"In your condition?" I tossed my head. "I'd lose my status as your honorary nanny."

"I refuse to think of you as my nanny," he stated flatly.

I smiled up at him. "Then think of me as your friend."

"Friend." He tilted his head to one side and p.r.o.nounced the word experimentally. "Friend is better than nanny, I suppose."

"Much better." I took his hand and hooked it in the crook of my arm as we strolled toward the staircase. "But if you ever ask me to go to bed with you again, Simon, I reserve the right to box your ears."

I left Simon at his bedroom door, then sailed straight through my firelit room and into Bill's, but my husband was still burning the midnight oil with Gina. I gazed at his pillow reflectively and decided, on behalf of all hopeful romantics everywhere, to leave a note on his bed that might lure him into mine when he finally finished his working day.

Enticing phrases filled my mind as I returned to the writing table in my room in search of notepaper. I was giggling over a particularly sultry phrase when the drapes billowed inward.

I stepped toward them, wondering who'd left the window open, then recoiled in terror as a shadowy figure lunged at me, raising a clenched fist.

Eighteen.

My a.s.sailant sneezed.

The shriek that had risen halfway up my throat emerged as a garbled "G.o.d bless you!"

"Thanks," said the shadowy figure. He raised his fist again to cover a second sneeze. "Do you have a tissue? My handkerchief's drenched."

A log fell on the fire, sparks flew, and I caught a glimpse of my attacker's face. I knew those delicately carved features. The fine, straight nose, the curving lips, and the wide-set violet eyes belonged to the most beautiful man I'd ever met.

"Kit?" I squeaked.

"Keep your voice down," Kit urged. He stepped closer and asked, "How's Nell?"

"She's banged up," I said. "But they let her come home this evening, so-"

"She's here? Is she alone?" he demanded sharply.

"No," I replied, dizzied by the rapid-fire interrogation. "Derek, Emma, and Peter are with her."

He seemed to relax. "About that tissue . . ."

I leaned on the desk for a moment, to recover from Kit's heart-stopping entrance, then took a packet of tissues from my shoulder bag and thrust it at him.

"I should give you a kick in the backside for scaring me like that," I said in a heated whisper.

"Sorry." He blew his nose and tossed the crumpled tissue in the wastebasket. "I thought you might be another maid. Thousands have been tramping through here-turning down the bed, lighting the fire, freshening the vases. I had to slip out onto the balcony when the red-haired one hoovered the carpet."

I peered at him more closely. A waterproof parka had protected his dark blue crew-neck sweater from the storm, but his work boots and blue jeans were sopping wet, and rivulets of rain drizzled from his short-cropped gray hair.

"You're soaked," I said in dismay.

"I am a bit damp," he admitted. "I had to park the van a couple of miles away and hike in."

I motioned toward the hearth. "Go and sit by the fire while I find something of Bill's for you to change into."

He knew better than to argue and we both knew why. Kit Smith hadn't always been gainfully employed as the Harrises' stable master. When I'd first met him, he'd been homeless, starving, and half dead from a combination of hypothermia and pneumonia. His encounter with the grim reaper had been close enough to turn his hair gray at the ripe young age of thirty. I'd been a little overprotective of him ever since.

It took five minutes for Kit to change into dry socks and a pair of Bill's twill trousers. He and Bill were much the same height-just over six feet-but Kit was the leaner of the two, so I added one of Bill's leather belts to the ensemble. While Kit toweled his hair dry, I hung his wet clothes from the mantelpiece, dragged a pair of armchairs close to the fire, pulled a blanket from the bed, and wrapped it around him. We spoke in lowered voices as we sat facing each other across the hearth.

"I'd phone the kitchen for a pot of hot chocolate," I said, "but it's past Cook's bedtime."

"I've stopped sneezing," he said meekly.

I ducked my head and smiled, but my amus.e.m.e.nt was short-lived. I couldn't believe that Kit had been so foolhardy as to come to Hailesham Park.

"How did you get into my room?" I asked.

"You gave Annelise a fairly detailed description of the view from your balcony," he explained. "I climbed up the stonework, spotted Reginald, and knew I'd found the right place."

"You climbed the stonework," I repeated. "After walking two miles. Through the storm."

"I had no choice." Kit held his hands out to the fire. "Lord Elstyn thinks I've trifled with his granddaughter's affections. Can you imagine what would've happened if I'd knocked on his front door?"

"He did mention something about shooting you if you set foot on his property," I said with some asperity.

