarah read the letter, silently accepting her friend’s apology. It would have happened eventually, she supposed. There was no point in dwelling on it or wishing for what could not be.

But she would continue to fulfil her duties so that Lord Faringdon should never have the excuse, whatever her family history, that she had failed to run his London home in a manner suitable to the establishment of a gentleman. If he dismissed her, it would be on his own unjustifiable whim. He must never be able to fault her application, particularly her responsibilities to the two children who were benefiting from regular lessons and regular routine. Beth continued to thrive and learn, to mother John, who regarded her with innocent worship in his blue eyes, even tolerating her sometimes sharp comments and quaintly adult remarks.

With the onset of a period of better weather, Sarah released the children after lunch to play in the railed gardens of Hanover Square. Something Beth had to learn to do, to laugh and to run as a child. Sarah doubted that the little girl had ever played in her life.

So the days were full for Sarah. She went to her bed at night in a state of utter weariness that allowed her to sleep without dreams. Which was a blessing indeed, she admitted as she rose early to secure her pale curls into a plain and serviceable knot beneath her lace cap and don her severe gown. Anything was a blessing that helped keep her mind from dwelling on the one man who caused her heart to flutter wildly and her breath to catch in her throat. Perhaps it would be better if she were dismissed, she thought in a moment of low spirit. Would it not be better if she no longer had to see him—every day unless she could deviously arrange it otherwise—and did not have to school her reactions to him to one of polite competence and self-effacement. Then there would be no possibility of his ever guessing…

But of course, she admitted, as she buttoned her unadorned bodice, reflected in the glass, he would never see her in the role of lover—she hissed at her reflection, at her immodest visions—or ever see her as anything other than housekeeper. Then she swept her image a mocking curtsy. Certainly not when he had the Countess of Wexford to amuse him and warm his bed.

Sarah flushed at her thoughts. She had no intention of sharing Lord Faringdon’s bed. How could she allow her mind to drift into such fantasies? Ridiculous! She was nothing to Lord Faringdon and nor did she wish to be. With firm steps she made her way down to the kitchen before her heart could betray her further.

She did, however, notice that he watched her.

Because Joshua had been left in a critical state of indecision, as he had stated, how could he explain to Nicholas and Theodora if he continued to employ Thea’s sister in a menial position in his household? But if he dismissed her, he was damnably sure that she would simply take a position elsewhere—and perhaps not a very suitable one. He knew of the fate of both housekeeper and governess in some households—neglected, imposed on, treated with such lack of respect as to be an insult. He could not accept that for Sarah Russell. But he recognised determination when he saw it. She would take up any position that enabled her to walk her own path and care for her son.

Nor was there any way in which he could make life easier for her under his own roof without being inappropriately obvious.

He did what he could, but quickly discovered that if she suspected any degree of preferential treatment on his part, she retaliated. He saw her with the children taking the air in Hyde Park, noting that she looked chilled to the bone in a velvet spencer not at all suited to the suddenly changeable weather. Without thought beyond her comfort, he arranged for a warm coat, styled very much in the fashion of a gentleman’s greatcoat with little epaulettes, discreet frogging on the front and in a flattering deep blue velvet, to be delivered to her room with a note explaining his desire that she should not die of cold when taking his daughter for exercise in the Park. The coat was returned with an equally polite note. Mrs Russell thanked his lordship, but had no need of such a garment. She had her own coat and a voluminous cape for cold weather if he was at all concerned. Lord Joshua Faringdon swore at the intransigence of women, but could hardly force her to wear it!

He tried again. When he discovered her intention to visit Judith on a particularly damp afternoon, taking John with her, he ordered the barouche to be available for her at the front door. Sarah stared at it in disbelief and ordered its immediate return to the stables. They would walk. The exercise would do them good.

All he could do was what Mrs Russell could have arranged for herself. Which gave him no satisfaction whatsoever. He insisted through Millington that fires be lit in the lady’s rooms and the schoolroom, with hot meals for herself and the children, both at lunch time and in the evening. A ready supply of paper and pencils and books and free access to his library. She need never ask for anything. But, of course, infuriating woman that she was, she never did.

For her life below stairs, she would have to fend for herself, but even here he was tempted into gallant and high-handed decisions to remove some of the burden from the lady’s slight shoulders. He need not have bothered, he realised with gritted teeth. He was soon left under no illusions when he went too far. After much thought, he arranged for Mrs Russell’s responsibilities to be shared by other members of the staff to allow her a full day of leisure every week rather than the usual afternoon at the end of every fortnight. Within less than an hour he found himself facing a highly displeased Mrs Russell in the breakfast parlour. Her voice never rose beyond its usual cool, light timbre, but the emotion that she brought with her into the room was inflammatory.

‘I find, to my amazement, that I have been relieved of all my duties for today.’ A pause. ‘My lord,’ she added.

‘Correct.’ He could not read her face, so tried for the noncommittal.

‘I am due to only half a day every fortnight.’

‘Today you are at liberty, Mrs Russell.’

‘I do not need it. It is unfair on your staff who have to take on my work. And who will teach the children?’

He had not thought of that. ‘The children can spend some time with me.’ God help me! ‘Surely you can find things to do with a whole day at your disposal?’

‘That is not the point at issue, my lord.’

‘As your employer, it is in my power to decide when and how you work.’

‘I am your housekeeper and your governess.’ Her eyes flashed like sapphires in a candle flame. Flashed with temper. He could now read her face perfectly. ‘My terms of employment were agreed with the Countess of Painscastle before you took up residence. I need nothing but the terms on which I first came here. I shall take the afternoon on Wednesday as arranged. My lord!’

Without waiting for a reply, she dropped a curtsy, picked up his empty plate from the table, turned on her heel and left him to enjoy his cooling cup of coffee.

Behaving just like any other servant in the house! Damn the woman! But, by God, she had been magnificent. And astonishingly beautiful when she allowed her fury to break its bonds.

Lord Joshua Faringdon, used to ordering matters to suit himself, might not have felt quite so dissatisfied with events if he had known the lady’s reactions to his chivalry. In a moment of idiocy before returning the splendid coat laid out for her, she had buried her face in the blue velvet—before dropping the soft fabric as if it burned her hands. It was lovely. She could not allow it. Must not. But it hurt to throw his gestures back in his face—such as dismissing the barouche when he had been so thoughtful. But then, she did not know what his motives might be.

Neither, to be fair, did his lordship.

But one thing he could do over which she had no jurisdiction. The time had come. The Countess of Wexford, he decided, had long outstayed her welcome. Wycliffe had been instrumental in her presence to strengthen his cover as a dilettante. He had seen the value of that on his return to London when gossip over his immoral ways had run rife, but enough was enough. Nor, suddenly, for some inexplicable reason did he wish to appear quite so unprincipled and lacking in moral decency. He could no longer tolerate her attentions, her clear designs on his time and his interest. Certainly he did not appreciate her heavily patronising manner toward Mrs Russell, a manner that had been allowed full expression since the incident of the French banquet.

It was more than time that their paths parted.

He needed an opportunity to suggest that the lady leave. And if one did not present itself, then he would have to end the situation as carefully and discreetly as possible.

The former did not arise, so he was driven with some distaste to the latter, after making some thoughtful preparations.

* * *

‘I have seen so little of you, my lord.’ Olivia Wexford entered his library on the following evening, where he was sitting with a glass of brandy and a recent edition of the Gentleman’s Magazine. A provocative swing of expensively gowned hips advertised her deliberate intent. The neckline of the emerald silk was cut low on her bosom and, unless he was very much mistaken, her lovely face was enhanced by the use of cosmetics. Her mouth, deliciously red, settled in an inviting pout, her heavy perfume invaded his senses. His lordship felt a sudden urge to retreat in disorder, but stiffened his resolve.

‘Forgive me, Olivia. I have not been the best of company.’ He called on the excuse of his damaged hip and knee, with silent apologies to the deity who had granted him the facility to heal quickly and well. ‘My leg. The pain, you understand. Sometimes it is almost too great to bear.’ He managed to move surprisingly quickly from his chair, even without the use of his cane, to avoid an inevitable kiss as the lady approached. ‘Perhaps I can offer you a glass of brandy?’

‘No. I suspected that you were in some discomfort.’ Her intense expression was not quite critical of his lack of attention to her. She followed him to where he had lifted the decanter to refill his own glass. Oh, God! ‘But perhaps now that you are able to walk more easily, and without your cane…’ She smoothed a hand delicately down his arm, looking up into his face with wide and lustrous eyes. ‘Perhaps you would be willing to escort me to the opera? It would be good for you to see friends again, I think. And afterwards a light supper where you could spend time with me, of course. Alone.’

‘I would be delighted to oblige, Olivia. But I regret not this evening. I have another engagement.’ He cast about in his mind, only to come up with the obvious. ‘At Brooks’s.’ The only place he could be safe.

‘Ah!’ The faintest of lines was drawn between her sleek brows, but then she smiled. It reminded him of a raptor’s hungry interest in its prey. ‘I have received an invitation to join a weekend party at the country home of Lord and Lady Melville in Berkshire. So gracious of them. I think it would be excellent for your spirits if you accompanied me, Joshua.’

‘Olivia—there is something I would say.’ He put down the glass of brandy. ‘But first, I have a gift for you—a mark of my esteem. And gratitude.’ How clumsy it sounded. He winced inwardly as he moved to open a drawer in the desk, to remove a flat packet. Held it out.

The Countess took it, without any sign of pleasure, and lifted the lid on the velvet-lined case.

‘How lovely.’ Her eyes were flat and cold. She did not touch the sparkling gems, but merely tilted the box so that their facets would catch the light. She angled her head, watching the expensive glitter, then looked at him. ‘Could this be in the way of a farewell present? Somehow, in my experience, diamond necklaces always seem to figure at the end of a relationship.’

‘I think, yes. I fear that you are bored, my dear Olivia. I have been no help to you in recent weeks, although I shall be eternally grateful for your company. In my convalescence.’

Thick lashes hid her thoughts. She fixed a smile that looked almost genuine. ‘But you are recovering now, Joshua. We could still pass some pleasant times together. I think that you are not unaware of my attractions.’ She reached over to touch his hand.

‘No. My mind is made up.’ He tried to be gentle even as he withdrew his hand. ‘This is the end for us, Olivia. Much as I admire you.’

‘But I have not thanked you sufficiently for your hospitality.’ The raptor’s talons sank deeper. He could not escape as she tightened her hold on his arm and touched her lips to his. All he could do was to remain still, cool and unresponsive to her invitation. Not quite a rejection—that would be too much like a slap in the face—but his reluctance was plain.

Olivia straightened, allowed her hand to drop away, her face controlled, but her smile had vanished and there was now an edge to her voice.

‘I see that you are determined. Will you tell me why?’

‘No reason that would be an insult to you, my dear. But time passes. And I need to make some changes in my life.’

‘And I have no place in them.’

He could find nothing to say.

‘Is there someone else in your life? Have you taken another mistress?’

‘No.’

Her smile was brief and bitter. ‘How demeaning to be overthrown for no one else.’ She turned her back to walk toward the door, pride stamped on every controlled movement. And a simmering rage. ‘Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?’

‘No.’ A brush of sympathy touched his senses before it was ruthlessly checked. ‘You deserve better than I can give you.’

The Countess of Wexford picked up the necklace from where she had placed it on the desk. She would not reject the gift, however angry, however humiliated she might be. ‘You have been a disappointment to me, Joshua.’

‘I must live with it.’ The thought came into his mind that Sarah Russell would not have snatched up the necklace to take with her. Sarah Russell refused anything he offered!

‘Yes. you must. I hope that you do not live to regret it, my dear Joshua.’

She did not look at him again but left the room, leaving the door open behind her, all grace and cold fury. The diamonds had glittered, stark and blue as the coldest of ice, but never as frigid as the face and heart of Olivia Wexford.

Lord Joshua retrieved the brandy and drank. It was over. And easier than perhaps he deserved, for he and Wycliffe had made use of the woman. Her eager compliance did not make his own part in the masquerade any more comfortable. At least his injuries had given him every excuse to keep him from her bed and for that he must be grateful indeed.

## Chapter Six

The contentious issue of his continuing employment of Mrs Sarah Russell was resolved in Lord Faringdon’s mind in a quite unexpected manner—indeed one of mind-shattering discovery—one sun-filled afternoon in the following week. He rode into Hanover Square a little after three o’clock. It was the first time that he attempted to get into a saddle since the disastrous and humiliating culmination of his assignment in Paris. The short ride around Hyde Park, one circuit only, had been without doubt excruciating, but it was immensely satisfying that his strength and agility were at last returning. Shoulders and ribs were already more comfortable, allowing him to stretch and turn without immediate and painful repercussions. His knee and thigh might still scream from the demands put on damaged tendons and joints, but there was room for optimism. Thank God he had at last been able to dispense with the cane.

As he rode toward the front steps of his house, his mind occupied with far from pleasant thoughts, shouts and laughter caught his attention from the garden beyond the iron railings. He drew rein. Turned his head to watch. Then simply sat and stared in amazement.

A game was in progress. Not a game that he recognised, but one which involved considerable noise and a lot of running and hiding, with a ball and a hoop. And also, it appeared, involved much enjoyment. He immediately recognised the participants and could not prevent his lips from lifting in appreciation of the scene. Most of the laughter came from John, untidy and red-faced, who whooped and shrieked as if pursued by a band of cut-throat robbers, wielding a hoop to the danger of any who might come too near. But there was his daughter, Miss Celestine Faringdon, no less, hitching up her petticoats and chasing the boy, to wrest the hoop from him with a cry of triumph. Her dark eyes sparkled and she laughed aloud. When she caught John she grasped and hugged him, planting a kiss on his cheek, which caused him to squirm and shriek even more, and his daughter howl with laughter. He had never seen his daughter so…so happy! Abandoned was perhaps the appropriate word, he thought. There was bright colour in her cheeks and stains on her skirts from where she had come to grief in the grass. Now she ran across the garden with John in noisy pursuit.

But the shock doubled, for the supervision of this madness was in the hands of one of the younger maids and Mrs Sarah Russell. And they were joining in. He found that he could not take his eyes from the solemn young woman who ordered and organised his life with intense reserve and so rarely smiled. It was a revelation indeed.

Sarah Russell was flushed. She was involved. She ran after the children, catching them, taking her own turn with hoop and ball. She laughed, completely unselfconscious, unaware of the picture she made. She is no older than a girl! he thought. She looked radiant, as if all the responsibilities and tensions of her life had been lifted for this short time. Even more, she looked exceptionally, stunningly pretty with pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. The vitality, the sheer… well, loveliness of the lady struck him a blow to his chest. His hands tightened on the reins: he could not take his eyes from her.

He would like nothing better, he realised in that one moment of recognition, than to make it possible for her to be so joyful all the time. That was how she was meant to be. If he had ever met Theodora, he would have recognised the same outgoing nature and love of life—now that Sarah had been able to forget her present burdens and her past sins. When she shrieked—then covered her mouth in youthful and delicious embarrassment—as Beth caught her skirts, he smiled. He could not resist.

She had dispensed with the lace cap and her hair had loosened from its neat arrangement, to drift in soft, fair curls around her face. Why had he not realised that she was so pretty when he saw her every day?

The game was apparently over, the players weary but ecstatic. They trooped back across the road in the direction of the house, to halt when they saw their unexpected audience. They came to stand beside him.

John put out a tentative hand to stroke as much as he could reach of the satin shoulder of the bay gelding. Beth smiled up at her father with such openness that it filled him with warmth. This was how his daughter should be. And he cursed his former neglect, however essential it had become to keep her safe in Richmond, away from Paris and its dangers, the threats attached to his own actions in the service of the Crown.

‘You are riding again, Papa.’

‘So it seems. And you are out of breath.’

‘I won.’ Beth crowed with a smug satisfaction. ‘But John is very good. I am older, of course,’ she explained in all seriousness.

‘So you are.’ Lord Faringdon’s eyes moved on to rest on Sarah, who flushed even more at being discovered in so ruffled and unseemly a state. It took much effort to resist the urge to straighten her skirts and push back a wayward curl. But she would not.

‘We had finished the lessons for the day, my lord.’ Why did she feel the need to explain her actions? She set her teeth. ‘The afternoon was so mild…’

‘There is no need to explain, Mrs Russell. I could see that the game—whatever it was—was much enjoyed—by all.’

Her colour now became a deep rose. ‘I must go in. If you will excuse me, my lord…’

‘Of course.’

Transferring the reins to one hand, he swung down from the horse in one fluid movement. And forgot the need for care—until the bright pain lanced from foot to knee to thigh, a red-hot branding. His knee had stiffened during the ride and was reluctant to bear his weight as he landed on the hard surface of the pavement. Momentarily staggering with a hiss of pain, leaning against his mount to keep his balance, he dropped his gloves and riding whip.

The reaction around him was immediate. If his jaw had not been braced against the raw agony and lack of circulation in his leg, he might have laughed at the manner in which his housekeeper and the children instantly leapt to his aid. What price a reputation as a dangerous and unprincipled rake? They came to his rescue as if he were a damsel in distress, Andromeda facing her dragon. Beth collected gloves and whip from the dust of the pavement, wiping them against her skirts. John caught the loose reins to hold the gelding steady as far as a five-year-old could as Lord Faringdon leaned his weight against it. And Sarah Russell—well, she stretched out both hands to grasp his forearms, to hold him upright with her light strength, without a moment’s hesitation.

The reaction between Joshua and Sarah with the touch of hand on arm was instantaneous and elemental. His eyes snapped to hers. She was looking at him with just such a startled expression as he knew was on his own face. It lasted only the length of a heartbeat, both caught in the net of awareness. Then he straightened. She snatched her hands away. And, to all intents, the moment had passed.

‘See how well I am looked after. And how useless I am.’ The little grooves around his mouth deepened at the self-mockery. Yet he was aware of nothing other than the memory of her hands grasping his sleeves, as if the flesh beneath were scorched by her touch.

‘You are stronger every day, Papa. You no longer use the ebony stick.’ Beth clutched the gloves and whip to her flat bosom.

‘You are very good for my self-esteem, Beth.’ The mockery was still there, but gentler. And although his reply was for his daughter, his eyes were still fixed on Sarah’s.

‘I must go in.’ Mrs Russell took a step away from him in clear retreat.

‘Of course.’ He managed the slightest of bows. ‘I have to thank you, Mrs Russell.’

‘I have done nothing to earn your thanks, my lord.’

‘I think you have. In many ways.’ An enigmatic reply, which did nothing to still Sarah’s heightened emotions.

Lord Joshua Faringdon, as he made his way slowly from stable to house, was left thinking, beyond question, that he knew one means of improving his housekeeper’s life. He could suddenly think of no better solution. The clarity of the plan all but took his breath away.

Later that same evening the blinding moment of revelation—but a revelation of quite what he was still unsure—continued to trouble his lordship. He sat in the library, staring blindly at the untouched glass of port. Was he having second thoughts? Undoubtedly. Even third thoughts, he decided. He did not wish to marry. Had no intention of ever marrying again. Had no belief in the strength or lasting quality of love. Would seriously have denied its very existence if pressed closely. Certainly there had been no evidence of its overwhelming power in his relationship with women.

So why the hell should it have come into his mind with the force of a lightning bolt that marriage to Sarah Russell was an outcome to be desired and pursued? There must be other, simpler, more predictable solutions to her—and his—predicament. And there was no certainty that she would actually be tempted to accept his offer. No suggestion in her manner that she felt anything toward him other than a mild tolerance. Except for that one moment that very afternoon—a slap of physical awareness such as he had never before experienced. The reaction in her own eyes as they had flown to his, held there, he could not say. Yet the image of her in the garden, laughing and joyous, came clear and unbidden into his mind. Once there, he could not shake it loose. Of course he did not love her. So why he should even consider to entangle himself in marriage he had no idea.

But he cared about her. Felt a strong urge—if he were feeling poetic, he thought with a quick grin—to stand as shield between her own slight figure and all the slings and arrows that the world might unleash against her. To see and hear her laugh and smile every day. To laugh and smile at him, with him.

He drank the port in disgust. He must truly be going out of his mind. His thoughts on this problem were neither sensible nor logical. And yet he was still gripped by a terrible conviction that marriage was the right step to take.

There again, his mind coming full circle and still as undecided as ever, if he did pursue this objective, would Sarah Russell agree? Knowing what he did of the lady, he had grave room to doubt it.

‘You wished to speak with me, my lord. And I have brought the menu for this evening if you would wish to approve it.’

Lord Faringdon stood with his back to Sarah, studying the view from the window, his thoughts engaged elsewhere. Nor did he immediately turn as she announced her presence. Which gave her the opportunity to study the firm set of his shoulders, the confident tilt of his head with its magnificent fall of hair. And it gave her an even greater sense of unease. Of foreboding.

‘Mrs Russell. Yes, indeed. If you would care to sit.’ He turned at last and indicated a chair beside his desk.

So it had come at last. Dismissal, with or without references. Sarah chose not to sit, but continued to stand before him, chin raised, as he approached. She had done no wrong. If he chose to dispense with her services, there was nothing she could do to change his mind. She would not think, she would definitely not think of that one moment when she had touched him, when the connection between them had raced through her blood with all the force of a summer flood. When their eyes had locked with such intensity, something vital holding them suspended in time. No. No good could come from dwelling on that.

‘Let us try for some honesty here.’ His words surprised her and his voice had an edge. ‘You have, as you are aware, presented me with a problem. I do not wish to employ you, for reasons that are plain to us both. But I know that if I terminate your employment here you will immediately seek another position elsewhere, perhaps not to your benefit or your comfort. Or even your peace of mind.’

She waited, brows raised, heart beating insistently in her throat. There was nothing she could add to his assessment of the situation. Nor could she guess where this was leading. His face was stern as if he had come at last to a difficult decision and was not now to be deterred.

‘I have thought about it all at some length. I feel a responsibility toward you because of the family connection through Theodora. I have a proposition to make.’ He paused as he swept her from head to foot with eyes that expressed all his exasperation with females who refused to take good advice. ‘I wish you would sit down, Mrs Russell.’

‘I would rather stand, my lord.’

‘I am aware. But you might consider my parlous state of health. If you stand, then so must I—as a gentleman.’ She could not mistake the sneer.

‘Forgive me. It was not my intention to be insensitive.’ Colour warmed her cheeks as she took the offered seat. It was so easy for him to put her in the wrong! What sort of proposition would he possibly make that did not include her dismissal? On a sudden thought her blood ran from heated to ice in her veins. Her throat dried. She could only think of one proposition. And now that the Countess of Wexford was no longer in residence…

Unaware of this shocking line of thought, Lord Faringdon continued.

‘I have seen how you have settled here in so short a time. I have seen how my daughter has taken to you. She has begun to blossom, begun to behave like a little girl rather than a matron of advanced years. And your own son too is content, I think. I believe it is important for everyone that you remain here in my household.’

It seemed more and more likely to Sarah, with every word that he uttered, that she was about to receive an offer that would humiliate her beyond bearing. She discovered that she was holding her breath and her fingers closed, white-knuckled, on the arms of the chair. She forced herself to breathe again.

‘So I would ask you…’ He rose to his feet and walked forward toward her. Without the cane, she could see the return of grace and well-muscled ease. He reached out and took her hand, which still clutched, albeit wrinkled, the list of dishes for the evening meal, and unlatched it from the chair.

‘No. You must not… ‘ She snatched away her hand into her lap, taking him aback.

Lord Joshua frowned. ‘What must I not?’

‘You must not make such a proposition. I would remain as your housekeeper and governess to your daughter. Never anything else.’

‘What proposition?’

‘And if you do make it, it will make it impossible for me to stay under your roof in any event. Please do not, my lord. I beg of you…’

‘Do not what…?’ His frown darkened as the light dawned.

‘I will not be your mistress, my lord,’ Sarah whispered. ‘How would you think it?’

‘Mrs Russell!’ He fisted his hands on his hips, more in frustration than anger. Oh, God! So much for reputations. When he had tried to deal with the whole matter with some sensitivity. ‘Is that what you thought I would offer you?’

‘Why… yes. What other could you possibly offer me?’

He took her hand again, both of them, in fact, removing the list to discard it on the floor, and drew her to her feet. This time he held on when she tugged. ‘Mrs Russell—it would be the greatest discourtesy imaginable to you to suggest such a thing. It was not my intention to offer to take you under my protection. Your opinion of me is not very high, is it?’ And nor of yourself. How can you have so little notion of the light in which I see you? Of the respect in which I hold you?

‘But… You must explain more clearly, my lord, for I find myself at a loss. If you do not want me as your mistress—and, indeed, I find it difficult to understand why you would!— then what?’

‘I realise that you could believe me capable of inflicting so monumental an insult on your good name.’ He made no attempt to hide the bitter self-disgust. ‘But it was not my intention to do so. Mrs Russell…’ He might as well get it over with and allow her the pleasure of refusing him. How could any woman of integrity be persuaded to accept the offer of marriage from a man with so damaged a reputation? But he would try, beyond hope, to paint himself in a better light. Suddenly it had become very important that he remove her from her self-imposed role below stairs and restore her to the ranks of society into which she had been born. And something more, which he barely understood, could certainly not acknowledge, drove him on. But whatever the compulsion, he knew that it was underpinned by an overwhelming need to protect Sarah Russell. So he would offer her marriage, even though she would undoubtedly fling the gesture back in his face.

‘Mrs Russell. Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’

Shock drove the colour from her cheeks, even from her lips. Her hands stiffened within his grasp and her lips parted on a little cry of sheer disbelief. Much as he had expected!

‘You cannot!’

‘Why can I not?’

‘You do not know me. You do not love me. You could marry anyone of your acquaintance.’ Sarah sought through her tumbling thoughts for all the reasons why his words must be false. ‘You do not want me. Why, in heaven’s name, would you wish to marry me? I am your housekeeper.’

Sarah Russell! Have you no thought of your own value in the eyes of any man?

‘You seem to have an entire list of reasons why I should not. Let me tell you of the advantages for me as I see them. I think I would get an excellent bargain.’

‘What could I possibly offer you?’

‘If we are to be purely practical, then—the running of my establishments. No trivial matter, as I have a house in Richmond and an estate in Yorkshire. A mother to my child, whom I think you already have some affection for. The removal of one serious cause of conflict—only one of many, I acknowledge—that would stand for ever between myself and my own parent and sister if I continued to employ you as my housekeeper. Also—’ But he bit back on further revelations. What other could he say, when he was so unsure himself? He smiled down into her anxious face. ‘Enough! I have a care for your happiness. I think that marriages have been made with far less to recommend them.’

‘I cannot allow you to even consider it, my lord.’ She would have clutched her hands in dismay except that he still had them in his possession, so her fingers tightened around his. ‘I do not want charity. I refused it from your sister. I left New York because it would have been too easy to accept it from Lord Henry and Eleanor. I will not take it from you!’

‘I expect Henry in New York found you just as difficult to deal with as I do! I wonder how he coped with your uncomfortable desire for independence! Listen to me. Will you at least think about it? I have no intention of offering you charity, as you put it. There are considerable advantages for myself and for you in such a match. I can offer you comfort, respectability’— he winced inwardly—’a home for yourself and your son with no more fears for the future. Will you at least consider it?’

He would have raised her captive hands to his lips, but she tugged them free at last, to rub her damp palms down the skirts of her gown. She shook her head, took a step in retreat.

Which Lord Faringdon accepted and made a little bow. ‘Mrs Russell—you owe me that at least you will think about my offer, as my employee. I would ask you not to reject it out of hand. I think that would be… fair.’

She heard the hint of a plea in his voice and for that moment, her treacherous heart picking up its beat, she could not doubt the sincerity in his outrageous offer. Of course she must consider it. Even if she could do nothing other than refuse it. Because, however much her heart, in its secret depths, might desire such an outcome, her common sense told her that it could never be. But since he had appealed to her sense of justice—with a certain low cunning—she must comply. She acknowledged the inclination of his head with a graceful curtsy. ‘Very well, my lord. I agree that your proposition demands my consideration. I will think about it. I will give my answer tomorrow.’

Abandoning the suddenly irrelevant list of courses and their appropriate side dishes on the floor, she almost fled from the room.

Leaving his lordship with the thought that, although he had pressured her into not refusing his offer out of hand, he still had no confidence that she would accept. And that perhaps he had done too well in creating a reputation for himself, which no honourable woman would willingly take on. Remembering the shock—the outrage—at his offer and her readiness to believe that he would humiliate her by taking her as his mistress, he suffered an unaccustomed sense of hurt, but firmed his lips against it. It was his own fault and he must live with the consequences.

It was no surprise at all to Sarah that she spent a sleepless night. Disbelief refused to let her rest. A proposal of marriage. Lord

Faringdon’s wife! She might as well have wished for the moon. As a lady of neat and fairly predictable habits she sat in her room before a dying fire with a pen and paper and prepared to compose two lists, absorbing the quietness around her. Aware of her son sleeping next door. And Beth in her own room. All was comfort and luxury. Warmth and security. Yet nameless anxieties and indecision gnawed at her mind, troubled her heart. What would it be like to put herself into Joshua Faringdon’s power? To give him the rights of a husband over her, to allow him to take her to his bed? Sarah shivered a little despite the warmth of the fire. It was unimaginable.

She put pen to paper to write in her careful flowing script.

Why I should not even contemplate marriage to Lord Faringdon.

1. It would be accepting an offer of charity.

She had told Judith that she would make her own way in the world. And promised herself that she would never again be dependent on the whims or desires of any man. She nodded agreement with her first point.

2. He has an undesirable reputation as a rake. It would not be a respectable marriage.

Well, that was certainly true. She had seen him with the Countess of Wexford in a situation that gave credence to all rumours about their relationship. Living in the same house together, they had flouted all convention. Then there were the opera dancers. Not that she had seen any, of course. As for what had occurred in Paris… No, Sarah decided, she was far too conventional to consider such a liaison with a man who had cast aside the honour of a gentleman.

3. What is Lord Faringdon’s reason for his proposal? She had no idea and it worried her. As she had said to his face, he could marry anyone he chose. A mama of a hopeful débutante might consider overlooking his disreputable past if he was willing to bestow his wealth and his title on her daughter. So why should he want to marry her? She was five-and

twenty years old and a widow with a son. She frowned at her list. She did not want to be in the hands of a man who might use her for his own ends—a legacy of Edward’s treatment of her. She should undoubtedly refuse Lord Faringdon’s offer. She wrote again.

4.I have nothing of my own to bring to this marriage.

Her mind repeated her written words. She would bring nothing of her own to the marriage. No money, property or connection. No beauty or superior intelligence. No dramatic traits of character as did her sister Theodora. She did not care to admit it, but honesty forced her to do so. She appeared to be a very dull—a very ordinary—person, which once again caused her to nibble the end of her pen with unease—until she threw it down in disgust. Only to pick it up to add one final flourish.

5. He does not love me.

That was not a matter on which she cared to dwell.

These were very strong arguments, Sarah was forced to agree. So she would refuse Lord Faringdon’s kind but inexplicable offer. Which decision caused her to pick up her ill-treated pen once more and a clean sheet of paper.

Why I should accept the offer and become Lady Joshua Faringdon.

A lot of thought was required here. It was not a list as easily begun as the previous one. But at last she began.

1. Security.

For herself and for her son. She would never again have to worry over the future and whether she would have the means to put a roof over John’s head or clothes on his back. And there would be so many advantages for him. John would be able to have a horse of his own and—She stopped her mind dwelling on such material trivialities to return to the matter in hand.

2. Beth.

She would have the continued care of Beth, which she would enjoy as a mother, not merely a governess. She would enjoy a daughter.

3.I can renew my friendship with Judith and Simon.

