"Can you keep it up?" Gideon demanded through his laughter.

"I don't see why not," Prudence said airily. "My French is good enough to combine the language enough

to add a little confusion to the mix, while still not making myself completely incomprehensible. I thought that would be a good idea." "A mysterious, veiled French lady," Gideon mused. "It'll certainly be intriguing. It might also make you seem more sympathetic. Your regular Englishman is fascinated by the somewhat-how shall I put it?-somewhat uninhibited reputation of the French female. They might be rather less hostile to the views expressed in The Mayfair Lady if they believe they're perpetrated by a woman not of their own kind. A woman who might be expected to be a little outrageous."

"So, it's a good strategy all around," Prudence declared.

"It'll serve if you can hold it together in the face of some fairly relentless interrogation."

"I'll practice with my sisters," she promised.

"It will also depend upon your ident.i.ty remaining hidden at the time of the trial," he reminded her. "As I

said before, I can promise you that the prosecution will do everything they can to discover your ident.i.ty.

They're probably setting a search in motion already."

"We're going to discover next week if there have been any strange inquiries at the various places that distribute The Mayfair Lady. "

"Sensible," he said. "So, what's the second thing?"

Prudence reached into her m.u.f.f for the earl of Barclay's note, and read it to him. "It's not dated, but it's certainly not recent."

"It's not good enough," he stated. "Find this schedule of payments, find me dates, find out what your father was buying. I'm not opening this can of worms without unshakable evidence."

"You could surely question the earl about it," she said, bristling at his brusque dismissal despite their

earlier compact. "Maybe rattle him a little." He shook his head. "No, it's not sufficient even to bring the subject up. You'll have to dig deeper." "Well, as it happens, I have authorization to examine his bank records. I'll go to h.o.a.re's tomorrow." "How did you get that?" His surprise was evident. Prudence huddled deeper into the coat, turning the collar up. "It was a trick. Not one I'm proud of, so can we leave it at that?" "Of course," he said instantly. "Are you cold?" His quiet voice was now concerned and sympathetic. "A little," she admitted, although it was not really a bodily cold, more an internal chill. "We'll be there in less than half an hour. See the spires?" He gestured with one hand towards a faint outline on the horizon. Oxford's gleaming spires in the valley below them.

"It's strange, but I've never been to Oxford," Prudence said, resolutely putting aside her depressing thoughts. "Cambridge, yes. But never Oxford."

"I prefer Oxford, but then I'm prejudiced."

"You were at New College?"

He nodded, then placed a hand on her knee. It was a fleeting touch but it felt oddly significant to Prudence. In fact, she realized this whole journey had taken on a significance that she couldn't identify. But it was more than the sum of its parts. A lot more.

They drove up in front of the Randolph Hotel on Beaumont Street just as the city's clocks chimed noon. Prudence stepped down and stretched her shoulders again. The sun was very warm, more like early summer than autumn, and once again she discarded her furs.

Gideon scooped them off the seat. "We'll take them inside. They'll be safer than lying on the seat in the open."

A doorman hurried to escort them into the lofty hall of the hotel. An elegant sweep of staircase led to the upper floors. "The ladies' lounge is upstairs," Gideon said. "I'll wait for you at the table." He strode off to the restaurant.

When Prudence joined him, he was perusing the wine list. A gla.s.s of champagne sat by her place.

"I took the liberty of ordering you an aperitif," he said. "If you'd rather have something else . . ."

"No," she said, "this is lovely." She sat down and took a sip from the gla.s.s. "It does seem to cheer one up."

"And I get the impression you need cheering up," he said. "Let me try for the rest of the day to do just that." He leaned over and placed a hand over hers on the tablecloth. "Will you?"

Oh, yes, Prudence thought, this day was very much more than the sum of its parts. She slid her hand out from under his quite gently and opened her menu. "What do you recommend? I a.s.sume you know the dining room."