"I know I'm not welcome here, Lori, but I had to come." Kit's expression was grave as his eyes met mine. "Nell's in danger."

The hairs on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kled, but I waited for him to go on. He hunched forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together.

"When Annelise told me about your call this morning, I knew something was wrong. The horse hasn't been born that can throw Nell, under normal circ.u.mstances."

Though Emma had said much the same thing in response to Gina's gibes, Kit's opinion carried more weight. Emma might be blinded by her stepmaternal love for Nell, but Kit the stable master would neither under- nor overrate his pupil's abilities. When it came to horsemanship, Kit was utterly clear-sighted.

"I thought of ringing you and asking you to look into it," he went on, "but you've never been comfortable around horses."

"I wouldn't know what to look for," I agreed.

"That's why I had to come. I had to find out what had really happened." Kit drew the blanket more closely around him. "I went to the stables first, to gauge Deacon's temperament. The horse is sound, Lori. Spirited, yes, but nothing Nell can't handle."

"Deacon's thrown two good riders in two days," I pointed out.

"It's not his fault," said Kit.

I didn't understand what he was getting at. "If it's not Nell's fault, or Deacon's, then-"

"The hurdles." Kit shrugged the blanket from his shoulders, stood, and rummaged in the cargo pocket of his dripping parka. When he turned back to me, he was holding a tangled web of fine electrical wiring.

"Flashbulbs," he said, handing the wire to me. "Remote-controlled flashbulbs. I found the wire wound among the ivy on the hurdles. Someone must have hidden the bulbs there and set them off when Deacon approached. The flashes terrified him and he panicked. No one could have stayed on him after that."

I stared at the tiny bulbs, horrified. "Claudia said he seemed frightened," I muttered. "And Simon . . . Simon told me he saw stars when he fell. He must have caught a glimpse of . . . these."

Kit resumed his seat. "It was an intentional act of sabotage, Lori. Someone was trying to hurt Nell."

I closed my eyes and watched the accident unfold once more in memory. I saw Deacon's steady strides, the fluttering ivy, the long-legged rider, the helmet, the black coat, the tall boots. . . .

"No," I said, shuddering. "It's not Nell they're trying to hurt. It's Simon."

I dropped the wire on the floor, reached into my pocket, and withdrew the poison-pen notes. With trembling hands, I unfolded the note Simon had discovered after his fall.

"'A pity you didn't land on your head. Better luck next time.'" I was filled with a sickening sense of failure as I read the words aloud. "Simon thought it was a harmless bit of mockery, but I should have known it was more serious. I should have seen it coming."

"What should you have seen?" Kit asked. "What's going on?"

I looked from the note to the bulb-festooned wire, then sat forward in my chair and carefully outlined to Kit my theory about Lord Elstyn's plan to disinherit Derek in favor of Simon.

"I think some lunatic's trying to protect Derek by getting rid of Simon," I continued. "Simon's received a series of nasty messages similar to these." I handed both notes to Kit and told him about the torched turtledove. "When Simon ignored the notes, someone set fire to the topiary. When he refused to be intimidated by the fire-"

"The lunatic rigged the flashbulbs," Kit said grimly.

I nodded. "When Deacon panicked yesterday, Simon was so badly hurt that he wasn't able to ride today."

"That must be why Nell took Deacon out this morning," Kit commented. "She wanted to prove to everyone that he's manageable."

"From a distance, when they're on horseback, it's hard to tell one cousin from another," I explained. "The maniac must have mistaken Nell for Simon and tried the flashbulb trick again: 'Better luck next time,'" I repeated bitterly.

Kit returned the notes to me and I put them back in my pocket.

"Why hasn't Simon gone to the police?" he asked.

"He didn't want to open the door to a public scandal," I replied. "He wanted to expose his persecutor privately. And we may be on the right track. . . ."

I recounted my discovery of the vandalized books and the razor and concluded with my suspicions regarding Chambers, the earl's ex-valet. Kit listened without interruption, but when I'd finished, he shook his head.

"I understand Simon's reluctance to involve the police," he said, "but it's gone too far. He could have been killed yesterday. Nell could have been killed today. Simon must notify the authorities and ask for a proper investigation. If he won't . . ."

"I will," I promised.

Kit knelt to stir the fire. After he returned the poker to the stand, he remained kneeling, with his back to me. We gazed into the rising flames, absorbed in our own private meditations. Kit was the first to break the silence.

"Will you take me to her?" he asked.

The request snapped me out of my reverie. "To Nell?"

He nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the fire. "I need to see her, Lori. I may not be in love with her, but she's . . . dear to me. I've been so worried. I have to see her before I go."

"Derek and the others will be with her," I reminded him.

"All the better," he said. "Please take me to her."

"I don't know where her room is," I said.

"I do." Kit sat on the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. A half-smile played on his lips, as though he was recalling a fond memory. "When I first arrived at Ans...o...b.. Manor, I was too weak to do much of anything. Nell and Bertie used to keep me company. She brought me books and kittens and plum cake, and she told me all about her ill.u.s.trious grandfather and the glories of Hailesham Park." The firelight shone in Kit's violet eyes as he turned his face up to me. "Her room overlooks the terraced gardens. It's in the south wing, across from the painting of the lady in pink slippers."

I took a deep breath. "Okay," I said, "but let me go first. Lord Elstyn'll aim more carefully if I'm standing in front of you. I hope."

Nineteen.

I scrawled a brief note to Bill, telling him that I'd be back shortly-with explanations-and propped it against the black onyx urn that was holding Kit's parka in place on the mantelpiece. Kit waited while I searched the corridor for signs of life, then followed me as I led the way to the south wing. We were crossing the landing when the sound of voices floated up to us from the stairwell.

"It may be legal, Gina, but you know as well as I do that it's wrong," Bill was saying.

"Right and wrong are abstract concepts," Gina observed. "I'm concerned solely with legality."

"I'll continue to fight you on this," Bill warned.

Gina's throaty laughter was filled with disdain. "Your devotion to a lost cause is truly touching."

"It's not lost yet," said Bill. "When we meet tomorrow, I'm going to insist on . . ."

I'd have given ten sacks of silver to continue eavesdropping on their conversation, but their voices were growing louder, which meant that they were heading straight toward us. I didn't need a crystal ball to tell me what would happen if Gina saw me leading an oddly dressed stranger in the general direction of Nell's bedroom, so Kit and I hotfooted it into the south wing at top speed.

"Pink slippers, pink slippers, pink slippers," I muttered as we dashed past the paintings lining the long corridor. We were halfway to the end when I spotted an improbably well-dressed shepherdess with a simpering smile, a beribboned crook, and . . .

"Pink slippers!" I whispered excitedly, pointing at the telltale footgear, but Kit had already disappeared through the door opposite the shepherdess. I glanced toward the staircase, distinctly heard Bill clear his throat, and scrambled after Kit, closing the door behind us. I leaned against it to catch my breath while my gaze moved slowly around the room.

I saw nothing to indicate the presence of a teenager-no gaudy posters, no electronics, no mess. The decor reflected the refined taste of a mature woman who knew her own mind and trusted her own judgment. It was exactly what I would have expected of Nell.

The walls were hung with exquisite hand-painted paper: gnarled boughs clouded with apple blossoms in the most delicate shades of ivory, rose, and celadon. The furniture came from many periods, as if each piece had been chosen by virtue of its graceful lines or handsome fabrics instead of its dull conformity to one particular style.

The creamy marble mantelpiece echoed that in the drawing room with its miniature pillars and porticoes, and the half-canopied bed was draped in a sumptuous, pale green damask edged with gold braid. Nell's chocolate-brown teddy bear and Derek's battered gray elephant leaned companionably against each other on a fringed cushion at the foot of the bed, but they were there as cherished friends, not toys.

A silver-framed black-and-white photograph of Emma, Derek, and Peter sat on the bedside table, beneath a parchment-shaded lamp that shed a soft pool of light over a grouping of three chairs that now stood empty. The dim lamp sent furtive gleams through Nell's tumble of golden curls.

She lay with her eyes closed, half raised on a mound of pillows, her right arm resting atop the embroidered coverlet, the left tucked out of sight beneath it. Spills of lace fell from her white nightgown's collar and cuffs. The gown's high neckline hid the bandages that wrapped her broken collarbone and dislocated shoulder.

She looked as pale as a dove, as frail as frost, as vulnerable as a sleeping kitten. The rose-petal blush had left her lips, and there were shadows beneath her eyes that had never been there before. I heard Kit exhale raggedly, as if it hurt him to see her suffering. He turned and was about to quit the room when Nell spoke.

"Kit," she said, in a voice so weak that it was nearly swallowed by the pouring rain.

Kit heard her. He stood motionless for a moment, then slowly turned and walked to Nell's side. I know it was wrong of me, but as he stood over her I couldn't help imagining how beautiful their children would be, if only . . .