Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. "On second thought, I'll issue the invitation myself. Where is this parlor?"

Outraged, Franklin stood his ground in the doorway. "Your grace, it is Lady Arabella's private apartment."

"You forget, Franklin, that circ.u.mstances have changed somewhat. Lady Arabella is now my guest,"Jack pointed out gently. "The only private apartments in this house are my own." He strode towards the steward and Franklin took an involuntary step backwards although there was no threat apparent in the duke's approach.

Jack said as gently as before, "Show me to this parlor, if you please, Franklin."

For a moment Franklin hesitated, prepared to do battle to protect his lady, but then reason told him it would be as futile a challenge as a bantam standing up to a rooster. Without a word he turned and led the way to the stairs. At least he could provide the formality of an announcement at the parlor door.

Jack followed as they took a long corridor into the wing opposite his own. He noted that Arabella's apartments were as far from her brother's as they could be. In fact, it would be perfectly feasible to lead completely separate lives under the same roof. He began to see why she had accepted his offer without too much opposition.

Franklin knocked on a pair of double doors the twin of Jack's own, and at a soft voice from within opened only one of them and stood blocking the aperture. "My lady, his grace would like you to join him in the dining room."

Arabella put down her quill. "Did you not explain that I have already dined?"

"Yes, Arabella, he did." Jack without force but with definite intention moved the steward out of his way and stepped into the parlor. Arabella was sitting at a writing table, informally dressed as befitted a lady in her own home, in a white linen robe embroidered with roses. Her hair hung loose around her face and when she turned on her chair to stare at him he noticed with a flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt that her feet were bare.

"This is my parlor, sir," she declared, astounded at this unceremonious entrance. "I don't recall inviting you."

"But I would point out, madam, that as master of this house I don't need an invitation to enter its rooms." His tone was mild, reasonable, as if he was saying nothing out of the ordinary.

Some of the color left her cheeks. He spoke only the unpalatable truth. She had no absolute right to this s.p.a.ce that had always been her own. She could never again close that door secure in the knowledge that no one would disturb her without invitation. She could no longer a.s.sume that she could sit at her writing desk barefoot in a negligee and be sure her privacy would be undisturbed.

Without speaking she turned back to her letter, sanded the ink on the parchment, and folded the sheet. She took up the candle that burned beside her and dropped hot wax to seal the fold, then wrote on the outer side. She rose from her chair and walked across the parlor. "You were so good as to offer to frank my post, your grace." She held out the letter.

He took it. It was addressed to her relatives in Cornwall. He slipped it into his coat pocket, then with a bow said, "It will be my pleasure, ma'am. May I escort you to the dining room?"

"You must excuse me," she said. "But I find myself very tired this evening and would seek my bed."

He raised his eyebrows, glancing towards the enameled clock on the mantelpiece. "It's barely six-thirty, Arabella," he murmured. "A little early even for children in the nursery."

Arabella could see no graceful option. She could stand there refusing, sounding increasingly petulant, and he would probably remain in the doorway insisting and it would get neither of them anywhere. She realized that she hadn't as yet properly explained to him her decision that they would live quite independently of each other, albeit under the same roof. Clearly he was laboring under a misapprehension, and the sooner it was put right the better. She would join him in a civilized gla.s.s of wine in the neutral territory of the dining room and clarify the matter once and for all.

Rather pointedly she looked him up and down, taking note of turquoise velvet and gold lace. While her own informal costume was perfectly appropriate for an evening at home, it was no match for her companion's finery. She said with a hint of sarcasm, "I'll join you in the dining room in five minutes, sir. I did not dress for company this evening. You will allow me to find some slippers at least."

Jack bowed his acquiescence and left her. In the corridor he paused, listening for the sound of the latch. There was none. No, he decided, Arabella Lacey would never pick the coward's way. She would meet him on his own ground and probably, he reflected, with his own weapons.

He didn't, however, go immediately downstairs. Instead he went to his own bedchamber, where he took the letter out of his coat pocket and locked it away in an ironbound strongbox. He had no intention of giving the Cornish relatives the opportunity to welcome Arabella with open arms. He hadn't, after all, promised her he would frank and send it immediately. It didn't mean he wouldn't send it eventually.

And if that wasn't a piece of sophistry, he'd never heard one, he told himself with a self-mocking shake of the head as he went downstairs.

In the dining room he took his seat at the table, and allowed Franklin to pour him a gla.s.s of claret. He sat back in the carved armchair and awaited his guest.

Chapter 4.

