"That is all very admirable," Jason replied, "but I don't understand what that has to do with Miss Crane."

"Because if this is meant to be a learned institution, we cannot reject learning. No matter the package it arrives in." Lord Forrester sighed resignedly, and went back to his chair, adjusting his weight stiffly.

"When the brouhaha began over C. W. Marks's identity," he continued, "Alexander asked me to keep it secret that he had been sending in the articles. And I will admit, I had some suspicion that it might be Alexander himself who was writing them. Marks is his wife's maiden name, you see." Jason nodded, and he carried on. "Perhaps it was a student, perhaps another colleague who wanted to keep his opinions separate from his documented work. But I never thought of his daughter. I should have-he had written quite frequently of her talents. And it disturbs me that I did not. Because those papers . . . !"

"I've read them," Jason supplied knowingly. "They are remarkable works."

"Which is one reason I have chosen you for this task," Lord Forrester concluded.

"And what is this task you speak of?"

"I need an escort."

Jason sat up in his chair. "An escort."

"If the Historical Society has been receiving this much attention, imagine the amount of attention Miss Crane is having to deal with," Lord Forrester replied.

Jason did not have to imagine, he knew. Phillippa Worth had taken Miss Crane under her wing and practically exploded her onto the London scene. According to the papers, she was seen at one party wearing a scarlet dress, and another wearing a blue ensemble. She was asked to come and speak at a number of literary salons. And heaven help any of those more traditionally minded ladies, for if they dared to cut Miss Crane, they cut Phillippa, too. And Phillippa knew how to cut back.

He had actually run into Miss Crane at some affair or another. She was dressed far nicer than she had been when they last met, her all-brown ensemble replaced with a lovely lavender silk-something-or-other that brought out her startling hazel eyes. He was later told that Phillippa-having had two sons-was aching for a girl to play dress-up with, and was directing her attentions and monies toward Miss Crane. And there she was, resplendent, admired, and being hulked over by her formidable cousin at all times.

She looked utterly miserable.

"Yes, she is receiving a great deal of attention. Although I cannot say if she is courting it, or not," Jason replied.

"I don't believe she is courting all of it, for not all of the attention she is receiving is kind," Lord Forrester replied. "There are countless numbers who would like to see her fail. Now, Mr. Bambridge has informed me that he will be going with his cousin on this journey-"

"Then Miss Crane has an escort in place," Jason concluded. "I certainly don't see how I would be of any more use."

Lord Forrester took a quiet moment to regard Jason, rubbing his chin in thought.

"What is your opinion of Mr. Bambridge, Your Grace?"

"I do not know him well-I honestly doubt we exchanged more than five words altogether before that auspicious day when Miss Crane marched in here."

"But a day like that can show a man's character. So, what opinion did you form of him?"

"That he's a politician," Jason said simply.

Lord Forrester threw back his head with laughter.

"An excellent way to put it. I know him to be a man of certain ambitions. And before that auspicious day, I thought he had the talent to back up those ambitions."

"You said you thought that he had been C. W. Marks," Jason remarked, pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

"Indeed. Without those C. W. Marks papers to his credit, Mr. Bambridge is sadly under-published for an Oxford don. Looking at him with new eyes, I can see that while he is dedicated to his career, I doubt his dedication to academics. Under the new guidelines for admission to the Historical Society, I wonder if Mr. Bambridge is a good fit at this time."

"Sir." Jason cleared his throat. "While I agree completely with your assessment of Mr. Bambridge"-being a Duke he could recognize sycophants at an easy distance-"I have little idea what it has to do with Miss Crane."

Lord Forrester leaned in conspiratorially. "Out of all those people who would like to see her fail . . . who do you think would top the list?"

George Bambridge. No question about it. He would view Miss Crane's advancement in the field as a hindrance to his own career. However . . .

"While Mr. Bambridge may not wish her to succeed, do you actually see a gentleman of his station doing harm to her?" Jason asked, alarmed.

"Of course not. It would be unconscionable. But Miss Crane is the daughter of one of my oldest friends. And one of the things men do for their friends' daughters is try to keep them as safe as possible. And having a neutral party on the trip is the best protection I can offer."

"Sir," Jason began, his brain finally catching up with the conversation, "I am honored that you would think of me, but I cannot abandon London to journey across the Continent. I have made promises to my family and have obligations here."

"Settle down, young man." Lord Forrester waved Jason's concerns away. "I have a friend ready to meet her once she reaches France. I merely ask that you provide escort to her ship in Dover."

"Dover?" Jason asked. "That's all?"

"I must think also of the Society." The older man sighed. "All the attention this wager is receiving . . . if some misfortune, God forbid, were to befall Miss Crane, the Historical Society would be blamed-our lack of involvement or no. So I have simply arranged for an array of impartial escorts to attend her, on the various stages. And while there is nothing that can be done about her cousin, if you could see her safely deposited on her ship in Dover, I would consider it a great favor."

