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Francis found he was fiddling with a fork and stopped himself. "No. But I intend to speak to the duke at the first opportunity."

"Opportunities been scarce, have they?"

Francis gave his friend a look, and Nicholas laughed with a touch of embarrassment. "Sorry. Bad habit. Fm resolved to give up probing without permission."

"Good." But Francis had to admit that he could have settled his betrothal any time these past few months.

So why hadn't he?

Nicholas interrupted his thoughts. "Which still leaves you with an unwanted seductress to dispose of gracefully. Tell me what you know of her."

"Nothing." But under Nicholas's gaze, Francis said, "She's frightened, though I don't know why. She's beautiful in a way that frightens
me
.
I never would have thought that a woman's beauty could be a barrier, but the power of hers is almost off-putting. It's elemental—like the force of that storm last night; it could carry a man away against his will...." He stopped, realizing where his words were leading.

"You don't actually sound as if you want to get rid of her, you know."

Francis rested his head on a hand. "Perhaps I don't."

A log shifted in the grate with an audible crack. "Apart from her frightening beauty," said Nicholas, "—and I can understand that, by the way—and the fact that you are contemplating marriage, is there any other problem?"

"Do I need more?" asked Francis, looking up.

"Probably not, but it's the weight they carry in the balance that matters. What weighs heaviest against her?"

Francis thought about it. "Her frightening beauty," he said at last. "She's a siren. A Lorelei. She could lure men to their deaths." Then, made uneasy by his own words, he broke the intensity of the moment by serving them both from the steak and kidney pie.

"To twist Milton's meaning," advised Nicholas,
"'Live well, how long or short permit to Heaven.'
You almost make me envy you." He reached for the dish of potatoes.

"With Eleanor as your wife, I doubt that."

Nicholas paused in the act of lifting a potato onto his plate. "Ah. Can we discuss it, then?" He completed the movement and then looked up. "I would like you to be ensnared by this siren if it will bring you comfortably back into friendship."

Francis didn't try to evade the issue. "I have never ceased being your friend."

"But a remarkably absent one."

"I'm sorry. I had a foolish fear that something would grow that I did not want."

"Had?"

Francis raised a questioning brow.

"You used the past tense. Has this fear disappeared?"

Francis evaded the question. "I have a number of things on my mind just now...." He cut into his pie, adding, "I hope you know that I would never..."

"Goes without saying. And to be blunt, Eleanor feels nothing for you but fondness."

Francis assembled food on his fork with care. "I know that. I would hate to embarrass her, though, or you."

"You won't. And I promise, at the first hint of plaintive sighs or longing looks, one or the other of us will throw a jug of cold water over you."

They both laughed, at ease at last.

"Will we see you soon, then?" Nicholas asked. "You would be welcome to spend Christmas with us, but I suppose you must be at home then."

"Yes. My mother sets great store by it. But I will visit...."

The conversation was interrupted by the innkeeper popping in to say that Mr. Ferncliff had returned not long since and had ordered his dinner.

Francis immediately rose and took out a gold-mounted pistol, checking its readiness.

Nicholas eyed the weapon with interest. "Need any help?"

"None at all," said Francis, and left to deal with a scoundrel.

The innkeeper had indicated the room but when Francis knocked, there was no reply. He turned the knob and entered, but found the parlor quite empty. Frowning, he opened the door to the adjoining bedchamber. This room, too, was empty, even of the items one would expect of a guest. A certain disorder suggested that it had been emptied in a hurry.

He ran down the stairs to confront the innkeeper. "Did you tell me the wrong room?"

"No, milord," said the man in some distress. "I've been told just this minute that Mr. Ferncliff gathered his things, paid his shot, and took off like a fox before hounds. I'm terrible sorry, sir, but he'd been here a while, me being busy elsewhere. Seems he read a note waiting for him and that had him away. None of my people told him you were here, milord."

The man pretended to be apologetic, but he sounded mighty relieved. When Francis saw his eyes flicker to the pistol in his hand, he knew why. "Where did he go?" he snapped. "Did he take ship?"

"Nay, sir. There'll be no more sailings today. He has a horse and has ridden off on it."

Francis cursed under his breath and ran back up to his room. "The damned bird's flown," he said as he grabbed his greatcoat. "I'll have to race him down."

"Am I invited?" asked Nicholas, bright-eyed.

"Why not?" said Francis, and headed down to the stables.

There he and Nicholas hired new horses, then set off in the direction taken by Charles Ferncliff, riding faster than the fading light made wise.

Night settled inexorably, however, and soon even rash courage was not enough. They had to admit that it would be madness to go on and that the chances of finding their man were remote.

Francis let loose a string of oaths.

"What harm can he do you?" asked Nicholas, sitting at ease on his horse.

So, as they turned their mounts back toward Weymouth, Francis told him.

"Strange story," said Nicholas. "The man sounds ready for Bedlam, but of little danger."

"But that sort of mischief-maker can cause trouble. I just hoped to frighten him into giving up his game."

"Perhaps you've succeeded."

"Perhaps. But there are some bothersome questions. Who sent him a warning note, and why did he run when he'd asked me to come here?"

"The pistol could have had something to do with it," said Nicholas dryly.

"He decamped before he saw it."

"Perhaps the letter did not so much warn of your coming, but that he'd misjudged his pigeon."

"But who? No one knew I was coming here. The innkeeper said that the letter was brought by a groom...."

"Perhaps friend Ferncliff has an accomplice in your house."

