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"Do not use cant in my presence, Francis!"

"I'll start into outright profanity if you don't tell me what is going on!"

He wasn't in the habit of speaking so forcefully to his mother, but instead of reproof she flashed him a distinctly nervous look, then concentrated on the fire in the grate. Her fingers returned to her tangled fringe. "I don't know why you have rushed away from Lea Park. It must appear peculiar to the Arrans."

"Mother," asked Francis, his patience severely tested, "who is Charles Ferncliff, and what is that letter about?"

She sighed. "He is a young man who was tutor to the Shipley boys."

As an explanation it was totally inadequate. "But what is the letter about? What are you supposed to tell me?"

He thought she would not answer, but then she looked at him and said, "Probably that he is blackmailing me."

"Blackmailing.
' On what grounds, for heaven's sake?"

Her color now high, Lady Middlethorpe said, "He is threatening to... to expose my improper behavior."

"Imp..." Francis choked back a laugh. "Who the devil would he think you had been improper with?"

"Francis! Such language! And though
you
clearly think so, at forty-seven I am not yet in my dotage."

He stared at her, realizing that in her way she was still a handsome woman. She was slender and fine-boned, and her large blue eyes were still bright, her hair still dark. "Of course not, Mother. You know I have urged you to consider another marriage. But no one would ever suspect
you
of improper behavior."

"Thank you," she said stiffly, and perhaps ungratefully. "As for marriage, I would not be so disrespectful of your father's memory."

Francis could not believe that his gentle, loving father would have wanted his widow to take this view, but this was hardly the time to discuss the matter. "As you will," he said. "As for this tutor, Mother, the man must be mad. Why has he picked on you for such foolishness?"

Lady Middlethorpe shrugged, but her color was still high. "As to that, my dear, I fear it is because I spoke to the Shipleys about him. Though he is very clever, he seemed rather rough-and-tumble, and inclined to encourage the boys to high spirits. I thought him not quite the best influence on young minds and advised the Shipleys of it. My opinion doubtless contributed to their decision not to retain him to teach the younger boys once Gresham left for school."

Typical, thought Francis. His mother meddling, thinking she knew the best for everyone. The poor tutor sounded as if he might have been fun, very unlike the dull and worthy Mr. Morstock who had prepared him for Harrow.

But then, he reminded himself, in this case his mother had been proved correct in thinking the man unsuitable. He was clearly a blackguard and quite possibly mad.

"And he's been pestering you. I wish you'd told me sooner, but I'll take care of it now. What is he demanding?"

She gave a little laugh. "Oh, Francis, it is such a silly business. I cannot believe the man is serious."

"Serious or not, I will not tolerate such mischief. What is he demanding?"

Her artificial smile faded. "I insist you ignore the matter."

"I'm sorry, Mother, I can't do that. What is Ferncliff's price not to spread these lies?"

She stared at him quite angrily. Francis met her look with one that said that he insisted for once in handling the matter in his own way.

At last her eyes shifted. "Ten thousand pounds," she whispered.

"Ten thousand pounds!
The man's ripe for Bedlam."

"You won't pay it, will you?" she asked anxiously.

"Assuredly I won't. Putting my hands on such a sum in cash would be no easy matter and I have no intention of buckling under to a demented blackmailer. After all, his threats are toothless. He can't do much damage with a bundle of lies."

"All the more reason to ignore him."

"Not at all. He must be shown that he cannot disturb you in this way."

Her eyes widened. "What will you do?"

"I'm going to take up his rash invitation. I'm going to Weymouth to teach this tutor a lesson."

His mother surged to her feet. "No, Francis! I forbid it!"

Francis was beginning to fear that this matter was turning his mother's wits. "I assure you, Mother, it will be the most effective way to put an end to this. I want you to put the whole matter out of your mind."

She clutched at his sleeve. "But you could be hurt, dearest!"

He looked at her in incredulity. "By a
tutor?"

"He... he is quite a well-built young man. Larger than you. Athletic. A stern letter from you would be just as effective. And far safer."

Francis felt a familiar exasperation. He'd been a slight, sensitive lad and his mother was in the habit of coddling him. He would have thought she'd discarded the idea by now. True, he was still of slight build, and he knew his good looks and dark eyes gave him a damnably poetic appearance, but he was well able to take care of himself and others.

He patted her hand. "His size will not matter, Mother. I don't actually intend to sink to a brawl unless he insists, but he'll get the message more effectively face-to-face."

"Oh, dear." She released his sleeve and paced the room, wringing her hands as if she truly expected him to be going to his death.

"Mother," he said firmly, "you are not to fret yourself in this way. You'll make yourself ill. I confess, I do feel inclined to beat this Ferncliff to a pulp just for distressing you so, but it will not come to that."

She turned suddenly, almost eagerly. "But what of Lady Anne?"

"What of her?"

"She will be most hurt that you have abandoned her. You must return to Lea Park with all speed."

Francis regarded her with genuine concern. "Nonsense, my dear. Anne will still be there in a day or two, and this business must be handled now. I leave immediately for Weymouth. You are not to concern yourself over this matter any further. This Ferncliff will never distress you again." He kissed her flushed cheek, then left before she could speak any of the further protests that clearly hovered on her lips.