Jack waited half an hour before he heard her light, quick step crossing the hall. He rose from his chair as Arabella came in and his eyes narrowed in appreciation. She had put the half hour to good use. She now wore a cream muslin gown opened over a dark green satin petticoat, a white lawn fichu pinned with an amethyst brooch at the neck. Her hair was threaded with a green satin ribbon and she wore a pair of daintily heeled kid slippers on her feet. It seemed she was not always careless of her appearance.

He bowed and moved to draw out the chair on his right. She took it with a nod and said, "You should not have waited for your dinner, sir. I am not eating and it will upset Mrs. Elliot if you allow her food to spoil." She looked towards the door where the steward hovered. "Franklin, pray serve his grace without delay."

Jack poured claret into her gla.s.s, observing mildly, "I did not care to start without you. I'm already guilty of grave discourtesy."

Arabella looked startled. "How so, sir?"

He smiled as he resumed his seat. "I forgot to ask you what time you liked to take dinner and thus obliged you to eat alone. I ask your pardon." He raised his gla.s.s to her and took a sip.

Arabella was bound to respond to the toast before saying, "There was no discourtesy, your grace. I didn't expect us to sit at table together. Indeed, I don't expect it. You have only to tell Franklin when you wish to dine and he'll see to it. I'll follow my usual routine. I have no desire to intrude on you at all."

Franklin set a bowl of soup in front of the duke and withdrew to the doorway. Jack dipped his spoon, glanced up at the steward, and said, "There's no need to wait upon me, Franklin. I'll ring when I'm ready for the next course."

The steward cast a doubtful look at Lady Arabella, but when she made no demur he bowed and retreated to the hall.

"I trust you find the soup to your liking, your grace," Arabella said politely. "Mrs. Elliot is an excellent cook and housekeeper. I'm sure she'll give you every satisfaction."

Jack said nothing until he'd finished the contents of his bowl, then he set down his spoon and leaned back in his chair. "The soup is delicious and I'm certain I'll have no fault to find with any aspect of the running of this household. So, having disposed of that, let us get down to business."

"Business?" She frowned and took a fortifying sip of wine. The sun was getting low in the sky and filled the window behind the duke's head with a bright orange glow that reduced the light from the candles to a wan flicker. "What business do we have, Duke?"

He turned the stem of his winegla.s.s between two long fingers and Arabella's gaze was caught by the ruby on one finger, the square emerald on the other. They were magnificent stones. What possible need did this man have for her brother's fortune? What need did he have for his death?

The question brought a graveyard shiver across her scalp. She hadn't asked it before, but surely there had been more to Frederick's death and dishonor than a simple card game?

"What possible business do we have, your grace?" she asked again when it seemed he was disinclined to answer her.

"My dear, I don't believe you are as obtuse as you're trying to make me believe," he said. "First, I have a name and it would please me if you would start using it. 'Your grace this' and 'your grace that' grows irksome. So it is to be 'Jack' from now on, if you please. And second, giving me the pleasure of your company is not too much recompense, I believe, for your continuing to treat this house as your home."He rang the little handbell at his plate as if to punctuate this decisive statement.

Arabella could say nothing until Franklin had removed the soup and replaced it with a partridge pie, a roast chicken, a pair of river trout, and a dish of artichokes and mushrooms.

"Are you sure you won't let me cut you a slice of this excellent pie?" Jack asked solicitously as Franklin again made himself scarce.

"No. Uh, thank you," she added belatedly. "As I explained, I've already had my dinner." And a considerably less elaborate one than this, she reflected. Mrs. Elliot had prepared for the duke the kind of dinner Frederick would have demanded, whereas Arabella when alone was content with two dishes.

"Then you'll take a little more wine." He reached over to refill her half-empty gla.s.s.

Arabella took a deep breath. "Your grace-"

"Jack, if you please," he interrupted with a pained frown.

She set her lips. "Sir," she said, "if keeping you company is the price I must pay in order to stay here until I can make other arrangements, then I'm afraid I choose not to pay it. I'll leave within the hour."

She moved to push back her chair but he laid a hand over hers when she set it on the table to steady herself as she rose to her feet. The hand seemed simply to lie over hers, but in fact it pinned her hand like a b.u.t.terfly in a case and she was forced to remain in her chair.

"Your pardon," he said without releasing the pressure at all. "You're not thinking clearly, Arabella. All I'm asking is your company at the dinner table and now and again on rides around the estate, when I hope you'll instruct me in the way things are done and introduce me to the tenants. Bailey tells me you're well loved by everyone and it would stand me in good stead with them if you seemed to vouch for me. Surely you can see that would be in everyone's best interests."

Arabella experimentally wriggled her fingers against the table and he moved his hand from hers. She put it in her lap.