That would be good. And she would not have Thea bearing down on her, demanding to know what she was about. Sarah smiled. She would have liked to talk to Thea about this whole unbelievable situation.

Then pursed her lips. She had told Judith that she would only marry again for love. For nothing less. With a sharp inhalation she rubbed ink from her fingers. Then, before she could change her mind, she wrote:

4.I love him.

As she closed her eyes against her admission, written there for all to see, the image came into her mind, startlingly clear. The sharp planes and angles of his face, the beauty of his eyes, which silvered when he smiled and they caught the light, the dense metallic pewter of his hair. The elegance of his figure, even though he still struggled with pain and discomfort. How very splendid he was. How he caused her breath to shorten and her mouth to dry—foolish woman that she was! And there was also his kindness to her and to John. And that extra quality, which drew her emotions inexorably to him, however much against her will. So what if he was a heartless rake and a libertine? He had never been heartless in his dealings with her. What if he could never love her? She could love him and live with him as his wife. She could certainly keep him out of the talons of avaricious women such as Olivia Wexford. His title and his wealth meant nothing to her. But the chance to be his wife, to be near him, meant everything.

Sarah sat and simply looked at the two lists, one beside the other, measuring and discarding. It was the matter of her dependence—or lack of it—that was the thing, she decided. And the Countess of Wexford, of course. She would be foolish to deny that! She bared her teeth in a fair imitation of a snarl as she recalled the lady’s smug complacence when she placed her slender fingers on Joshua’s wrist, demanding all his attention, to the exclusion of all else. But perhaps there were ways around such obstacles if she really wished… A little smile curved her lips, a bubble of excitement erupted in her blood. She hugged herself. Perhaps after all… Then rose to her feet to consign both lists to the flames, watching as they disintegrated into ash.

Next day Mrs Russell duly requested an interview with Lord Faringdon and wasted no time.

‘I have thought of your proposal, my lord. I made a list.’

‘A list? I see.’ Or perhaps he didn’t. What an unexpectedly fascinating woman she was. ‘And your decision?’

‘I will accept. I will marry you if that is your wish.’

Lord Joshua tightened his muscles against the sudden and unexpected surge of satisfaction at her words. He had not, in all honesty, thought it a possible outcome.

‘But I would make a suggestion,’ his housekeeper continued before he could reply.

‘Ah…’ Now what on earth…?

‘I think we should consider a contract before we make our final decision.’

‘Well, if you wish it…’ He tried not to allow the puzzlement to appear on his face, in his voice. ‘Do you not trust me to deal with you fairly as my wife? Of course there will be a legal contract, a binding settlement to ensure the future of yourself and John.’

‘No—I did not mean that… I know that you will do everything that is right in way of a settlement. I meant something in the way of a more personal contract—what we expect from each other and from our marriage to each other—if you take my meaning,’ It was suddenly very difficult to explain. She looked at him with anxiety, praying for understanding.

Lord Faringdon experienced a sharp tug of amusement, but he would not dare to laugh while faced with this most serious lady. ‘If that is what you wish,’ he agreed, a little warily. ‘But why?’

‘You may not wish to marry me when you see what I would hope for.’

‘I see.’ Again he didn’t, but he would allow her to have her own way.

‘Then I will write a list of… of my terms—and you should do likewise—of what you wish from me as your wife.’ Colour rose to tint her cheeks deliciously, instantly captivating him.

‘And if our two lists are acceptable?’ His expression remained remarkably solemn. ‘Compatible?’

‘Then I will accept your kind offer, my lord.’

It was hardly a romantic basis for a marriage, but he inclined his head in stern agreement. He would not smile! ‘Thank you, Mrs Russell. And how long do you envisage for this writing of compatible lists?’

‘I would like a week in which to consider it, my lord. If that is to your liking.’

‘Very well. You shall have a week to decide on my fitness to be your husband.’

Ignoring this deliberate provocation, suspecting his amusement at her expense, Sarah immediately turned to go, the business completed, but he stopped her, his voice gentle yet still commanding. ‘Will you allow me to do one thing, madam? To seal our agreement?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘I would like to kiss your fingers.’ Her lips, he decided, with some degree of disappointment, were clearly beyond bounds here.

‘Why…yes…if you wish it, sir.’

Never had he approached so reluctant a lady. But nothing deterred, he bowed with due and solemn courtesy before her and, when she placed her hand in his, he raised it to his lips in the most formal of gestures. Her skin was cool and soft beneath the warmth of his mouth. ‘You are very practical, Mrs Russell. It would not do to embark on a liaison that stood little chance of success. I shall pray for compatibility.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ He was laughing at her! Her brows twitched together in suspicion.

He really would have to stop her inclination to use such formality — but perhaps not yet. ‘Perhaps we shall deal well together, madam.’ He took the opportunity to capture her other hand, to kiss those fingers as well.

‘It would be my wish, my lord. I would not desire you to be dissatisfied with the results of your most generous offer.’ The colour deepened with her reply. If she had but realised, he thought, it was a very sad little comment on her experience of life. He found himself reluctant to release her hands after all.

But Sarah drew away. ‘If you will excuse me, sir, Beth will be waiting for me for her lesson.’

‘And what is it to be today?’ He tried to lighten the tension between them.

‘French, my lord.’

‘Of course. Then I should say “Merci et au revoir, Madame Russell”.’

At some time during the following week Lord Faringdon sat down at his desk with a sheet of blank paper before him. For some inexplicable female reason, Sarah Russell wanted a contract between them. He supposed that he must give it some thought before the eleventh hour. What on earth would she expect from him? She had said that they should write what they hoped for from the match.

Be practical! That was what she would expect. Mrs Russell was a very practical lady. With his black brows drawn into a forbidding line, his lordship selected a pen and without a heading to the sheet wrote for a minute in forceful black script.

To undertake and oversee the running of my houses in London, Richmond and Yorkshire. Also my rented property in Paris.

He looked at it. That was good. Then:

To care for and be a mother to my daughter Celestine.

Fine! He had spoken to her about these two issues after all.

Now what? He could think of nothing more and, in a similar frustrated fashion to that experienced by his beleaguered housekeeper, threw down the pen with disgust. It read like the dry and formal words of a lawyer rather than the tender desires of a prospective husband! Lord Faringdon poured a glass of port and sipped it, contemplating the blank space on the page, selecting and discarding ideas. To allay some of the scandal in my life by providing me with a new bride? A flippant comment, he decided, and an empty hope. Marriage would not necessarily still wagging tongues. So no point in adding it. To warm my bed at night? As his wife, she would, of course. He had no intention of entering into a marriage that was in name only. So why include it?

He looked at the sheet, an accusatory stare. A poor attempt, but he could do no better. He finished the port and abandoned the attempt with a sigh of relief. After all, he still had two more days before he must enter into negotiations with Mrs Russell. Perhaps he would think of something before then.

One week from their previous discussion they met as arranged, for Lord Faringdon at an unacceptably early hour in the morning. Mrs Russell presented herself in the library, all business, to discuss the matter of the proposed personal contract. He would not guess at the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath the discreetly high neck of her gown.

‘Well, Mrs Russell. Our contract.’ He glanced down at the sheet of paper tucked beneath the blotter on his desk, the content of which had given him so much difficulty. There was little to be seen to reflect all the mental effort. He had added nothing since his original attempt.

‘Yes, my lord.’ Sarah unfolded the sheet that she carried.

His lordship stared at it with horror. Even from a distance he could see that the single sheet was covered from top to bottom with her neat writing. And numbered points, no less, unless he was much mistaken. There must be at least eight or nine there! What on earth had the woman found to write about? He cast another surreptitious glance down at his own, hoping that it was out of sight of the lady who clearly required much from him. Two sentences only! His brain scrambled furiously as he grew aware of the silence that was beginning to stretch between them. Would she be insulted if he had only two requests or hopes from their proposed marriage? Of course she would!

When he raised his eyes again to the lady, who waited so patiently for his reply, he thought he detected a hint of uncertainty in her clear gaze. She would surely think that he was about to renege on his offer. He must put her mind at rest. So he coughed to hide the astonished amusement that had threatened to rob him of words and managed a smile.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Russell. I need another few hours—for so momentous an event, you understand. Perhaps you would take tea with me this afternoon—as a guest, of course—and we can discuss the issues.’

‘Very well. This afternoon, my lord. At three o’clock would be acceptable.’

She left the room, taking her list with her.

Lord Faringdon sat down at his desk and retrieved the paltry document from beneath the blotter. He picked up a pen and gave his mind to some serious thought! A desperate remedy was required—and quickly.

He allowed his mind to drift over what he knew of Mrs Russell. A quiet composed lady it would seem on first impression. Yet not so. Under the surface—who knew what tides and eddies surged? She was not unattractive, he acknowledged. If she would relax, smile a little more, and if she had time and money to consider her wardrobe and indulge herself a little, he believed that she would be more than passably pretty. Too often she was pale and strained. Life had not been kind to her.

Then there was the problem that she was self-effacing in the extreme. Would willingly fade into the Chinese wallpaper if she could rather than draw attention to herself. And yet she was competent and effective when dealing with areas under her jurisdiction. He could not fault her administration of his house or her authority over his staff.

He tapped the pen against the surface of the desk as he considered the crux of the matter as he saw it. She was totally lacking in self-worth, unaware of her own attractiveness and her own merits. Knowing of her background from Judith, the manner in which her brother had bribed and manipulated her until she had found herself involved in a despicable pretence, he understood that she suffered from a severe attack of guilt. And so suspected that she felt herself unworthy of love or affection. Yet she had been married. His lordship found himself contemplating the unknown Captain John Russell who had, it would appear, won Sarah’s heart and trust. A difficult task, it would seem—if not impossible! She was quick to withdraw from all attempts at personal contact. From any moves to show friendship or warmth. Yet Judith found her a good friend and had much affection for her.

And if Theodora was her sister… So much energy and confidence there if Judith were to be believed. There must be hidden depths indeed locked in Sarah’s neat figure. And perhaps he had seen them to a small extent. He recalled the delight of the French banquet, the Countess of Wexford firmly thwarted and put in her place. There was humour there, too, despite her frequently solemn exterior. And her joy in the garden with Beth and her son. Energy and innocent pleasure, a total joy in the foolish activities—until she became aware of his watching her. If he could give her that freedom and opportunity to enjoy and blossom… Well! He could soon fix that! A personal contract, she had said. Very well. He would add some very personal demands to his list.

With a sardonic twist to his lips, Lord Faringdon wrote for several minutes without pause, covering the rest of the sheet and part way down a second. Then threw down his pen with a laugh.

Mrs Russell might find that she had met her match. And if she would, might just enjoy the result!

Once again, at three o’clock precisely, Sarah had presented herself in Lord Faringdon’s library. She had been ushered to a chair, had measured out the tea, poured the fragrant liquid, and had immediately put down the fragile painted china without tasting. Now she watched him and waited, with her heart in her mouth and her hopes for her future in his lordship’s beautiful hands. Or, almost her hopes. She could hardly include in her list her yearning that one day he might love her, as she loved him, unconditionally and based on nothing but an unreasoning desire. She watched him as he read down the single sheet. As his brows arched at one point, then immediately drew together into a heavy frown, she swallowed. No need to be nervous, she chided, and blushed at some of the thoughts she had allowed herself to include. He could only refuse, after all, and she would have lost nothing. Except that she would be obliged to terminate her employment here and find another position. It would be too uncomfortable to continue. She waited as he read to the end, palms damp with nerves. Then sighed as he returned to the beginning and reread it, wishing not for the first time that she could read his face.

Fortunately, she could not.

Typical Sarah, he thought. Careful and thoughtful and…and prim. He hid his enjoyment of the situation. How right he had been in his assessment of her character. And he had every intention of destroying the demure sobriety that could frequently rob her of joy and pleasure. He would take the weight of care from her shoulders and allow her to blossom without restraint. She did not know that she needed liberating, of course, and would probably resist at every step, so his campaign must necessarily be devious. Her marriage terms touched not only his sense of the ridiculous but also his compassion.

Freedom to run his establishments and appoint servants to her own liking. He would expect that. But had there been some problem here of which he knew nothing? He had been unaware of any difficulties in Hanover Place. Whatever she desired on this matter, she could have her way.

A comfortable financial settlement for herself and her son to cushion the child’s future. Well, that would be confirmed in the legal settlement, of course. And would be far more than comfortable, but there was no need to worry her with details of amounts and jointures.

Freedom to decide on the upbringing and education of John. Both acceptable and anticipated. As she would concern herself over the nurturing of Beth. He had no qualms on that issue. And had every intention of doing his best for the boy.

Her own wishes to be considered. Ah! Not to be coerced or dictated to or forced into actions against her will. His heart went out to her as she sat across from him silently awaiting his decision, even though he restrained himself from glancing in her direction. He knew exactly where that came from—and damned the unknown Edward Baxendale for his bitter legacy. In future, Sarah should have all the freedom she desired.

His brows rose in amazement, then snapped into a dark frown as he read on. No inappropriate orgies, entertainments, opera dancers or actresses in the house when she herself was present. Orgies? In God’s name, what had she heard? Surely not Judith! Then, with a wry curl of his lips, he once more had to accept the far-reaching tendrils of gossip and innuendo surrounding his life in Paris and could not complain.

He shrugged and read on to the final lines. A comment that touched his heart. I do not expect to be introduced to or be called upon to meet or acknowledge your mistress. I do not expect to have to receive her in my home. The Countess of Wexford, of course! I accept your freedom to take a mistress, given the pure convenience of our marriage, but I trust your sensitivity on this matter. I do not wish to have to acknowledge her.

How tragic. That Sarah should consider herself so undesirable and unworthy of love that he would continue to keep a mistress. His reputation again stood him in no good stead. He was gripped with a need to remove all such doubts from her mind. And make her feel loved and desirable.

He placed the paper on the desk where his own cup of tea also remained untasted. Without a word, unsmiling, giving no hint of his feelings, he handed her his own greatly revised script. And watched with deceptively stern features as she sat and read.

When she had finished she raised her head, her face registering a curious mixture of bafflement and pleasure, colour tinting her cheeks. ‘Well… You are very generous, sir. I do not see the necessity. The personal allowance…it is far too large for my needs…’

He knew that she would argue the issues at hand, but had no intention of retreating. ‘When did a woman ever have enough money to spend on herself? Judith never does, if what she says is true. You will need pin money to keep you in fripperies and such.’

‘But so much… Andhere…’ She pointed at the page. ‘That I should be willing to receive gifts from you… ‘ She shook her head.

‘Because I know that if I do not make it a prerequisite of marriage, you will decline. I wish to give you gifts and I wish you to enjoy them without feeling a need to refuse.’

‘I hope that I would not be so ungracious!’ More than a little ruffled now. ‘And you desire that I should become fashionable and elegant.’ He almost laughed aloud at the sudden anxiety on her face.

‘Of course,’ he replied with due solemnity. ‘I expect Lady Faringdon to present herself in nothing but the height of fashion. As my wife I will expect you to go about in society.’

‘But I do not know how—’

‘Sarah!’ He clenched his fists against a need to take hold of her shoulders and either kiss her or shake her into compliance. ‘Speak to Judith. Or Theodora. Your sister’s taste must, I am certain, be beyond question. And I think your colouring is the same as hers. Take her advice.’

‘I suppose.’ Sarah consulted the firm handwriting again. ‘You seem to think that I will gain no enjoyment from this match.’ Did he almost detect a flounce of temper there as she looked up? It delighted him. So he twitched the pages from her hand and read aloud: ‘I expect you to enjoy—and you will notice that I have underscored the word many times—the benefits of my wealth and consequence.’ He fixed her with a purposeful eye. ‘I would wish you to be happy, Sarah.’

‘And you would expect me to accompany you to Paris.’ There was the faintest suggestion of panic there.

‘Of course. We will employ a governess for Beth and John. As my wife, that is no longer your direct concern—except that I know you will wish to be involved. But I shall expect you to spend time with me.’

‘Oh.’ My wife. Wings of delicious terror fluttered in her belly.

‘So, Mrs Russell. Can we live amicably together, do you suppose? To the advantage of both?’

‘But you have said nothing in reply to my list.’ She regarded him with sudden suspicion.

‘I do not need to. I comply.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Mrs Russell. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

‘I—’

‘If it truly worries you, I promise that there will never be orgies in this house—or any of my establishments. Whether when you are in residence or when you are not. If I change my mind and decide to host some tasteless extravaganza, I shall demand that you organise a French banquet worthy of the Prince Regent. Does that satisfy you?’

Sarah could not help but laugh. ‘I should not have written that, should I?’

‘No.’ The laughter died a little from his eyes. ‘You should not believe all rumours, particularly those to my detriment’— even if I deliberately fostered them. ‘But still I promise that I will not.’

‘Then—if you wish it—I will agree to marry you.’ A shy smile touched her lips at last.

‘Thank you. I might tell you that I have never fought so difficult a battle in all my life. Waterloo was nothing to this. Wellington did not know the half of it.’

She had the grace to blush. ‘I did not mean to be difficult.’

‘No. I am sure you did not. Since we are in agreement and since you have agreed to my terms, it is my desire that you wear this.’

From the drawer of his desk he produced an old silk pouch. Untying the strings, he extracted a circle of gold. ‘It was in my mind to give you a diamond necklace to mark our betrothal, but I have it on the best authority that such tawdry gems can only signal the end of a relationship.’ His voice was dry, but his smile was gentle and he shook his head at her questioning look. ‘No matter. Give me your hand.’ When she obeyed, he pushed the ring on to her finger ‘Not a bad fit—a little large, but it can be remedied. It suits you very well.’

‘It is beautiful.’ It all but took her breath away. Never had she possessed anything so precious or so skilfully made. No one had ever given her jewellery before.

‘It is old and has not been worn by ladies of the family for some generations, but it is pretty and I thought it would complement your beautiful eyes. As my affianced wife I would like you to wear it. If it would please you, dear Sarah,’ he added on a thought, mindful of her fear of domestic dictates and the return of the velvet coat. His teeth glinted in an understanding smile.

‘It would please me. I can think of no lady who could refuse so splendid a gift.’ She moved her fingers, a little purr in her throat as the hoop of sapphires and pearls sparkled and glimmered in the light.

He sighed in some relief. He still could not quite believe that she had accepted him. Or understand why it should matter quite so much.

‘Thank you, Sarah.’ With a formal bow, he lifted her hand and kissed the ring where it encircled her finger, a potent symbol of their agreement and union. Then turned her hand to press his lips to her soft palm, a symbol of his own sense of achievement, had the lady but known it. ‘We will fix a date for our marriage. And soon.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’ As Sarah made to leave the room, her cheeks decidedly pink, she came to a halt and looked back.

‘What will you do with the—with our contracts, my lord?’

‘Put them in the desk drawer for safekeeping,’ was his prompt reply as if he had anticipated the question. ‘And to find them easily if we wish to refer to them at any given moment.’ His expression remained bland. ‘If you decide that I am not keeping to my side of the bargain, Mrs Russell.’

Sarah laughed. ‘No. I do not anticipate that will ever be necessary.’

‘No? Well—I should warn you.’ There was mischief here now. ‘It is my intention to add a codicil. That since we have agreed to tie the knot, you will henceforth address me as Joshua.’

Sarah tilted her chin, her eyes glittering as brightly as the sapphires that bound her finger. ‘And I will do so, now that we are in agreement. Joshua.’ And left the room. Leaving Lord Faringdon to consider the pleasure of watching Sarah Russell—Sarah Faringdon!—open herself to her courageous heart and a playful humour.

## Chapter Seven

Lord Nicholas Faringdon and his wife Theodora travelled without delay from Aymestry Manor in Herefordshire when the news of the impending nuptials reached them via Judith’s astonished and information-laden letter. Theodora hardly stayed to set foot within the imposing portals of Faringdon House in Grosvenor Square before descending on the other Faringdon residence in Hanover Square and demanding from the overawed Millington that she wished to see Mrs Russell immediately. ‘Sarah! Why did you not tell me? I had no idea.’ ‘Well! Neither did I.’ Sarah served tea in her own sitting room to this dearest of sisters who, brought up as their own child by Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux, had come into her life less than a year ago. They would not immediately be recognised as sisters, she thought as she cast an eye over the stylish creation that Theodora wore with such panache. Their fair colouring was the same, but Sarah knew that she must appear a pale imitation indeed beside this glowing and burnished beauty. Not to mention the confident sophistication with which Thea conducted herself, having been raised and introduced to the beau monde in the courts of Europe. Yet however much she might envy her sister her self-assurance and ability to take hold of life, Sarah loved her dearly and valued her advice. She smiled, her body relaxed for the first time in days as she lifted her tea cup to her lips. ‘I am so very pleased to see you, Thea. I have felt in need of some support.’

‘Well, of course. Dearest Sarah.’ The deep sapphire of Thea’s eyes shone with love and concern. ‘I have never met Joshua Faringdon. He was still in Paris when Nicholas and I were wed, of course. All I know is that he is a widower with a young child. But I have heard Judith speak of him. And Lady Beatrice refuses to do so. I have to say, he does not sound quite the thing, Sarah. I think he has a…an unfortunate reputation. As Judith put it. And Nicholas is being particularly close-lipped.’

‘I know,’ Sarah replied with remarkable complacence. ‘But…I do not think his reputation can be quite accurate. He has never behaved in a less than principled manner towards me.’

‘You only met him a matter of weeks ago! You do not know him.’ Thea could not understand how her careful sister could be so untroubled by the rumours of her intended husband’s libertine propensities.

‘True. Or not very well, at any event. And yet I cannot believe he is as lacking in good ton as the gossips make out. I know that Judith loves him dearly, in spite of everything. And he… Lord Faringdon…is very caring of his daughter. And to me he has been very kind.’

‘Kind? Sarah… I cannot like it,’ Thea persisted. ‘I would not wish you to be hurt. If it is simply a matter of finding a home for yourself and John, you could live with us. John would love to be at Aymestry. You know that you would always be welcome.’

‘No.’ Sarah blinked at the force of her own denial. ‘Forgive me, Thea. How rude that sounded! You see, I am perfectly capable of earning my own living. And…I find that I wish to marry Lord Joshua.’

‘Of course you are capable. I would not imply… Sarah—are you sure? Of marriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you like him?’

For the length of a heartbeat Sarah was silent. Then: ‘I love him,’ she replied with pure and shining simplicity. ‘I barely know him, yet I know that I shall love him until the day I die. From the first moment that I set eyes on him when he entered the hallway here in this house. It is as uncomplicated as that.’

‘Oh.’ Thea frowned her concern. ‘Does he know?’

‘Of course not.’ Sarah’s eyes held her sister’s in sudden distress. ‘And you must not say. He must never know.’

‘Do I then understand that his emotions are not similarly engaged?’ Thea’s frown deepened.

‘No, I think not. Indeed, I am sure that they are not.’ Relaxing again with a little smile, she took Thea’s offered hand, accepting the warmth and not a little sympathy. ‘He is, I think, driven by an affection. Beyond kindness, I think—but not love. I would never expect that. And he has, I think, a well-developed sense of chivalry to rescue me from invisible dragons!’

‘Sarah—are you quite certain that this is the path which you wish to take?’

‘I am.’ There was conviction in her soft voice and a wry acceptance. ‘But I am not sure that Lord Faringdon is. I cannot think why he would want to marry me when he could have his pick of the beautiful débutantes of the Season!’

Neither could Thea, given his lordship’s reputation for escorting stunning and expensive females to the opera, as Judith had informed her in glorious detail. But she could hardly say that to Sarah, could she?

Nicholas ran his cousin to ground at Brooks’s and sat with him over a decanter of port.

‘Nick. I did not know you were in town so soon. I wonder why! Will you join me in a hand of whist?’

Lord Nicholas laughed as he poured the ruby liquid into two glasses and picked up the cards. ‘You know very well why! Thea insisted. We had a letter from Judith, of course. She waxed eloquent of your doings, Sher.’ They sat at ease, choosing and discarding the cards, the family likeness very evident in their height and build and striking Faringdon features, although, unlike his cousin, Nicholas’s hair was dark as a crow’s wing without any hint of silver.

‘Ah.’ Joshua’s brows rose. ‘Then all is clear.’

‘Indeed. And will be even clearer when you have met my wife.’

Joshua grinned. A strong-willed lady, I am led to understand.’

‘She can be.’ Nicholas drank, fully satisfied with his domestic situation after his fraught courtship and marriage with the outrageous but entirely intoxicating débutante, Theodora Wooton-Devereux. ‘So. Marriage, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can recommend it.’ Nicholas angled a sharp glance at Joshua’s impassive face.

‘I have tried it before,’ Joshua reminded him gently.

‘I know.’ Nicholas hid his concerns. ‘I hope that this is a more propitious marriage.’ Then, unconsciously mimicking his wife: ‘Sher—are you sure?’

‘Yes. But I am not sure that the bride is.’ Lord Joshua abandoned his cards face down on the table, eyed the dark intensity of his port with a crease between his brows.

‘You know, Sher…’ Nicholas leaned forward to make his point, although unsure of his true intentions ‘… I have come to know Sarah very well. On the surface there is little similarity between Sarah and Theodora, as you will see for yourself. But beneath her gentle exterior Sarah has a spine of such strength, you could never imagine it. She can be truly intimidating, with a strong sense of justice, as I found to my cost when I was caught up in a web of intrigue and deceit with Theodora. I am not sure what I wish to say here—except that she is not as fragile as she might seem.’

‘Oh?’

Nick shook his head. ‘No.’ He remembered Sarah taking him to task over his heartless treatment of Theodora when he had unjustly, cruelly, accused her of a harsh betrayal. ‘All I mean to say is that it does not do to underestimate her. But perhaps you know that already.’

‘I do.’ The lines on Joshua’s face smoothed out. ‘Although I do not yet know her well, the lady has surprised me on more than one occasion.’

Nicholas nodded his satisfaction. ‘So let us drink to your future happiness.’

They raised their glasses and did so.

Meanwhile Thea and Judith took Sarah under their combined elegant and sophisticated wing and carried her off to one of the most fashionable modistes in Bond Street.

‘I need you to tell me what to wear for the occasion.’ Sarah could not quench the very feminine ripple of pleasurable anticipation at the prospect as Judith’s barouche collected her from Hanover Square. She had never in her life worn stylish clothing, having neither the money nor the opportunity. And now she was faced with a necessity! As she informed her interested audience of two, ‘My lord—Joshua—insists that I be fashionable and stylish. That I spend a considerable amount of his money—and enjoy it. And I must accept gifts from him without argument. And I agreed.’

Which the ladies thought a strange statement for the bride to make but, beyond a quick glance between them, declined to comment.

‘We shall be delighted to help.’ Judith could think of no better manner in which to spend a morning. ‘It is to be so soon.’

‘And I am so nervous,’ Sarah admitted. ‘I am not sure why. It is not as though I have never been married before.’

Judith hugged her in quick understanding. ‘Sher will never neglect or hurt you, you know,’ she advised. ‘He was always the kindest of brothers when I was growing up and a considerable nuisance.’

‘I know, but I suddenly think I should never have agreed to it.’ Apprehension washed over her again in a chilling wave, as it seemed to do with unnerving frequency as the day of her wedding grew ever closer.

‘You deserve your good fortune.’

‘Well—as to that…’ She took a deep breath, her fingers clasping in white-knuckled tension. ‘What if Lord Faringdon begins to have second thoughts when he remembers—’

‘Sarah!’ stated Judith sternly. ‘You have long paid your debts to this family. Accept what Sher is prepared to give you. He never does anything that he does not wish to do, you can be very sure of that. Enjoy it.’

‘Very well.’ She visibly forced her pre-wedding nerves to settle, relieved beyond words that his lordship had found a need to visit Richmond for a few days and so would be away from home until the day before the wedding.

‘Have you written to tell Eleanor and Hal?’ Thea asked to distract the bride’s mind from any further fears for her future marriage.

‘Yes, indeed. I wrote this week.’ It seemed to have the desired effect as Sarah’s face brightened. ‘I think they will be surprised. They do not even know that I have met Joshua, thinking he would still be in Paris.’

‘But they will be delighted, I am sure.’

Sarah nodded. ‘They have always wished me well.’

‘We had a letter—last month, I think it was,’ Judith informed her companions. ‘One of Nell’s lengthy epistles. Has Nicholas heard anything more since then, Thea?’

‘No. Tell me that they are very happy.’

Judith laughed. ‘Ecstatically—according to Nell. The baby is growing—Nell says that he has a will of iron exactly like his father when he is thwarted. But he is a delight—the baby and Hal, I suppose.’ Judith chuckled. ‘Hal is making money and a name for himself in local politics. Tom is more like a Faringdon every day. He will be a year or two older than John, I expect.’ She turned to look at Sarah, only to see a flicker of unease in those quiet blue eyes.

‘Yes. He will be eight years old now. I envy Hal and Eleanor—their love and commitment and happiness together.’ Which caused Judith and Thea to realise that they had not distracted Sarah’s mind from her problems at all.

‘Here is Madame Stephanie’s,’ Judith said with some relief as the carriage pulled up.

Sarah smiled and set her mind to please her friends and solve the vexed question of clothing. ‘So what do I wear? Nothing of your choosing, Thea! You would have me decked out in emerald and cream stripes, which would swamp me entirely. You can carry it off, but I could not.’

‘Of course not.’ Thea laughed as she smoothed the skirts of the stunning gown that she wore to magnificent effect. ‘Not you at all. Now, let us think…’

The result of their lengthy visit to Madame Stephanie’s was highly satisfying and in the way of a transformation. Sarah finally paraded before them in a high-waisted gown of delicate eau de nil with slender fitted sleeves and discreet ruffles around hem and low neckline. The watered silk shimmered in the light as she moved, as insubstantial as shadows under water. A velvet spencer was added in case the important day, so late in the year, was inclement. Gloves, kid sandals, and the ladies pronounced themselves delighted with the new bride. Finally a lace parasol, faintly ridiculous in November, but entirely necessary to a lady’s wardrobe, which Judith insisted on buying for her as an impromptu wedding present, along with a matching silk reticule and a satin straw bonnet with silk ribbons and flowers in the same hue. It was supremely elegant. Youthful but with a touch of maturity, exactly suited to a young widow. Festive enough for a quiet wedding and an informal wedding breakfast.

Perfect in every sense, Thea decided as she watched her sister, delighted for her happiness, but not without a hint foreboding. And hoped that Lord Joshua Faringdon might be more than a little surprised when he set eyes on the lady whom he had known only in the plain and formal garb of his housekeeper, solemn and withdrawn, rather than the laughing lady who posed before her reflection with grace and charm, her eyes shining with innocent pleasure in her new gown. There was so much in the way of love and generosity about Sarah for him to discover. Theodora smiled with perhaps a gentle malice towards the absent gentleman and silently wished her sister well.

Madame Stephanie nodded her approval with gushing compliments, seeing the future opportunities for dressing the new Lady Joshua Faringdon.

Judith clapped her hands in delight. ‘Poor Sher. He has taken on a beauty and does not realise it. It will do him good!’

Sarah simply shook her head and blushed. But glanced at herself in the mirror with something like shock.

‘The neckline of the dress sits well on you,’ Thea observed as they prepared to depart. ‘I think I will give you a string of pearls to wear with it.’

‘I had some,’ Sarah admitted, a trifle wistfully. ‘From our mother—the only jewellery she had left for me to inherit. But I had to sell them. I needed the money, you see, when John, my husband, died…’ She turned her face away to hide the flush of embarrassment. ‘I did not mean to tell you that.’

‘Oh, Sarah. I don’t think I ever realised how difficult things must have been for you. I am so sorry.’