"I know it well," he said, accepting her change of subject. If she wouldn't give him a spontaneous answer, then he wasn't going to press for one. He had his pride, and he was not accustomed to rejection, but he allowed none of his pique to show, saying coolly, "The kitchen is very good. How hungry are you?"

"Starving."

He examined his own menu. "Saddle of lamb," he suggested. "Unless you'd prefer the Dover sole."

"Lamb sounds good," she said. "I'm not feeling fishy. What should I have to start?"

"The smoked mackerel pate is delicious, but if you're not in a fishy mood . . ." He frowned at the menu. "Vichyssoise, perhaps?"

"Yes, perfect." Prudence closed her menu, took off her gla.s.ses to rub them on her napkin, and gave him a smile. Gideon was not prepared for the effect of a smile that he had seen all too rarely. When combined with the l.u.s.ter it gave to her lively green eyes, it was quite stunning. It was something of a consolation prize, he decided, but it was not one to be sneezed at.

"Burgundyor claret?" he asked, picking up the wine list again.

"I'm more in a claret mood."

"Then, a bonBordeauxit shall be."

Prudence sipped her champagne and leaned back in her chair, looking out of the long windows at the Martyrs' Memorial in the little square opposite, and the bicycling undergraduates, their black gowns flapping as they pedaled vigorously along St. Giles. Her mood had changed. She was feeling suddenly relaxed, contented, looking forward to her luncheon. Her companion's attention was entirely on the wine list and she had the opportunity for a leisurely if covert examination of his features.

The thick hair was swept back off a broad, rather k.n.o.bby forehead, and she thought his hairline was probably receding slightly. In another five years that broad forehead would be even broader. Her gaze tracked down over the aquiline and very dominating nose, the mouth that she found disturbingly attractive, and the deep cleft in his chin that she found even more so. His hands with their filbert nails were delicate for a man-long-fingered, like a pianist's. She remembered that had been one of her first observations.

It had been a long time since she had consciously found a man attractive, even longer since she had found one s.e.xually inviting. She had lost her virginity the year after her mother had died. She and her sisters had made a pact that while none of them were set on marriage, they were determined not to die wondering about s.e.x. So they'd given themselves a year. At the end of that year they were none of them virgins.

Prudence's experience had been, she supposed, pleasant enough. Or at least, not unpleasant. But she had certainly felt that something had been missing. Some transport of delight or similar sensation that their reading of Victorian p.o.r.nography had given the sisters cause to expect. Perhaps The Pearl and other books of its ilk had magnified the transcendent delights of o.r.g.a.s.mic spending . But Prudence had definitely been left wondering.

Now, however, she caught herself imagining those hands on her body. Her mouth already knew about Gideon's kisses. But the deep-seated thrill of excitement in her belly was not a familiar sensation. It was a shock to admit it, but it seemed that she was attracted to Gideon Malvern.

How was it possible to be attracted to a man one disliked? Well, at least there would be no temptation to do anything about it. She needed the man's mind, not his body, and had no intention of confusing the two.

"Penny for them?" he said, looking up from the wine list.

Prudence blushed. And the more she blushed, the more embarra.s.sed she felt, and the more she blushed. He was looking at her, his gray eyes searching as if he would read her mind. Her face was as hot as h.e.l.l's fire, and, she was sure, as red as a beetroot.

Then he turned his gaze away to address the sommelier, who had appeared opportunely. Prudence breathed slowly and felt the heat in her face subside. She took up her water gla.s.s and surrept.i.tiously pressed it to the pulse below her ear. It had an immediate cooling effect, and by the time Gideon had finished his consultation with the sommelier, she was her usual self, cool and composed, her complexion its customary pale cream.

"A St. Estephe," he said. "I hope you'll approve."

"I'm sure I shall. I never presume to question the choice of an expert," she said lightly, breaking a bread roll and spearing an artful coil of b.u.t.ter from the gla.s.s dish.

"That's a sage and intelligent att.i.tude," he observed. "You'd be surprised how many people lack the sense or are too inflicted with vanity to bow to the voice of experience."

