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"Well, of course, but it must be some sort of sickness. I can believe the bit about rough and tumble. Even though he's a brainy type, Charles is a great one for a jape and an excellent sportsman. But the rest..."

"How old is this man?" Francis asked. "I'd assumed he was younger than us."

"Good Lord, no. Mid-thirties at least. As I say, he only takes these tutoring jobs to finance his studies, and makes sure they're in an interesting location. One that has Anglo-Saxon remains."

"And we have an Anglo-Saxon church, and a hill that was probably the mound for a manor house.... It fits, but it's damned peculiar. As you say, it must be a sudden sickness. Shades of the king."

"Lord, I hope it's not as bad as that," Stephen said. "But then, even the king harms no one but himself. As I know Ferncliff, however, I'll certainly be able to spot him if he shows."

"I'd be grateful. And if he really is afflicted, see if you can straighten him out, Steve. I bear him no grudge if that's the case, but I can't have him distressing my mother."

"'Course not."

The young men then set to gossip, particularly about Leander Knollis, who had made a surprising marriage to a nobody but who—according to Stephen—seemed well content.

"He was through London earlier in the month with his bride," said Stephen, rising. "Seems to me it's time the Rogues had a full-blown reunion."

"I think Nicholas had some such thing in mind."

"Good. Enjoy Christmas. Regards to your mother et cetera." With that, Stephen took his leave, leaving Francis with yet more thoughts of marriage.

Three Rogues married. It was obviously the fashion, and he'd best get on with his. He wondered how soon Anne would agree to be wed. She'd probably think of May or June, but he'd rather it were sooner. Much sooner.

Next week? His awakened body was becoming an inconvenience.

He'd see if he could talk Anne and her parents into a winter wedding. January, perhaps. Once married, he'd have no more thoughts of Serena Allbright.

A part of his mind laughed.

As he finished his meal, Francis resolutely turned his attention to the strange case of Charles Ferncliff. The man didn't sound at all as he had imagined him. He'd thought him a young, clerical type.

For some reason, the whole business was beginning to look damned fishy.

With a mysterious siren in Wiltshire, an eligible lady in Hampshire, an unpredictable mother at home, and an unlikely villain eluding him everywhere, Francis was beginning to feel fit for Bedlam himself.

* * *

The next day Francis drew up before the great portico of Lea Park, determined to take control of his life by offering for Lady Anne Peckworth. He couldn't avoid the fact that he was uneasy about it. Before turning in at the gates, he'd felt tempted to drive by. After all, he hadn't forewarned the Arrans of his arrival, so he wouldn't disappoint anyone....

He reminded himself that it was past time to settle down and start his nursery. As he leapt down from his curricle, however, he impulsively decided not to stay the night. He would talk to the duke, put the question to Anne, then drive on to the Priory, using the proximity of Christmas as his excuse.

Excuse?

The word meant nothing, he assured himself. Just that he must be home for the pre-Christmas festivities. His mother set great store by them. If he couldn't arrange for an early wedding, he'd come back after Christmas for a long visit. Or invite Anne to the Priory.

As he approached the great doors, he was aware that his heartbeat was much faster than usual, and that it wasn't being driven by love.

He was ushered into a warm family saloon and greeted by the duchess, a clever woman who had never had any claim to beauty. "Middlethorpe, how kind of you to stop by, but I'm afraid Anne still isn't up to visitors."

"Visitors, Duchess?" he asked blankly. "Is she ill?"

"You didn't know? We sent word two days ago to the Priory. Chicken pox. She caught it at the village school. She will take these duties so seriously." She twinkled at him. "She really wouldn't want you to see her just now, I'm afraid. She's
very
spotty."

"I suppose not," said Francis numbly. Chicken pox. These days, nothing seemed to go according to plan. He suddenly determined not to be thwarted. "Is the duke at home? I would like to speak to him."

The duchess gave him a shrewd look. "Unfortunately not. He's in Scotland, though due back soon. Why don't you return after Christmas? You will doubtless find us all here and hearty, and of course you will be welcome to make a long stay."

Francis surrendered to fate. "Yes, of course, Duchess." After directing his best wishes be sent up to Anne, he took his leave and headed for the Priory.

What peculiarity would he find there? Would his mother have finally decided to move a piece of furniture?

Not bloody likely, he thought as he tooled his team toward home. The Priory was like a mausoleum to his father; nothing was ever changed. Even such a simple matter as new hangings for his bed had caused his mother grief. He supposed her devotion to his father's memory was admirable, but life went on and things must change.

Thorpe Priory, however, would be just as it had always been, and his mother would have it perfectly prepared for Christmas.

Why did the thought depress him so?

Because his mother's style of Christmas—Christmas as it had been in his father's time—was simply not to his taste.

Holly, fir, and rosemary would be arranged in precisely the same places as they had always been, bound with red ribbons so much like in other years they could have been the same. The special red perfumed candles would stand ready in the hall to be lit to greet the villagers when they dragged in the Yule log on Christmas Eve. The villagers would stay to sing traditional songs at the Big House, and be treated to mulled cider and mince pies from Lady Middlethorpe's own hands. Lord Middlethorpe—himself, now—would give each caroler a crown as they left.

All exactly as it had been for thirty years or more.

The villagers would all be warmly grateful, and Francis recognized that it was an important tradition for them, but for years he had been feeling chained by this ritual. He was always envious of those simple folk who were returning to a rollicking good time in their cottages.

On Christmas Day the childless vicar and his wife would eat their dinner at Thorpe Priory.

On Boxing Day he and his mother would give all the staff their Christmas boxes containing sensible new clothing.