‘On occasion they were.’ Sarah turned back with the sweetest of smiles. ‘But not today. Today I have forgotten the dark times.’ Her quick smile illuminated her whole face as she squeezed Thea’s hand, and Thea prayed silently that the tranquillity and happiness, so absent from Sarah’s life, would now enfold her for eternity.

Although Sarah might have been entirely caught up in preparations for her marriage, she was determined not to neglect her responsibilities as housekeeper and governess since she had not as yet been replaced in either role. It was not in her nature to do so—nor to sit at ease; since Joshua was still absent in Richmond, it gave her thoughts something to occupy them. But not enough. At any time during the day—or night—she found herself thinking of what he might be doing and when he might return. Was he missing her, even a little, or did he never give her a passing thought beyond that of an obligation to which he was now tied through some quixotic impulse and which he was coming to regret? She hissed her frustrations and looked round for something else to do. So, the next day, after a particularly tedious lesson—even to her mind—in the use of globes with John and Beth, she decide to investigate the attics. The top floor of the house in Hanover Square was a place, like all attics as far as Sarah was concerned, of dust and cobwebs and stored treasures that had long outlived their usefulness.

‘Just look at all this!’ She stood with her hands on her hips, daunted by the extent of abandoned relics of a past life in the house.

‘It’s exciting.’ Eyes round, John could hardly restrain his joy. ‘Like Aladdin’s cave in the stories. Or buried treasure.’

Beth twitched her skirts from the dust with superior distaste, but was secretly enthralled. ‘Can we look in the boxes?’

John was already opening and closing them, declaring it better than lessons. ‘It’s just like exploring an unknown country, as Captain Cook did. As I will do when I am old enough to have my own ship. I shall discover a new country. Perhaps more than one.’ He pulled out an elderly stuffed bird, probably an owl, its feathers moulting on the floor. ‘Which country did this come from?’

‘England, I think. Nothing too exciting.’ His mama smiled. Today it was ships and exploration rather than horses.

She regarded the jumbled piles of unwanted items with a sudden decision not to embark on such a project until she really had nothing better to do. Pieces of furniture, some heavy and carved, some spindly and gilded, but all long out of fashion. A box of unframed water colours of pastoral scenes by some eighteenth-century Faringdon lady—no talent here, Sarah judged, so no wonder they had been allowed to moulder in the attic. There were boxes of clothes, dry and dusty and lavender scented, with a hint of moth, which allowed Beth, to her delight, to dress up and parade in some outmoded creation in heavy damask with whalebone stays and a heavy train.

‘Look at me!’ Beth swept the floor, sending up clouds of dust. ‘Am I not a lady?’

Sarah chuckled. ‘You are indeed a fine lady.’

Beth fastened a spray of egret feathers in her hair, albeit lopsided. ‘I think I am like Grandmama Beatrice. She often wears feathers and is very grand.’

‘So she does. Take care with those backless slippers.’

‘I can walk perfectly well in them.’ Laughing, she swept an ungainly curtsy.

John entertained himself with cries of glee in a chest of discarded toys, lining up a row of broken long-faded lead soldiers. ‘Perhaps I will be a soldier instead. Or a pirate. Can I be a pirate, Mama?’

‘We’ll see.’ Now was not the moment to discuss so lawless an occupation. Meanwhile, Sarah inspected the rest. A firescreen, a birdcage with a broken door, frayed and worn bed-hangings, packets of letters and old documents—all the detritus of life over the years—no, she certainly did not have the energy to clear it all out. Besides, as Lady Faringdon, she would have every excuse not to roll up her sleeves and tackle it herself.

Stacked against the far wall were paintings, some of them of houses and parkland. One was of the estate in Richmond, from the name inscribed in the frame, one might have been the Faringdon country house at Burford under its discoloured varnish, the rest she did not recognise. And portraits. One of Lady Beatrice, probably in the early days of her marriage, which brought a glint of amusement to Sarah’s eyes. She understood exactly why that lady had banished it to the dust and darkness. The artist had no flair and had captured no flattering features in the sitter. One pair of matching portraits showed Joshua and Judith as children. Very attractive, with Judith looking positively angelic and Joshua vastly superior. The rest, as far as she could tell, were old, of people she did not recognise, with Faringdon colouring and features, but with the stiff formality and dress of the past two centuries.

Finally, a group of smaller portraits came to hand, which she turned over with little interest. Family again. Until coming upon a small portrait, life size, but head and shoulders only, which caught her attention. From the neckline of the gown, low across the generous bosom, and the styling of the hair into high-crowned ringlets, it would seem to be of recent origin. Perhaps even in the last decade. A striking lady, young, but not a girl, and not a Faringdon. A dark brunette with distinctly slanted brows and high cheekbones, not a classic beauty, but arresting. And with a tantalising smile on her full mouth and a flirtatious sparkle in her dark eyes, as if she would beckon and beguile. A charming representation. Sarah gained the impression that the artist had caught the lady’s expression to perfection.

So who was this?

Beth had staggered dangerously to her shoulder in a pair of high-heeled damask slippers, to investigate what she was doing.

‘Do you recognise any of these portraits, Beth?’ Sarah spread them on the floor and against the wall. ‘Or this lady?’ She held up the portrait to the branch of candles that they had brought with them.

‘That is Grandmama.’ Beth pointed at the disapproving image of Lady Beatrice as it leaned against the wall. Then shook her head, showing no interest in the rest, before returning to her less-than-stately pursuits.

Leaving Sarah to collect them together again and re-stack them against the wall. Was this lady perhaps Joshua’s wife, Marianne? Beth’s French mother. Sarah regarded the painted face with narrowed eyes, searching for any similarity. Beth might be too young to remember and recognise her. She would have been barely five years old when the lady died, and if she had rarely seen her… But if so, why would her portrait have been discarded here? Unless Joshua had indeed been heartbroken over her death as Judith had suggested, not able to bear the sight of her beloved features. Understandable, yet Sarah felt a tug of jealously that he should have been able to feel such affection for the enchanting Marianne. Certainly he never spoke of her, which might indicate a blighted passion and a damaged heart, and Sarah knew that she did not have the courage to initiate a conversation on the subject of Marianne Faringdon. She prepared to tuck the portrait away. If only Joshua might one day feel such overwhelming emotion toward her. But Sarah shook her head at her foolishness. How could she ever compare with this attractive lady in her husband’s affections?

Or—another thought suddenly struck, a painful dart to her heart—perhaps it was not Marianne at all, but the portrait of a mistress, discarded here when the affair ended. Again, not a thought she wished to pursue.

Or more likely, Sarah decided with a firm determination to reclaim her common sense, it was a lady with no close connection whatsoever to the family. In which case there was no reason for Sarah to feel such a lowering of her spirits. She sighed, rose from her knees, to brush her cobwebbed hands down her skirts in resignation. Whatever the possibilities, it was not her concern.

She turned the lady’s demanding and flirtatious gaze to the wall, to set about persuading a pair of extremely dusty children to leave so miraculous a source of unexpected delights.

Pictures in attics proved to be only one cause of disquiet for Sarah. And not the most unsettling. During her continuing overseeing of the house, she found herself in the rooms occupied until late by the Countess of Wexford. They had been thoroughly cleaned and set to rights on that lady’s departure. Sarah, critically, looked around. The maids, she was forced to acknowledge, had done an excellent job, probably rejoicing in being able to sweep all remnants of that demanding lady from their existence. But then she saw that there on the bed lay a pair of gloves, in the softest of pale grey kid, undoubtedly of French manufacture. Overlooked and forgotten probably, in a drawer, when Hortense packed her mistress’s belongings so rapidly. Perhaps the maid who had cleaned the rooms had found them and forgotten to bring them downstairs.

Sarah picked them up. Smoothed her fingers over their fine surface, lifted them to take in the scent that clung to them. The perfume immediately assailed her senses, heavy and sultry, highly reminiscent of the Countess’s presence. For Sarah it brought the image of the Countess forcefully into her mind—beautiful, stylish, sophisticated—as if she had just polished a magic lamp and a genie had emerged to stand before her. Sarah frowned.

‘I do not need you to continue to haunt this house! You are not welcome here!’ Then, realising that she was speaking to empty air, she laughed softly. But she replaced the gloves and left them where she had found them. She did not wish to think about the Countess of Wexford, or her previous status in this house with regard to Lord Joshua Faringdon. It left her feeling edgy and not a little unhappy. What on earth was Lord Joshua doing, to offer marriage to Sarah Russell when he could have Olivia Wexford as his mistress?

So that by the time Joshua returned from Richmond, it was to discover that his intended bride was in a difficult and skittish mood. After greeting him formally, as his housekeeper, she made herself scarce below stairs, and then was impossible to pin down. Lord Joshua had no intention of treading on Mrs Beddows’s preserve in the kitchen to find her. What a ridiculous situation this was when he could not separate his wife from the housekeeper, when she had found a bare two minutes to welcome him home as if she were still in his employ and then taken herself off to God knows where! He felt his temper building. He had spent his time at Richmond between the tedium of necessary estate business and contemplating his forthcoming nuptials with some bemusement. He was not sure how he had got himself to this point of asking Sarah Russell to marry him. Surely marriage was not the only way to solve the lady’s problems. But he had, for better or worse. His lordship gritted his teeth. And now he wanted to see her and speak with her again. If he could just find her.

He ran her to ground in the formal dining room overlooking the Square where she was in process of replacing the ornate branched silver candlesticks. They had been newly polished and Sarah was engaged in repositioning them on the dining table and the sideboards. For a moment she was unaware of his standing in the doorway, giving him the opportunity to simply look at her. This woman, still little more than a stranger, to whom he had offered marriage. The first impression to deal him a flat-handed blow was that she looked different. Charmingly different. And being well versed in the niceties of female fashion, Lord Joshua immediately knew why. This was the influence of Judith and Thea, if he were not much mistaken. His lips curved in an indulgent smile. They had obviously taken his bride in hand with splendid results. Nothing outrageous or overstated for her delicate role between housekeeper and Lady Faringdon, but an elegant high-waisted gown in a clear summer blue, which he knew immediately would match and enhance her eyes. The sleeves were long and sleek to draw attention to her slender hands. The hem was ruffled and ribbon-trimmed, deliciously feminine. And her hair. It was caught up in frivolous ringlets that fell to her shoulder in the palest of gleaming gold silk, little curls fanning onto her cheeks. He had never thought of Sarah as being frivolous and found himself outrageously moved by the cool, calm elegance of the lady, the quiet dignity with which she completed so menial a task. With the sun angling through the window to gild her with its warm radiance, she was quite lovely. What had he expected from the lady who would be Lady Joshua Faringdon? Just this, he decided, but it still took him by surprise.

He stepped forward and she looked up, then swiftly back down to her task of placing the candlesticks with a nicety of judgement. What he had seen fleetingly in her eyes worried him. She was not at ease. But then, why did that not surprise him either?

‘Sarah.’ He walked toward her, a little hum of anger in his blood, replacing the sudden pleasure, whether at her or himself he had no very clear idea. But his nearness had the desired effect of forcing her to look up.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Joshua.’ They were making no progress here. He stifled a sigh and kept a firm hand on any further sharp comment.

‘Yes. Of course.’ She looked at him, eyes wide, assessing, for some female reason that would doubtless be impossible for a mere male to determine.

‘What is it? What is wrong?’ He felt the frown begin between his brows, but could not prevent it.

Sarah saw it too. ‘Nothing is wrong—exactly.’

‘Then if it is nothing exactly, perhaps you could abandon my silver and give your attention to me for a moment. I think I am more important.’ Nor could he prevent the edge in his voice.

It raised the faintest of smiles from his bride as she recognised the arrogant response, which ruffled him still further. So he leaned forward, took the candlestick from her fingers, placed it on the table with less care than might be expected for the highly polished rosewood surface and kept a grip of her hands when she automatically stepped back.

‘Don’t step away.’

‘I didn’t… I wasn’t…’ She was watching him, he realised, as a mouse would watch the approach of a large and hungry cat, wondering if she was about to become a tasty meal or could make a bolt for safety. The humour of it struck home at last and his face relaxed into a smile. The strange ill temper drained away to leave a sensation of lightness and relief.

‘I have missed you. Sarah.’ He kept his voice steady, willing her to respond.

‘I have been busy.’

‘So I see. You no longer look like the housekeeper I left behind.’

Her face was instantly flushed with deepest rose. ‘I have only—that is, I bought some clothes.’

‘Again, as I see. Definitely not my severe housekeeper!’

‘I did not think that you would mind if I spent some money—’

‘As I do not. Did I not tell you to be extravagant?’ There was still no warmth here, no acceptance of their new relationship. He would try again. Perhaps he should not have left her alone at this critical time before their marriage.

‘The colour is most becoming. And your hair—very elegant.’ He lifted a hand to stroke one finger round an errant curl. Her light perfume touched his senses. ‘All in all, my dear Sarah, I believe you are quite the thing.’

Sarah merely shook her head, misery clouding her eyes.

‘What is it, Sarah? Whatever it is cannot be so bad that you flinch from telling me. I am not an ogre.’

‘I know. I would never suggest… ‘ Well, she would say it. ‘I cannot think why you would wish to marry me.’ Sarah found herself speaking her fears against every intention.

‘Why should I not?’

‘I am not beautiful or elegant or sophisticated—or any of the things you would look for in your wife.’

‘Why do you say that? I find you to be everything I wish for. At this moment you look perfectly lovely. Why should you deny yourself?’

‘How can I believe you?’ The memory of the gloves returned in bright focus. ‘I know that I cannot possibly measure up to the glamour of the Countess of Wexford.’

‘I do not wish to marry the Countess of Wexford.’ Here was dangerous ground.

‘No. But I still do not understand why you should wish to marry me.’ All Sarah’s self-doubts and insecurities rolled back to swamp her.

‘Then I will show you.’ He drew her closer, releasing her hands to run his hands the length of her arms, smooth and slow, to her shoulders. ‘Look up.’ What he saw in her face, trepidation, nerves, a little fear, persuaded him of the need to be considerate with her, but he would kiss her. So he did. The first intimate demand he had ever made on her. A kiss that began as a simple touch of mouth against mouth. Until his response to her astounded him. Taken aback by the utter sweetness of her, hunger lunged as a wild beast and gripped him. And heat struck him as a fist to the gut when her mouth opened under the demand of his. Her light perfume filled his head and his loins, seductively sweet. Instinctively he tightened his hold and deepened the kiss, changing the angle of his head to take her lips as he wished. His body would not allow him to refuse the gift she offered so innocently as she moved closer within his arms and let him mould her soft curves to his firmly muscled frame.

Joshua lifted his head and took a breath. Well. He had not expected so basic a response to her. Sarah might claim to have no skills to attract, but her effect on him was undoubtable. Eyes wide, her lips parted, she looked up at him, as much shocked as he. He had, of course, to kiss her again. Thoroughly, needily, absorbing the warmth and softness of her body against his.

Sarah could not recognise, could not accept, the sheer glory of it. Every nerve in her body jumped in immediate answer to his demand, the thrill of his mouth on hers. Every inch of her skin so sensitive from that one kiss, so that when he claimed her mouth again she had no qualms about surrender. Her lips parted to accept the imperious invasion of his tongue, her arms crept around his neck, her fingers locking against and through his soft, dense hair. Had she not desired exactly this? When he pressed her closer yet so that she might be aware of his need, she did not resist but exulted in it. She could feel the hunger in him and allowed it to dissipate her own insecurity.

Did he truly want her in that way?

Joshua released her, held her a distance away from him, knowing his own vulnerability. His dining room was no place to satisfy so raw a hunger with his housekeeper, no matter how great the temptation. He took a step back, but not before he smoothed his thumb along her lips—so tempting to take them again—in a tender caress.

‘As I said, I had missed you, dear Sarah.’ He bit down on the urgency that swam in his blood. ‘I just did not realise how much.’

The marriage of Lord Joshua Faringdon and Mrs Sarah Russell, celebrated by special licence in St George’s Church, Hanover Square, followed by a breakfast at the home of the happy couple, was an occasion for a positive fusillade of good wishes and advice and warnings from all sides. It was, the groom decided, since most of the barbed comments were fired in his direction, a most exhausting occasion. The bride was composed and charmingly pretty in pale silk. The groom austerely dramatic in a deep blue superfine coat, highly polished Hessians, his cravat superbly tied by the hand of a master. The bride was suitably fragile and slender, the groom stood straight and tall at her side. He would not limp to his own marriage.

‘Be happy,’ Theodora whispered to her sister with a congratulatory kiss. ‘The Faringdon men are magnificent.’

‘I know it,’ Sarah replied with a quick hug, unable to believe that this splendid man, head bent in serious and probably unwelcome conversation with Lady Beatrice, was now her husband.

* * *

Since Nicholas had already expressed his concerns to Joshua, he said no more than, ‘I wish you well. We have a habit of marrying Baxendale women, do we not? You have a lovely bride, Sher.’

‘So I have.’ Joshua turned to watch her, the obvious pride in his face causing Nicholas to smile.

Theodora found much more to say to Lord Joshua. She pinned him with her direct regard, but was not unfriendly. Joshua seized the opportunity.

‘Theodora. Rumours, may I say, were not false.’

‘Rumours?’ She eyed him suspiciously.

‘That Nick has found himself a prize. A jewel of great price.’

‘Are you trying to charm me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Ha!’ But, allowing herself to be charmed by this extremely handsome man—only second to her own darling Nicholas—she touched a hand to his wrist as her lips curved and her eyes twinkled. ‘Be kind to Sarah.’

‘Well—it was my intention to beat her soundly every night until she obeyed my every whim!’

‘That is not what I meant, as you very well know!’ She had the grace to laugh and ask forgiveness. ‘Can I tell you? Perhaps I should not, but Sarah… Well, she carries a—’

Joshua put out a hand to stop her. ‘You are a good friend, Thea, but there is no need. Judith has told me of Sarah’s life and the… the difficulties she encountered.’ Thea could not but admire his sensitive discretion. ‘I know the truth of it. I hope that I can win my lady’s trust.’

Thea decided to take a risk. ‘And her love?’

He thought for a moment, eyeing his cousin’s beautiful wife. And with a steady gaze, chose not to dissemble. ‘It would be my wish.’ If his answer surprised him, he hid it well.

The reply was certainly one that robbed Thea of any light-hearted repartee. Before she could think of a suitable answer, Nicholas stepped up to take her arm. ‘Thea. Don’t harass the poor man. Come and talk to Aunt Beatrice, who is most concerned about your state of health! As ever. Try to be tactful.’

Which gave Judith the opportunity to descend on her brother.

‘I am delighted,’ she announced with a kiss to his cheek. ‘But don’t break her heart. I will never forgive you if you do. She is my dear friend. And there is John to consider.’ ‘I shall, my dear Judith, do all that is necessary.’ By which time Lord Joshua Faringdon was feeling besieged and in need of a fortifying brandy.

Lady Beatrice, still unbending but at least present for the occasion in deep purple satin, had nothing but smiles and good wishes for Sarah.

‘I presume that you know what you are about, my dear. It pleases me to have you as one of the family, now that all the past unpleasantness is over.’

Which surprised the bride, who had always regarded the imposing Dowager with not a little trepidation.

To Joshua she was less complimentary but, as he admitted to himself, at least in communication again. Perhaps he had discovered a way to redeem himself in her eyes.

‘Congratulations, Joshua.’ She raised the lorgnette, bringing back to his lordship uncomfortable memories of the misdemeanours of his childhood. But the Dowager was inclined to be generous. ‘The best decision you have made for years. A far more suitable bride than that French person whom we rarely met. Not that I would have wished Marianne’s death, of course, but Sarah is English. A perfect outcome, I must tell you, for that poor neglected motherless child of yours.’

And that, Joshua decided with a non-committal reply, was the best that he could expect.

* * *

The motherless child, anything but neglected, eyes sparkling with excitement over her new dress with its pink ribbons, was present with John’s hand clasped in hers to ensure his good behaviour. John was completely overawed by the whole proceedings and the sudden inexplicable smartness of his mama.

Olivia Wexford was not invited.

One shadowy figure, unknown to any of those present in the church, watched and noted and wrote a concise but highly specific report of the marriage of Lord Joshua Faringdon to Mrs Sarah Russell, late of Whitchurch and New York, and had it hand-delivered to an unobtrusive address in the City.

At last Joshua managed a private conversation with his bride.

‘Well, my lady? Are you satisfied?’

‘Oh, yes.’ For once the new Lady Faringdon answered without hesitation, straight from the heart, without thought or pretence. ‘I think it must be the happiest day of my life.’

Joshua was entranced.

‘Then it is my wish to give you many more such days. Why do you suppose that my family presume that I will bring you nothing but pain and heartbreak?’

Sarah tried to hide her amusement, having seen Lady Beatrice’s censorious expression when in conversation with her son, but failed. ‘I cannot understand where they got that idea!’

He laughed. ‘You are very loyal. I think we shall deal well together.’

‘As do I.’

‘And if I do not, you can wave the contract under my nose at the breakfast table.’

‘As I will, my lord, without doubt.’

‘Joshua.’

Sarah laughed in response, unable to repress the bubbles that positively glittered through her veins as if she had drunk more than a single glass of champagne at her wedding breakfast. ‘Yes, Joshua.’

‘Why did I not realise that my housekeeper was so beautiful?’

‘It is the dress.’ Suddenly sober again, as if she would deny the evidence of his own eyes. ‘It is all Thea’s and Judith’s doing.’

‘No. It is definitely you.’ Because today you are happy. It made his heart turn over. ‘Thea is a remarkable woman. But so, I believe, are you.’

Sarah flushed under his gaze, a comforting warmth stealing around her heart. She had never been called remarkable in her life.

Joshua bent his head to kiss her hand and then her cheek, where the skin was satin-smooth, and then her lips. They were warm and soft and trembled a little under the easy pressure of his own. But she did not pull away. And when he lifted his head she smiled up into his face with unclouded joy.

It stopped his breath. If the occasion had not been so public, he would have claimed her lips again, in a sudden heat of desire that no longer took him completely by surprise. It was so easy to be seduced by her sweetness.

Whilst for Sarah, his kiss painted a gloss of crystal-bright happiness over her whole world. She loved him. And perhaps he did not find her totally unattractive.

And those who saw them together wished them well and noticed his care of her.

The deed was done. She had married him. Sarah sat at her dressing table. Her maid—she had a maid now and a sumptuous bedchamber—had left her after folding away her wedding finery. Now she sat in a dream of cream silk and lace, more delicate than any garment she had ever owned.

She sat quietly, her hands clasped loosely on her lap, and thought back to her first wedding night. A long time ago now. And tried to call to mind the first time that she had stepped into the arms of her husband John as his wife. How sad, she thought, a little melancholy that she could remember so little. It was difficult to bring his precise features to mind now beyond a fair complexion and eyes of a deeper blue than her own, although there were echoes of his face in their son, in the angle of his jaw, the line of his nose, the flat planes becoming clearer as he lost the chubby contours of babyhood.

As for intimate relations, they were even more hazy and indistinct. There had been so few. A short time together after the wedding—of necessity, dependent on shore leave and the prosecution of the war. Then war and John’s untimely death had robbed her of his comforting presence. She remembered more than anything that he had been kind to her. Understanding and careful of her shyness and innocence. He had never hurt her. But, if honest, she could recall little pleasure of a physical nature except for the warmth of curling into his arms. The safety and comfort. Had that been love? Sarah supposed it had.

Then her fingers entwined in her lap with a fierce grip. If it was love, it was nothing in comparison with her feelings for this man whose name she now bore and whose ring encircled her finger as a mark of his possession. A ripple of heat shot down her spine to centre in her loins and her mouth was suddenly dry. She had no previous experience of this emotion. Or the sensations that overwhelmed her when his mouth claimed hers.

Sarah looked at her reflection in the glass and began to take the pins from her hair. The soft waves and curls, released in a cloud of perfume, drifted to her shoulders. She suddenly looked so much younger, so unsophisticated without her fashionable garments. What would her lord expect from her? If he hoped for the experience and knowledge of the Countess of Wexford, he would be severely disappointed. She had little experience and no knowledge of how to bring pleasure to a man. Nerves shivered in her belly. What if he did not like her? What if he did not desire her physically? A flush stained her cheeks and she turned her eyes from her reflection. There was nothing in her contract—or his—to cover that embarrassing eventuality.

What did she have to offer to an experienced man of the world compared with Olivia? Her eyes flew once again to her image before her, eyes wide, lips a little tremulous. Or an opera dancer. She had neither the face nor the figure to entice a man. Insipid was the word that came to mind. And perhaps the cream lace did nothing for her colouring. How lowering it was. Her confidence, built up through the day through the power of good wishes and kind words, drained away along with her finery. What had she done?

Joshua opened the door quietly from his dressing room to see her sitting there.

As a doe facing the hunters, was his first thought. Apprehension was winding her nerves into tight coils, although he could see that she tried to hide it. The gentle blue of her eyes, the pale fragility of her skin, both were enhanced by the flattering candlelight, giving her a glow comparable with his pearls, which banded her finger. Not the hard glitter of a diamond or an emerald, to be sure, but definitely the deep glimmer of a pearl or an opal. She had unpinned her hair, was his second thought. He had never seen her with her hair down. It curled around her face in little drifts of pale gold, lay on her breast in a shimmer of softness. It increased her vulnerability, as if she had handed over control of her life with her ordered and restrained ringlets. The thought moved him, but cast him into a quandary of indecision. How much did she remember of her previous wedding night, her previous marriage? What had been her experience there, and what would she expect from him? He could, of course, simply consummate the legality of their marriage, take her physically as his wife and get it over with. A bleak prospect indeed. Perhaps that is all she required from him. But, as he watched her, he thought not, felt that she deserved more consideration at his hands. There should be pleasure in this relationship for her. And for himself.

‘Sarah.’

Her nerves jumped a little. She dropped her comb onto the floor. It almost made him smile, except that she pushed herself to her feet and took a nervous step back. It determined his next move.

‘Talk to me.’ He held out his hand.

‘Talk?’ She was horrified to hear the uncontrolled squeak in her voice. Any remaining confidence evaporated entirely as she became aware of the man standing before her. The man to whom she now belonged. Impossibly handsome, clad in a rich satin dressing gown. She swallowed as her heart tripped and she found herself frozen to the spot.

‘Yes, Sarah. Talk.’ He smiled. ‘Did you expect me to pull you to the floor and ravish you?’

‘I do not know.’ Still she could not move.

‘I will not do that. I promise you.’ She continued to ignore his outstretched hand.

‘No. It is a marriage of convenience, after all.’

‘You think I do not find you attractive.’

‘I do not know that either. But there is no reason that you should. I have looked in my mirror and I am not blind.’

This would go nowhere. Nothing he could say would persuade her otherwise. So he must show her. But first he must overcome her reserve.

‘Come and sit.’ He reached to take hold of her wrist and led her to a chair beside the fireplace where the fire still burned with comforting warmth and pushed her to sit. He took a chair opposite. Far enough away not to intimidate, near enough to get her used to the idea of intimacy. ‘Tell me about your first marriage. Your husband. Your life before I knew you.’ A safe topic, he thought, that would allow her to select and discard at her own discretion, and speak without self-consciousness.

So Sarah found herself doing exactly as he intended, her nerves gradually dissipating, her voice becoming soft and relaxed. Her hands rested easily against the cream lace of her lap. She was able to smile and meet his eyes as her memories unfolded.

And he listened. To a picture of youth, inexperience, an escape from a troubled home, a brief but affectionate relationship with a man who was kind and loving. Joshua felt the sharp spur of jealousy as she spoke wistfully of Captain Russell, but this drained away when she told of her sad loss and then loneliness with a child and no security. She told him of her journey to New York, her life with Eleanor and Henry, her return and her first meeting with Theodora and the deep friendship that had grown between her and Judith. But all in a broad sweep. She filled in little detail, made light of much that must have caused her concern and unhappiness, and, most telling of all, made no mention of her brother Edward. As if she had cut him out of her life, out of her very existence, which was by all accounts true. But also out of her mind, which Joshua knew was not so.

He experienced a surge of pity for the young woman who sat before him, but he would never tell her that. His instinct to protect her and give her all the contentment she had lacked in her life grew stronger than ever.

‘Were you happy here as my housekeeper?’ he eventually asked with a smile as her ramblings came to a halt.

‘Why, yes.’ She found herself amused by his question and allowed it to show. ‘Except for my employer, a difficult gentleman, who sometimes was arbitrary in his decisions.’

He laughed. ‘Only sometimes?’ Delicate colour had returned to her cheeks, animation to her face. It pleased him that she could smile without reserve. And made the decision at last.

‘Come to bed, my wife. You have talked enough for one night.’ He rose to his feet.

Sarah mirrored his actions. ‘You have told me nothing of yourself. Whilst I have so little to tell, but have burdened you with all my past history. I feel like Scheherazade and her stories to fill a thousand and one nights.’

‘Fortunately you do not have to tell a new tale every night and your life is not at stake, dependent on my enjoyment. Besides, the beautiful Scheherazade enchanted her royal master, did she not?’ He touched her cheek with light fingers, savouring the silken texture of her skin. ‘I shall enjoy you, my own Scheherazade. And I swear that I will do all in my life to make you happy.’ Easy words to say, he realised, easy vows to make, but it was suddenly important that he keep that promise.

He led her to the bed. Blew out the candles, knowing instinctively that she would want the reassurance of the dark. Ever practical, Sarah drew back the fragrant linen and removed her own lace négligé. A prosaic little action, he thought, a calm acceptance of the situation as she turned to face him. Without a word he stooped to lift her, to place her against the soft pillows. Cushioned by the near dark, illuminated only be the warm glow from the dying fire, he could sense nothing but a composed acquiescence. She had married him and so would come to his bed. No fear, no denial, but neither was there any anticipation. She would give her body to him because it was a legal necessity and therefore he would require it.

It became for him a matter of some urgency to change that.

He slid out of his heavy robe and joined her, to do nothing more than put an arm around her and pull her close until her head rested against his shoulder, her body against his side. She did so, willingly enough, turning into him, allowing her hand to rest against the hard expanse of his chest. Of course she was not innocent of intimate relationships between man and woman. Not ignorant of the physical act or the pleasure to be experienced in a marriage bed. Yet Joshua Faringdon was aware of a distinct unease. His lips curled in a gentle self-mockery in the anonymity of the darkness because, for once in his life, he was uncertain how to proceed with this reserved but compliant woman whom he had made his wife. He let the problem drift and unravel in his mind as Sarah softened against him, her hair curling against his skin, the lingering perfume filling his senses.

They did not know each other well. That was the problem. They had not come together out of love or even lust, but from the binding of a legal document. But why should he feel this sense of disquiet? It was her fragility of spirit, he decided, her willingness to take herself to task when she believed her actions to be wanting, her inability to believe that he should need to possess her, to desire her for herself. So he must persuade her of her desirability, that she was capable of giving him pleasure, just as she was deserving of accepting it from him. So he would give her gentleness. Kindness. A soft awakening to what he could bring her.

So this was the task he set himself when he turned to her at last, angled his body so that he might look down at her. His kisses were whisper soft, his touch light and undemanding as he began his progress over the contours of her face with his lips. The delicate line of forehead and jaw, the softness of temple and the little hollow beneath her ear. The flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. And he explored her lips. There had been few kisses between them in their brief association. Now he had the time to claim and explore, his tongue brushing along the edge of her lips, increasing the pressure of his mouth just a little so that hers would part to allow him to seek and enjoy. She sighed, complied, her breath fragrant against his face.

‘Tell me if I do anything that you do not like, that you do not wish for,’ he murmured against the delectable curve of her throat where the pulse had begun to beat more strongly. He did not think he had ever said that to any woman, presuming that he could seduce through skill and finesse. But Sarah was different. ‘You have to accept nothing at my hands that does not bring you pleasure.’

