"He treats Harriet with a great deal more consideration than she deserves," the dowager muttered, "but he is not a brother to you like that fool woman believes."

"Do you remember, Grace," her sister said, "that visit to Hart House two years ago when Harriet insisted we sit out on the lawn all afternoon so that she could oversee the planting of the cherry trees and enjoy conversation at the same time? You developed the most disagreeable heat disturbance."

"Harriet is a selfish fool." Aunt Grace frowned. "She never thinks of anything but her own comfort."

"Dear Peter came that afternoon to see Beatrice," Aunt Julia continued, "but when he observed your illness he went right out and found the doctor. At night. Himself! I don't think he even considered sending a groom."

"Hm." The dowager's lips thinned, pulling wrinkles around her mouth.

"He was mourning his beautiful mother then." Julia sighed. "Still he came to visit our Beatrice, didn't he?" Her entire cherubic face creased into a smile.

With moths fluttering about her belly, Bea drew aside the window curtain. Whatever Aunt Grace said, Tip did in fact treat her a great deal like Thomas did. He liked visiting because he could be at his leisure with Lord Marke and Nancy, as well as with her and Mama. In York he never had anything to worry about-grain prices, sheep shearing, Parliament bills, or conniving mothers. Certainly not the latter. And, of course, in York he could hear news of Georgie from her and Mama.

Outside the carriage, mists blanketed the landscape, wrapped about gnarled, lichen-covered trees and hovering above grass the exact color of Tip's eyes. Stone fences crept along gentle hillsides, white sheep rising out of the gray like droplets of spring snow yet to melt. Wales was full of mountains in this northern part, but Bea could not see more than a hundred yards in any direction.

Tip rode along the other side of the carriage as he had for six days already. He had been a lovely escort throughout the journey, arranging lodging along the road, conveying Aunt Grace, Aunt Julia, and Bea to their chambers after dinner and greeting them with a smile each morning. He regaled them each evening with stories, and explained about the caravans of wagons piled high with slate for which they were obliged to make way several times on the narrow highways.

If this trip accomplished nothing else, it convinced Bea once and for all that he truly had no idea of her feelings for him. He smiled, teased, and laughed, and he served Bea and her great-aunts with unhesitating gallantry. But he might have been a hired courier for all the intimacy he showed her.

It was, of course, much better this way.

Bea stared out the window, the clip-clopping of hooves, creaking of carriage works, and clattering of jumbled stones on the road echoing dully through the fog.

Then, quite abruptly, the curtain of fog lifted and Bea's breath caught.

Ahead, atop a rocky spur amidst a forest of dark evergreens and twisted, brown- and goldleafed oaks and ash trees, a stone castle rose in dark, solitary splendor. Built on a massive scale, yet compact in its position tucked against the mountain face, the fortress loomed above the valley like an angry sentinel. Tip had told them that most of the castles in northern Wales were built in the Middle Ages, to help the English king gain control over the rebellious Welsh peoples and their copper, slate, gold, and silver-rich lands. This castle certainly looked darkly medieval, mysterious and sinister.

"Gwynedd Castle, my lord," the coachman called down. The team pulled the carriage to the right, climbing a narrow, exceedingly bumpy track toward the castle.

"Beatrice, bring your head inside," Aunt Grace commanded. "You will catch your death from the chill."

Bea obeyed. But she did not draw the curtain. Her pulse beat so swiftly she could hear it.

It was more than she had hoped. More than she had imagined and dreamed. Closeted with her demanding mother in the countryside for four years, she'd not had one adventure, not even a spark of excitement. The only true pleasure she'd had-other than Tip's infrequent visits-came from the novels she borrowed from the lending library in York. Now she had her chance. She only prayed that what Thomas had written in his letter about the castle's master was true. It couldn't be. Still, her spine shivered in eerie delight.

The mist seemed to close in on them again as they ascended, as though beckoning them into its haunted embrace. They continued to climb along the hillside, at once doubling back, then again, until they reached a slight plateau. Bea stretched across the seat and opened the other curtain.

The castle was huge, much bigger than it appeared from below. Rising in a double set of rounded towers flanking a central portal, a wall easily a hundred feet high stretched along the ridge of the hill to meet yet another thick tower. Crenellated battlements were pierced by long, narrow slit aperture windows, and here and there a judiciously placed stone hawk completed the portrait of power and strength. Fog encompassed the remainder, rolling down the thick gray stone to unfurl on the grass below. It all looked positively ghastly. And simply wonderful.

The carriage ground to a halt and Tip opened the door. The coachman lowered the step.

"My ladies," the baron said, offering his hand. Lady Marstowe took it and descended, then Tip handed Aunt Julia down. He turned to grasp Bea's fingers.

"You look as though you have seen a ghost," he whispered, effectively doubling the number of words he had spoken to her privately since they'd left Yorkshire five days earlier.

She smiled, afraid her voice would not function properly. The combined proximity of a formidable castle and the man she adored tied her tongue.

"Why, Bea, I believe you are hoping to do exactly that." He chuckled.

"This stone heap is certain to be cold and damp." Lady Marstowe scowled. She beckoned to her maid. "Peg, bring my shawl, and prepare the warming pan as soon as we are within. Why hasn't a footman come out to greet us yet?"