Prudence shook her head at him. "Gideon, you may be right, but your manner of being so is sometimes insufferable."

"What did I say?" He looked genuinely surprised.

She shook her head again. "If you don't know, there's no virtue in my pointing it out."

The waiter appeared and Gideon gave their order before saying, "Point it out, Prudence. How will I ever learn otherwise?"

And that made her laugh. "You missed the irony in my statement, and you missed it because it didn't occur to you that I might be something of an expert with a wine list myself."

"Are you?"

"You'd be surprised," she said, thinking of how much she had learned about the wine trade while manipulating the contents of her father's cellars with Jenkins.

Gideon considered her with a half smile as he sipped his champagne. "You know, I don't think there's much about you that would surprise me, Prudence. Tell me how you became an expert."

Prudence frowned. She and her sisters were intensely private about their household matters and the shifts they were obliged to make to keep their heads above water. No one in their society must know that the Duncan family for close to three years had dodged bankruptcy on a near daily basis. The Go-Between and The Mayfair Lady were beginning to bring in an income, but they were still far from out of the woods. But then, she reflected, they had no secrets from the barrister, they couldn't have. He already knew they were in financial difficulties, and why. He just didn't know that Lord Duncan was kept blissfully unaware of the true situation.

She waited until they had been served their first course, then as she slowly stirred her soup she explained the situation in all its detail. Gideon, spreading mackerel pate onto toast, listened without comment until she had fallen silent and had turned her attention to her soup.

"Are you really doing your father any favors by keeping him in ignorance?" he asked then.

Prudence felt a familiar p.r.i.c.kle of annoyance. There was an unmistakable note of criticism in his tone. "We believe so," she responded tautly.

"Oh, it's none of my business, I realize that," he said. "But sometimes an outside perspective is helpful.

You and your sisters are so close to the situation, maybe you're missing something." "We don't think so," she said in the same tone, aware that she was sounding defensive, which somehow gave credence to his criticism, and yet unable to help herself. "We happen to know our father very well. And we also know what our mother would have wanted."

Gideon said calmly, "How's the soup?"

"Very good."

"And the wine. I trust it meets with your expert approval."

She looked at him sharply and saw that he was smiling in an appeasing fashion. She let her annoyance

fade and said, "It's a fine claret."

After luncheon they strolled through the city and down to Folly Bridge, where Gideon rented a punt.

Prudence surveyed the long flat boat and the unwieldy length of the pole with some trepidation. "Are you

sure you know how to do this?" "Well, I used to. I a.s.sume it's like riding a bicycle," he said, stepping onto the flat stern and holding out a hand. "Step in the middle so it doesn't rock."

She took the proffered hand and stepped gingerly into the punt, which, despite her caution, rocked alarmingly under her unbalanced weight. "Sit down," he instructed swiftly, and she dropped immediately onto a pile of cushions in the prow. They were surprisingly soft. "I feel like a concubine in a seraglio," she said, stretching out in leisurely fashion. "I'm not sure the clothes are quite right," Gideon observed, taking the monstrously long pole from the boathouse attendant. A punt with a trio of laughing undergraduates was approaching as Gideon pushed off from the bank. The punter dug his pole energetically into the mud, failed to pull it up in time, and the punt slid gracefully out from under him, leaving him hanging on to the pole in the middle of the river. There was riotous applause from the spectators on the bank, and Prudence watched with some sympathy as the luckless punter did the only thing he could-dropped into the water while his punt came to a stranded stop a few yards distant. "Are you sure you can do this?" she asked Gideon again. "Oh, ye of little faith," he scolded. "I'm not some callow undergrad, I'll have you know." "No," she agreed. "That you're not." She regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes. "I wonder if you ever were." He didn't answer, merely pushed the pole into the riverbed, let it slide back up in his hands with an instant and to-the-manor-born rhythm. Prudence lay back on the cushions, replete with lunch and wine, her eyelids drooping as the afternoon sun warmed them, creating a soft amber glow behind. Idly she trailed a hand in the cold river water and listened to the sounds of the world around her, laughter and voices, birdsong, the steady rhythmic plash and suck of the pole. London seemed many miles away, and the brisk chill of that morning's drive a mere memory.