‘I like your kisses,’ she whispered against his chest. ‘They make me feel warm. As if I had drunk two glasses of champagne.’

‘Good.’ A soft laugh against her hair at her artless admission.

So with this tacit permission, his deft fingers unfastened the ribbons to push the cream confection from her shoulders, absorbing as he did so, his hands brushing over her skin, the fact that she was warm beneath his touch and not as unrelaxed as he had feared. So far so good. Then with hands and lips he set himself to discover more fully this woman whom he had so wilfully taken as his wife, to lure her unquiet mind into tranquil pathways, allowing her to enjoy all that he could bring to her. Delighted by the feminine curves beneath his fingers, he was enticed to touch and caress, following the delicate swell and hollow of breast and waist and thigh, from soft skin to softer yet. Until she shivered against him, and turned in his arms to offer what he might wish to take.

Of course she knew what would be required of her. He wanted her, was hard and ready for her. What man would not respond so strongly with so deliciously feminine a partner? He pulled her close, holding her firmly so that she might know the strength of his hunger.

He lifted himself above her, yet careful to take his weight on his forearms to hold back from crushing her. Her response was immediate as her thighs parted quite naturally to hold him, to allow him access. It was no difficulty at all for him to enter her, slowly, pushing gently as she opened for him. Keeping a firm hold on the instinctive desire to drive on and possess her, to fill her completely, even though there was no pain of virginity to overcome. Although Sarah stiffened at first, the smallest resistance to his invasion in so intimate a fashion, she sighed and arched a little against him, lifting her hips in the timeless feminine response. A gesture of acceptance and invitation that he was quick to recognise, and she lifted her arms to close around him, to hold him fast. A supremely innocent gesture that effectively destroyed all his self-control. So he thrust deep. Again and again, conscious of the slick heat of her, her body more than willing to receive him, even if her mind remained aloof and watchful. When his urge to complete the matter could not be withstood, she moved with him, arching her hips against him, all soft compliance and acceptance. Until he climaxed, chest heaving, muscles taut with strain.

A perfectly satisfactory completion of their new relationship.

And yet… And yet what? As he held himself still, deep within the impossibly soft heat of her, he knew that Sarah had not come to her own fulfilment. Suspected that she had never been close, hedged round by reserve and restraint, afraid to abandon her self-control, which, in her eyes, would make her vulnerable to him. So he felt a wave of disappointment coat his own satisfaction. She had not been unwilling—indeed, she had been wonderfully soft and pliant—but neither had she shown any true enjoyment, giving him no intimation of whether she had experienced any pleasure in their intimacy or not. She had not told him that she didn’t, but neither had he gained any sense of her complete involvement in the act. He had taken her body, but she had been a passive onlooker, willing but uncommitted, with no indication of her own thoughts or feelings But then, as he turned his face against her throat to breathe in her perfume, he was left to wonder if Sarah ever would.

Withdrawing from her, he moved to lie beside her and pulled her close beside him again.

‘Well?’ he murmured the word against her hair when she still made no sign, no comment. What the hell should he say to a woman who was so quiescent?

Sarah promptly stiffened in his arms, as if to be asked her opinion of so momentous an event would frighten her to death.

Joshua sighed. Could his pride and his masculinity take it, he thought, on a touch of humour? ‘Was it too bad?’ he asked, the humour clear in his voice, hoping to lull her into a warm response.

Sarah did not notice, but answered the question rather than the intent. ‘Not at all.’ Her voice was tight and strained. As if he had asked her opinion of a visit to the theatre to watch a particularly bad play and she did not wish to hurt his feelings. ‘I enjoyed it. You were very kind. I hope you found me satisfactory.’ It was so bleak a statement it touched his heart. He could think of nothing to say that would make any sense. It had been a long day and it was clear that the lady was not receptive of reasoned thought, only strained emotions. With time, he hoped, it would improve between them. So he resorted to kissing her again, a long and lingering kiss, full of tenderness that would make no further demands on her. Had she not admitted that she enjoyed his kisses?

‘You gave me great pleasure, lady. Can you sleep now?’

‘Yes.’

He positioned her head more comfortably in the curve of his shoulder and kept his arms firmly around her. Why did he get the strongest feeling that she would escape if given the chance?

‘Joshua?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Will you stay with me?’ There was the faintest suggestion of surprise here as if she expected him to retire to his own room. Perhaps she did. Indeed, if she were honest, perhaps she wished it. Again he was conscious of a ripple of disillusion, but if she would not be completely honest, he would.

‘It is my intention. But only if you wish me to do so. If you wish for time alone, I will give you that seclusion.’

There was a silence. She was thinking about it and he had no idea what she would say.

‘Sarah?’

‘I would like you to stay with me.’

‘Then it will be my pleasure.’ The relief in his heart seemed to him totally out of keeping with her simply stated desire. He tucked the covers around her, around both of them. ‘Go to sleep, my dear girl. There is nothing to worry you now.’

But Sarah did not sleep. Without doubt she was weary, but her mind could not rest. It played over and over the events of the past hour. Causing her to flinch at her naïveté and lack of confidence. At her lack of suitable words to say to him, when he had been so tender, so considerate of her. What could she possibly say to him? That he had awakened emotions and sensations of which she had never been aware, wonderful sensations that drove a flush to her cheeks? She could not tell him that, could not admit to such lack of knowledge. So why had she not been able to give as freely as he had given her? She did not know the answer to that. And yet Joshua had made her feel cherished, wanted, desired. How skilled he had been. Just the thought of the power of his clever hands roused shivers along her flesh. All she could do was hope that he had been satisfied with her poor efforts. The dread spectre of the Countess of Wexford returned once more to the edge of her mind, to stand beside the bed with a disdainful lift to her perfect brows. She could never be like the Countess—confident, experienced, knowing—no matter how long she lived, no matter how tolerant her lord could continue to be. Sarah sighed against his chest. He had been honourable enough to pretend that she had been everything he had wanted. She must try harder to achieve that so that he would not turn from her in dissatisfaction.

Because if she had known before that she had loved him, it was now engraved in her heart, for all time, in letters of pure gold.

Lord Joshua held her, aware of her wakefulness, guessing at the swirling pattern of thoughts that refused to permit her mind to sink into sleep. But he said nothing, allowing her the pretence, conscious only of her softness against him. It seemed that for tonight he must be satisfied with her willingness to rest in his arms and was relieved when at last exhaustion claimed her and her breathing settled. She slid into sleep with a little sigh. It would not be an easy marriage, he realised. She was too tense, too nervous, too much embattled by fears and past influences. But they had made a start and it would improve. He smiled at the direction of his thoughts. He would like nothing better than that she could find it in her to come to him with joy and pleasure, with confidence, to find fulfilment in his arms.

The thought remained with him, one of hope, as he, too, drifted into unconsciousness.

## Chapter Eight

Rather than a more conventional honeymoon, perhaps in the Italian Lakes or on the romantic shores of the Adriatic, Lord and Lady Joshua Faringdon took themselves, the children and their household to the attractive estate on the edge of Richmond. After the flurry of activity to prepare for the wedding, by the bride at least, the rural tranquillity was a blessing, and an opportunity for the new family to become better acquainted. And not merely the bride and groom. Sarah would have been particularly interested in a private conversation between Lord Joshua Faringdon and Master John Russell when she was not present. She might have blushed at her son’s blunt style, but she would not have been surprised and would certainly not have been displeased at the outcome.

‘Sir.’ Joshua looked up to see the boy standing just inside the open library door one morning, the opportunity still there for flight if his courage failed him. ‘Sir… Will you now be my father?’

Ah. He should have expected this—but perhaps not quite so soon. John, it seemed, was as expedient as his mother. Joshua held out his hand to encourage the child to approach. ‘No. Your father is Captain John Russell, for whom you are named.’ And waited.

‘Yes.’ John nodded. ‘He was a hero and died in a battle. Mama told me. He sailed a ship all by himself.’

‘He did.’

‘He was very brave, but he died.’ A thoughtful pause as John leaned against the polished desk, rubbing the edge with none-too-clean fingers. ‘Does Mama like you?’

‘I hope so.’ Joshua fought against the irresistible ripple of laughter that threatened his composure. ‘She likes me enough to live with me.’

Which was accepted with a nonchalant shrug. ‘Will we always live here, sir?’

‘Some of the time.’ A catechism, no less! Much like Lady Beatrice, he decided, so he was well practised in fielding questions. But where was this leading?

‘Where else? Shall I like it?’

‘In London, which you know. I have an estate in Yorkshire that I think you will like. And perhaps one day you will come with me to Paris.’

‘Can I ride a horse in Yorkshire?’ Paris as yet had no such attraction. ‘I used to in New York. I was very good!’

Considering his age, Joshua doubted it, but recognised the ambition and had no intention of shattering dreams. He kept his face solemn despite the gleam in his eyes. ‘Of course. And here too. We can ride in the Park.’

‘I like horses more than ships,’ the boy confided. ‘I was sick when we sailed here. Will Beth be my sister?’

The change of subject did not throw his lordship. ‘Yes. Does that worry you?’

‘No.’ John glanced at his lordship under fair brows, assessing. ‘She likes her own way.’

‘I expect she does. Women often do. They enjoy managing.’ Joshua leaned his arms on the desk, angled his head, still waiting.

John frowned, accepting but not quite understanding. ‘I can almost run as fast as she can.’ Then: ‘What do I call you?’

So this was it. There was a lot of Sarah in this splendid child.

Not just his colouring, but his squared shoulders and determined stance. And his courage. The unknown Captain Russell should be very proud of his son, as should his mama. Perhaps one day… But there was a serious matter to be settled here.

‘Can I suggest…’ Joshua’s reply was gentle, full of understanding of the child’s insecurities. ‘Captain Russell is your father and for now you will keep his name. But you could call me Papa, as Beth does. That might be easier. Do you think?’

John thought. ‘Yes, sir. Papa. I can do that.’ His face was lit by a sudden disarming grin. ‘I’m glad I asked. I must go now. Mama says I still have to have lessons.’

He ran to the door in some relief.

‘John…’

‘Yes…Papa?’

‘Ah… it does not matter.’ He did not know what he wished to say after all. ‘This afternoon we will ride in the park.’

‘Yes!’And left.

Which was a pretty good outcome for a morning’s work.

When Sarah heard her son address Joshua as Papa for the first time that very afternoon, her head whipped round, a range of expressions on her face. If her life had depended on it, she could not have explained her emotions in that one moment. Her lord saw and understood.

‘It was his choice,’ Joshua explained when the children were out of earshot. ‘He knows that John Russell is his father. But it is simpler for him this way. We came to a…an understanding. At present he likes horses better than ships, so I am an attractive prospect as the owner of an extensive stable.’ A smile—a little wry—touched his face. ‘Unless you object, of course.’

‘No. No—how could I?’ A flame of heat warmed her heart for this man who could take her and her son with such ease. Perhaps one day they would have children of their own. It was by no means an unpleasant prospect. Sarah turned back to watch her son, who was longingly and impatiently clinging to the head of a lively pony, hoping to hide the sudden heat in her cheeks.

Beth quickly came to her own understanding with Sarah. A pragmatic child as ever, she decided that she would address Sarah as Mama and did so in her solemn fashion from the very beginning.

The relaxed days in Richmond also gave Lord and Lady Faringdon time and space in which to discover each other. Sarah learnt that although her husband might appear stern, sometimes austere and given to moments of deep distraction, he was blessed with an appreciation of the ridiculous and a quick infectious grin. He was a man who liked matters arranged to his own way of thinking, but could be sensitive and thoughtful of her needs too. It was a shock to have her desires preempted, her wishes attended to, sometimes before she had even voiced them. How could she not love a man so stunningly attractive, so graciously disposed towards her? Sometimes he surprised her by his impulsive actions. He was very Faringdon, she decided as she observed Joshua ordering their removal from London to Richmond. There were traits of both Henry and Nicholas here, particularly his impatience when thwarted. But those two gentlemen had never made her heart race, brought a blush to her cheeks or a tingle to the surface of her skin at the very thought of the man’s touch. Even the slightest brush of his hand on her arm was enough to stir a heat in her belly. A response to him that she became very adept at masking.

When he came to her at night, Lord Joshua continued to be careful of her. Gentle at all times. He made no demands on her with which she might be uncomfortable. A man of honour in all things, she thought, no matter the scandals that surrounded his name. Perversely, she felt just a touch of disappointment. What would it be like if her lord felt real passion for her— to love her, to possess her with such intensity, such lack of control as to rob her of her will and her choice? She thought she might like it. Then blushed an even deeper hue. And had to accept that she lacked the confidence or knowledge to do anything about it.

But of course she did not expect her lord to be carried away, his control destroyed, in the heat of an overwhelming passion, did she?

Joshua at first found his wife shy. But then, perhaps not shy. It was just that she was not at ease with him yet. He had learnt very quickly that she needed encouragement to relax and be herself. She thought too much about what people might think of her, if they would approve of her, if they would be critical of her actions and opinions. She had a gentle humour, a tendency to chuckle before she became aware and stopped herself. But her quiet blue eyes would still dance. Patient, generous with her time, she lavished love openly on the children, Beth as well as John, determined that they should never lack for affection. Joshua watched her with a sharp prick of guilt for it seemed that Sarah knew his daughter better than he did. For herself, she needed to know that she was wanted, appreciated. When he came to her bed, a freedom within their relationship that he could not resist, she responded to his needs readily enough. But here, too, there was a reserve that made him hold back, prevented him from making too many demands on her. It pleased him that she slept easily in his arms.

Whatever the difficulties, they found a rapport in the days together. And a startling moment of illumination for both of them.

It became customary on mild days to ride in the expanse of Richmond Park, Lord Joshua with the two children. Sarah did not accompany them, but one afternoon, on her son’s insistence, went to the stables to admire his prowess. Joshua handed his horse to a groom and walked toward her, a welcoming smile.

‘Will you join us?’

‘No.’ Sarah shook her head, but he caught a glimpse of what he interpreted as regret.

On a thought he asked, ‘Can you ride?’ He had never considered that she could not, merely that it was not to her taste. Theodora rode, so he had presumed that her sister did also.

‘No. Our horses were sold.’

Of course. He had not thought of that. A childhood blighted by lack of resources, a profligate father and a feckless mother. Horseflesh would be the first luxury to be sold. He saw the faint colour in her face at the admission, but did not embarrass her with further comment.

‘Do you wish to? I can teach you.’

Sarah hesitated, finding herself struggling between a sharp desire to achieve that skill for herself, yet not wishing to put the burden of her inexperience on to anyone. Certainly not on to Joshua, who probably had his hands full with her son’s enthusiastic efforts. She must not be demanding of his time more than she already was. So: ‘No, but thank you for your kind offer. You go on. You will enjoy the air. I shall take a turn in the garden.’

He would have allowed her to turn away, to deny her interest, but her voice held so wistful a note. He realised in that moment that Sarah had lived her whole life at the whim of others, doing what would please them, never putting her own wishes forward. So much unlike his own life, where the desires of the Faringdon heir were paramount. Well, he would change all that. Today, she would be given the desires of her heart.

‘Sarah.’ He stretched out his hand to grasp hers, to stop her making a retreat. ‘Would you truly wish to ride?’

‘Not an animal such as that.’ She laughed, retreating into light humour, effectively hiding any personal inclination with consummate skill. She had been doing it for years, Lord Joshua decided. And he had only just come to realise it. He watched her as with a shake of her head she indicated her lord’s dark bay stallion, which was in process of pawing up the turf.

‘Sarah… ‘ He allowed just a hint of impatience to creep in.

She heard it. ‘I might.’ To agree was to escape.

‘Go and find something to wear.’ Definitely a command.

‘But I—’

‘We will wait for you.’

In a mild panic, Sarah cast an eye over to where the children were growing impatient.

‘Go on, Scheherazade.’ Joshua clasped her shoulders, turned her round and gave her a gentle but definite push in the direction of the house.

Sarah stalked off. She never stalked—but on this occasion she felt like it, ordered about as if she were a servant. Scheherazade indeed! The thought brought a shocked giggle to her throat, unsure of which emotion took precedence. Terrible nerves at the coming ordeal, disapproval of being ordered to ride whether she wished to or not or…or delight that she might actually, at last, learn to ride a horse.

Within the half hour Lady Faringdon marched back again into the stableyard, clad in plain skirt and close-fitting jacket, accompanied by an obvious cloud of indignation and an invisible but strong bout of nerves.

‘I don’t at all know of the wisdom of this… ‘ The frown between her brows was directed at her lord. Until her attention was caught by a movement in the stable doorway. ‘Oh…’

‘Mama. This is Jewel.’ A groom beside him to hold her head, John held the end of the reins of a little mare, so pale grey as to be almost white. Soft and gentle, perfectly proportioned, a lady’s riding horse with side saddle. Exactly like a painted palfrey, all neat lines and elegantly curving neck, glowing in the winter sunshine as if from a gilded medieval illustration.

‘She’ll look after you.’ Joshua could only smile at his wife’s obvious enchantment with the little animal. If any mare in his stable could entice a reluctant lady to risk the dangers of a first ride, it was The Jewel. And, he knew as he watched her, his wife was just as enchanting as the mare. ‘This is one of Nick’s breeding from Aymestry. She is a gentle little animal, as comfortable a ride as a feather bed. You need have no concerns of her running off with you. She will go to sleep on her feet if you let her.’

‘Well!’ Sarah was speechless. She stroked the satin coat and almost purred as the mare turned dark, long-lashed eyes on her. ‘You are so very pretty.’ The mare promptly sighed and leaned her shoulder against her. Sarah fell instantly in love. Now she had two objects of unreserved love in her life other than her son, she realised. And both of them Faringdon.

‘Come then, my lady.’ Lord Joshua gave her no time to renege, lifted her into the saddle, helped her hook her knee in place with brisk efficiency, held her as she arranged her skirt in graceful folds. ‘The Jewel will do nothing that you do not ask of her.’ He enfolded her hands in his, gave them a light pressure. And made her a promise. ‘And I will not allow any harm to come to you.’ He swung up onto the back of the well-mannered bay and was rewarded by a smile that illuminated his wife’s face with such joy and beauty that it took his breath away.

So they rode in the Park. As a family, Sarah thought, a family of her own. As she had always longed to do. Nothing could have given her greater pleasure. She was nervous, but The Jewel was as precious as her name, as placid, as careful of her rider’s comfort, as had been promised. Sarah could not believe the level of happiness that threatened to overflow and reduce her to emotional tears. She swiped at the dampness on her lashes before anyone could see. The shame and terrors of the past receded into distant impenetrable mist whilst at the centre of her existence was Joshua Faringdon, her world, her universe, filling her heart with love.

The pleasure for Lord Joshua Faringdon was quite simply to see his wife’s delight. The colour, delicate rose, in her face. To hear her laugh when she succeeded in mastering the mare’s slow trot without loss of dignity. He felt the splendour of it as a blow to his gut, a heavy thud of admiration and also of arousal. The desire to draw her close and caress her, mouth to mouth, soft curves to hard planes, her sweet breath mingling with his.

He blinked against the image. And set himself to ignore it. Of course it pleased him to give his wife pleasure. What man could not be moved by the sight of so attractive a lady basking in a new-found confidence and praise from those around her. Any man would feel a need to touch and hold her. It was nothing more complicated than that.

All in all, it was a most satisfactory sojourn at Richmond for everyone. There was only one matter to catch Sarah’s notice and gave her cause for speculation. She found herself remembering Millington’s comments on the anonymous individuals who visited Joshua in London. And the deluge of correspondence to come through the door. The visitors and correspondence followed them to Richmond.

‘Who was that?’ Sarah asked one evening, crossing the path of an unknown gentleman who bowed and wished her good night as he made his way to the front door.

‘My lawyer.’ Joshua’s reply came without hesitation.

‘Is he connected with Mr Hoskins?’ Sarah was acquainted with Hoskins, the Faringdon family’s man of legal affairs.

‘Ah. Yes. A new member of the firm.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Why, no.’ Joshua smiled at his wife and held out his hand in welcome. ‘I have an interest in purchasing some land, which he is dealing with. That is all.’

With which Sarah had to be content. Of course he would have business interests. What gentleman of considerable fortune would not?

The Faringdon family returned and took up residence in Hanover Square.

One of Sarah’s first dilemmas was the continuing position of Millington in the household. She remembered his depredations in the wine cellar and her own distressing encounter with him of a more personal nature. With her lord’s permission to dismiss and choose the servants as she saw fit, it would be a matter of common sense to appoint a new butler. But now that she could, she did not at all know that she wished to do so. As she thought about it, the little smile that curved her lips grew, recalling with a degree of affection his part in the French banquet and the subsequent celebration in the servants’ hall. Millington had risen to her support, a positive champion, with aplomb, unquestionable arrogance and an impressive French accent, overseeing the serving of the meal with supercilious hauteur. Not to mention the appearance of the bottles of claret in which they had toasted the defeat of the Countess of Wexford. So Millington remained as butler in the Faringdon household, but with strict instructions as to the amount of port he might consume in any one week.

Within the first week of their return, Lady Joshua Faringdon found herself in receipt of an invitation to pay a morning visit on the Countess of Painscastle in Grosvenor Square. Presenting herself at the appropriate time, she was far from surprised to find Theodora already sitting comfortably with Judith, both awaiting the bride’s appearance. Both were sipping glasses of madeira, both looked up as she entered. Sarah immediately realised that she had been the topic under discussion and with quick understanding set herself to repel any questions of an intimate nature.

She need not have bothered. There was no hope of her holding out with dignity under the scrutiny of two determined ladies.

They rose to greet her, sat her down, presented her with a glass of madeira and proceeded to quiz her on her state of health, her enjoyment of the wedding, her appreciation of the house in Richmond and, of course, her new relationship with Lord Joshua Faringdon.

‘So how is the bride?’ Thea surveyed her critically over the rim of her glass.

‘Very well, Thea. As you see.’ She winced at the prim note in her voice, but determined to give nothing more away.

‘Are you enjoying being a married lady again?’

‘Yes, indeed. Most enjoyable.’

‘I expect your stay in Richmond gave you the opportunity to get to know Joshua better.’

‘Why, yes.’

‘Does Joshua please you?’ There was just a hint of impatience in Thea now. Perhaps the clue was the slight tapping of her foot against the Aubusson carpet.

‘Of course.’ Sarah gripped the stem of her glass rather more firmly and took a fortifying sip.

‘Sarah!’ Thea sighed. ‘Is he virile?’

‘Theodora!’ Judith cast her a look no more horrified than Sarah’s.

‘What?’ The lady’s brows rose in perfect astonishment. ‘We want to know, do we not? And if I do not ask Sarah outright, she will never tell us!’

‘He is my brother!’ Judith explained. ‘It does not seem to me suitable to be discussing such matters of Sher’s…of his… Well! You know what I mean!’

‘Well, I can discuss it. You are suddenly very mealy-mouthed, Ju.’ Thea turned back to her sister with a laugh and a sparkle in her delphinium-blue eyes. ‘Sarah. Did Joshua make you happy?’

The tell-tale colour began to creep up the bride’s throat from the fashionable ruched neckline of her morning gown. ‘Yes. He gave me The Jewel for my own.’

‘That is not what I meant, as you very well know.’

‘I know,’ Sarah admitted, but her smile was now mischievous.

Are you not going to say?’

‘No.’

‘You look very happy.’

‘I am.’

‘Does he give you pleasure? Is he a good lover?’

‘Oh, yes.’ By now Sarah’s cheeks were as pink as a June rose. ‘Oh, yes!’

They laughed. For indeed there could be no doubting it. Thea and Judith clucked in a maternal fashion, Judith pouring more glasses of madeira so that they might toast the bride. Because Sarah Faringdon positively glowed. And her friends were more delighted for her than they would ever have admitted.

It became necessary later within that week for the object of their intense discussion also to pay a morning visit on his sister, fortunately for his dignity knowing nothing of the previous conversation. The visit to Richmond had been more pleasurable than he could have imagined, for a surprising number of reasons, not least his attraction to Sarah herself, his increasing desire to make her happy. So when a thought came into his mind, one that he could not resolve, he decided to pay a visit on Judith.

‘Sher. At last. I am delighted to see you.’ Judith kissed his cheek. ‘How well you look. And completely healed, I see. No cane and no limp. Country life has been good for you.’

‘I am very well.’ He grinned at her obvious ploy, but shook his head before kissing her cheek.

‘I have seen Sarah. She said she enjoyed Richmond. She certainly looks in the pink of health.’ The lady’s sly smile was also ignored.

‘I need your advice, Ju. I wish to buy Sarah a wedding gift.’

Judith laughed. ‘So?’

‘I have no idea what. She can be very… Well, I was hoping for some help. You probably know her the best of any of us.’

‘Joshua!’ Judith blinked at this ingenuous admission, but was immediately caught up in the project, although not without a sharp dig. ‘And I thought you knew women so well.’

‘But not Sarah, it seems.’

‘There is always jewellery, of course.’

‘No. That is not what I want.’ Joshua frowned a little. He knew instinctively that his wife would have difficulty in accepting precious stones. ‘Besides, she will have the Faringdon jewels that Lady Beatrice has promised to hand over.’

‘Mmm. If Mama will part with them. Let me see… You pay for her clothes anyway… ‘

‘Of course.’

Judith thought for a moment, eyes narrowed, contemplating the young woman whom she had indeed come to know well. ‘I know exactly what Sarah would like. It is easily done, but will take some organisation. Let me talk to you about this.’

It took a week to put the plan into operation. It demanded some organisation, as Judith had intimated, some surreptitious furniture moving in Hanover Square, some expenditure on Joshua’s part, the compliance and secrecy of the Faringdon servants and, finally, a need for Judith and Thea to arrange to remove Sarah from her home for a whole day. Sarah suspected nothing underhand when the morning visit to Thea became a light luncheon, then a drive around Hyde Park and finally a visit to a number of establishments in Bond Street with her sister and Judith. She arrived home in the growing dusk of late afternoon, pleasantly weary, changed her clothes, spent some time with Beth and John, who appeared to be particularly excitable, and at last went to search out the whereabouts of Lord Joshua, whom she had not set eyes on since leaving the breakfast table. For some reason she found him awaiting her in the entrance hall.

She smiled as she descended the stairs. He could not but smile back as he waited and watched her. She had no idea how lovely she was, he realised, or how her looks and her demeanour had unfurled as a rose with the warmth of the morning sun since her marriage. He could not help but experience a degree of purely masculine pride at the thought. Her skin was flawless, her eyes shining, enhanced by the favourite viola-blue of her gown. Her neat figure could not but attract attention as she conducted herself with confidence and a charming simplicity. Her fair curls gleamed softly in the light, held in place by rosettes of satin ribbon to match her gown. She had banished the lace cap—he had insisted that she banish the cap! Now she appeared as she was, a young matron of wealth, style and the gentlest degree of sophistication. That was Sarah.

‘Sarah.’ He took her hand, would have kissed her fingers, but could not resist drawing her closer to press his mouth to hers, a lingering pressure, a memory of more heated kisses, despite the possibility of their privacy being broached. It did not matter. She was his wife and he… What exactly? He did not know, except that he was coming to care for her… although care suddenly seemed too mild a word to describe the manner in which his pulse picked up its beat when he set eyes on her. Or even thought about her. But he deliberately banished from his mind the uncertainty of his exact emotions. Because here in the following few minutes a greater uncertainty was in the process of unfolding. Would the lady appreciate what he had done?

‘Joshua.’ She coloured, a delicate brush of rose, but let him hold her a little longer. Why not? It was the stuff of dreams after all, to see him standing there, all Faringdon magnificence, waiting for her, waiting to take her into his arms, to claim her lips with his own. What woman would not dream of that? She sighed softly and looked up at him. ‘Were you waiting for me?’ Just a little breathless as she noted the fiery heat in his eyes.

‘I was. It was in my mind that I would like to give you something. A wedding gift.’

‘Is it a diamond necklace? A parting gift?’ Her nose wrinkled deliciously. But was it humour or concern here?

He did not smile. In fact, his expression became quite severe. ‘Are you dissatisfied with me as a husband after a mere few weeks, ma’am?’

‘No.’

‘Well, neither am I with you as my wife. So, no, it is not a diamond necklace. Although, if you find a desire to sparkle and impress at a ball or soirée, there is at least one in the Faringdon collection.’

‘I might.’ She chuckled as he tucked her hand companionably through his arm to lead her back up the stairs in the direction from which she had just come. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Wait and see.’

Sarah knew the house well. Had she not been responsible for its cleaning and furbishment? So when he led her to the rarely-used parlour on the first floor with its view over the square and its garden she looked up, a quizzical expression. Her lord refused to respond, but opened the door and ushered her in before him. Then stood back to test the waters.

Sarah walked forward to stand in the centre of the room. Then turned slowly in a full circle. Of course, she knew this room as well as any of the others. The wall paper was still the Chinese silk, a little worn but deliciously festooned with pale pink and blue cranes and chrysanthemums on a silver background. The tall windows let in what was left of the evening light, to warm the pale marble of the Grecian fireplace. All of this she knew. But as for the rest, it was all quite different and effectively robbed her of speech. The curtains and swags that had suffered from age and faded over the years from the heat of the sun had been replaced with splendid new drapes of cream and silver silk damask. All the dust sheets had been removed from the furniture—and that too had changed. Her eyes flew to her lord’s in astonishment.

‘Do you like it?’ He stepped forward to light a branch of candles at her side, the soft flames adding a further layer of charm to the little room.

Sarah’s mouth opened, but she could find nothing to say.

‘It is yours.’ Joshua found a need to explain. ‘Thea would call it a boudoir. It is a wedding gift to you. I…er…took advice…’ A moment of horror suddenly silenced him. ‘From Judith,’ he added quickly, in case she should think it might be Olivia Wexford.

Sarah laughed softly in appreciation, then turned again to survey the full magnificence of the gift. Small and decorative pieces of furniture suitable for a lady’s sitting room or boudoir had been collected from various rooms in the house, with the notable addition of some new pieces. Walnut, rosewood, all light and well polished, inlaid with various and decorative woods, they seduced her senses and beckoned her to enter and claim it as her own. Two bergère chairs with gilded sides and cushioned seats to match the drapes stood on either side of the fireplace to accommodate any guests Sarah might wish to entertain, between them a sofa with scrolled ends, upholstered in cream silk, perfect for a lady to take her ease. A side table rested beside the wall next to a beautiful writing desk with a tambour top, which had been shrouded in a dust sheet, unused, in the morning room when Sarah had first come to the house. On the walls were two of her own framed paintings of rural scenes, last seen in the schoolroom. A small bookcase stood beside the fireplace—she had never seen that before—with some favourite novels in marbled covers—which hinted at Thea’s influence. She saw an inlaid work table for her silks and embroideries, nothing like the old battered box she used in the schoolroom. All tastefully enhanced by a satinwood firescreen, a gilt-edged mirror above the fireplace, silver candlesticks, an extravagantly pale carpet and—oh, wonders!—a pianoforte beneath the window, of rosewood and satinwood inlay, its ivory notes gleaming softly and simply demanding to be played.

‘Well?’

Sarah walked to the pianoforte to stroke a few notes. They sounded soft and clear in the still room.

‘Sarah.’ Her silence was unnerving. ‘Will you put me out of my misery? I remember you once returned something so trivial as a coat that you thought I should not have given you. What will you do if this does not please you?’

‘Does not please me? How could it not?’ Now she turned to him. The smile on her face stopped his words. And the tears that coursed silently down her cheeks.