Bea's knees quivered deliciously as they moved forward, possibly because of the monumental building they approached or Tip's gloved hand covering hers upon his arm.

"Thomas wrote that Lady Bronwyn keeps the house now," she said, "with her grandmother, who is apparently quite frail."

As though on cue, the front portcullis lifted into the heavy portal and behind it a thick, iron-bracketed door swung open. Through it sailed a perfectly angelic creature.

"Oh, you have come!" she exclaimed, her voice a tinkling of the sweetest bells imaginable. In a porcelain-perfect face warmed by rosy cheeks, her gentian eyes sparkled like flowers touched with dew. Ringlets of black hair tumbled about her neck and tapered shoulders, a cluster of white silk flowers tucked behind one ear with a white ribbon. Gowned in a diaphanous confection of snowy lace and muslin, she floated to them upon tiny feet clad in peach satin slippers.

Bea was dumbstruck, although perhaps only because the lady of the house did not quite suit her surroundings. She certainly suited Thomas's brief description in his letter: young, maidenly, and excessively beautiful.

Tip did not seem quite as flabbergasted by the girl's exceptional loveliness. He bowed over her hand.

"My lady, am I to guess that you are our hostess? We thank you for the gracious invitation to your home," he said, then drew Bea forward.

Bea dropped into a curtsy. "Good afternoon, Lady Bronwyn. My aunts, Lady Marstowe and Miss Dews, and I are happy to have come. And may I present to you Lord Cheriot?"

The angel's delicate hand grasped hers and drew her up with surprising strength.

"Oh! You must be Miss Sinclaire, for I see your brother's intelligent gaze in your eyes." She giggled infectiously and pressed Bea's hand between both of hers. "I will not have you calling me anything but Bronwyn. I am so happy to make your acquaintance, and thrilled that you have come to visit me on such short notice." Her sparkling gaze shifted to the elderly ladies. "Oh, dear, I am remiss," she exclaimed. "My lady and Miss Dews, you must be cold and weary from the journey. Allow me to show you and your maid to comfortable quarters."

"Your housekeeper will do." The dowager coolly assessed the girl.

Lady Bronwyn's face fell. "Oh, I fear Grandmama and I haven't a housekeeper any longer. The castle used to be filled with servants, you see, until Lord Iversly returned. Now none will stay. He has frightened them all away except Cook, thank goodness, and her husband, Mr. Dibin. He is the butler, though he was the groom before. They are both very sensible and say Lord Iversly cannot scare them off. Most of the servants I brought with me from London were English, you see, but Cook and Mr. Dibin are Welsh, of course."

"What sort of man frightens his servants?" Lady Marstowe glared. "Is he cruel, or does he chase the maids' petticoats?"

Bea couldn't resist looking at Tip. He lifted a brow. Clearly, he did not approve that she hadn't shared with Aunt Grace the entire contents of Thomas's letter.

"Oh, no," Lady Bronwyn exclaimed. "He isn't that sort of man. At least, it does not seem so." Her brow wrinkled, but it cleared just as quickly. "But do come inside. I will bid Cook to make up some tea."

Thomas appeared beneath the castle portal.

"Bea!" His brow furrowed. "And Cheriot? Aunt Grace, and Aunt Julia? Why have you brought them, Bea?" he demanded, striding forward.

"That is hardly the way to greet your devoted sister after she has traveled such a distance at your request, Sinclaire," Tip said rather firmly.

Bea grasped her brother's hands. "It is good to see you, Tom. Mama and I have missed you."

Thomas at once looked sheepish, his light curls surrounding his face in a boyish manner.

"Yes, well, a fellow gets busy, of course." He shifted his attention to Tip. "How do you do, Cheriot? What brings you to Wales?"

"Lord Cheriot has business interests in Porthmadog," Bea supplied. "He graciously offered to escort Aunt Grace, Aunt Julia, and me here. I am sure he will wish to be off first thing tomorrow to see to his affairs."

"I am in no particular hurry," Tip said laconically, casting her a sideways glance. "And I have a notion to meet this Iversly who frightens off all but the most steadfast of servants."

Thomas's brow lowered and his gaze shot to Lady Marstowe.

"Aunt Grace." He bowed with stiff formality.

"Scapegrace," she muttered, and turned toward the castle.

"Thomas, you young scamp." Aunt Julia accepted a kiss from him upon her wrinkled cheek with a twinkling smile.

"Oh, let us all go inside and get comfortable," Lady Bronwyn said, fluttering her lashes at Thomas as he took Aunt Julia's arm. Bea wasn't in the least surprised. Despite his often-shabby manners, her handsome brother always attracted the prettiest girls.

Thomas smiled gently at his hostess and followed her through the massive portal with Aunt Julia.

"So, now we may comprehend your brother's great interest in Wales," Tip murmured at Bea's shoulder as they moved through a heavy passageway lit by torches. They ascended a cramped, winding stone staircase into another narrow corridor and then through a truncated entryway, all of stone, offering no adornments but severe pointed arches.