Gradually she became aware that the sounds of other punters had vanished and now there were only the river sounds, the quack of a mallard, the trill of a thrush. She opened her eyes slowly. Gideon was watching her, his gaze intense and intent. Automatically she took off her gla.s.ses to wipe them on her handkerchief.

"Is something the matter? Do I have a smudge on my nose? Spinach in my teeth?"

He shook his head. "Nothing's the matter. Quite the opposite."

Prudence sat up straighter on the cushions. There was something lurking in the depths of those piercing gray eyes that sent a shiver of suspense up her spine and made her scalp p.r.i.c.kle. She had a sense of imminent danger. But paradoxically, no sense of threat. Her own eyes seemed locked on his and she couldn't avert her gaze.

Dear G.o.d, what was she getting herself into?

With a supreme effort of will she broke the locked gaze and forced herself to cast an apparently casual glance at the scenery as she replaced her gla.s.ses. They had reached a point where the river branched around a small islet.

Gideon took the left-hand fork and the punt slid past a lush gra.s.sy bank with sides that sloped with gentle invitation down to the river. A small hut was set back a little on the bank. "I think it's safe enough to take this side at this time of year," he said as lightly as if that intense but silent exchange had never taken place.

"Why wouldn't it be safe?" She looked around with sharpened curiosity.

"Over there lies Parsons' Pleasure," he said with an airy gesture of his free hand towards the gra.s.sy bank and the little hut. "Had the water not been too cold for swimming, we would have been obliged to take the other side, which is not nearly so pretty."

Prudence regarded him warily. There was a distinct note of mischief in his voice, a hint of laughter in its quiet depths. "What's swimming got to do with it?" she asked, knowing she was supposed to. She felt like a sidekick in a comic routine at the Music Hall.

"Parsons' Pleasure is the private bathing spot for male members of the university. Since it's exclusively for men, bathing suits are considered unnecessary," he informed her with some solemnity. "So women are forbidden to punt on this stretch of the Cherwell."

"Yet another example of male privilege," Prudence observed. "But I fail to see how women can be forbidden on this piece of the river. It's a free country, no one owns the water."

"I rather guessed that would be your reaction," he said. "And you're by no means the first. I'll tell you a story, if you like."

"I like," she said, once again lying back on the cushions. The danger seemed to have pa.s.sed for the moment, although she was not blind or fool enough to imagine it would not again rear its head.

"Well, on one glorious, hot summer day, while the parsons were taking their uninhibited pleasure on that bank, an enterprising group of women decided to protest this bastion of male privilege, as you put it."

Prudence grinned. "You mean they punted past?"

"Precisely. Although I believe they were rowing. Anyway, as the story goes, all the gentlemen leaped to their feet, covering their private parts with towels, all except for one notable scholar, who shall remain nameless, who reacted by wrapping his head in a towel."

Prudence struggled to keep a straight face. This was not a tale a respectable gentleman should tell any respectable gentlewoman. The image, however, was deliciously absurd.

Gideon's expression remained solemn, his voice grave as he continued, "When questioned by his colleagues as to this peculiar reaction, the scholar is said to have replied: 'InOxford, I am known by my face.' "

Prudence tried; she tried as hard as she could to stare at him with unmoving disapproval. "That is a most improper story," she declared, a quaver in her voice. "It's certainly not for a lady's ears."

"Maybe not," he agreed amiably. "But I doubt the Mayfair Lady would consider it anything other than delightfully amusing." His eyes were laughing at her. "In truth, I believe there is nothing ladylike about the Mayfair Lady. You can't fool me, Miss Prudence Duncan. You don't have a prim and prudish bone in your body. And neither do your sisters."