‘Sarah!’ His arms opened wide and she simply walked into them, to lay her forehead against his shoulder and weep. ‘Don’t weep, Scheherazade. We shall both be drowned. I will take it all back if that is your wish.’ But he knew there was no danger of that. He had seen the pure joy in her face. Everything was good. His heart clenched hard in a foolish beat of triumph as he pressed his lips against her hair.

‘No one has ever shown me such kindness. It is beyond anything I could imagine.’ She wiped away the tears with unsteady fingers. ‘I love it.’ She risked a glance at his face. ‘I suspect you had help here.’

‘Indeed I did!’ He waved his arm to encompass the room. ‘This is beyond me. But you have some good friends. And your children love you. The flowers are from Beth.’ They bloomed, waxy hellebores, in a little crystal vase on the side table.

‘It is beautiful. All of it. And the pianoforte… I cannot express how I feel. You have no idea how happy it has made me.’

And that, of course, was all that he desired to hear.

It put Sarah, being Sarah, into something of a difficulty.

A room of her own. A boudoir. How extravagant in the extreme. But it pricked her conscience. What could she possibly give Joshua in return? It behoved her to give him some symbol of her gratitude and—well—her love. But she could hardly spend his own money on a gift for him. It needed some serious thought. And eventually some skilful application of her talents. The result was a small package wrapped in silk, left on Joshua’s desk in the library with his name inscribed on a single sheet of paper.

Where Joshua duly found it. And that was so like Sarah, he thought, his smile a little sad. That she should leave it for him rather than present it personally, rather than risk his displeasure or disappointment. His constant dream was that one day she would find the courage to stand before him and speak her mind—and damn the consequences. Perhaps one day she would. But not yet. He unwrapped the silk to extract a small portrait, little more than a miniature, painted in water-colour on ivory. An image of a young girl, head and shoulders only, with dark eyes and dark hair released and allowed to curl onto her cheeks, ribbons in her hair. The edging of her dress, a soft blue, just visible, brought colour to her cheeks. She had a smile on her lips and looked out at him confidently.

Beth, of course.

And, more importantly, Sarah’s work.

It was a good likeness, painted with a free hand to give a sense of youth and energy. The Beth he was coming to know, in fact, rather than the stiff, formal child who had arrived so short a time ago. The frame, too, was of Sarah’s making, silk embroidered with tiny flowers stretched and pinned over a wooden frame. A pretty thing, guaranteed to please. It still lay before him on the desk when Beth came into the library to select a book. She came to stand beside him to look at what took his attention.

‘That is me,’ she stated with delightful self-importance.

His teeth glinted in a smile. ‘It looks like you. And very pretty.’

She preened just a little and moved closer so that he was able to draw her into the circle of his arm. Beth leaned against him and touched his hand where it held the portrait. ‘Mama painted it.’ It still gave him a little jolt of pleasure to hear the word on his daughter’s lips. ‘It is good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. She is very talented.’

‘Do you like it?’ Beth had the persistence of the young.

‘Yes.’ He touched the painted face gently with his fingertips. ‘I shall keep it here on my desk, perhaps, so that I can see it when you are not curled on that window seat. What do you think?’

Beth nodded, perfectly satisfied with the arrangement. ‘Mama is painting another of John. It will take her a long time.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He does not sit still. It sometimes makes Mama quite cross. She says John will be all of one and twenty before it is complete.’

Joshua grinned. ‘I can well imagine.’

* * *

Later in the day, he found Sarah on her way to the kitchen to speak on some domestic matter with Mrs Beddows.

‘Sarah…’ She came toward him with a light step, a smile.

‘Thank you, my lady. Your style, as always, is excellent.’ Joshua knew from the quick flush of colour in his wife’s face that he did not need to say more. He smoothed his knuckles over her cheek, soft and intimate, before lowering his head to kiss the corner of her mouth. Sarah returned the caress and then escaped before her inner delight overcame her.

So it would appear that some warm and blossoming depth of closeness and understanding would bless the marriage of Lord Joshua Faringdon and his new bride. But it was equally apparent to the two individuals concerned that this rapport was not to be replicated when his lordship came to his lady’s bed, something that Lord Joshua continued to be by no means averse to doing. But by this time Joshua was being forced to keep command of his patience. He had always considered himself to be a patient man, and one who was perfectly ready to indulge the whims of a pretty woman. But in these circumstances, with his own wife, he found himself completely at a loss.

They were making no progress. His wife was willing, welcoming. She never refused him intimacy. She accepted his kisses, his caresses, the demands of his body with perfect equanimity. But it ended there. She had effectively built a wall between them based on restraint and reserve and an inability—or at least a refusal—to communicate on the matter. She said what he would wish to hear, thanked him most politely when he asked if she was content. Reacted as he would wish her to react. But she never allowed her own control to slip for one moment. Never encouraged, never initiated. Never allowed him to take her over the slippery edge of delight to her own fulfilment. Never indicated what her own pleasure or preference might be.

It was, he decided, like making love to a lovely doll. She resisted any attempt to leave the candles burning as if she could only consent to his touch when her face and her responses were cloaked in darkness. She did not have a dislike of him, of that he was certain. Nor did she dislike his advances. But he was the one to take the initiative. He was the one to take his pleasure. As for hoping that she would talk about it… Well, he had had no success there. She smiled and complied with his every demand, but gave nothing of herself. He did not know what to do. If he were honest, he was aware of a creeping hint of despair as the weeks passed and Sarah grew no more responsive.

And Sarah? She yearned for her lord’s touch, his heated kisses, the slick heat of his body against hers. The sheer weight of him when he crushed her to the soft mattress in ultimate possession. But she could go no further than that. She feared any adverse reaction to her clumsy attempts to respond to his love making: his pity, his disapproval, his dissatisfaction, even his condemnation. How would she exist if he were to find her wanting, turned away to take his satisfaction elsewhere? And she feared even more to reveal her love for him, her delight in his arms, her desire to allow him to push those amazing sensations further, so that she might lose herself in the splendour of being held and caressed by him. So what was left for her if it were necessary to mask her emotions? A calm and restrained acceptance. When her heart yearned for more.

It was very strange, Sarah thought when they had been returned to Hanover Square a little over two weeks, considering her new lifestyle, which demanded that she now participate in the social world with balls and soirées and breakfasts, but she had the distinct impression that someone was watching her. That since they had taken up residence in London again, she was actually being followed. It crept up on her as the days passed. And Sarah could not deny it, however much she might argue against the sense of it, but she felt the force of invisible eyes focused on her. A presence that did not wish her well. The sensation touched her skin with a faint shiver of fear.

Considering that she was surrounded by people, she lectured herself, it was a ridiculous presumption. Her new family, the servants with whom she had once worked. The ton who noted the return of the Faringdons with interest and idle speculation at the sudden marriage. But still Sarah felt the brush of more than interested eyes when she took the children into the gardens in the Square, when she visited Hookham’s Lending Library, when she gazed in the windows in Bond Street or walked to Grosvenor Square to visit Judith or Thea. Even in the crowds of Hyde Park at the fashionable hour when Joshua drove her round in his curricle.

The tingle of being spied upon would not go away.

Foolish! She was quickly impatient with herself. Of course it could not be so. Yet she was still uneasy and sought for reasons why it might be, why someone might have an interest in her. There was certainly one possibility that came to mind with a terrible clarity. Was it Edward? Sir Edward Baxendale, her brother, who lived in genteel, resentful and bitter poverty and had proved his willingness to take any action, however disreputable, to increase the funds at his disposal. Now that she had married a man in possession of a fortune, Edward might see an opportunity to make new demands on her. If that were so, she could not possibly tell Joshua of her suspicions. She would do nothing to resurrect old memories.

But if it were Edward, why did he need to have her followed? Why not simply write and demand money, a brother’s begging letter to his wealthy sister? It just did not make sense.

So it was all in her imagination. And she saw no need whatsoever to tell Joshua of her fears.

Until one afternoon when they were returning to Hanover Square with Beth and John in their landau, taking advantage of the mild sunshine after a week of rain. As they drew up before the steps, Sarah quickly turned her head, her attention caught by the smallest of movements. Was that a shadow of a man within the darker shadows of the trees and ornamental bushes behind the iron railings? Did he draw back to merge with the deeply dappled light as they came to a halt?

‘What is it?’ Joshua asked, aware of the sudden stiffening of her spine, her fixed gaze.

‘Nothing really. Just a…’ Her eyes continued to search the gardens.

‘Tell me.’ Was that the slightest edge to his voice?

‘I just had the sensation that someone was watching me…us.’ Her glance back again over her shoulder toward the garden could not but betray her anxiety. ‘Do you think it could be so?’

‘No.’ His hesitation was so slight as to be indiscernible. He smiled briefly, touched her hand fleetingly. ‘Just chance—there is nothing to hurt you here. Put it out of your mind, my dear.’ Joshua deliberately smoothed the crease from between his brows, intent on preserving an untroubled exterior. So Sarah was being followed, was she? There was only one man who might be involved in such an activity towards himself and his family. He would think about it and its implications when alone; they did not immediately spring to mind. But he would take steps to stop it if it became necessary.

‘Of course. How foolish I am.’ Sarah returned his smile in apology. Besides, she was wary of saying more for fear of sharp-eyed, sharp-eared Beth picking up the conversation. And Joshua, in truth, probably had the right of it.

The moment passed.

But as Sarah and Beth climbed the stairs together, Joshua having taken John with him to oversee the stabling of the horses, the little girl leaned close.

‘I saw him too, Mama. A man in a dark coat.’ Then ran on ahead.

Which consolidated all Sarah’s fears.

* * *

And then the rumours started.

Gently at first. Softly. Whispered in withdrawing rooms throughout fashionable London.

Then more loudly, insistently. Behind fans, sly hands, turned heads. In Hyde Park. At Almack’s. At private parties. Wherever the ton met. Eyes glinting in greedy interest, a delectable scandal to enliven the most tedious of gatherings. No one knew whence the information came, but everyone was prepared to discuss and speculate and claim that, of course, they knew it to be true beyond doubt. They had always known that there was room for suspicion when that name was spoken…

The details of the scandal were fairly complete from the very beginning. But embroidered with possibilities as the days passed. Until the nasty little rumours came perforce to the ears of Judith and Lady Beatrice, as such rumours must, when they attended a select little soirée at the home of one who might have been considered a friend. She was quick to acquaint them with the details. Horrified, Lady Beatrice Faringdon and the Countess of Painscastle held a council of war in Grosvenor Square on the following morning to compare notes and discuss their response. Considering the dangerous aspect of the content, and their close connection with the main target, the scandal could not be ignored.

The first Lady Joshua Faringdon, those in the know stated, a French lady of considerable charm and elegance, was dead. Nothing new or of moment here. Had died some years previously in France. But not of some virulent and fatal disease as all had been led to understand. Would you believe it? She had been murdered.

But who had committed the foul deed?

Well, who, of course? Did it need to be spelled out?

It had been heard on very good, but unnamed, authority that the lady was involved in a passionate love affair with an aristocrat at the Bourbon Court where she had been murdered in a fit of uncontrolled fury by her jealous husband. Lord Joshua Faringdon. A pistol shot to the heart, no less. Her husband had then summarily disposed of her body, leaving everyone in England to believe that she had sickened, been buried and grieved over in France.

‘I don’t believe it!’ stated Judith unequivocally after discussing the outrageous suggestion with her mama. For once the teacups sat neglected between them, the elegant little plate of macaroons abandoned.

‘No. Of course not.’ The far-from-doting mama might believe much of her son but not murder. ‘It is impossible to even contemplate so disgraceful a possibility.’

‘But where would such a rumour begin?’

‘I have no idea.’ Lady Beatrice fixed her daughter with an expression of deep concern. ‘And you must admit, Judith, there are some difficult areas here for the family.’

‘What? Surely, Mama, you will give no weight to this terrible accusation? You might suspect Sher of being too thoughtless with the family name and we know for a fact that he has had any number of mistresses under his protection—there is no need to frown at me! Everyone knows it—but murder!’

‘Of course not, Judith! Try not to be foolish. But think. A sudden disease to strike down a healthy young woman. We were not there. Have we ever seen the grave? No, we have not. Does Joshua ever talk about it? No, he does not. The whole affair gives me an uneasy feeling.’

‘Sher would never murder his wife. He would not murder anyone! I will accept no truth in it.’

‘Neither will I. But I wish your brother would not play his cards quite so close to his chest!’ Lady Beatrice could envisage her next meeting with some of her fashionable associates over a glass of ratafia and did not enjoy the prospect. ‘It is difficult to know what to say when one is as much in the dark as the town tabbies.’

‘A ridiculous suggestion!’ was the only opinion given by Nicholas when he and Theodora called at the Painscastle residence and were drawn into the discussion. ‘You cannot possibly give it any credence.’

‘Will you talk to Sher?’ Theodora asked of Judith. ‘It would seem to be the obvious next step.’

‘Not willingly,’ Judith admitted. ‘You could talk to him, Nick! But there is one person who must be told, if she has not heard it already.’

‘Sarah, of course.’ Thea’s mind ran along the same lines. Her lips curled in grim humour. ‘Better that she hear it from us that her husband is a murderer than from deliberate malice on the grapevine.’

So Thea and Judith immediately took themselves in the barouche to Hanover Square, where Sarah welcomed them with delight, no notion of their intent. Until she saw their concerned eyes, their obvious discomfort. And listened aghast to the lurid picture laid out before her. They spared her no details. She must know what was being said.

Murder!

Sarah would have denied that such damning and unjustifiable gossip was being spread through the fashionable haunts of London. But once knowing, she quickly became aware of the widespread comment. The hushed voices as she came into the room when paying an afternoon visit. The covert glances. Everyone seemed to be discussing Lord Joshua Faringdon’s implication in a deed as foul as any she could envisage. And as completely unbelievable. Of course she did not believe it. Dismissed the whole thing as nothing but malicious mischief-making. But why? And who had seen fit to plant the seeds?

And then, as is the nature of such things, it brushed her consciousness again that she was without doubt being followed. Joshua might have denied it unequivocally, but she knew in her heart that it was true. Were the two events connected? Her mind immediately began to consider and weave the possibilities.

Joshua might deny the existence of the shadow, but she was certain that it existed. The worries stayed with her and gnawed at her peace of mind. Who could possibly be expected to enjoy peace of mind and the unexpected delights of a new marriage when secretive eyes followed her, when her husband was accused of dispatching his first wife and hiding her body?

Well, there was only one solution to this. She would ask Joshua to tell her the truth.

She accosted him on his return from Brooks’s.

‘Sarah… ‘ He took her hand, would have saluted her cheek, but was brought to a halt by something in her demeanour. If he was surprised by the reserve in her response to him, he did not show it.

‘I need to speak with you.’ He saw her lips set in a firm line, little lines of strain—signs of concern that had now been absent for some little time—between her brows.

‘Of course.’ He led her into the library. Closed the door. Turned to face her.

‘What is it that disturbs you? Do you still see phantom followers?’ He tried for a light response to the tension that swirled around her.

‘Yes. And so does Beth.’ His brows rose, but before he could find suitable words, she continued. ‘But that is not it… ‘ She might as well ask outright. ‘Joshua—have you heard the rumours?’

‘Rumours?’ The epitome of innocence. She could not deny his lack of comprehension. Or could she? She suspected that Lord Faringdon’s ability to dissemble was supreme.

‘Obviously not. Perhaps the gentlemen at Brooks’s are less inclined to gossip than their wives. Or more discreet when their members are present. Thea and Judith warned me—and then I saw it, felt it, heard it for myself. The hush from those present when I walked into the withdrawing room, when I took tea with Lady Stoke. The conversation came to a remarkably abrupt end.’

A cold fear inched its way down his spine. So she had heard. Well, of course she had. Had he expected her to live in blissful ignorance when the whole town was talking? Yet he kept his composure. ‘What conversation?’

‘About you. And your first wife. About Marianne.’

He preserved all outward calm, his face bland, his gaze level. ‘And so, according to Thea and Judith, what are the gossip-mongers saying?’ He knew exactly what they were saying, in every salacious detail. But he must do all in his power to reassure.

Sarah kept her voice calm, as if discussing a matter of no moment that could easily be remedied. As if her heart were not thudding against her ribs. ‘They…they are saying that Marianne did not die a natural death. That you were responsible.’ Her fingers gripped the edge of a gilded bergère chair at her side. ‘That you murdered her, from jealousy over her taking a lover.’

‘And do you believe it?’ A hint of frost over the calm now.

‘No. Of course not. It is beyond belief.’ She lifted her hand, almost in a plea. ‘But I find it very uncomfortable to have the ton discussing my husband’s so-called crimes.’

‘Sarah—’

‘I don’t believe it,’ she repeated in a firm voice. And indeed she did not. But she would continue. ‘I should tell you that, whatever your denials, I am being followed.’

‘I see.’ He strode to the window, then whirled round to face her, fighting to keep a firm hand on the reins of temper as all his control came close to obliteration by a wave of sheer anger. At himself. At fate. At the perpetrator of the vicious scandal. He coated the fire in ice. ‘And you think that I am having you followed, to discover if you too have a lover, with the intent of murdering you also.’

‘I think no such thing!’ Never had she seen his self-control so compromised, but she stood her ground. And, no, I do not have a lover as you must know, so there would be little point to it. I would merely wish to know who would start so cruel a story if there is no truth in it. Do you know?’

Oh, yes. I know very well who will have created this particular pattern of pain and disgrace, to hurt both of us, to carve a rift between us that can never be mended. And I am so tightly woven into a web of deceit that I cannot tell you of it. Or extricate myself without untold repercussions. Oh, yes. I know without doubt who is responsible, driven by revenge and bitter hatred.

He walked toward her. Slowly and with deliberation. Until he stood close, his eyes searching her face. Whatever he saw there, he lifted his hand to touch her cheek with light fingers, the tender gesture at odds with the passion in his eyes. A passion that would burn and destroy if he allowed it.

‘I will never cause you harm, Sarah. I will never willingly hurt you. Do you believe that? I find that it is important to me that you do.’

‘Yes.’ Caught up in the moment, she closed her hand around his wrist. ‘I do.’ His blood throbbed beneath her hand, echoing the beat of her own pulse.

‘The rumours. I cannot say—simply ask that you trust me, even when it seems too hard to do so.’ He bent his head to touch her mouth with his, a mere brush of lips over lips, then suddenly fierce and demanding. He could not tell her the truth, but neither would he deliberately lie. He framed her face with his hands. ‘As for the shadows that follow you, they must not be allowed to disturb you. Neither can I tell you of them, but I will take steps to stop them.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘I think it is possible.’

‘Will you not tell me who?’

‘No.’ He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her soft bottom lip. ‘It is best that you do not know. I know that is no answer—but I can give no other.’

‘Tell me the truth, Joshua.’ She held his gaze, more demand than plea.

But he shook his head. ‘It is not in my power to do so at this time.’

And with that she had to be content. But never content! Secrets, secrets! Sarah could do nothing but accept her lord’s word when all her instincts shrieked within her head to demand that he tell her the truth. Could do nothing but accept his kiss when once again he claimed her mouth, now with a deliberate tenderness. But her thoughts remained in turmoil. She had lived her life with lies and deceits. Now even her marriage was prey to them.

For Joshua, the only certainty was that he must not speak, no matter how forcefully his heart urged him to do so. Because to speak of the past and his relationship with Marianne would reveal a whole host of lies and untruths, enough to swamp their fragile relationship beyond hope. And mayhap put others in danger of their lives. All he could do was call on Sarah’s intrinsic fairness and loyalty, wrapping her round in soft trappings of consideration and care. Until, despite the nagging suspicions, she should never contemplate his involvement in so wicked an act as murder. With all his skill and finesse, he hoped that he would have the power to seduce her into giving him her trust. His hands clasped her shoulders, to draw her firmly against him. Bending, he pressed his lips against the soft, almost transparent skin at her temple and, as he felt her shiver beneath his hands, a bright flare of desire surged through him, to carry her off to his room and show her that he was not beyond redemption.

At the thought he lifted his head to smile down into her face—and froze as he caught the ghost of an emotion in her eyes, before she swiftly veiled it from him with her downswept lashes. Distrust, fear, despair? He could not guess. Even more, he dare not ask. And suddenly the notion of seduction, of submerging her misgivings beneath the pleasures of her body and his, drained from him. He could not. Not when she was being hurt through his own actions, his own inability to be honest. It would be a betrayal of everything he had hoped to offer to her in their marriage. A wicked destruction of her contentment and her peace of mind. What a cruel outcome it would be if his selfish actions wilfully led Sarah to give him her utmost trust. Perhaps even caused her to fall in love with him. Would that not make the hurt and pain the greater, when she finally learned the truth about his life, past and present? Because he had no doubt that it would be impossible for him to keep the truth from her for ever. How much less painful if he let her go now. Stepped back from her. It would make her unhappy. She would see it as a bitter rejection, all the more cruel since Sarah would find it difficult to accept rejection in so personal a matter. But at least it would not tear her emotions to shreds, bright silk rent by the sharpest of blades, as might happen if he allowed her to grow too close to him, to expect too much from him.

Joshua knew what he must do. He must distance himself from her so that the hurt should not be compounded. Until his own loyalties were no longer an issue to divide them. If that could ever be.

So Joshua’s fingers tightened on Sarah’s shoulders, but not to draw her close, rather to push her away. The smile died from his lips. He let his hands fall away. Stepped back. And again and again until the width of the room separated them. Despite the intense longing, it would be so wrong. And perhaps, after all, Sarah was only playing the role of obedient wife. How little he still knew of her. Did she hate and despise him for bringing this dark spectre of death and murder into her life, despite her protestations of belief and trust? So he must reject her, for both their sakes. He drank the bitter lees of the cup, of self-condemnation and contempt for his lack of choice.

‘Forgive me…’

‘Joshua… ‘ Disbelieving, Sarah held out her hands, aware of nothing but the distance that had suddenly opened between them and the cold weight of fear within her breast.

‘I have matters to attend to.’ Tall and straight, her lord continued to face her, face shuttered and cold, refusing to acknowledge her plea, resisting every need to close the space and enfold her once again into his arms. Better that she hate him, heap blame on his head, than that he take her to his bed with such issues between them.

‘Please.’ Soft, little more than a murmur, her voice reached him. ‘Don’t leave me like this. Do I mean so little to you?’ Never during their short marriage had she been so outspoken of her feelings, so uncertain of his response.

‘I must.’ He fought the temptation to rake his fingers in desolation through his hair, fought against the pain in his heart. How difficult it was to turn her away. But he would do it to protect her from further anguish. ‘Don’t look so tragic, my dear. Scandals always die a death when the next one surfaces to replace it. You will soon become used to the taint of scandal, now that your name is coupled with mine.’

The bitterness in his words scorched her. ‘No. I will not accept that.’

‘You were aware when you took my name that it was a tarnished commodity.’ He heard his cruel words, wincing at their power to hurt. But to fuel her anger would lessen her pain.

‘How can you do this? I do not believe it… ‘

‘You have no choice, my lady.’ He bowed his head, a curt cold gesture, and left her standing alone in the room.

Sarah was left to contemplate the cold ashes of the day, one thought following rapidly on the heels of the former. He had rejected her, with cruel barbs and harsh words. And why? What had he seen in her face to make him walk away? Whatever it was, he had misread it, for she trusted him with her life. One moment to hold and kiss her, passion firing his caresses, the next to walk away with such sneering disdain. Her fragile confidence, which had begun to blossom under his caring attentions, all but shattered. But she would not. She would not sink beneath spiteful gossip or bow to those who would destroy her happiness. She might not know the reason for his behaviour toward her, but of one fact she had total conviction—Joshua Faringdon was not capable of cold-blooded murder. It was not possible that she could have judged him so wrongly and given her heart to a man capable of such evil.

She allowed her mind to play over the tension-filled confrontation. When she had told him of the whispered accusations against him, a hard cold rage had touched his face. So much anger, yet not, she thought, directed at her. He knew more than he was saying, admitted it even, but she could not imagine what it could be.

Sarah walked to look out of the window at the darkening sky, watching the rain spatter on the glass and the trees bend before the icy wind. It exactly matched her mood, she thought as she wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. How was it possible that she could simply trust and love Joshua, accepting his silence, when he stood accused of murder? It was not reciprocated. She brushed tears from her lashes with the back of an impatient hand. He never talked of love to her. She did not expect that, accepted that he did not love her. But there were shadows all around them—so dark and impenetrable. Layer on layer, they invaded her mind. He was often absent, for lengthy periods in the day and without explanation. Letters were delivered to the house by elusive individuals who left no name or visiting card. It would seem that he had another life quite separate from her. Well, that should not surprise her. Of course he had business dealings of which she knew nothing. But what was it that he was not telling her? Did he not respect her enough to trust her with the truth, whatever it might be? Her mind returned again and again to that one concern. The fears would not leave her.

And she was being followed!

Sarah retreated from the drear outlook to sit on the little stool before her dressing table, her heart sore. She rarely wept—it did no good, solved no difficulties—but she wept long into the night for the man who now appeared, through his own choice, to be as far distant from her as the stars that shone with such icy indifference.

* * *

But when Sarah rose from her bed the following morning, it was to a new inner strength, a new resolution. She would not accept his rejection. She would destroy the distance of his making. If trust was to be an issue between them, she would show that it was not lacking from her side.

Her lord was in no better frame of mind. Joshua was left to contemplate the fact that his relationship with Sarah, still so new and untried, had been put in jeopardy by the impossibility of laying all before her. How could a marriage survive and bloom on lies and deceit? In truth he could not take her to his bed. Not with the weight of guilt on him. The rumours, as clearly intended, would blacken his name even more with the Polite World, from rake to murderer in one discreetly whispered on dit. Why should Sarah believe any good of him? He found himself confronted by a growing need to tell her the truth, to strip his soul bare and to appear a man of integrity and principle in her eyes. Little chance of that! Morosely he studied the blank sheet of paper on the desk before him.

Why should it matter what she believed? Why should it matter to him if he simply covered his tracks with a few well-chosen lies to prevent her from questioning him further?

Because you are falling in love with her, you fool. You need her to believe in you, see the best in you. As simple…and as complicated as that.

The little voice spoke insistently to take him completely by surprise. He recalled her standing there, offering her lips, the warmth and shelter of her arms, Sarah who rarely offered anything of her own volition, whilst he deliberately, coldly, distanced himself from her, holding her at arm’s length. Love? It was not so, of course. He cared for her, felt a strong urge to protect her. Without doubt desired her physically. But love? He would never in his life love another woman. Marianne had taught him that much. To allow one’s heart to be held by the slender, elegant fingers of a beautiful woman—of any woman—was inarguably a recipe for pain and disillusion. No—he did not love Sarah. He would not love her.

Even though he regretted his callous treatment of her from the bottom of his heart.

Having disposed of that little problem to his liking, Lord Faringdon was still faced with the prospect of the damaging rumours destroying any hope of a calm and satisfactory marriage. He doubted that anything could be done to smooth over the immediate damage. It was simply a matter of riding out the storm, taking his own advice, which he had so cavalierly flung at his unsuspecting wife. A subtle flash of colour tinted his cheekbones at the memory. He was not proud of that moment.

There was, however, one conversation that he was determined to have, and as soon as might be. Anger returned in good measure, causing him to place his pen carefully on the desk before he snapped it in two. He knew where these rumours had begun. He would wager his best hunter on it. And he knew damn well who was responsible for Sarah being shadowed. He could most certainly put a stop to that. Picking up the pen again, he scrawled a few terse lines. Between them, Olivia Wexford and Wycliffe were threatening to undermine Sarah’s new-found happiness and contentment and create a bottomless abyss between them. He could not tolerate that. He could do that quite well enough on his own, it seemed! His lips curled at his own clumsy attempts to spare her further pain, where he had signally failed. But Wycliffe was resident in England for a few months, his sources suggested. It was time for Lord Faringdon to have some plain words with this elusive gentleman.

Sarah rose early, dressed, drank her chocolate in an abstracted manner and listened unashamedly at the door of her lord’s dressing room. He, too, was up betimes. Perhaps he, too, had not slept well. She paced her bedchamber for half an hour until she heard his valet leave the room and walk past her own door. She walked through the dressing room, knocked briskly on the door of her husband’s room and entered without waiting for a reply. Then she stood and watched her husband, dispassionately, she hoped.

Joshua looked up from the diamond pin that he was about to secure in his cravat. Still in his shirtsleeves, a little pale, heavy eyed, he was still outrageously attractive and Sarah’s heart performed its usual breath-stopping leap of awareness. But she gave no indication of her emotion or of the residual ache caused by his cold retreat from her. She hoped that he had slept as badly as she. He deserved it. She was, she realised, not dispassionate at all.

‘Sarah—’

‘I have something to say.’

Lord Joshua made no move toward her, but shrugged into his coat. For once he could not meet her eyes, which held the bright light of imminent conflict.

‘When Eleanor felt most under threat from the Baxendale scandal,’ she spoke of it without a tremor, ‘when my brother seemed likely to succeed and the haut ton turned against her, when she was not invited to the homes of those whom she would have once called friends, do you know what she did?’ Sarah did not wait for an answer. Not that her lord was capable of giving one. ‘She went to the opera at Covent Garden. She insisted that Henry take her, to show the world that she believed in her own innocence and she did not care that others would question the legality of her marriage to your cousin Thomas. She sat there throughout the whole performance, with every lorgnette raised in her direction. She smiled, she flirted a little, she conversed. And hid from the world how much she suffered. Henry sat beside her, to shield her and support her with his presence because he could do no other. I admire them more than I can say.’

Sarah stopped to draw breath, then continued.

‘We should do the same. You claim your innocence. Then we should show a united front against those who would disbelieve. There is an Exhibition today at the Royal Academy. I forget whose paintings. It is not important. We should attend. With Thea and Nicholas. And Judith and Simon too, if they will come. And I will stand with you because it is the only thing I can do to show the world that I do not believe what is being said.’

‘Sarah…’ He was for the moment speechless, astounded at her courage to embark on so public a display. Swamped with guilt that she should choose to have anything to do with him after the events of the previous day. ‘I do not know what to say… ‘

‘You do not have to say anything. I will arrange it with Thea. If you would be pleased to escort me, at seven-thirty, I think.’

Without waiting for another word or a response from her lord, Sarah turned on her heel, closing the door behind her with a very positive click. And made sure that for the rest of the day she was so busy that should anyone—should Lord Joshua Faringdon—desire communication of any nature with her she would be quite unobtainable.

The Faringdon party attended the Exhibition in strength. Lord Joshua Faringdon discovered that, despite the strength of the temptation, he dare not cry off. The involvement of the little party and knowledge of the paintings was to be fairly minimal, but that was not the object of the exercise. They displayed considerable if not amazing interest in the hanging. The joint subjects of murder and Marianne were understood by all to be taboo. A brief but detailed conversation between the three ladies ensured that all rose superbly to the occasion. Thea and Judith both instructed their husbands on the purpose of this unprecedented outing, which neither gentleman would have chosen over a quiet evening with cards and brandy at Brooks’s.

They talked, smiled, admired, sampled the refreshments. Whatever they felt, they hid behind gracious exteriors. There was a need for Faringdon family unity, which they all recognised and supported. They surrounded their notorious black sheep with firm support and unquestioning loyalty.

A very public statement of trust.

Sarah cast off all her misgivings, her reserve, her lack of confidence, her dislike of attention. Not once did she turn away from interested glances, not once did she fail to meet a speculative eye. Bright, lively, engaging, she stood beside Joshua and dared anyone to believe him capable of violent death. When he offered his arm to lead her round the exhibits, she laid her hand there with perfect composure, smiling up into his face with great charm. What it cost her to put on this performance, her lord had no idea. She bowed, nodded, conversed with acquaintances, flirted a little with her painted fan when Simon engaged her in conversation, as if there was no problem on this earth to trouble her. She had dressed with particular care in—for Sarah—an eye-catching gown in a deep rose pink silk overlaid with silver lace, a pretty string of diamonds and opals clasped around her neck with drop earrings to match. Her naturally pale cheeks benefited from skilfully applied Liquid Bloom of Roses; it required no application of Olympian Dew to bring a sparkle to her eyes. Lady Joshua Faringdon, in her quiet way, had declared war.