* * *

When her son left, Lady Middlethorpe paced the room, wringing her hands. Dear Lord, dear Lord, what was she to do now? Why hadn't she realized that Charles could find out where Francis was and write to him there? Charles was not a stupid man.

If Charles and Francis met, it would be disastrous.

She opened a drawer and took out the letter she had received that day, the last of a series of letters from Charles.

...I will tell your son all and show him the letters you have written to me. I am convinced that when he knows how it is with us he will not oppose the match. But I would rather you admit your feelings honestly to him, my love. I know you can be no happier than I with the current state of affairs. The memories of that one afternoon of ecstasy will never leave me. I am in hell.

As was she. The memories of that afternoon would not leave her, either, and unlike Charles, she had to live in this house, sit on the chaise where they had...

She buried her face in her hands, assailed by guilt and desire. How could she have behaved in such a way? How could she have so betrayed her position and her husband's memory by letting a young and impecunious man make love to her in the home she and her husband had created?

How could she want so much to repeat the shameful act?

She had been so overwhelmed with guilt that she had engineered Charles's dismissal, hoping to thus dismiss him from her life. But he had continued to woo her.

Then she had argued that Francis would oppose the match. It might be true. She had no idea how her son would react to her union with a man like Charles.

Charles had not been deterred. He had been sure that he could persuade Francis of the suitability of the union. And that was probably true, too.

Now, cast into panic by Francis's sudden arrival, she had added a blatant lie to her deceptions. Charles had never blackmailed her, never demanded money. All he had ever demanded was that she be honest with her son and honest with herself.

She could not do it.

But now Francis was heading for a confrontation with her lover, and disaster could be the result. The lesser disaster was that Charles would tell Francis the truth, and her son would despise her. The greater was that the two men would fight, and one would die.

Francis had never been a rough, bloodthirsty boy or man, but ever since he had come under the influence of Nicholas Delaney and his Company of Rogues, Lady Middlethorpe had not been sure what he was capable of. All this talk of brawling worried her, but it was the thought of pistols that terrified her. Men issued challenges over the most trivial matters.

Lady Middlethorpe dropped into the chair in front of her delicate Buhl escritoire and dashed off two notes. Almost as soon as her son had driven off, a new team in the shafts, two grooms rode out from the Priory with these letters.

One was headed to Redoaks in Devon, home of Francis's closest friend. Much as she resented the influence Nicholas Delaney had over her son, he was just the sort of man to be able to prevent Charles and Francis from dueling to the death.

The other groom was headed to the Crown and Anchor at Weymouth with a note addressed to Mr. Charles Ferncliff. Far better for all if Charles could simply make himself scarce so no meeting would ever occur.

And, please God, that would be the end of it, and she would never hear from him again.

But at the thought, she wept.

Chapter 3

That evening the failing light found Serena and Francis in the same part of Dorset, though as yet unaware of the fact.

Serena was close to despair.

She had been lucky at first. She hadn't had to chance the stage picking her up, for she'd been taken up by a wool-factor in a gig. The man was a stranger to the area, just passing through. There was reason to hope that after he dropped her at the Dog and Fiddle in Nairbury, he'd never be heard from again. To her brothers it would be as if she'd disappeared into thin air. She hadn't missed the wool-factor's speculative looks and hints about improved acquaintanceship, but the man had taken her lack of response in good part, and had driven off alone.

The Dog and Fiddle was a staging post and Serena had no difficulty in purchasing a ticket. She chose to go to Winchester simply because that coach would be the next one to leave. Surely she could lose any pursuit in that busy city.

The three-hour coach ride, however, gave her too much time to think.

The insanity of her actions began to dawn on her, but no alternative presented itself. Better surely to be out in the world with guineas in her pocket than to be sold to a brothel.

She knew her older brother would do it. Will might protest, but he was too weak a man to stand against Tom, and it was the brutal truth that her brothers had no use for her except to sell her for money.

Her faith in Miss Mallory was ebbing. She remembered the lady as firm and kindly, but that was eight years ago. She didn't even know whether the woman still lived. Even if she did, what could Miss Mallory be expected to do when Serena Riverton turned up on her doorstep begging for refuge?

Offer her a teaching position?

Serena almost laughed aloud at that.

Though she had developed a taste for reading during her marriage—for most of the time, thank God, she had been left alone in the country—she was not of an academic bent, and the selection of books at Stokeley Manor had been meager.

And she was Randy Riverton's widow.

Sir Matthew Riverton had been a rich Cit given a baronetcy for his generosity to the Regent—that is, he had given Prince George some fine and expensive works of art that he had lusted over. But Matthew hadn't moved in the first circles for all of that. In his cups he had been inclined to rant over the unfairness of life: The Prince hadn't made him a crony, and his wife couldn't give him an heir.

Even if he didn't have the entree to Carlton House, however, Matthew Riverton had been notorious. He'd been infamous among men for his extravagant lewd entertainments. Serena could imagine the reaction of the fathers of Miss Mallory's pupils if they discovered their daughters were being taught by Randy Riverton's widow.