"What do you have against me?" he asked in a purely conversational tone as he began to fillet a trout.

She stared at him. "You drove my brother to his death. You took everything he owned. You dispossess me-"

He held up an arresting hand. "No, not that. You cannot accuse me of dispossessing you, Arabella. I offered you my hand in marriage. Not only would you keep your home but you'd have access to all my worldly goods in addition. I'm offering you whatever life you choose. You can stay quietly here in the country with your orchids, or you can take London by storm. I'll not stand in your way whatever choices you make. If you want to set up a political salon and support the Tories, then I'll not stop you. Although," he added, "as a staunch Whig myself, it might stick in my craw. But I have wealth enough, my dear, for you to live any life you choose. Now, just tell me how that could be considered dispossessing you." Calmly he began to eat his newly filleted trout.

Arabella gazed sightlessly across the glowing mahogany table. She was no fool. He was offering her the world on a silver salver, but why? He didn't know her. Although that wasn't a necessary condition for a marriage proposal. Many marriages took place between people who didn't really know each other. But they, or their families, had something to gain from the arrangement. What could Jack Fortescu have to gain from this offer? He already had everything she possessed, apart from her tiny stipend from her mother.

"Why?" she said at last. "Why make such an offer? What do I have that you could possibly want?"

"I need a wife," he said simply, spooning mushrooms onto his plate. "And legitimate heirs."

"You could have any young woman you wanted," she said. "You have birth, wealth, no visible imperfections . . ." She looked at him closely as if she could see through the immaculately elegant clothes to a scarred and twisted frame beneath.

Jack laughed. "I scare debutantes," he explained, his eyes dancing. "And their mamas think I'm the devil incarnate."

"Well, that wouldn't stop any mother grabbing you as a husband for her daughter," she retorted. "You could be a positive bluebeard so long as you made her daughter a d.u.c.h.ess."

"Now, that's what I like about you," he stated. "Straight to the point. A man would waste his breath on flattery with you, my lady Arabella."

"How can you possibly like me, you don't know me," she pointed out with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"And now we come full circle," he said, setting down his knife and fork. "I am suggesting that we spend time together so that we can get to know each other. Isn't that perfectly reasonable?" He took up his gla.s.s and gave a triumphant little nod that for some lunatic reason made her laugh.

She recollected herself quickly enough. "I don't get the impression that you're suggesting we spend time together, sir. I have the firm understanding that you would compel my company as a condition of my continuing to stay at Lacey Court."

He frowned. "Nasty word, that, compel. I wouldn't say that at all."

"And what would you say?"

"I am most earnestly suggesting it," he responded instantly. "And I'm sure if you would but consider for a minute instead of leaping to judgment, you would see the merit in the suggestion."

The sun had dropped beneath the windowsill now and the candles had come into their own. The white swath of hair running from his forehead took on a silvery glimmer as he bent to his plate once more.

What did she have to lose? Arabella thought. She had to remain at Lacey Court until she had an answer from Cornwall, or at least it would be convenient to do so. And the duke of St. Jules just might prove to be an interesting and informative companion. He was urbane, sophisticated, and she guessed well versed in the political and social scene and she often felt starved of information about the world outside her oasis among the orchards of Kent. She gleaned what she could from those of her neighbors who made occasional forays to Town and brought back newspapers and periodicals, but they were always out-ofdate. Frederick had been no help either. He had had no interest in politics and even less in answering his sister's questions.

"Did you say you were a Whig?" she asked casually, reaching for a roll from the basket on the table.

He looked up with a slightly amused air at this apparent non sequitur. "Yes."

She nodded. "Are you a friend of the Prince of Wales, then?"

"As it happens." He pushed his plate aside and took up his winegla.s.s again.

"So, the king does not look upon you with a kindly eye," Arabella observed, nibbling a crust of bread.

"No," he agreed, regarding her over the lip of his gla.s.s with the same air of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Nor Queen Charlotte," she said. "I heard that she now excludes ardent Whig supporters from her Drawing Rooms."

He nodded. "Shortsighted of her, but both she and her husband see little beyond their own royal prerogatives." A slight frown between his brows replaced the hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in the gray gaze. "Is there a point to this political discussion, Arabella?"

"Ring your bell," she said. "Mrs. Elliot will be anxious to bring in the next cover. No, there's no particular point, but it occurs to me that you could satisfy my curiosity about political issues. It seems a fair exchange for my satisfying yours about the estate."

It seemed they'd reached a tacit understanding, Jack reflected. Politics wouldn't have been his subject of choice, but he wouldn't quibble. "Fair exchange," he agreed, ringing his bell obediently.