No one would accuse her husband of murder and think that she gave it any serious consideration. No one would divide them, whoever it might be who had first dropped the poisonous words into the willing ear of the Polite World. And her family would support her. She felt a warmth spread around her heart as she watched them: Thea, using all her lively charm and diplomatic experience of foreign receptions, Judith calling on her wide acquaintance. The gentlemen relaxed and talked horses and sport when they could escape their wives’ eagle eye. Whatever the outcome of this night, Sarah knew that she had made the right decision.

No one could question or intimidate the united Faringdons. With a little crow of success, Sarah wished that Eleanor and Henry were present to appreciate the outcome of her plotting.

* * *

They returned home, exhausted from the constant strain to remain cheerful, but Sarah was content. She had done all that she could. Not least to show her husband, who had tried to distance himself from her because he could not speak the truth, that she would not accept his decision. She would stand at his side whether he wished it or not.

The trial of the evening at the Exhibition left Lord Joshua Faringdon feeling utterly wretched. He had gone along with it because he could think of no good reason not to. Sarah’s determination, her refusal to discuss it, had carried him along, a leaf in the current of a millstream. And now he was swamped with shame. His gentle Sarah had walked into the lion’s den for him. Such faith, such strength. She had stood by him in glory and splendour to face the gossips. His intention had been to step back from her, to allow her to believe the scandal if she wished, to hate him if she wished. To build a barrier between her and the deceit that was his to bear. To replace any suffering she might feel with contempt, because he simply did not deserve her sympathy. He could not use her innocence and her loyalty in his own interests. But Sarah, with astonishing strength of will, had torn his plan to rags, by standing beside him before the interested eyes of the Polite World.

How had it all become so complicated?

The simplicity of it was that he could not remain apart from her. He did not wish to remain apart. He felt the meanest worm in the face of such loyalty. He must put some of it right with her—she deserved no less.

So Joshua knocked on her door and waited for a reply. Sarah had gone straight to her bedchamber without any attempt at conversation, which was signal enough that he would have to be willing to make amends.

She answered, he entered. She was sitting at her dressing table.

‘I thought you would go on to one of your clubs with Nicholas.’ She did not look at him, but kept her hands busy.

Took off her jewels and replaced them in their case. Began to take the pins from her hair.

‘No.’

‘I think we made a point tonight.’ She continued to place the pins in a cut-glass bowl. ‘I think that Eleanor would have been proud of me.’

‘Sarah—’

‘There is no need to say anything. I know that you cannot. But we have done what we can.’

She stood to move across the room to find a home in a little bow-fronted cabinet for her gloves and fan. But now he strode forward to take her wrist in a light clasp and pull her to a halt. Yet still she did not turn toward him. Nevertheless he would say what he had to say and try to bridge the yawning chasm.

‘You do not realise the debt I owe you tonight, Sarah. I think no man could ask more of his wife than that she stand at his side when any remaining honour attached to his name is destroyed. Yet you did exactly that. With such grace and dignity as I have never seen. I don’t know whether you believe me or trust me, but you made so public a gesture in my support…’ With firmer pressure, he turned her toward him. ‘I need to ask your forgiveness. I treated you abominably.’

‘I know you did. I suppose you had your reasons, even if I can neither understand nor accept them.’ She would not make it easy for him. Her eyes were accusing. ‘It would help if you told me the truth, but we have been through all that, have we not?’

‘Sarah… ‘ Never had he seen such a chill in her eyes, so stern a line to her lips. And it hurt to know that he deserved it, and far more.

‘I know. You cannot. Let us leave it at that.’ She made to pull away, but he dare not allow it. He took her hands in his so that he could face her squarely.

‘Then let me say this. I admire you, Sarah. My respect for you is beyond measure. Never more so than this night. Your bravery, your strength, your willingness to put yourself on the line for me. I tried to push you away. To keep the scandal from hurting you more. I find that I cannot do that.’

Sarah waited. Admired, respected, he had said.

Loved? Ah, no.

‘I need you tonight, Sarah.’ He hesitated, so unusual in this dynamic man. ‘I will not force my presence on you if it is distasteful. And in God’s name it must be. I would ask for your tolerance, Sarah, until I can put matters right between us.’

‘Will it ever be possible?’

‘Yes. I promise you.’

She watched, waited, thought of the weight of his words. Read the sincerity in his eyes, which gleamed true silver tonight. Sincerity, yes, but also a terrible uncertainty, which smote at her senses. A vulnerability that had shaken him to the core. It shocked her to see the rare emotion race across his face with vivid intensity. Her heart stuttered. However foolish, however naïve it might be, she trusted him. And would trust him whatever the world might say against him. She allowed her lips to soften, her cold face to warm into a smile. And allowed her woman’s heart to dictate her response. She could not refuse him if he had a need of her.

She opened her arms at her sides, almost a gesture of submission. Or was it invitation. For if she trusted him to have committed no evil act, she must surely trust him with the safekeeping of her body and her clamouring emotions. It was time that she had the courage to respond to his love making, to claim her own needs. It was more than time. She forced herself to continue to hold his gaze

‘Then come.’ Her voice was soft, full of feminine allure. ‘If you want me tonight I will not deny you, but it is necessary for you to play the role of lady’s maid. You would not imagine the intricacy of buttons and ribbons.’ Then he caught the gleam in her eye and was able to breathe more easily. ‘But perhaps you are intimately acquainted with them. If so, it will on this occasion be to my advantage.’

Sarah’s deliberate humour sliced through the wall of tension between them so that he could step forward with a soft laugh and apply himself to the task. He was, she was forced to admit as she watched his bent head, remarkably skilled. Tiny buttons, delicate ribbons, they posed no problem for his clever fingers. Gown, petticoats, shoes, stockings, all quickly dealt with to give her no room for embarrassment, to be disposed carefully over the daybed. Until she stood in her chemise. He made to blow out the candles, as he thought she would wish, but Sarah had made her decision and now she stretched out a hand.

‘No. Leave one burning.’

‘Are you sure? If you are more comfortable without… ‘

Nerves touched her skin with delicate tremors. ‘No. Leave it. That is what I want tonight.’

So. A new Sarah, he realised. One who had thrown down the gauntlet in public and exerted her will this night. And one, it would appear, intent on continuing to surprise him. So he complied. She would have turned from him to walk to the bed, a chilly little action in itself if of no real moment, but this night he would not allow it. To turn from him, if only for a matter of seconds, was going beyond what he desired for himself, desired for her. He stepped after her and before she could slide between the sheets he took her arm in a gentle hold, drawing her around to face him.

Fingers brushed over her cheekbone and down, to the fine curve of her throat, then to cup the back of her neck beneath her hair. ‘You are a woman of many facets, Sarah. And a woman of outstanding valour tonight. If you will trust me with your reputation, don’t hold yourself back from me now. Let me show you what can exist between a man and a woman, without shyness, without restraint, without self-consciousness. Don’t retreat from me but let me pleasure you,’ he added as her lashes fluttered over her eyes in a moment’s insecurity as she felt the beginning of a deep blush at his seductive words.

The lashes lifted, the gaze now direct and steady, more than he could ever have desired when she had hidden her dreams from him. Sarah lifted her hands to place them flat against his chest and spoke, as he was quick to recognise, from her heart. ‘Very well. Show me the delights that can exist between a man and a woman. For my experience is shallow and my confidence low. So show me. But do not condemn me, I beg of you, if you find me less than skilful.’ And that was as honest as he could ever hope for.

‘Sarah. You still do not realise. I could never find you wanting. All I ask is that you will respond as your heart dictates.’

‘I promise.’

With a swift movement he loosened the chemise to let it drop to the floor, stepping back so that he might see her in the soft candlelight. It lit her slender, graceful figure in warm tones and deep shadow, first gilding her hair to rim her head and shoulders in pure gold, then the flame flickering to highlight curves, deepen shadows, hinting at dark and glorious secrets that slapped at his senses. It was difficult in that moment to remember that she was not a young girl, but a woman who had married and borne a child. Had he ever told her how beautiful she was during the act of love? He should have done so. She needed to be told.

‘You are beautiful, Sarah.’ His body tightened to his discomfort in immediate response. Even more when her lips curved in a smile of quivering nerves. Then, because he sensed her considered denial of his words, he covered the space between them and effectively silenced her by framing her face in his hands and taking her mouth with his own.

‘You are beautiful,’ he repeated against her lips before allowing the hunger to rule and heat the kiss, winding his fingers into the silk of her hair. And Sarah—her reaction was everything he could have hoped for, stretching his command over his response to her to near-snapping point. She moulded her deliciously naked body against his, stretching her arms to clasp around his neck, the sigh of pleasure deep in her throat as she encouraged him to deepen the kiss and allowed his tongue to take possession.

So that necessity soon dictated that he push her away, breathing compromised, but staying only to divest himself of his own clothes before he would tumble her on to the pillows. Sarah watched him with growing anticipation. The glimmer of his white shirt, the dark satin of his evening clothes, all discarded. Until he stood naked before her, back-lit by the moon, which had risen to shine through the windows, outdoing the single candle whose light was now superfluous in the silvered brightness. The shadows were stark, the contours ice-edged. He stood and let her look her fill. Only reacting when she drew in a sharp breath.

‘What is it?’ A sudden concern.

But she shook her head. She would not tell him that he was beautiful, far more beautiful that she. But she raised her hand, palm up, held it out as in an offering, even though entirely shocked by her own behaviour. She felt, she decided, like Scheherazade as he sometimes called her, a seductive nymph of paradise, awaiting her lover in some exotic harem from tales of Arabian Nights. Out of character it most certainly was, but this night she felt she could play any part demanded of her. Had she not played a role all evening before the eyes of those who would spurn and condemn? This role would be no more difficult, and to her ultimate delight and satisfaction.

So Sarah waited for her lord to join her, her heart beating so loudly that she was sure he must hear it, but aware only of his magnificent body. And welcomed him when he pushed her back, slid beside her and took her into his arms.

His habitual tenderness, his consideration for her, were still discernible, must always be so, but this night his control was threatened beneath a fierce blooming of raw passion that took him by surprise. Or perhaps it did not, because Sarah, his reserved and distant Sarah, stoked the flames in his body with terrible, miraculous skill. This was the woman he had dreamed of, this the true Sarah, desire smouldering, hidden under the soft and fragile exterior. This was the lover who touched him with slender fingers, returned his kisses eagerly, along his shoulders, the expanse of his chest. Discovering with sure instinct where his pulses leapt with desire, throbbed in desperate need.

And Sarah trembled at her own temerity. Where had this courage come from? Don’t dissemble. Don’t freeze with fear. The thoughts ran through her head. Touch him. He will not reject you, did he not promise? This is Joshua, whom you love to the marrow of your bones. Have you not always dreamed of touching him, longed to feel the strength of him beneath your palms? So firm, so hard, so powerful. So thoughtful a lover.

With deliberate intent at her own urging, her hands drifted over his shoulders and chest, to waist and flat belly. Outlining the powerful flow of muscled thighs. And, with an intake of breath—oh courage! oh glory!—she curled her fingers around his strong erection.

Joshua groaned, turned his face into her hair, his blood engulfed with fire at the unexpected from this reticent lady. His breath shuddered in his lungs as he clung to sanity. Or were the shudders from Sarah? He could no longer separate the two.

‘Shall I stop?’ she whispered against his throat, instantly unsure.

‘No. No.’ He suppressed another groan. ‘I can think of no better way to die.’

‘Are you thinking of death?’ The tremor of a laugh shivered against his flesh.

‘Never death!’

So she stroked with a gurgle of delight and a thrill at his immediate response beneath her hand. But now he carried Sarah with him, for her into unchartered territory. And she joined him, answered every demand, returned every caress. How hot his skin, how demanding his hands and mouth, how incredible that she should feel like this. Then she forgot to think any more, aware only of the ripples of intense sensation that he awoke and stirred into flame everywhere he touched. Aware only of her own need to offer and give, to arch and entwine as he took over every sense in her body. Confidence swam through her veins like the most intoxicating of red wine. Until the heat scorched her, wrecked her breathing, blinded her to everything but this room, this bed, this man.

Whilst her lord used every vestige of self-control to force himself to be gentle. Force himself to move slowly, carefully. His instinct was to possess, to ravish, now when the hunger surged though his blood. Ravish as he had once promised that he would not. So he set himself to hold back, to entice and persuade, but it was a difficult task indeed when faced with her complete surrender, her generous response, her deliberate provocation.

Be patient. Give her time. Let her come to you. Let her dictate the pace.

But he burned and the needs that crawled through him became almost too great to deny. Yet he would pleasure her, raise her to such heights that she could not resist, could not deny her own needs. With assurance and skill of hands and mouth, lips and tongue, he waged his campaign with fierce dedication. No, Sarah was not mildly compliant tonight. He doubted, in one moment of heart-stopping clarity, that she would ever be so again.

Joshua pressed his lips in open-mouthed caress along the shallow valley between her breasts, diverted with sly ease to tease her nipples. Refusing to halt when she drew in her breath and stiffened beneath the onslaught of his mouth. Pushed on the assault when she sighed his name against his throat and melted in his arms. Lovely. Impossibly lovely. Soft as silk. A little murmur of delight when his fingers brushed low, lower yet to touch, slide and discover, taking for his own her most intimate secrets. Her thighs parted willingly, hips arched now in blatant invitation. Hot and wet, satin-soft, compromising his banked desire. When she pressed against the heel of his hand in convulsive response, his control came close to destruction.

Yet still, as he knew she would, she resisted the demands of her own body, afraid of the flames which grew and leapt and threatened to consume.

‘Do you trust me?’ He stilled his hand.

‘Yes.’ The merest sigh.

‘Then don’t think. Just feel. Let your mind go.’

Aware that the pressure was building within her from the shivers that ran along her limbs in his embrace, the thud of her heart beneath his lips, he harnessed all his own needs to capture her mouth in a kiss of blazing desire, pushing her to the very edge, to give her that ultimate release. Until she struggled against his body and would have pushed him away in a sudden moment of panic and fear of the unknown.

‘No.’ He gentled his hold, but would not retreat. ‘Take what I can give you.’

He drove her on, ruthless now with determination to give her that intimate experience of her own body, until she cried out, sharp, shocked. He crushed his lips to hers to swallow her cries as she shivered uncontrollably against him, clung to him with gasps of astonished pleasure. Exactly as he had hoped. And triumph swamped his veins in a floodtide, as she quivered from the aftershock, face buried against his chest.

‘Look at me.’

Sarah saw herself in his eyes, dark with passion, unfathomable as the waters of a bottomless lake, as he wiped the spangle of tears from her cheeks, tears that she had not been aware of shedding. ‘I want to see you when I slip inside you. And you to see me. There is no danger here for you, darling Sarah.’ He watched her, at that moment completely enslaved, yet unaware of the endearment.

‘Yes.’ As was she. She raised a hand that trembled to his lips. ‘Now.’ It was so simple a word, and all the invitation he needed.

‘It must be so. For you are too alluring to resist any longer.’

With sure and elegant strength he moved to pin her body with his own and thrust hard and deep. Held himself there to prolong the pleasure for her, for himself. So intimate an invasion that enclosed him, filled her, overturning the mind of both except for their joy in each other. Slick skin against slick skin, her legs entangled with his, his body owning hers. She watched him, eyes caught and held, emotions naked to his gaze. For a moment he thought that she might have more than an affection for him. Then the fleeting shadow was gone. Hunger and desire, potent and dark, swept over him as Sarah bit her lip to prevent her expressing her love in words that might still return to haunt her. But now she could show him in other ways. So he began to move within her and she mirrored the thrust with innate delight. Until he pushed them both to that precipitate edge. To fly and fall, taking her with him, feeling her shudder again as his own control shattered.

‘What was that?’ Still pinned beneath him, Sarah could only glory in his power and weight. It seemed to her that any sensible thoughts she might have were still scattered through the heavens, as her limbs were heavy with splendidly overwhelming exhaustion. It was outside anything in her experience. She did not think that her heart would ever again settle into its old pattern.

Joshua raised his head, lifted his weight on his arm, brushed back the fall of hair from her face so that he could kiss her lips with exquisite tenderness. A tenderness that made her heart tremble.

‘A miracle, I think. A miracle.’

‘Yes. So I think.’ And after a little pause: ‘I do not know what came over me, Joshua.’

‘Thank God for it.’ She caught the glint of his smile in the moon’s brightness. The candle had long since burned out. And she sighed in an unexpected and strangely moving happiness.

Joshua felt her smile against his shoulder, and his heart rejoiced. She trusted him. He could ask for nothing more. Because, as he slid into sleep with her, it mattered more than anything other in his previously selfish and wilful life that she did.

* * *

‘My Lord Faringdon. I did not expect to see you here.’ Wycliffe rose from his seat in his unremarkable office in the City, his face set in deep lines of disapproval. Nothing in the austere surroundings, in the inconspicuous building off Fleet Street, would point to the importance of this man to national security.

Lord Faringdon was not in a mood to be impressed by the standing of his host or his efforts to remain invisible. ‘I am sure you did not.’ He bowed with controlled grace.

‘Perhaps it would have been better, my lord, if you had not sought to draw attention to yourself or to me.’

‘So you might think, sir. On this occasion, I do not.’

If Wycliffe was critical, his lordship was icily correct.

‘You look in the best of health again, my lord. I trust your bones have knit well.’ For a compassionate enquiry, it was delivered in a distinctly unfriendly tone.

‘Yes.’

‘If I might be permitted to say—’ the two men still faced each other, standing, across Wycliffe’s desk ‘—you should not have found it necessary to make contact with me other than by discreet channels. You must be well aware of this, my lord.’ Wycliffe’s lips thinned with displeasure.

‘I understand you perfectly, sir.’ Joshua’s jaw was rigid with suppressed anger. ‘In fact, I wrote you a letter—but decided to come in person, so that I might express myself more effectively. And be assured that you did not simply consign my complaint to your fire-grate and continue to issue instructions against the well-being of my wife.’

‘So it is a matter of some importance?’ Wycliffe’s voice rose sufficiently as to make it just a question. His hard eyes expressed no acceptance, but they failed to intimidate.

‘I find it so. My wife is being followed by an individual who looks suspiciously like Felton. I wager that it is your doing. Felton was always a favoured employee of yours in such surveillance work.’

‘Of course. Felton is very good.’ There was no guilt here.

‘May I ask why?’ Lord Faringdon remained remarkably calm when faced with this clear admission of Wycliffe’s involvement.

‘We were not informed of your intention to marry again.’

‘I was not aware that I must inform you on a matter of so intimate a nature.’

‘Of course you should have informed us. Your previous marriage was a disaster of the first order.’ There was an edge to Wycliffe’s patience. ‘We learned a hard lesson with Marianne de Colville. It could have destroyed our whole espionage network, here and in France. It was pure chance that one of her letters was intercepted before any further damage could be inflicted. I would not wish for history to repeat itself with the lady who is now Lady Faringdon. It surprises me, my lord, that you need to ask or question the matter of my… my concern.’

‘Damnation, Wycliffe! Of course I need to—’ He drew in a breath. ‘Sarah is not Marianne. She is nothing like Marianne! There is no similarity in the situation.’

‘Perhaps not—on the surface. But how well do you know the lady? Do you trust her—absolutely and implicitly? It is my understanding that you have not had a long acquaintance. She has lived in New York. Why did she suddenly return to England? Have you ever considered that she might be in the pay of some foreign interest and saw marriage to you as the perfect entrée into government circles? America is not totally disinterested in European events.’

‘What? Sarah a spy?’ Joshua laughed in harsh incredulity. ‘It takes my breath away that you should even consider it. How can you suggest something so patently ridiculous?’

‘Mrs Russell…Lady Faringdon…spent some considerable time in New York. You cannot possibly know what her contacts were there.’

‘My wife went to New York to accompany Eleanor, widow of my cousin Thomas. She remained there with her and my cousin Henry.’ There was now a dangerous calm in Lord Faringdon’s reply.

‘And your cousin, Henry Faringdon, my lord, is well known to have republican leanings. He would have no reason to love the British monarchy—or any attempt on our part to support the democratic monarchies in Europe. He is not above suspicion.’

Joshua’s brows snapped together, all pretence at equanimity abandoned. ‘My cousin might respect republican views, but Henry is hardly likely to be involved in a plot.’

Wycliffe made no reply, but cynicism deepened the lines engraved around his mouth.

‘My wife,’ Lord Joshua continued, ‘is sister to Theodora Wooton-Devereux. Daughter of Sir Hector, who has been British Ambassador to Paris as well as Constantinople and any variety of such places. At present he is in St Petersburg. You must have some acquaintance with him. Hardly the background for an enemy spy.’

Wycliffe was implacable. ‘But your wife was not brought up with her sister, was she? The Wooton-Devereux interest would have no influence whatsoever on your wife’s sympathies.’

‘You have been very busy, sir.’ Joshua suddenly found it very difficult to prevent his hands from curling into fists, and making use of them against this man who could so calmly accuse his wife of such devious plotting. He gripped hard on the reins of temper. ‘You are remarkably well informed of me and my family.’

‘It pays to be so.’

‘I find, sir, that I resent it more than I could have believed possible. It is insulting to a lady of supreme honesty and integrity. If you knew my wife, we would not be having this conversation.’

But Wycliffe remained unmoved in the face of such anger. ‘There are no guarantees in this profession, my lord, as you are aware.’

‘My wife is no spy.’ All Joshua could do was resort to denial of a situation so outrageous as to be unthinkable.

‘It is not beyond the realms of possibility! Sit down, my lord. Sit down.’ Wycliffe waved towards a chair as he himself took his seat behind his desk. ‘Nothing is to be gained by us facing each other in this manner.’

Joshua sat, but was in no way mollified. ‘What right do you have to set one of your minions to follow my wife whenever she sets foot outside the house, and to loiter outside my London address?’

‘I have every right, as you well know if you will consider the matter calmly. My duty is to British security. You are, have been and will be again an important link within my information network. Your recent marriage was very—ah, precipitous—and the lady is unknown to us. Given your connections to myself, you should not have entered into this marriage without my knowledge.’

The air between them remained positively charged with hostility. It was clearly a stand-off. Lord Faringdon continued to fix his employer with a narrowed stare as he diverted to the other problematic issue. ‘I suppose you have not heard the rumours. Unless Felton has also seen fit to feed you the vicious content of London gossip.’

A bland look was the only response he got.

‘A nasty little rumour. Started, I wager, by Olivia Wexford out of a fit of pique when I dispensed with her… her services, shall we say. Another one of your ideas, to disguise the reason for my return to England and paint my character a particular shade of grey, if not midnight black! Another one of your plot-tings that has landed me in serious difficulties. Olivia threatened to get even.’ His laugh was without humour. ‘She is a lady of considerable, although dubious, talent. I can safely say that she has achieved her ambition.’

‘I know little of such matters. I do not move in the same exalted circles as you, my lord.’ Wycliffe watched his noble employee with keen eyes. They were beginning to walk on dangerous waters here.

‘Don’t tell me that you have no knowledge of the accusations—I would not believe it! Your ear is always close to the ground. Olivia has confided to the Polite World that I murdered Marianne in a crime of passion. The whole town is discussing the methods I might have used before consigning her body to some secret grave in the forests around Versailles. My wife now looks at me askance—she thinks that I am having her followed with the prime motive of having her done away with.’

Barely visible, Wycliffe’s whole body had stiffened. ‘You will not comment publicly on such matters. I do not want the Marianne affair to be discussed.’

‘No. I will not.’ The reply was sharp, immediate. ‘But the accusations do not sit well with me.’

‘The rumours are not our problem.’ Wycliffe shrugged. ‘They will soon die a death when a new scandal breaks.’

‘Perhaps. But you are not blameless in the whole unfortunate episode.’

Wycliffe hesitated. ‘Your marriage to Marianne was a terrible mistake.’ It was the only admission that Mr Wycliffe would make.

‘That may be so, but why should I have to continue to pay the price?’

Wycliffe swept the papers on his desk together with a wide gesture of impatience at the direction of the whole conversation. He tried for a softer approach, unwilling to antagonise one of his most gifted informants any further than he had already achieved. He would try for a deflection. ‘Do you want my advice, Joshua?’

‘Advice, is it? Or a demand?’ There was no softening here.

‘Whichever way you wish to see it! You are fit again. Go back to Paris for us. We need information.’

‘So you wish to make use of my talents again. You amaze me. I thought my cover had been effectively infiltrated and I was of no further value in that area. That The Chameleon had outlived his usefulness.’ The arrogance should have warned Wycliffe that his lordship was not to be won over.

‘Perhaps—but I think you still have much to offer. You have innumerable valuable contacts in Paris and at the Bourbon Court. You will be made welcome, invited everywhere. It will not be difficult for you to listen and report back. We need you, Joshua. I never foresee a time when The Chameleon has no value to my plans.’ The gentleman leaned forward, all persuasion. ‘We could be facing a major crisis here.’

‘Listen to what? Still the plot to restore Napoleon—unless he dies first?’ Lord Faringdon’s lip curled. ‘I cannot see there is much of a realistic threat there. The Emperor was fading by the day, as I last heard. The Bonapartists will have to accept failure without any intervention from us.’

‘I agree. But we have received warning, the merest whisper, of a planned assassination. Against whom we are unsure. Or when. Or even the perpetrators. Yet the whispers continue. If it is against one of the royal family, it would not be in our interests. Think of the upheaval if it was a success, encouraging all the dissonant groups to rise against the Bourbons. Their popularity is on shaky ground as it is and they are hardly blessed with a handful of heirs to secure the throne into the future. After Louis XVIII, his brother Charles and his nephew, the Bourbon line stops. An assassination could be highly damaging to stability in France. We need to know more, Joshua. And prevent it coming to fruition, of course.’

‘I see.’

‘We need information that you would be in the perfect position to obtain with an entrée to all the best houses.’ A sly smile coloured Wycliffe’s face. ‘It could also be in your own interests, my lord.’

A raised brow.

‘If you go to Paris, you will escape all the gossip here. When you return,’ Wycliffe snapped his fingers, ‘it will all have dissipated and the haut ton will have forgotten Marianne.’

‘And my wife? What are your plans for her?’

‘Leave her in London. We will continue our surveillance of her until we are certain that she is uninvolved—or until we have proof that she is in the pay of others.’

‘And if I object?’

‘Where government security and policies are concerned you have no right to object. You do not know Sarah Russell. You do not know that you can trust her. We need you and your expertise in Paris.’

He did not like Wycliffe’s reply, but was forced to acknowledge the truth of the man’s assessment of French politics. Even as he damned the man’s callous disregard for any matter other than national security.

‘And the Countess of Wexford?’ he asked. ‘What are your plans for her?’

‘She is not your concern. Forget her. Will you go to Paris?’

‘I will consider it.’

‘Do so quickly, my lord. It is approaching the time of Carnival in Paris. When all the world and his wife celebrates.’ Wycliffe sniffed in distaste of such excess and the openings it provided for those who would destroy the restored government. ‘What better opportunity to carry out a coup d’état against the royal family when no one is prepared to consider anything other than his own pleasure?’

Lord Joshua Faringdon made no response, but slammed out of the room, no more satisfied with the situation than when he had entered the premises half an hour previously.

‘Going somewhere?’ Lord Nicholas Faringdon refused the services of Millington and announced himself in Hanover Square that same afternoon. He found Joshua in the library, folding documents into a well-worn leather case.

‘To Paris.’ Joshua barely looked up, but Nicholas could see the hard-held temper on his face, in every line of his body. Every movement was an essay in simmering fury. A brief, authoritative note from Wycliffe had followed hard on his earlier visit to and conversation with that gentleman, delivered by hand. Lord Faringdon was expected in Paris within the week and should make contact with Sir Charles Stuart, British Ambassador to the Bourbon Court. Further instructions would follow. Thus Lord Faringdon was not in a mellow frame of mind.

‘Oh.’ In no way put out, intimately acquainted with his cousin’s moods, Nicholas helped himself to a glass of brandy and cast himself into a chair to await repercussions. ‘A sudden decision?’

‘Yes.’

Nicholas crossed one booted leg over the other, a study in patience. ‘Is this in the way of a rout by overwhelming odds?’ he enquired, knowing that the outcome might be similar to that of applying a match to a trail of gunpowder.

‘No.’

‘So?’

‘If you must know—’ the leather satchel was flung onto the desk with little vestige of control ‘—it is a tactical retreat before superior forces.’

Silence.

Until Joshua faced his cousin, hands fisted on hips. ‘What is your next question? Are you perhaps going to ask me if I murdered my wife?’ he snarled. ‘You have been remarkably restrained with regard to the fraught topic of Marianne.’ It had been a long and frustrating day. He had not enjoyed the confrontation with Wycliffe or its outcome.

‘I have, haven’t I? But it was not my intent. Not unless I wanted a sharp left to the jaw.’ Nicholas raised his brows, waited a heartbeat. ‘But since you broached the issue… Did you? The gossips sound very sure.’

‘No. I did not.’ Joshua’s face was cold and bleak, in contrast to his eyes, which blazed with molten fire.

‘So where did the tale arise?’

‘A slighted woman, is my guess.’ He flung himself into a chair and picked up the glass that Nicholas had thoughtfully poured for him.

‘Ah. The Countess of Wexford? I thought as much. Beware a woman scorned, particularly one as self-seeking as the fair Countess. I doubt that she enjoyed being evicted from her role in this household.’

‘She had no role in this household.’

‘Well… I expect that she wished she had.’ Nicholas grinned in appreciation. ‘The lady has certainly sharpened her claws and is now intent on sinking them into your tender flesh. The scandal has taken the town by storm.’

‘As I know to my cost!’ Joshua put down the glass with a force that threatened the perfection of the faceted crystal. ‘But I am innocent of this, Nick. I did not murder my wife! Marianne…she is…was…!’ Aware of Wycliffe’s warning and the crevasse opening before the unwary, Joshua bit down on any further incriminating words.

Nicholas choked on his brandy.

‘She’s what? I thought she was dead.’

‘Nothing! She is.’

‘Sher…perhaps you need to tell me just what is going on. Of course you did not murder your wife. No one with any sense believes that you did. But something is afoot. What is it?’

Joshua gritted his teeth, the muscles of his jaw hardening. ‘That, Nick, is the whole problem. I must keep a still tongue in my head.’

‘Does Sarah know?’

‘No, she does not.’

‘Will you take her to Paris with you?’

Oh, God! ‘Yes…no. I haven’t decided. It is none of your affair!’

‘I just thought…’

‘What did you just think?’ Joshua glared at him.

‘That it would be better for Sarah if you took her with you.’

Joshua sighed. Of course he should take her with him. She would be devastated if he left her in London. He knew enough of Sarah’s state of mind to know that she would see it as a personal slight. But there was her safety to consider if death and violence were to be the order of the day in Paris.

‘It might,’ he said quietly, ‘be in the interest of Sarah’s safety if I left her here.’

Nicholas placed his glass carefully on the desk before raising keen eyes to pin his cousin down. ‘Sher—you can tell me to go to the devil, of course, but—are you involved in government work—something conspiratorial, perhaps—which necessitates your silence? Something which is not without its dangers?’

‘Why do you say that?’ The silver eyes narrowed with suspicion, but did not waver.