It had been more jolly when his sisters were at home. Last year Aunt Arabella had come for Christmas and enlivened things a little, not the least of which being when she directed her challenging wit at her conventional younger sister. But of course, Arabella would not come this year. She had Serena to keep an eye on.

It would be just Francis and his mother, and dearly though he loved her, it was going to be dashed dull.

As he turned with precisely judged speed onto the familiar country road leading to Thorpe, Francis wondered what Serena and Arabella would do on Christmas Day. Knowing his aunt, it would be a great deal more entertaining than his schedule.

He supposed, even if he were not willing to absent himself from his home at Christmas, he could break the pattern and invite some guests. Some of the Rogues, for example.

He laughed out loud, gaining a strange look from his groom. He could imagine his mother's reaction to that violation of her orderly tradition.

By the time he turned into the arrow-straight drive at Thorpe Priory, edged with arrow-straight poplars, Francis was feeling both lonely and depressed, a most unusual state of mind for him. The sight of his classically beautiful home, pure white in the thin December sun, did not raise his spirits at all.

Like an acidic splinter, he remembered that Anne thought the Priory perfect and would want to preserve it just as it was.

In fact it
was
perfect, he told himself. Most of the authorities on such matters agreed. His father had razed his ancient, rambling house and hired the finest architects to build this Palladian masterpiece.

But, he thought savagely, Thorpe Priory's a damned stupid name for piece of classical perfection.

Perhaps he just didn't appreciate classical perfection.

He liked the warm hominess of Nicholas's Redoaks, or the coziness of Lucien's cottage
ornée,
Hartwell. Even Lea Park, allowed to grow over three hundred years, was more to his taste than the house he had inherited.

Neither his well-trained staff waiting by the door nor the perfect decorations in the chilly marble hall made him feel welcome or at home.

This was ridiculous.

As he was divested of his outerwear, Francis resolved that as soon as Christmas was over he would do some hunting. Though he was not addicted to the sport, there would be plenty of jovial company in Melton, and some of the Rogues, too. Stephen would be there for part of the time, along with Con Somerford, Viscount Amleigh. Miles Cavanagh would certainly be there with a new string of his superb Irish horses to show off. It would be surprising if Lucien de Vaux didn't put in an appearance, despite being recently married. He was hunting mad.

That prospect raised Francis's spirits so that he was able to be suitably cheerful to his beaming servants.

It only occurred to him later that he had left Lady Anne out of his immediate plans. He told himself that she would need some weeks to fully recover from her ailment.

One of his first actions was to question his butler about the household servants, for he was still uneasy about the letter that had warned Ferncliff off in Weymouth. Griffin assured him that they had hired no new household staff within the year and that all the staff were reliable and honest.

"And what about a gentleman named Ferncliff who was in the area, Griffin? Are any of the staff friends of his?"

"The gentleman who was tutor to Lord Shipley's sons, milord? I am not aware of any of the staff knowing him in a way that would be above their station."

Stranger and stranger. And Francis had heard a tone of respect in Griffin's voice. Any opinion the butler held of Charles Ferncliff was positive.

Perhaps some madman was using Ferncliff's name, but the only way to discover that was to find the real Ferncliff.

Francis didn't meet his mother until they sat down for dinner, for she swept in at the last moment murmuring something about a kitchen calamity. Once the soup was served, he dismissed the servants for a while so they could speak in privacy. "I hope there's been no further trouble, Mother."

"None at all," she said brightly. "You must have handled it superbly, dearest one."

"I didn't handle anything. The man slipped through my fingers at Weymouth, and I've not caught a sniff of him since."

"Oh, well. He has clearly thought better of his foolishness, then."

Something in his mother's manner was not right at all. "I'd call it rather more than foolishness," Francis said, watching her carefully. "Stephen Ball is of the opinion that he must have run mad."

"Mad?" said Lady Middlethorpe, staring.

"Stephen knows the man. Says he's brilliant and an all-around good fellow."

"Doubtless a fellow Rogue," she said sourly, but a flush rose in her cheeks.

"Hardly. Apparently, he's a good ten years older, for one thing. You described him as a young man."

"To me, a man in his thirties is young." Lady Middlethorpe pushed away her scarce-touched soup. "He has clearly decided to leave me alone, which is all that matters. Shall I ring for the next course, dear?"

"Very well." But Francis looked down the length of the table that could have seated ten, thinking what a ridiculous way this was to be having a conversation. Why had he never thought so before? Because before he'd not felt the pressing need to see his mother's expression somewhat better.

When the butler and footman returned, Francis stood and walked down to her end of the table. "Griffin, lay me a place here, please."

As the butler hurried forward, his mother looked up in surprise. "Francis, what on earth are you doing?"

"Growing tired of bellowing down the length of the table."

"We were not bellowing. It is perfectly possible to conduct a conversation along a table without raising one's voice. Your father and I—"

"Must have had superior hearing," said Francis, taking his seat. "I fear I need to be closer."

Lady Middlethorpe opened and shut her mouth. "It looks most peculiar," she said at last.

"I'm sure the servants are deeply distressed." Francis glanced around and caught the footman grinning. He winked at the man.

"It must be as you wish," said his mother frostily. "You are the master here."

Francis accepted a serving of beef. "Please don't resent a few minor changes, Mother. I will not turn the place upside down."

"Of course, I do not resent anything," she said, but still coolly.

Now that he was close, Francis could see that his suspicions were correct. His mother was rather the worse for wear. Delicate use of cosmetics could not hide the fact that she was pale and had shadows under her big blue eyes. Now was not the time to get into it, but he feared that damned Ferncliff—or whoever was claiming to be Ferncliff—had not left her alone. She was doubtless lying, still trying to protect her delicate son from the big nasty man.