Franklin removed the dishes and brought a basket of cheese tartlets and a lemon syllabub. "Mrs. Elliot apologizes for the lack of variety, your grace. Had she had more notice of your grace's arrival . . ." He bowed.

"This is more than ample," Jack said. "Pray thank Mrs. Elliot for her efforts. I do appreciate them." He gestured towards Arabella. "Another plate for Lady Arabella, perhaps?"

"No, thank you," Arabella said, brushing bread crumbs to one side as if she didn't know how they'd appeared in front of her.

Jack inclined his head in acknowledgment and took a cheese tartlet. "So, my dear, in the interest of your political education I foresee many a pleasant dinner."

"I'm sure we'll have much to discuss," Arabella said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I do have some business to attend to." She laid a hand on the table to push back her chair, and this time he made no attempt to stop her.

"I was hoping we might play a game of backgammon, or even have a hand of piquet?" he suggested.

Arabella stared at him in astonishment, then she laughed, and there was no humor in it. "My dear sir, you do not imagine I would pick up a card in a game or throw a die with the man who somehow persuaded my brother to gamble away his life and his fortune."

Jack's countenance darkened. His voice was very quiet as he said, "Make no mistake, Arabella, your brother did what he did with his eyes open. He knew what he was risking . . . and why." The last was almost sotto voce and Arabella wasn't sure she had heard him properly. But she was sure that she didn't want to ask any more questions of Jack Fortescu. His eyes were blank, empty pools as he sat motionless, and she was suddenly horribly reminded of a specter, a mere shroud of menace that one could look right through.

She wanted to get up, walk away from the table, out of the room, and yet for as long as he sat there withdrawn from her but still a grim presence in the soft candlelight, she couldn't manage to move a muscle.

Jack gazed at the image of Charlotte as he'd last seen her, on the morning of that last day. He heard her singing. She had loved to sing in a light treble that had always reminded him of birdsong. Then his eyes focused abruptly, taking in the flicker of candles, the golden pools of light on the richly polished surface of the table, the ruby wine in the cut-gla.s.s goblet he held between finger and thumb. He looked at the woman beside him.

Her golden eyes held a startled question, but it was not one he either could or would answer.

Arabella, as if loosed from a spell, pushed back her chair. "I bid you good night, sir."

He didn't try to stop her this time. Instead he rose too and escorted her to the door. He put his hand on the door latch but made no attempt to lift it immediately. With his free hand he lifted hers to his lips, his eyes holding hers as his mouth brushed her knuckles. There was no trace of that menacing stranger now. Then he leaned in towards her and moved his mouth to the corner of hers in a light, fleeting kiss. When he straightened, still holding her hand, he smiled down into her startled still-upturned countenance. Indignation quickly replaced her initial surprise and confusion and the golden eyes burned.

He forestalled the angry words forming on her lips. "I find it hard to believe that in your eight and twenty years you've never been kissed before, Arabella," he said, the smile still in his eyes but mixed with a slight question.

"Never without my permission before," she retorted. "Who do you think you are? You may now be master of this house, your grace, but that does not give you droit de seigneur. Please move aside and let me pa.s.s."

He laughed and raised the latch, throwing open the door with a flourish. She swept past him, ignoring his farewell bow. "Good night, Arabella," he called softly. "I look forward to tomorrow."

She turned, one foot on the bottom stair. "Curiously, sir, I do not." And on that rather unsatisfactory rejoinder she marched upstairs.

Much to Arabella's surprise she slept a dreamless, untroubled sleep and awoke at her usual hour in the fresh-washed light of early morning, when the dogs, deciding it was time to put on the day, nudged wet noses against her bare forearm.

"All right, all right," she mumbled through a deep yawn, and sat up. The dogs padded expectantly to the bedroom door and she swung out of bed to open it for them. They would appear in the kitchen, someone would let them out, and Becky, knowing her mistress was awake, would bring up hot chocolate and hot water. Arabella's well-established morning routine.

She climbed back into bed, propping herself up against pillows, and thought of all the other familiar routines. Her mornings in the hothouse, her afternoon rides with the dogs, Thursday morning meetings with Peter Bailey, her friends-Meg . . . oh, she would miss Meg. They were as close as sisters, maybe even closer. Her life, her future, now seemed to her like a jigsaw puzzle that someone had picked up and dropped and there were pieces missing, so that it could never again be reconst.i.tuted to make the same picture.

Becky knocked and came in with a tray. "Mornin', m'lady," she said cheerfully, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Looks like another hot one. Shall I pour?" She picked up the silver pot.