‘No reason. It is just that—’

‘You have a fertile imagination.’ Joshua was increasingly aware of a compulsion to unburden himself to his cousin. To lay before him the whole intricate web of plots and devious scheming that could undermine the peace achieved after Waterloo. To admit to the identity of The Chameleon. And knew he must not. He closed his eyes momentarily against it.

‘Perhaps I have. So you have no intention of unburdening yourself.’ It was as if Nicholas had sensed the internal battle, impulse waging war against necessity.

‘No.’

‘Very well. If that is what you truly wish.’ Nicholas pushed himself to his feet. ‘I cannot force you. But remember, if you ever need a sympathetic ear… ‘

‘Forgive me, Nick.’ Joshua also stood forcing his muscles to relax, managing a wry smile. ‘It is not my intention to appear churlish.’

‘But you do!’

‘All I can say is that the decision to unburden myself—as you put it so aptly—is not mine to make.’

Nicholas began to make his way to the door. Then, on a thought, looked back. ‘Do I surmise that your…er…colourful reputation is not as dire as you would have us believe? That it has all been a disguise for some undercover project?’

‘Surmise what you will.’ Nicholas could read nothing in Joshua’s expression. ‘But don’t discuss such an idea with Thea. Because she will surely talk to Sarah. And then where shall we all be!’

‘What an interesting life you lead, Sher!’ Now Nicholas laughed. ‘I never could accept that you were such a black sheep in the family as you would have us believe.’

‘Ha! I fear that my interesting life, as you put it, is about to call in its debts.’ For a moment Joshua hesitated, wondering if he were about to make a mistake, but was encouraged by the understanding smile on his cousin’s face. ‘You could do one thing for me.’

‘And that is?’

‘Come to Paris with me. I have the strangest feeling that I might just need your support.’

‘Will the Countess of Wexford be there?’

‘Highly likely. Now that she has done all the damage she can in London.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Thea will love it. She is not unacquainted with the city. Sir Hector was ambassador there for some months.’

‘I did not mean that Thea should… But of course she would accompany you.’ Joshua looked dubious at the prospect.

‘What—me go Paris with you—and leave Thea at home?’ Nicholas laughed aloud. ‘Have your wits entirely gone begging, man? When did any fashionable woman refuse a chance to go to Paris?’

‘Forgive me, Nick—I seem to have said that more than once this afternoon!’ Joshua bared his teeth in a passable smile and now, for the first time, there was some warmth there. ‘How crass of me! Perhaps both you and your formidable wife can give my fast-disintegrating reputation some much-needed support.’

That same night Joshua had intended to dine early at home before escorting Sarah to the theatre at Covent Garden. To hell with the gossips! And the devil take Wycliffe with his insinuations concerning Sarah’s loyalties! He would not turn and run from public gaze. Had they not flung down a challenge at the Exhibition and survived the ordeal? But at the eleventh hour he could not face running the gauntlet of the tiers of boxes with their avid eyes and raised lorgnettes, pretending ignorance of the knowing looks and speculation on his relationship with Marianne. The discussion of his sins both in general and in wicked particular. His respect for Eleanor and Henry, who had done exactly that, multiplied. But he guessed, rightly, that Sarah would find no enjoyment in the performance if they were providing the audience with more entertainment than the actors on the stage.

Wycliffe’s lack of sympathy and insistence that it was Joshua’s duty to return to Paris had seriously ruffled the Faringdon feathers.

So Lord and Lady Faringdon dined à deux at home with a reasonable show of unity, finding enough food for conversation to carry them through the various dishes in the first and second courses. Perhaps with no real appetite, but with no serious conflict, or even a need to discuss the little matter of murder. Sarah was perfectly willing to follow her lord’s lead. What would be the value in their discussing so contentious an issue when there was nothing further to be said, when Joshua was as tight-lipped as one of the oysters on her plate? Until, that is, they reached the dessert, a marvellous confection of peaches in heavy syrup and spun sugar.

Lord Joshua found that he had no appetite; he did not pick up his spoon.

‘Sarah—I find a need to go to Paris.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyes immediately flew from her plate to his face, her enjoyment of the sweetness effectively destroyed by that one short statement. ‘When?’

‘In two days.’

If he saw a flicker of disappointment, a deepening of the little lines of concern that marked the fair skin beside her eyes when she was troubled, he thought he might have been mistaken. Or perhaps not. He was now intimately acquainted with Sarah’s ability to hide her thoughts.

‘Some business that has come up.’ I know it is a lame excuse, but it is the best I can do.

‘Of course.’ What business? Has the Countess of Wexford gone back to Paris? Surely he has not arranged an assignation! But I asked that I should not be required to meet and acknowledge his mistress. This would be an ideal solution to the problem. To continue the affair in Paris when I am far away! Her heart fell to the level of her satin shoes. She too put down her spoon.

‘Will it be a short visit?’ She kept her voice admirably calm, tried for a smile, which was not as successful, so skilfully raised her napkin to her lips to cover it.

‘I do not know. A week or two, perhaps longer.’

‘Very well.’ Even worse! Some would say that he is also going to ensure that there is no evidence to be discovered of the murder of poor Marianne. Many would say that. But I cannot—I will not—accept that. The possibilities rushed into her mind, rendering her almost light-headed.

Joshua watched his wife as she licked the sugar from one finger, her skin suddenly very pale. She would never ask him what he intended to do in Paris. Of course she would not. As a partner in a marriage of convenience he knew that she would be very careful of her status, ask nothing of him other than he was prepared to give on his own initiative. The thought touched his heart with compassion. And as at Richmond when she had so desperately wanted to ride with him, a desire to give her more than she was prepared to ask. So he made his decision in the blink of an eye. What was there to decide, after all? He knew what he wanted—he would not think about his reasons for it—but he also knew what would be the best for Sarah at this crucial time in their marriage. He had tried to distance himself. That had been a disaster and he could not do it again. It would be cruelty itself to leave her here alone to face the accusations, even more for her to have to tolerate Felton’s intrusive shadowing in his absence. She would assuredly think the worst of her absent husband if he abandoned her in cold blood.

He could not leave her. Had known it as soon as Nicholas had challenged him over it.

So he abandoned any attempt to eat Mrs Beddows’s masterpiece with some relief and cast his napkin on the table.

‘Sarah. Yes, I am going to Paris. But you are coming with me. Go and instruct your maid to pack some clothes. Not many, mind. You can enjoy the glories of Parisian fashion when you get there.’

‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak. She pushed aside her spoon with a clatter. ‘You will take me to Paris?’ Whatever she had expected, it was not this.

‘You, my dear wife. I have arranged for the children to stay with Judith.’ Well, he would do so first thing in the morning. ‘Don’t argue!’ as he saw her lips part. ‘Beth and John will enjoy it. Judith will spoil them inordinately. I need some time alone with you, away from the wagging tongues. Let us call it a late wedding visit, if you wish.’ He built his case skilfully unless she would still refuse. But what woman would? ‘I need to introduce you to Paris and you need to inspect our property there. It is Carnival, with much to entertain and amuse.’

‘Well… If you think… ‘

‘And I have suggested that Nick and Thea join us for a short time. That will be company for you when I need to be elsewhere.’ He applied the layers with sly expertise.

‘Yes…’

‘You will spend a considerable amount of my money and enjoy it.’ And before she could deny it: ‘It is in our contract, so I insist.’

‘But I—’

‘Sarah! I think I should also have included in that damned document that you would not argue with me at every step. There is nothing for you to do but be ready to go to France within the week. I have a yacht, which is awaiting us in Dover harbour. Can you be ready?’

‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ A glow of colour suffused her cheeks. He could not resist, but leaned over and kissed her tinted cheek, the most gentle of caresses. And then, because the temptation was too great, and she was so close, her soft lips. They were warm and offered everything he could ask. But he drew back.

And laughed aloud as the look of startled surprise on her face struck at his senses. The likelihood of Sarah being a spy for any foreign power roused his appreciation of the ridiculous. She might mask her thoughts, but she was not that good at hiding her feelings. Wycliffe must be a fool indeed to suspect her of double-dealing! She was as transparent as the sparkling crystal on the table when jolted into happiness.

‘What is it?’ Her glance was one of sudden concern, of suspicion that her husband had manoeuvred her into this position, which he had, of course.

‘Nothing at all, dear Sarah! You are a delight to me.’

She frowned at him, but said no more. There was no accounting for the strange whims of gentlemen, after all. So she took herself off, to organise herself for the forthcoming and entirely unexpected treat. Surely if he intended to pursue the Countess of Wexford, he would not take his wife with him. It was inconceivable! The bubble of excitement within her chest could not be quelled.

Joshua smiled at her retreating figure. It pleased him to give her pleasure. Not from love exactly—he had already made that decision, had he not? But she was enchanting when taken by surprise.

And he felt a smug satisfaction at thwarting Wycliffe’s attempts to separate them, to keep Sarah alone and under surveillance in London.

Then there was only one more step for Lord Joshua Faringdon to take.

His decision to act on Wycliffe’s suggestion—if suggestion were not too mild a word for that gentleman’s plain speaking—and return to Paris as the British government’s eyes and ears gave his lordship pause for thought in the following days. It had never been an issue for him before. He had embarked on any number of chancy escapades with little concern for his own safety or the outcome of the mission. A thoughtless belief in his own immortality, he supposed. Now, with Sarah as his wife, he must give the inherent dangers some serious consideration. It had struck him with unpleasant force on the night when he had insisted that Sarah accompany him. There should be no danger for her in Paris, yet he must still contemplate the worst scenario. So he had some rapid plans to make.

He spent a day in careful thought and planning, partly in communication with Mr Hoskins, the lawyer who oversaw all the Faringdon legal matters, and finally the withdrawal of a large sum of money from his lordship’s bank. In return he acquired a deed of property, the outcome all quickly tied up and entirely to his satisfaction.

All that remained was to present the final conclusion to Sarah. He prowled the library, awaiting her return from an outing with Theodora. And brooded over the unpredictability of women who were too independent and self-sufficient for their own good, particularly those whose well-being was fast becoming a fixation with him. However enchanting they might be, however much they might have come to fill his thoughts from one hour to the next, they were still unpredictable.

At last he heard her light footsteps in the hall and emerged to meet her, all suave elegance and composure. No one would ever question his assurance. Still in her outdoor wear, she was in process of removing her beribboned and flowered straw bonnet. The soft light through the tall windows touched her hair with pale gold. She turned to him with a quick smile.

‘Joshua.’ Her eyes picked up colour in the sunbeams. ‘I did not know that you were home.’ Her impromptu greeting and genuine warmth filled his veins with a sudden heat.

‘I was waiting for you, lady.’

She blushed deliciously. Made no attempt to walk away, as the old Sarah might have done.

‘Sarah. Have you a moment?’

‘Of course.’

She must have no notion of how uncertain he felt, nor would she. He would carry it off with his habitual confidence as if the outcome of the next few moments were of no real importance to him, when they concerned him very much. He opened the door into the withdrawing room, a deliberate choice, being less formal and business-like than the library. It was important to keep her at her ease, unaware.

Waiting by the window as she laid aside her gloves and her parasol, he stood and watched, then without a word he handed her an envelope. Thick. Official, with her name on the outer cover.

‘What is it?’ Her brows rose in typical and instant suspicion, her eyes flying to his face.

He shook his head and smiled. ‘Open it.’ He would not say more.

‘A gift?’

‘Not really. More in the way of a security.’ He refused to be defensive, but saw the little line grow between her brows.

‘You should not, Joshua. You have given me so much. You do not need to give me more.’ But she still opened it with a very feminine curiosity.

‘I know.’ He watched her. ‘But I thought that perhaps this was necessary for you. You will understand.’

She raised her brows at his enigmatic words, but he would say no more until she had seen for herself. So Sarah extracted a sheaf of pages. Her eyes ran down one, then the next, widened with shock. Then she began to read again, colour fluctuating in her cheeks, lips parted in amazement.

‘Joshua… ‘ At first she could not find the words.

‘Sarah!’ He allowed himself a smile.

‘You cannot do this. You must not.’

‘Of course I can. It is my right and my pleasure. You are my wife.’ Perhaps for the first time, the force of the words struck home. You are my wife and I alone am responsible for your happiness and your safety. Your peace of mind.

‘Joshua… it is too much.’

‘It pleases me. You must allow me to be pleased.’

‘But a house! My very own house… ‘

She sank to the seat beside her as if her legs had not the strength to hold her.

‘It is for yourself and John. Whatever happens in the future, you will have your own home in your own name, independent of the estate. To live in or to sell, as you see fit.’

Sarah promptly shocked both of them by abandoning the document in her lap and covering her face with her hands.

‘Oh, Sarah.’ He sighed. What did he have to do to bring her troubled soul some degree of happiness and contentment? ‘It is not worth your tears. I had hoped that it would please you and give you some security.’

Your future will no longer be entirely dependent on me.

But he could not say that, could not even admit it to himself, when his impulse was to tighten the bonds rather than loosen them.

But his instinct at this moment was to take her into his arms and dry her tears with his lips. To tell her again that she need not fear the future, or his reputation, or the terrible scandal that hedged them in—whatever it was that robbed her of comfort. He wanted her to smile at him again as she had when she had walked into the hall, a smile of sheer delight. But he held back from her, aware of his own vulnerability for perhaps the first time. If she refused this gift, it would be like a slap in the face. He did not wish to contemplate that. She might fear her dependence on him. But he was beginning to realise that his happiness was fast becoming dependent on her. And he dare not approach her, for fear that she reject him as well as his gift.

‘Sarah. Please do not cry.’ He raked his fingers through his hair in a typically Faringdon gesture. ‘I did this to make you happy, not to deluge you in grief. You can refuse it if you wish. But, indeed, I hope that you will not.’

‘Yes… no! I know why you have done it. I am so overcome.’ She looked up, a wavering smile on her lips, her lashes spangled with tears as she wiped them away her hands.

What an amazing man. He had given her a house of her own. Her own house—her mind repeated it again and again. A little town house in one of the streets off the Park. Bought by him in her name. Not part of the Faringdon estate. With the tip of one finger she traced where her name was written on the deed of ownership, breathless with astonishment that he should do this for her, aware of her innermost fears. How could she not weep? She had never experienced such generosity in the whole of her life. Such willingness to give her her freedom if she wished to take it. Making himself vulnerable to her own choice.

He had put her future here into her own hands. What did he deserve from her? It was time that she grew up, that she stepped outside her fears and foolish insecurities.

So Sarah rose to her feet, pressing the document to her heart for a moment before laying it aside on the table. Wiped the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. Then walked toward him quite deliberately. Stood before him. Watched the uncertainty on his face. Raised her hands, again quite deliberately with no tremor, to frame his face, aware of the flash of surprise in his eyes as she did so. Then placed her lips on his. Very gently, the merest breath.

‘Thank you, Joshua. What a marvellous gift. How could I ask for better? I could not possibly refuse it.’ She kissed him again, astonished anew at her courage in making so personal a gesture. In the cold light of day. In the withdrawing room.

The tension eased from his face, the harsh lines softened. His smile reflected hers. It was all the encouragement she needed. She kissed him one more.

‘Sarah.’ His voice was low, a little rough with emotion. ‘Do you realise that you have kissed me three times of your own volition?’

‘I know.’ Her smile deepened. ‘And I can make it four.’

And she did.

Later Joshua was free to heave a sigh of relief that his plan had come to a satisfactory fulfilment. Whatever happened in the future, Sarah would have her own home, over and above the settlement made for her in the legal jointure at the time of their marriage. Because it had to be faced. Sarah was unaware of the dangers, and it was his intention that she remain so, but dangers there undoubtedly were. If Wycliffe was talking of assassinations, political murder… Joshua thought about his last visit to Paris, his expression grim. It had ended in his ignominious sprawl over a balustrade with immediate pain and inconvenience, but no lasting damage. It could have ended quite differently if his assailant had been intent on taking his life. He had been careless, thoughtless of his safety. Next time—if there was to be a next time—he would be prepared against so overt an attack, but he might not be so fortunate in the outcome. It was the price he might be called upon to pay, becoming involved with those who would destroy the peace and stability of Europe. He had always accepted that. If death awaited him in the sumptuous rooms and clipped gardens of Paris and the Tuileries, so be it. But Sarah would not suffer. A grim tension settled about his mouth.

And Sarah must not know.

## Chapter Nine

February 1820—Pari

It was new and overwhelming and Sarah, as she admitted in the secrecy of her heart, adored every minute of it despite having no familiarity with it or acquaintance there of her own. The city was so old compared with New York. So much to see, so many gracious buildings, such a variety of shop windows to gaze into, so many fashionable people. Her isolation was merely temporary. Theodora and Nicholas were expected to join them any day. Sarah suspected that Joshua had arranged it for her comfort and was grateful. Nor could she fault his own concern for her happiness. Until her sister arrived he was attentive and companionable, pleased to escort her wherever she wished to go. He bought her a copy of Galignani’s Paris Guide and consented to accompany her sight-seeings with amused tolerance. She could almost close her mind to the many times when he was not at home, usually during the dark hours, when he left their house in the most fashionable quarter of the city without advising anyone of his destination. Almost, but not quite.

Sarah had little time to sit and think. Even to miss the children, which she did, of course, when she came upon something that would reduce John to astonishment, such as a splendid parade of the lancers of the Garde Royale, or would attract Beth’s wide-eyed interest. But Lord and Lady Joshua Faringdon were in demand. As soon as it was known that the English lord had returned to Paris, they received one invitation after another to soirées and balls, intimate At Homes and Court receptions. Particularly the formal receptions at the Palais Royal in the Tuileries Gardens. Sarah made her curtsy here to Louis XVIII, his brother Charles, Comte d’Artois, and Louis’ nephew, the Duc de Berri, who, with his young Duchesse, were at the centre of a lively circle who enjoyed life to the full. The Faringdons were soon drawn into the set who danced and feasted and discussed matters of triviality or importance from dawn to dusk. Sarah found it easy to admire the pretty Duchesse who remained cheerful despite her agonising failure to bear her lord, whom she so clearly adored, a son.

It was, as Joshua had told her, the time of Carnival, the days of mad revelry before the onset of the abstinence of Lent. Days of feasting and dancing, in private houses and in the streets, days and nights when no one slept. When visits to the opera or the open-air boulevard entertainments became the priority for the aristocracy. When even King Louis joined the procession of carriages and the masked revellers through the streets of the capital and the de Berris were frequently to be seen at the public festivities.

In Paris the shops were without doubt magnificent. Even Sarah could not but be entranced by the richness and beauty as she strolled along the rue Vivienne or the Champs-Elysées to the Tuileries Gardens. She could hardly wait for Theodora to join her. Meanwhile she strolled with Joshua when he visited Galignani’s famous bookshop and reading room to meet and exchange news with any number of English visitors, as well as read the English newspapers and magazines delivered daily.

Although she would never speak of it to him, it could not but impress her how graciously Lord Joshua Faringdon was received. How much at ease he was. She could not but admire his address and presence as he introduced her to the Parisian beau monde, ensuring her immediate acceptance into the most magnificent of private homes and châteaux, at a gossipy breakfast, a fashionable and erudite salon, a formal diplomatic ball or a frivolous bal costume. Sarah might eschew the extravagant costumes worn by some—how could she possibly consider the dress of a Peruvian princess as suitable attire?—but the opportunity to wear a silver silk-and-taffeta domino over her gown with a seductively feathered mask to cover her face—how could any lady, even the quietly reserved Lady Faringdon, resist such delights? And when it came to the dancing she discovered herself perfectly adept at mastering the steps of the polka, the polonaise, and even the mazurka with its hectic Polish folk tunes. Lord Joshua was able to partner her with sure steps, impeccable grace and timing and superb sartorial elegance. How unfair it was. But her heart swelled with unspoken love and pride when he led her into a waltz and held her close, when she felt the strength and warmth of his satin-clad arm rest around her waist, to the jealous glances of any number of far more beautiful ladies than she could ever claim to be. Sarah smiled in utter contentment.

Sometimes, when at leisure, she allowed herself to recall her own upbringing in the little Jacobean manor house in Whitchurch, comfortable enough, of course, but where both affection and money were sadly lacking, from which her marriage to John Russell had been a welcome escape. Only to be forced to return to Whitchurch by a series of catastrophic events, not least the death of her husband. There was little of that naïve and shy girl to be seen now in fashionable Lady Faringdon, she mused, as she smoothed a pair of delectable lavender kid gloves over her smooth, well-cared for hands. But under the surface… there lurked the distressing lack of confidence that still struck her at the most inconvenient moments. Leaving her to feel unworthy of being noticed, much less being the recipient of affection—or even love. There was little point in her lecturing herself over it again—it just happened, rather like being struck down by a sudden heady cold. She smiled at the thought. But it afflicted her much less than it had in the past and she believed that she had learned to live with her guilt for past sins. Here in Paris she was accepted into society in her husband’s name and, perhaps a little, on her own merit.

And although she was aware of and sometimes irritated by the ripple of interested gossip when they entered a room, the welcoming smiles and flirtatious glances of the beautiful women who wore their jewels with such casual assurance and hid their expressions behind feathered fans, Sarah had the relief of knowing that here in Paris she was not being followed. Not once did she feel the soft footstep of an anonymous figure behind her. Whoever had been sufficiently interested in her movements had been left behind in London. But she did not speak of it to Joshua. He would deny it anyway. She had no wish to destroy the present comfortable harmony between them.

Theodora and Nicholas arrived in Paris as expected. Sarah came upon Thea arranging the disposal of their luggage at the Faringdon house in Paris with all the skill of a lady of many and distant travels in the company of her mother and ambassadorial father.

‘Sarah! We have arrived at last.’ Thea embraced her sister. ‘How well you look and how fashionable. It is so many years since I last visited Paris for any length of time—not since my father was with the embassy here. I expect the shops are as enticing as ever. Shall we explore them this afternoon?’

‘Are you not too tired after your journey?’ Sarah already knew the reply.

‘When is my wife ever tired when there is the possibility of spending money on dresses and smart hats and the like?’ Nicholas had entered the hall behind them and now saluted Sarah on her cheek with grace and humour. ‘As my lady says, Sarah, marriage becomes you. But why you should feel comfortable as Sher’s wife, I know not.’ The glint in his eyes belied the sharp thrust at his cousin’s expense.

Sarah blushed, but could not mistake Thea’s subtle elbow in Nicholas’s ribs.

‘I am sure he is the perfect husband,’ Theodora stated. ‘Will you come with us, Nicholas?’

‘No. You do not need me, I am assured.’

Thea kissed him, allowing him to curl an arm around her waist, to pull her close, in the relative privacy of the entrance hall. ‘I promise not to spend too much.’ She lowered her lashes, flirtatious as ever.

‘Don’t promise that—or we shall both be disappointed when you do.’ He returned the caress to her cheek when she offered it. ‘I trust Sarah to keep an eye on you, as your elder sister.’

‘An impossible task to place on my shoulders!’ Sarah smiled and Thea crowed with laughter, which filled Sarah with delight that her family had joined her. There was nothing now to prevent her enjoying her first experience of the fashionable and sophisticated life offered by the French capital.

Sarah’s equanimity, however, at the covetous glances cast at her husband was severely overthrown during one hot and deplorably overcrowded evening at the home of Pozzo di Borgo, the Russian Ambassador. Afterwards she could not say what had made her aware, to turn her head at that precise moment. A faintest shiver of anticipation along her spine. But she felt a need to look over her shoulder—to see her lord standing at the entrance to a private anteroom. Tall, straight and splendidly handsome in the dark severity of formal evening clothes. As was now very familiar to her, her heart fluttered and her cheeks grew pink with sheer delight in his presence—until she saw that he was in close and intimate conversation with a woman. A woman whose lovely face and superb figure were horribly familiar. The conversation between the two was clearly of a serious nature and in some depth. Then her lord was bowing over the lady’s hand, raising it to his lips.

Olivia Wexford. Of course.

Sarah could not see Joshua’s expression, but she could view the Countess’s face without interruption. Perhaps a little cool and serious at first. The faintest of frowns between her arched brows. Some sharp words from her expression. Then her face warming with a charming sparkle in her eyes and a flirtatious little smile curving her lips. She tapped Lord Faringdon’s arm with her fan. There could be no mistaking so provocative a gesture for what it was. An invitation!

Sarah turned away. She did not wish to see more. The pain in her heart stabbed deeply, more than she could ever have believed. But she should have expected no less. Joshua had not married her for love. Sarah had acknowledged that incontrovertible fact at the very beginning, acknowledged, reluctantly, that he would continue to give his affections elsewhere. But she could not like the Countess of Wexford, remembering her sly malice and deliberate desire to harm. In fact, the gentle lady, who now stood with her back deliberately turned against the Countess and her own husband, was forced to admit that she positively detested the woman! Sarah’s fingers curved around her fan into remarkable talons, worthy of a predator about to strike. Sensing the immediate danger to the fragile ivory sticks, Sarah took a breath and used all her will-power to force them to relax. She must be willing to accept. She could not like it, but she must acknowledge that her marriage was truly one of convenience.

But why did it have to be the Countess of Wexford who returned to such prominence in her lord’s life?

She eventually brought herself to speak of the unnerving episode to Thea, desiring a sympathetic audience. But Thea shrugged, giving no credence to her sister’s fears.

‘I don’t understand why you are so concerned.’

‘He was kissing her hand.’

‘Sarah! Of course he would. Joshua is all grace and elegance and perfect manners. And, after all, he knows the woman. He could hardly turn the shoulder in public, now could he?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ She did not look convinced.

Thea smiled. ‘Joshua is no fool. Give him credit for seeing how shallow and self-centred that dreadful creature is.’

Sarah answered with unusual asperity. ‘But meanwhile he might also see—and remember!—how well endowed and beautiful she is! I know for a fact that she once engaged his interest.’

‘Sarah…’ What could Thea say to reassure? ‘That was before he married you!’

‘Does that matter?’

Thea frowned at her sister with more than a little frustration. ‘Well—you know him better than I, of course.’ She would not refer to the rumours that, according to Nicholas, had followed Joshua all his adult life, to the despair of Lady Beatrice. ‘But I would not think you had anything to fear from the Countess. Your lord is hardly neglectful of you, is he?’

For since her arrival, Thea had noted Joshua’s care and particular attention to Sarah. The softness of his expression when his eyes rested on his wife, particularly when Sarah was unaware, could not be denied. How complicated it was becoming. Thea knew that Sarah loved Joshua, of course—had she not admitted the fact herself? But it seemed equally possible that Lord Joshua was fast losing his heart to a lady who had no appreciation whatsoever of that interesting development. And equally, it seemed to Theodora, a fascinated witness, that Lord Joshua was fighting against the experience. How foolish people were when they refused to accept this basic and highly desirable attraction. Not like herself and Nicholas, of course. She had the grace to blush a little as she remembered her own forward behaviour. Particularly a notable incident in the stables at Aymestry, before the disaster of the fire. But she took it upon herself not to meddle in her sister’s private affairs. Or not yet, at any event. Sarah would not thank her for it and she certainly did not think that Joshua would welcome any involvement on her part. As for Nicholas… She winced a little as she imagined her lord’s caustic words if she engaged in stirring the smouldering ashes between Joshua and Sarah into a bright flame. So—for a little time at least—she would simply watch and keep her own council.

Sarah, unaware of her sister’s train of thought, accepted Thea’s advice, but she still could not feel at ease. If she became a little uncertain and just slightly withdrawn towards her lord, he apparently showed no awareness of it.

Which perversely worried Sarah even more.

But any surface harmony between them was not to last.

For Sarah it all began with an inopportune meeting with the one woman in Paris whom she had every intention of avoiding. It could not be avoided, since Sarah had arranged to wait for Thea outside Le Domino Rouge, a mantua makers in the rue Vivienne, when out of the next-door establishment, which sold the finest of leather gloves, stepped no other than the Countess of Wexford. The two ladies faced each other. Both curtsied. Both regarded each other with smiling lips and frosty eyes.

‘Mrs Russell.’ The Countess unfurled her parasol with a supremely elegant gesture, entirely in keeping with her smoothly controlled voice. ‘But, of course, you are no longer Mrs Russell, are you? I would not have expected to meet Lord Faringdon’s…ah, housekeeper…here.’ Her smile had the tiniest and most effective hint of contempt in tone and in the calculated hesitation. ‘You played your cards very cleverly, did you not? I would not have expected such expertise on your part—but it seems that we must not be misled by appearances. One does not expect such skills from a mere employee.’

‘I do not take your meaning, my lady.’ Of course she did. It fired Sarah’s blood with instant wrath. How dare the Countess patronise her!

‘No? I should have realised, of course. Joshua did not seek me out when I was resident in Hanover Square. I had thought it was his tiresome injuries that prompted his lack of interest. But now I know the truth.’ The Countess’s magnificent eyes flashed. ‘You were the object of his gallantry, I presume. Did you take him to your bed, Mrs Russell?’

‘No, my lady, I did not.’ Sarah might be suitably horrified at so intimate a conversation, so blatant a suggestion, in a public street, but as her mind absorbed the Countess’s words, it was as if a heavy weight was lifted from her heart. She felt almost light-headed as an intense relief flooded through her. Joshua did not seek me out when I was resident in Hanover Square. She had no doubt that the Countess was speaking the truth. Why admit to such humiliation otherwise, when her intent had been to lift her finger and secure Lord Joshua’s interest? So Joshua had never taken her as his mistress. It was difficult for Sarah to suppress the little bubble of delight in her throat. But she did, sensing that Olivia Wexford could still be an enemy. Further, Sarah had no intention of retreating from so insensitive an accusation about her own status in Hanover Square. But nor would she allow the explosion of fury in her blood to be evident. She opened her cream ecru parasol in malicious parody and smiled with particular sweetness. ‘You must not judge me by your own standards, my lady.’ The reply was quite gentle.

‘No? But what woman would not welcome a man such as Joshua Faringdon to her bed? What woman would not cast out lures? Such wealth. Such an address. Between you and me, my dear, I think that we can agree that he is quite irresistible.’

‘I did not have to lure Lord Joshua, my lady.’ Sarah had no difficulty in preserving her confident little smile as she noted the tension in the beautiful face.

‘Beware of being too confident, my lady’ A snap here as the Countess’s control all but slipped in the face of such challenge. ‘You hear what the rumours say of your husband. A rake and a libertine might not make for a comfortable husband.’

‘I know. I have heard the rumours. I have known them from the very beginning,’ Sarah inclined her head in gracious acknowledgement. ‘But I do not have to believe all that I hear.’

‘Not even about Joshua’s first wife? Marianne?’ There was a sparkle in the Countess’s eyes, almost of greed, as she watched her quarry’s reaction.

She was to be disappointed. ‘Certainly not of that,’ Sarah replied with equanimity. ‘I know of what my husband is capable. And it is not murder. I am astounded that you would repeat such an unpleasant and outright lie. It does you no credit, my lady.’

‘You are haughty. Perhaps you should consider the safety of your own position—’ Her words ended as Theodora made her appearance from the exclusive modiste’s emporium and approached the two ladies with sharp ears and an air of deep fascination. The Countess promptly turned on her heel to put an end to any further exchange.

‘The Countess of Wexford did not have the good manners to exchange greetings,’ Thea observed with a bright smile. ‘Not a suitable person with whom to be acquainted, I think. I could not help but overhear, Sarah. Now, where do you suppose that rumour of Marianne’s fate began?’ Thea raised her brows as she continued to watch the Countess’s retreating figure.

Sarah too watched Olivia’s departure with thinned lips. ‘I cannot imagine.’

Theodora laughed. ‘I see that we are in agreement, my dear sister.’ She tucked her hand in Sarah’s arm.

‘I think that we are indeed.’