True to Lady Bronwyn's word, no footman stood ready to open the door she approached. Thomas did instead, gesturing them all inside. The chamber was broad and hexagonal, obviously one of the enormous towers Bea had seen from the outside. Given its size, it was surprisingly cozy within. Thick, colorful tapestries draped the walls, rugs lined the tiled floor, furniture of recent date and reasonable taste filled the space, all illumined by the glow of a brace of beeswax candles and a merrily crackling fire.

Bea sat beside Aunt Julia upon a brocade sofa, but Aunt Grace remained at the door, perusing the chamber with lifted lorgnette. Lady Bronwyn pulled a bell rope and smiled charmingly at everyone.

"I hope your journey passed smoothly." She dimpled prettily.

"Very well, thank you." Bea cast a glance at Thomas, who was staring at Lady Bronwyn like a boy at a new puppy, as any gentleman might when confronted with such loveliness.

Bea's gaze shifted to Tip. He was looking at her, not at the young beauty "Oh, Beatrice," Lady Bronwyn said, sitting beside her and grasping her hands again in delicate fingers. "I have so longed for a friend." Her bright eyes dimmed. "I have not gone out in quite a few weeks, of course."

"Aunt Grace and Aunt Julia," Bea said swiftly, "wouldn't you like to go to your chambers and rest a bit before dinner?"

"I said as much before, didn't I?" The dowager glared at their hostess, but she looked peaked.

Lady Bronwyn leapt up from the sofa. "Oh, yes, of course!"

Tip offered his arm to Aunt Grace. "May I see you to your chamber, Lady Marstowe?"

"No." She batted his hand away. "I am perfectly capable of seeing myself there, if this girl doesn't get us lost on the way."

"Oh, my lady, you are so diverting." Lady Bronwyn's chime-like laughter faded into the corridor.

Tip turned from the door and gave Bea a long, steady look before shifting his attention to her brother.

"What's going on here, Sinclaire?"

Thomas frowned. "Not sounding so friendly now, are you, Cheriot? I wondered why you'd come."

"Gentlemen." Bea stood and moved toward her brother. "Let us not adopt threatening postures yet, shall we? We have only just arrived." She set an inquiring look upon her brother. "Thomas, Lord Cheriot has come along to assist you, as I have. Your note, however, left us with some questions."

"I should say so," Tip put in.

Bea cast him a speaking look. She placed her hand on her brother's arm. "Tell us what is happening. For beginners, how have you come to be here? Mama and I believed you to be in Scotland. At least that's what Papa wrote me in his last letter, though that was some months ago."

"I meant to go to Scotland. But Charlie begged me to come here instead."

"Charlie?"

"Charlie Whitney. You know, Bea. I brought him home on holiday three years back or so. Stirred up a lark with the carolers, if you remember."

"Yes." She nodded, vaguely recalling a young gentleman in his cups the entire visit.

"Well, Charlie's pater told him he had to come up here to meet his betrothed. Never set eyes on the girl, but said she was an impressive heiress and he'd fixed him up good, only the contracts left to finalize, but p'raps he wanted to see the chit before they were all signed and sealed."

"And Mr. Whitney asked you to accompany him?"

"Charlie's never been much for filial responsibility." He cracked a grin. "Thought we could take in the sights on the way, have a go at the local ales and a few black-haired-"

Tip cleared his throat. Thomas's gaze shot to him, then shifted guiltily back to Bea.

"Go on," she said. "So you set out to meet his fiancee. Then?"

"Then we arrived, Charlie saw how it was, and he hightailed it out of here before a fellow could blink twice."

Bea shook her head. "I fear I am lacking perfect understanding, Tom. You arrived here?"

"Yes." His gaze shifted back and forth between Bea and Tip, his brow questioning.

"Do you mean to say that Lady Bronwyn is Charlie's betrothed?" Bea asked.

"Not any longer." Thomas scowled. "He stayed here for all of three hours before he told her he wouldn't have her and that her grandmother could give her dowry to the dogs for all he cared about it."

"Good heavens," Bea murmured. "But she is very beautiful and seems charming."

Thomas's blue eyes shone with sudden fervor. "Aphrodite embodied. An angel on earth."

"I daresay." A grin tugged at Bea's lips. Warmth gathered at the nape of her neck. She glanced at Tip and again found him watching her. She turned her gaze to the lavishly appointed chamber. "And wealthy, you say?"

"According to Charlie's father."

"What did he find to be so repellent about her that he left in such short order? Or is he merely a cad?"

Thomas shook his head. "He's a good enough sort of fellow. At least I thought he was until this. Now I'm convinced he's a sorry coward."

"Coward?"

Thomas studied Bea's face for a moment. "Didn't you read my letter? I explained it in perfectly reasonable terms, Bea."

"I read it, of course. You did not mention how Lady Bronwyn's servants had all abandoned her, however. Why did they leave?"

"Iversly came back, just as she said, and frightened them all off."

"Yes, this Lord Iversly." Bea's spine prickled. "When did he return, Thomas, and from where, exactly? Your letter didn't mention him."

"Of course it did." His brow screwed up and he looked back and forth between Bea and Tip again as though they were slow tops. "He's the ghost."