"Damnation."

"At least this has likely put an end to it all. Which leaves you free to pursue the more interesting question of your siren."

"It's doubtless wisest to give her the money to get safely to London, where she can pursue her profession."

"But 'tis folly to be wise, or so the poet says."

"And ignorance is bliss? I never thought to hear you recommending ignorance."

"How true. And I suppose with you contemplating matrimony, it would be unwise to entangle yourself with such a woman."

"Very unwise."

"But if I were you I couldn't feel comfortable with just shipping her off to fend for herself in London with winter coming on."

"I'm sure she'll fend easily."

"Are you?"

After a while, Francis said, "No, dammit. In a way she's like a frightened child."

"Ah." They rode on, slowly and carefully now in the dark. "Then," said Nicholas, "if your siren is agreeable, I think you should take her to your Aunt Arabella."

"Aunt Arabella? Why, for God's sake?"

"I suspect she needs some help."

"Aunt Arabella?" repeated Francis in astonishment. His aunt was a tough single lady who was a great believer in women's rights, especially her own. He had recruited her to help Eleanor during the terrible days after Nicholas's disappearance, and Nicholas and Arabella had a warm, though hard-edged, friendship.

"No," said Nicholas. "I think your siren needs help. Though I'm sure Arabella Hurstman can put her to use."

The rightness of the idea came quickly to Francis. Late November was no time for a woman to be wandering about, no matter how bold she might be, and he wasn't at all sure Serena Allbright was bold. He
wouldn't
feel easy in his mind just putting her on the coach to London.

He also knew that he was reluctant to send her to London for another reason. She would soon find a protector there, and he hadn't entirely made up his mind on the matter of making her his own mistress.

Aunt Arabella would take her in and care for her, but would put up with no nonsense. Given a week or two to think things through, Francis would be clearer in his mind as to the wisest course.

"Taking a candidate for
carte blanche
to live with one's female relatives is not really done," he pointed out.

"Your estimable aunt," said Nicholas dryly, "will at least ensure that you pay her well."

When Francis drove up to the Red Lion the next day he still didn't know how he felt, except that he was crashingly anxious to see Serena again.

He and Nicholas had spent the evening sharing stories and catching up on their friendship without the subject of Serena being raised. They had parted this morning with a promise that Francis would visit the Delaneys at Redoaks as soon as possible. Francis was feeling happier today than he had in almost a year; he hadn't been aware until now of how he had cut himself off from Nicholas, and how much he had missed him.

And that, he supposed, he could lay to Serena's credit. He knew that his interest in her had begun to break his unwanted obsession with Eleanor Delaney.

Which brought the disturbing admission that his courtship of Anne Peckworth had not made a crack in it.

He had pushed his team, worried that Serena would have disappeared as magically as she had entered his life, but when he turned into the inn yard she was there, stroking a fat marmalade cat. She turned at the sound of the curricle, wide-eyed and nervous. He didn't know of whom she was afraid, but at least it wasn't him. As soon as she recognized him the fear faded, and she flushed with something close to joy. It made her beauty remarkable. It unmistakably stirred his heart, along with some other portions of his anatomy....

She walked over, smiling. "Welcome back, my lord. I hope your business went well."

He leapt down. "Not particularly." He made himself speak coolly. "But I have time to see to you before I take it further. Are you ready to leave?"

Her smile faded at his curt tone, but she nodded.

As she moved toward the curricle, her perfume reached out again to entrap him even in the open air. He frowned. If she really hadn't used it recently, she must previously have been in the habit of drenching herself with it.

Well, that was a habit that could be broken.

Then he realized what direction his mind was taking and steeled himself not to lower his guard.

Francis settled accounts with the innkeeper and then they were on their way again.

His companion said nothing for a while, but then asked, "Where are we going?"

He realized she was showing great trust in him, and was touched. "To an aunt of mine who has a cottage up near Marlborough, in a village called Summer St. Martin."

"An aunt!" she exclaimed. "But surely, my lord..."

"She'll take you in until we can decide your future." He was stiffly unable to put their possible plans into words. "Unless, that is, you have some alternative to offer."

"No, I'm sorry. I can't think of anything. I'm virtually penniless."

"What of your dead husband?" he queried skeptically.

She lowered her head. "He left very little, and I cannot use it."

"Why not?"

"I cannot tell you that."

His jaw tightened. "If you trust me enough to come with me, Mrs. Allbright, why can't you trust me enough to tell me the truth?"

She turned to meet his eyes. "I wish I could." She appeared completely honest.

"At least tell me if I have your true name."

She flushed. "I gave you my maiden name, my lord."

"Why?"

"I prefer to forget my marriage." It was said with eloquent simplicity.

"Then why not remove your rings?" he taunted.

Her color deepened, and to his surprise, she immediately slipped them off. "I don't know why I didn't do that before. It's just that it's been so long...." She looked at them. "I suppose I could sell them."

"You could," he agreed, intrigued against his will. "I'll do that for you, if you wish. It's not a business for a woman."

"Thank you," she said, but she put them in her reticule. Well, she'd have to be a total fool to trust him that far.

"Now," he said firmly, "why don't you tell me your true story."

"No," she said, equally firmly.

"There must be
something
you can tell me, ma'am. Where is your family home?"

"Near Lewes."

He flashed her an irritated look, noting the remarkably firm set of her chin. "Do I have to wangle it out of you word by word? I need to know what you were doing, Mrs. Allbright, wandering around in a storm almost penniless."