Which left Sarah with the slightest frisson of triumph that Olivia had not shared her bed with Joshua when they had shared a house. It gave Sarah a lighter heart—but did not heal it.

Fate began to take a more malicious hand.

The tranquil pond began to acquire even more ripples of disquiet.

Olivia Wexford’s was not the only face in a crowd destined to draw Sarah’s attention. The incident, trifling in itself, occurred on the following afternoon when strolling in the Tuileries Gardens with Theodora, Lord Joshua having once again cried off from accompanying them. But then, as Thea pointed out with an arch of her brows, so had Nicholas, so there was no cause for any dark suspicion—it was merely that gentlemen could always find better things to do than promenade in gardens! Sarah found herself stepping around a small group of fashionable strollers, deep in conversation, equally there to enjoy the air and the flowers, one of them, a lady in a bonnet much to Theodora’s decided taste with nodding plumes and flowers and an extravagant crown. Sarah managed only a glimpse of dark hair and dark eyes and strikingly dark brows within that remarkable setting, yet she was struck by an instant recognition. But who? And where?

‘Thea—the lady who has just passed us…’

‘The one with the osprey feathers? What a splendid bonnet it is. But I could not wear that colour. Amber does not become me.’

‘Never mind the hat! Do you know her? Your acquaintance is so much wider than mine.’

‘No longer, I fear. Aymestry is not exactly the centre of the universe,’ Thea admitted without discernible regret. ‘I think the lady and I have not met. She has an arresting face.’

So thought Sarah. No, they had never met, yet it tugged at her mind. Perhaps indeed it was a distant acquaintance—someone whom she had seen in London who was also paying a visit to Paris. A familiar suspicion trickled into her mind. Or someone she had seen in Joshua’s company. She closed her mind to that. But the lady was indeed eye-catching…

It was not important.

The face stayed in her memory. Sarah was not at ease.

Joshua also found himself beset.

His conversation with Olivia Wexford at the diplomatic reception had been totally unsatisfactory, much as he had expected. When he had broached the subject head on, with typical candour, she denied any knowledge of the source of the rumours in London. But her eyes had been cold and watchful of his reaction to her. She was not beyond throwing out lures, despite their fraught parting, making it more than evident that she would welcome any overtures from him. Joshua smiled without humour. He had no intention of making overtures of any nature to the Countess. He had never trusted her, trusted her even less now, knowing that she was capable of making any kind of mischief. He would not become involved with her again, whatever plots Wycliffe might devise. She was far too dangerous, driven by resentment at her so-casual dismissal from his life.

But the matter of the Countess of Wexford was quickly put out of his mind. There was beyond question something afoot, as Wycliffe had intimated. He could find no sound evidence beyond an uneasy calm and a variety of enigmatic observations from his many sources. He had definitely discarded the viability of the long-running plot to restore the Emperor Napoleon. It was generally acknowledged that the exiled ruler was near death. Yet it seemed to him that Paris was holding its breath, awaiting some catastrophe. As he worded to Wycliffe in a carefully neutral note, nothing was clear except the extreme vulnerability of the Bourbons. Louis himself widowed and childless, his brother also widowed. Even more a cause for concern was that Louis’s nephew and his lively wife, the Duc and Duchesse de Berri, had yet to produce a living son. A carefully plotted assassination against any or all, particularly if the royal family neglected its security during the Carnival revels, could destroy the Bourbon claim in one vicious coup and open France to God-knew-what influences.

So Joshua worried about the lack of news and the dangers inherent in the street celebrations. It even began to tease at his mind that perhaps he should have left Sarah in London after all. It might be that there were real dangers lurking behind the costumes and masks here in Paris, not to be compared with the minor irritation of having one of Wycliffe’s men dog her steps at home. That thought, growing as the days passed, troubled his sleep and scraped at the edges of his temper. He must take it upon himself to ensure Sarah’s safety—after all, he had insisted that she come to Paris—but his energies were being stretched in too many directions. The one consolation was that since Thea and Nick were here it meant that she need never go out without company, if he were committed. But even so, he must stick close to his wife. It was becoming more and more important to him that he keep her safe. When his sleep was not disturbed by plots and rumours, it was troubled by thoughts of Sarah.

His troubles were multiplied a thousand times when he, too, saw a face he knew. Recognised it immediately, without any difficulty. Dark haired, dark eyed, striking features, it was a face with which he had lived for many years. So familiar that it caused him to rein in his horse with ungentle hands. The lady passed by him in a fashionable carriage, in company with a distinguished gentleman some years older than herself and another fashionably dressed couple. Before he could gather his wits and restrain his horse’s lively reactions, she was too distant, so he was unable to speak with her. Besides, in truth, he had no idea what he should say to her in company, in public. He could imagine some of the repercussions with a bitter twist to his lips. The morass of scandal might deepen yet and sink everyone concerned.

Thus this chance encounter, a succession of sleepless nights and the problem of a wife who was not exactly cool but was more than a little reserved, put him out of all humour, with himself in particular and the world in general. He took himself home with a short temper and a black frown, where Nicholas came across him in the hall, leafing through his correspondence, and quickly gave an excuse to make himself scarce after the briefest of greetings. Sher’s temper was legendary. Slow to burn, but inflammatory when once ignited. With the result that the one to be scorched and feel the full force of the blast was Sarah, unsuspecting and close at hand. Sarah, who was unfortunate to suffer one of her devastating moments of doubt and insecurity.

She was standing in the morning room, its door open into the entrance hall, opening an official letter, which was addressed with her name and had just been delivered. ‘Joshua!’ She looked up as he came into view.

‘What is it?’ A short brusque reply, but which did not immediately catch her attention from the sheet in her hand.

‘It is a draft on your bank for me… Is this your idea of pin money?’

‘What of it?’ She should have realised it, made allowances, she thought in retrospect. Especially when he entered and closed the door with something like a slam. ‘You need it. Particularly if you allow Theodora to encourage your spending habits.’

She should definitely have been warned by this unexpected sniping at Theodora. But was not.

‘Not as much as this.’ She was still taken up with the row of figures on the draft.

‘You asked for some.’

‘I cannot spend all this—not if I stayed here more than a twelve-month.’

‘You must be the first woman in creation who cannot.’

‘I don’t deserve it.’ Oh, no! I should not have said that. She knew it as soon as the words escaped her lips. What made her say it? It made her sound so… so pathetic! She had moved beyond such lack of esteem long ago. But she did and immediately saw the result.

A flare of anger.

‘Don’t! In God’s name, don’t put yourself down so, Sarah.’ A sharp reply, intolerant in the extreme. ‘If I choose to make such a present to my wife, so be it. Don’t ever say again that you are not worth it.’

‘No, my lord.’ She watched him wide-eyed, quite taken aback. And I should not have said that either!

‘Joshua. Joshua—not my lord! And this is pin money Have all your main bills sent directly to me. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Joshua. Of course I understand. I am not quite stupid.’

For a moment he simply stood and looked at her, thinking she knew not what. His face was cold and drawn, those magnificent silver eyes bleak with ice. Then he pounced, seized her by the shoulders and turned her toward an ornate mirror on the wall behind her.

‘What do you see in the mirror?’

She looked, but more at the man standing behind her, temper barely held in check. Handsome, impossibly so. Imposing and dominant. But at this moment taut with overwhelming passions. She did not know what had happened to light this conflagration, but surely it was more than her unfortunate choice of words. She had never seen him so insecurely on the edge of control.

‘What do you see?’ he repeated, no softening in his expression.

‘I see a man who is entirely out of humour!’ She met his gaze squarely. She would not take the blame here.

‘What else?’

‘Me, of course.’

‘And what do you see there?’

‘I…’ She had no idea where this was leading. ‘I do not understand what you wish me to say.’

‘Then I will tell you. I see a young woman. Well groomed, lovely, fashionable. When she smiles, the sun shines. She is as graceful as a lily.’ His hands still gripped her shoulders as if to prevent her flight. The compliments were delivered in a harsh, clipped tone, totally at odds with their sentiment. His face was hard as stone. But Sarah felt no fear. Her heart beat faster at the heat from his nearness, at what he might say next. It did not make for easy listening. ‘And yet she feels that she is worth nothing. It is time that she did—well beyond time. She is competent, caring, loyal, worthy of respect…’ Entirely lovable! ‘Yet questions every attempt I make to show my regard or to smooth her path. Is that true?’

‘Perhaps… ‘ She watched him, not a little shocked, much as a rabbit would watch an approaching fox.

‘It is true.’ His mind still frozen with that one momentous realisation that she was lovable—which he had always known, of course. But that he loved her. And that it hurt like the very devil when she would not accept what he wished to give her.

‘I did not know that you would see me like that.’

‘I married you. Of course I see you like that. It is an insult to me that you should suggest that I am not aware of your every asset, every gift, every superb quality. I would not marry a woman worth less.’ And I have not spoken the most important. The most earth-shattering. Which I have only just come to appreciate myself, fool that I am! You are totally lovable. And I adore you! What more could he say to her when his own thoughts were in such turmoil? He released her so quickly she might have stumbled.

‘Don’t deny me the right to make you happy!’ It was all he could manage, but delivered in a tone quite as harsh as before.

‘Very well.’ She still faced him in the mirror, could do no other, could find no other words. What was wrong? What on earth had happened to disturb his equanimity in his dealings with her?

He saw her trepidation. But was beyond softening either his words or his expression. What a moment to realise that he was in love with his wife! When besieged by secrets and rumours and those who might wish them ill. When events in Paris might erupt to engulf and harm them both.

He took a breath, riding the edge of control. And managed admirably.

‘Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb you or shout at you. The fault is not yours, but mine—and I should not have treated you with so little respect. I have no excuses.’

He took possession of her hand and lifted it with a terrible formality to his lips. Then bowed with equal chill formality, before turning to stalk from the room.

To stand outside, his back to a disaster of his own creating. How could Sarah possibly hold any tender feelings towards him after such a cruel and unworthy attack? He raked vicious fingers through his hair. It seemed to him that he lurched from one confrontation to the next—and the blame was undeniably his.

Whilst Sarah, on the other side, was left to press her cold fingers against her lips, to wonder what one earth she had done to deserve such a devastating dissection of her character, even as her innate honesty demanded that she recognise the truth behind the words. Well, she would take those words to heart, accepting that it became her to exert her independence and more confidence in her relationship with her husband. She would acknowledge her own worth. She would forget the past, the guilt and the pain, the debts to be paid. She would accept her position as Lady Joshua Faringdon with all the grace that he said she possessed. She would fritter away his money—if that is what he wished! And she would continue to love him with every drop of blood in her body! Since he would never know, he would not be able to complain about that!

With which comforting thought, she left the room in his wake with a flounce of her silk skirts.

With remarkable and amazingly sly diplomacy she contacted Thea and arranged that they should attend the ball to be given by the Prussian Ambassador with Nicholas as escort. It had not been her intention to attend, but attend she would, in a new gown delivered only the day before. She would delight in delivering the receipt with the astounding figure at the bottom to her lord. If Joshua was to dine at home tonight, it would be alone. He could frown and snarl at the fricassee of lamb in his own company. If he had other engagements arranged, then it would be without her!

Her smile might be a little forced, but her mind was set.

## Chapter Ten

As fate would again have it, both Lord Joshua Faringdon and his lady attended the Prussian Ambassador’s ball, if separately and unaware of the other’s intention. Joshua out of necessity to meet some prearranged contacts, Sarah, as she had planned, in a fit of defiance.

Joshua found it in his way to speak discreetly to a number of individuals, all of whom claimed to know nothing of subversive groups acting within the city and certainly not of any plan of assassination, but all warned that something unpleasant was in the wind.

Sarah found it in her way to dance every dance and gossip brightly with her sister and other ladies of her acquaintance in between. She agreed to go in to supper with a titled French gentleman who found the English lady both charming and elegant and willing to flirt as well as to converse at length and in a spirited manner on a range of topics.

Both Lord and Lady Faringdon, with remarkable ease, found it possible at so large an event to ignore each other and pretend that they were not aware of each other’s existence. Joshua out of a frozen horror at what he could possibly say to this woman—his wife—whom he had just discovered was the only woman he could ever love and whom he had insulted beyond bearing. Sarah because… well, she did not quite know exactly why, but she had no wish to even recognise this infuriating man who had the power to engulf her body in flame and equally sear her soul with his harsh words. Even if she deserved them. Which, in retrospect, she was sure she did not!

‘Your wife is here tonight, Sher, if you had not noticed,’ Nicholas informed his sombre cousin with an expression that Joshua could only describe as a smirk.

‘I am aware.’ He would not rise to the bait. Of course he had seen her, in a glory of deep blue satin. Diamonds glinted on her breast and around her slender wrists, but no more than the fierce glow in her eyes. She looked quite beautiful.

‘Have you spoken with her?’

‘No.’

‘She might grant you a dance, if you ask her. But she seems to be much in demand.’ Nicholas watched Sarah execute the waltz in the embrace of a handsome dark-coated individual with assured steps.

Joshua turned his back on the sight of her in another man’s arms. It was far too tempting to stalk across the floor and claim her for himself with a few well-chosen words for the man who dared hold her so close. And what a scandal that would make. ‘You dance with her, Nick. I think tonight she would prefer it.’

‘I would have to agree.’ Nicholas grinned at Joshua, refusing to show him any sympathy in this situation that he privately considered to be of his cousin’s own making. ‘You are not exactly good company.’

‘No. I am not.’ Joshua’s lips curled in an expression not unlike a snarl.

‘And, Sher, you are a fool. Go and talk to your wife!’

Joshua merely glared at his cousin, who punched him lightly on the arm, and abandoned him to take up a hand of whist with a group of like-minded gentlemen.

* * *

And then Joshua’s evening disintegrated further into deep depression as a consequence of his setting eyes on the dark lady of the carriage. She was present, once again in the company of the little group of friends. Despite the very public occasion, given their previous history Joshua knew that he must speak with her, so made his way through the crowded ballroom to where she was a lively participant in a conversation, wielding a large ostrich-feathered fan with flamboyant agility. As he recalled, she had always had a leaning to the flamboyant. She turned at his approach, clearly, from her expression, waiting for him, expecting him to single her out.

‘Madame?’ Joshua inclined his head, his greeting posing the merest question.

The lady smiled her quick understanding. ‘Lord Joshua. It is some years since we had the pleasure of meeting, is it not? Perhaps I might introduce you—this is my husband, the Marquis de Villeroi. Charles, allow me to present Lord Joshua Faringdon, from London—he is, as you would say, a family friend.’

The elderly gentleman bowed. As did Lord Joshua.

‘Lord Joshua and I have a connection going back many years, have we not, my lord.’ There was a pronounced glint—perhaps of mischief—in those dark eyes. Her voice was delightfully husky with its French intonation.

‘We have.’ There was no amusement in Lord Faringdon’s face. ‘I trust you are well, Madame la Marquise.’

‘As you see.’ She waved the fan languidly. It was clear that this conversation would be conducted in the collective eye of the beau monde, but the lady placed a hand on his lordship’s arm to lead him a little distance for her group.

‘I did not expect to meet you here.’

‘No. I have not been to Paris for some years, my dearest Sher.’ She kept her voice low, intimate even. ‘But now my husband, who has some business interests here, wishes me to accompany him. I am not unwilling to reacquaint myself with the city.’ Dark lashes swept her cheeks. ‘Or with yourself.’

‘I imagine not.’ The lines engraved beside his lordship’s mouth softened a little. ‘I regret the manner of our parting, my lady.’

The lady sighed. ‘And I.’

‘It was not what I would have wished.’

‘Nor I—but it had to be so—in the circumstances. As we both realised. We were not free to pursue our own desires, were we?’

Lord Joshua shook his head, unwilling to continue that line of conversation. ‘Will you remain in Paris long?’

‘It is my intention. Perhaps we shall meet again.’ She laughed, a low seductive chuckle. ‘But perhaps, my dear Sher, it will be best if you do not make it a formal call. It would not please everyone, if you take my meaning.’

‘No, it would not.’

‘Discretion is not always easy, is it?’ she replied enigmatically. ‘I hear that you have married recently.’

‘Yes.’

‘She is a fortunate woman.’

‘I think the fortune is all on my side. May I say that you are as attractive as ever?’ His smile a little wry.

‘But a little older and wiser, perhaps.’

‘Wiser, perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Older I cannot accept.’

The lady turned her head as her husband approached. The brief encounter was at an end, and indeed there was nothing else for them to say to each other.

‘Thank you for your compliment, Sher. It is good to see you.’

‘And for me too, my lady.’

He kissed the fingers she offered him, and then, driven by impulse and strong memories of the past, which still had the power to move him, he kissed her cheek in a gallant gesture.

At which point Sarah, encouraged by some unhappy pricking of her conscience to search the crowd for a glimpse of her errant husband, watched the little tableau unfold.

And stared in horror at what she saw.

How could he! And not even in private! It was a very public salute on the lady’s cheek. And it was, unless she was very much mistaken, the dark lady from the Tuileries. The dark lady…

Sarah’s memory instantly cleared, as if a candle had been lit to cast a bright image. Of course she had seen the face before. And not merely in the Tuileries Gardens. It was the face that looked out so confidently from one of the portraits in Joshua’s attic in Hanover Square. So who was she—apart from being shockingly intimate with Joshua in the middle of a Parisian ball? A mistress? Highly likely! Well, if that were so, it would certainly clarify one recent development. If he was intent on taking up a liaison with this Unknown again—presumably a liaison of long standing—it would explain why the Countess of Wexford had been slighted. And that felicitous event, equally clearly, had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he now had a wife. No such thing! He simply had another mistress. Sarah hissed out a breath, causing Theodora to glance at her in some concern, but Sarah pinned a smile to her lips.

How dare he flaunt Another Woman before her in such a manner! With this thought in mind, Sarah lost no time and no sensible thought on the content of the looming conversation, in waylaying her husband.

‘My lord.’

‘My lady.’

He was immediately wary of the frigid look on her face. Now what? He truly did not need another challenging conversation today.

‘I would have a brief word.’

‘Can it not wait until we are private at home?’

‘No!’

‘Very well.’ He led her to one of the little anterooms, much in demand by those who might pursue a secret liaison, away from prying eyes.

‘Well?’

‘Why did you bring me here to Paris?’

He waited with raised brows for further explanation. Flushed cheeks and a martial light in her eyes did not bode well. Sarah did not keep him waiting long.

‘Why did you insist that I accompany you, when you obviously have no need of me? More often than not you have absented yourself, giving me no idea where you might be.’ She conveniently, deliberately, overlooked his considerate presence before Thea’s arrival. ‘You appear to be surrounded by mistresses—’ with cavalier and deliberate exaggeration ‘—more than willing to entertain you, so you have no need of me. I am amazed that you find the time or the energy to come to my bed at all. And I remember that I asked, quite specifically, that I need not have to acknowledge them. And you agreed.’

All delivered in a low, clipped voice, quite unlike Sarah’s usual dulcet tones.

If the matter had not been so serious, Joshua thought that he might have laughed aloud at the picture painted by an irate and intolerant Sarah. His wife appeared to have amazing faith in his stamina. But there was no place for humour here. The evidence against him was growing daily, building stone upon stone, to create an insurmountable obstacle between them. But what to do would still seem to be out of his hands. He sighed a little against his own hurt, knowing that he was causing Sarah undeserved pain, and tried for words to placate.

‘You asked, quite specifically, that I should not introduce you to any mistresses I might have or bring them into our house. I have done neither.’ And will not. I do not have a mistress. I love you, if you did but know it.

‘You do not have to introduce them.’ Sarah looked down her nose, which Joshua recognised to be very much in the style of Lady Beatrice. ‘It is clear to me by the way you look at them. It is an insult to me that you should flaunt them in this way!’

‘Sarah—just who are these mythical creatures?’ There was a heavy weariness in his voice.

‘The Countess of Wexford, for one.’

‘She is nothing to me. Neither then, despite all appearances. Nor now.’

‘And the dark lady, tonight, in this very room—you kissed her cheek!’

‘So I did.’ What point in denying it? He was aware of nothing but the bleak chill creeping though his veins as the web of deceit pulled more tightly around him, binding his limbs, his choice of words. Ice cold, numbing, whilst his unbelieving wife burned with anger and humiliation. And it was his fault. Even if by omission, a failure to push for the truth so many years ago.

‘And I know that you have her portrait hidden away in the attics of Hanover Square.’

Ah! So that is it. What could he possibly say to explain that away? In the end he did not even try. ‘That also is true. But she is not my mistress.’

‘Oh? So what is she?’ Sarah was aware of nothing but the bleak cold in the silver eyes that held her gaze when he delivered that statement. And she would have given all she had to believe it. But how could she, with the evidence of her own eyes?

He stepped back, a clear sign of retreat, perhaps even of defeat. Such a little gesture, but it well-nigh broke Sarah’s heart. She had heard nothing from her lord that might reassure her or tear holes in the weight of evidence against him. Instead he acted to put distance between them once more

‘I will not answer such accusations, Sarah. Forgive me.’ The sense of betrayal was as if a forged band of metal tightened around his heart and he could not stop the bitter words. ‘I did not realise when I married you, my lady, that you were so suspicious, so given to unfair judgements, without true evidence. I hoped that you might trust me. It seems that I was wrong in my judgement of you.’

‘Whereas I,’ she retaliated, quick as the deathly strike of a viper, ‘knew of your reputation from the very beginning, my lord. I should have taken heed of it, should I not, and should never have married you.’

After which, there was no more to be said from either side.

They left the anteroom with a black cloud of mutual suspicion and condemnation between them. And, on both sides, a terrible premonition of blighted love.

Sarah returned to Theodora’s side with a swish of her satin skirts, to take a healthy gulp of champagne, cheeks becomingly flushed, but with a demeanour far from composed.

‘What is it?’ Thea had already caught sight of Joshua’s furious figure across the room, where he stood to watch his wife with compressed lips.

‘Not a thing!’ She took another drink and spluttered a little against the bubbles.

‘So why are you drinking that champagne as if it might save your life? And why is Joshua glaring at you across the dance floor as if he could happily wring your neck.’

‘Joshua and I have had a… a disagreement.’

Theodora paused in sipping her own champagne at what was obviously a bald understatement. ‘What? Only one? Nicholas and I thrive on them, at least one a week!’

That forced Sarah to choke on what might have been a laugh, which was Thea’s intent as the glassy expression and the suspicion of tears in her sister’s eyes were a matter for some concern.

‘I think—I know!—that Joshua has just renewed his liaison with one of his mistresses.’

‘And why should you think that?’

So Sarah finished the champagne in the glass and told her. A somewhat garbled tale of public kisses and pictures in attics.

‘It does not sound likely to me,’ Thea advised with deliberate calm and lively curiosity. ‘Why keep her picture in the attic if she is his mistress, where he cannot see it? Are you sure it is the same lady?’

‘Yes. Perhaps it was to hide it from me!’

‘Mmm. But he did not hide the Countess of Wexford, did he?’ Thea cast an eye around the ballroom. ‘And you say that the lady is still here at this incredibly tedious event?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does Joshua say?’

‘He denies it.’ Sarah blotted a stray tear with her satin glove. ‘But I would expect no other.’

‘Well. I suppose he would. In my experience, gentlemen do not enjoy having to admit to faults and failings.’ Thea thought for a long moment, eyes narrowed on the golden bubbles remaining in her glass. ‘In my opinion, there is only one thing to do. Ask the lady.’

‘I can’t do that!’

‘Well, I would if I found a portrait of an attractive woman in Nick’s attic at Aymestry and then found him kissing her.’

‘Well… put like that…’

‘Especially if, through marriage, they were my attics too… ‘

‘I suppose…’

‘Come along. There is nothing to be gained by dwelling on the unknown and the unknowable. We will find out what we can.’ Thea took her sister in hand, very much the diplomat’s daughter. Sir Hector Wooton-Devereux, she decided, would have been proud of her. ‘I will come with you. All we need is the opportunity to speak to your dark lady alone…’

The opportunity presented itself only a little later in the evening when groups of people began to make their way into the banqueting room, laid out for a light supper. For a brief moment the dark lady was seen to be alone, separated from her escort. Sarah with commendable courage and considerable outrage made her way across the ballroom in that direction. Theodora would have followed, but her path was blocked by a familiar figure.

‘Theodora—I know what she is about. In God’s name, stop her.’

Theodora looked up at the striking Faringdon face, troubled by a range of emotions she could not even guess at. She could not help but allow her heart to soften. The difficulties might be of his making, but she found herself prepared to give him far more sympathy than had her husband. Such was the Faringdon charm, she supposed, although there was little evidence of it at present in the stern expression.

‘I doubt that I can.’

‘It would be better for all.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘No. I am not sure of anything at this juncture.’

‘Well, I am. I don’t know what you told Sarah and I don’t know what the truth is, but at the moment she thinks the worst of you!’

‘I know it.’

‘Tell her the truth, Sher,’ urged Thea, deliberately picking up Nick’s affectionate family name. ‘It cannot be worse than Sarah believing what she does, and Sarah can deal with the truth. Better than lies and charades. We had too many of those in the Baxendale family to accept them with any degree of comfort.’ As she remembered her own attempts to hide her Baxendale connections from Nicholas. What a disaster that had been.

Theodora patted his hand and followed her sister to discover the truth.

Sarah had approached the dark lady and come to a halt beside her.

‘Madame. Forgive the intrusion, but I would beg a few words with you.’

‘Do I know you?’ The lady appeared surprised, but not unfriendly.

‘No, you do not. I am Sarah, wife of Lord Joshua Faringdon.’

‘Ah.’ The straight dark brows rose with some hauteur, but there was a distinct sparkle in the lady’s eyes.

‘So I think you know of me,’ Sarah prompted.

‘I do indeed…’ The lady inclined her head. ‘I am the Marquise de Villeroi.’

‘Yes… I mean….’ What do I say now? Are you my husband’s mistress? Sarah discovered the dangers in Thea’s plan to confront the lady. But as she became aware of Thea’s presence beside her, she gathered all her courage and used the only possible opening. ‘I wish, my lady, to know why your portrait is in the attic of my home in London.’

The Marquise smiled. But with no hint of shame or discomfort, or even of surprise. ‘That seems a perfectly reasonable request to me,’ she remarked. ‘I think that we should find a private corner where we might sit—and I will try to explain what I can.’

So the little anteroom was witness that night to a second fraught conversation. The ladies drew the enclosing curtains against any who might be tempted to seek out the private space, and sat on the delicate gilded seats.

‘Well, my lady…’ the Marquise took up the initiative immediately as she spread her skirts and disposed her gloved hands in her lap, before embarrassment could set in ‘…I did not know until tonight that Joshua had remarried.’

‘Yes.’ Sarah was not inclined toward trivial conversation. ‘Some weeks ago. But I would know—what are you to him?’

‘Sarah—may I call you Sarah?’ The lady lifted her hands in what could have been seen as a plea. The hauteur had vanished. Instead there was a warmth here, a depth of understanding, and not a little melancholy. ‘I presume that you and Joshua are at odds over this. I am sorry for it, for the blame is partly mine. I think it will solve all your problems if I tell you my name. I am Marianne.’

Sarah’s lips parted on a soundless ‘Oh’. Theodora’s fan paused in mid-sweep. The two ladies who heard the admission looked at each other in obvious astonishment.

‘I was Joshua’s wife, as you will be aware,’ the Marquise de Villeroi continued, amusement now curving her lips at the stunned silence that resulted.

‘We thought you were dead. The whole family believes you to be dead,’ Thea exclaimed.

‘Not so.’

‘We thought,’ Sarah added, still trying to order her wayward thoughts and come to terms with this development, ‘that perhaps you had been murdered. There have been rumours to that possibility. Murdered by Joshua himself!’

‘Never that!’ The Marquise laughed. ‘Murdered by Joshua? It is a suggestion quite nonsensical, is it not?’

Thea and Sarah again exchanged glances. ‘The family was given to believe—by Lord Joshua himself—that you were struck down by some virulent disease and buried here in France.’ Sarah frowned at the lady who sat before her, in no fashion discomfited, clearly in perfect health.

‘No. As you see. Our marriage ended when a divorce was arranged. Discreetly and to our mutual agreement.’

‘But why? Why the secrecy?’

The Marquise leaned forward to touch Sarah’s hand with fingers heavy with jewels. ‘Forgive me, my dear. That is not my secret to tell. You must ask Joshua. I think that he will tell you now that he knows that we have met.’

‘But why could he not tell me before? Why should he deceive his family? You cannot imagine the difficulties caused by the rumour that he was a murderer!’

‘I think I can.’ The Marquise increased the pressure of her hand on Sarah’s in eloquent sympathy. ‘But as for why he would not… It was, I think, to protect me. He is a man given to gallantry. Or perhaps he was simply under orders to keep silent concerning sensitive matters. We all know what it is like to be held at the whim of those who hold the reins, do we not?’ She shrugged elegantly, a particularly French gesture. ‘But now it no longer matters.’

‘I still do not understand,’ Sarah replied, as much in the dark as ever.

‘It is a complicated affair, a tapestry with many tangled strands.’ The Marquise rose to her feet. ‘Tell Joshua to tell you the truth. Tell him that the truth can no longer hurt me. That I am no longer engaged in the activities I was before. Tell him, if you will, that my brother is dead. He will understand.’

‘Very well.’ A pause, then Sarah felt compelled to ask, ‘Did you love him, my lady?’

Her reply was immediate. ‘Oh, yes. He is so very handsome and so utterly charming—I could not have chosen a better husband, even if I had been given that freedom.’ She shook her head as if regretting her somewhat strange admission. ‘But Joshua will also explain about that too. As for the rest—it is all in the past. I have been married to Charles—the Marquis de Villeroi—for more than a year now. There is nothing between Lord Joshua and myself to concern you.’

The solemn gravity of the Marquise’s assurance brought another image into Sarah’s mind. The dark intensity was, of course, all Beth.

The Marquise smiled a little as if she read her thoughts. ‘Tell me of Celestine. It is the one aspect of this sorry and involved tale that I regret.’

‘She is well.’

‘Is she happy? I had to let my daughter go, you see. I was not allowed to see her. It was not thought to be desirable.’ For the first time in the conversation the lady’s composure was no longer secure.

‘Yes. She is happy. And she has found a friend in my son.’

‘That is good. Will you care for her? Love her for me? I know that Joshua will, but she will also need a mother’s care.’

‘I already do love her. She is growing fast. She is a true Faringdon, but her eyes are yours. Now that I know, I see it clearly. I did not see it in the portrait.’

‘No.’ The tension in the lady’s manner relaxed a little. ‘I think it was not a good likeness!’

They moved towards the archway and Thea drew back the drapes, letting in the world once more.

‘Shall we meet again?’ Sarah asked.

‘I do not know.’ And the Marquise made no promises. ‘But I am glad that we have done so. It has drawn a closure to something that should never have happened. I did not deal well with Joshua.’ She turned quickly and, to Sarah’s amazement, lightly kissed her cheek. ‘It has been my pleasure to know you, Lady Faringdon.’

And then she was gone.

‘What will you do?’ Thea raised her hand to attract Nicholas’s attention as they made their way back into the ballroom.

‘Ask Joshua, of course! But not here.’ Sarah frowned at the crowds that still thronged the reception, even at this late hour. If Joshua was still present, she had no knowledge of it. ‘I shall go home. It seems that there is still much to be explained.’ She thought for a moment or two, before adding softly, ‘And we both have some apologies to make.’

Sarah waited in her bedchamber for Joshua’s return. She deliberately divested herself of neither jewels nor the elegant aigrette in her hair. If this was to be a confrontation with her husband—which it undoubtedly was—Sarah decided that she would need all her confidence and dignity. Which would not be gained from donning a loose wrapper or unpinning her ringlets, despite the fact that it was long after midnight.