Dover. That was about a day's journey, through the East Sussex countryside. The Duke of Rayne's ancestral estate, Crow Castle, was in that region, and it had been nearly a year since he had checked in with his steward in the flesh. He could drive down, deposit Miss Crane, and then spend a few days at Crow Castle, ascertaining that his holdings were in order. This would be little more than a weekend excursion.

He could also, he thought with a wry smile of coincidence, fetch his mother's emerald ring. It would suit Sarah. She'd mentioned something about liking green, hadn't she?

"Is it favor enough to grant me permission to marry your daughter?" Jason asked, surprised at his own boldness, but more so, at his own steadiness.

Lord Forrester regarded him quietly, efficiently. "As I said, my daughter is a topic for another time." That small cherubic smile lifted his lips again. "And that time is after you return from Dover."

Jason swallowed that and rose. Lord Forrester was too intelligent a player to say yes or no outright. But it was good enough for now. He bowed, saying, "I'd best go make arrangements, then."

He headed for the door but was called back by Lord Forrester's voice.

"And when we do have that conversation, Your Grace," he said, "I think you'll like my answer."

Six.

Wherein our hero's travels begin.

THE Great Dover Road, aptly named by some practical and unromantic city planner at some point in last two millennia, was wide, and easily traversed from London. The journey to Dover, with good horses, axles, and changing posts, was a day in length-give or take, depending on the level of leisure one allowed for their travel. The road went from London to Canterbury, and from there to Dover, one of the most active ports in England. It was, on average, a pleasant journey though rolling English fields and small bucolic villages.

But when one is on a mission of protection, charged as such by the father of the woman one intends to marry, the Great Dover Road suddenly seems to carry any number of areas of ambush, sabotage, and treachery. For about the first hour.

After the first hour, when no perfidy is perpetrated, the journey can become monumentally boring. One grows easily tired of trying to spot highwaymen or suspicious carriages or overly offended men of letters trying to exact revenge upon a petite woman.

One starts to suspect, Jason thought wryly, that Lord Forrester was off his paranoid hat thinking that Miss Winnifred Crane faced a threat from the outside.

But, he had to acknowledge, there was at least the threat to be found inside the carriage. The overgrown cousin whose interest lay in seeing Miss Crane fail, taking up well over half a carriage seat.

The one who sulked and moaned of motion sickness while having his head stuck out a window.

Jason had never felt more superfluous in his life.

Not only because of the occasional retching noises that came from George Bambridge's side of the carriage, but because Winnifred Crane, wrapped in an unseasonably thick, soft brown wool coat, was comfortably ensconced next to Mrs. Tottendale, who had also decided that Miss Crane needed protection from Mr. Bambridge, but for entirely different reasons.

"For heaven's sake, George," Totty said, touching her small flask to her lips. "If you're going to stick your head out the window like a dog, at least stop knocking into your seatmate as you do it. I doubt His Grace appreciates bruises on his shins."

"I'm so sorry, Your Grace," George Bambridge moaned, coming to sit upright while wiping his mouth. "I am perfectly fine sitting on a horse-in fact I'm quite capable. But being inside carriages has never mixed well with my vision."

"Quite understandable, Mr. Bambridge," Jason demurred. After all, as much as he disliked George Bambridge, he was not so uncharitable as to hold something as uncontrollable as a weak stomach on carriage rides against him. Besides, Jason himself preferred riding alongside carriages, rather than in them.

In fact, he would have much preferred to be astride a horse right now. But his driver, Bones, was armed, his outriders trusty, and besides . . . he had thought perhaps Miss Crane might provide interesting conversation. Some juicy tidbit he could take back to Jane and make her jump for. He tried to catch her eye as George held back the curtain and sought air, but she was holding her book suspiciously high, her shoulders shaking mirthfully.

"If you find travel so disagreeable, Mr. Bambridge," Jason continued, taking his cue from those shaking shoulders, "I wonder that you decided to make this journey. If you cannot stand to not be in control of your movements, I doubt crossing the channel via ship and then another carriage ride through the French countryside will be at all easy."

"And over the Alps," came a mirthful voice from behind the book. "Don't forget the Alps."

"It's not usually this bad. Normally, an open window and a fixed point in the distance and I'm fine." George sighed. "But I assure you, I would have preferred it if this journey had never come to pass."

"You didn't have to come," Winn sing-songed, not even looking up from her book.

"Yes I did, and you know it."

"And since he did, I did." Totty yawned. "Promises made to friends past are all well and good, but ridiculously annoying in execution. Who on earth wants to go to the Continent?"

"I do," Miss Crane replied immediately, but Totty continued on without hearing.

"Honestly. It's the middle of the Season, and we have to quit London? The best parties, the best food, the best wine . . . do you think that the Alps will have a Burgundy '93?"

"Perhaps we can pick some up on the way. We will be riding through Burgundy. Or thereabouts." Winn tapped her foot, somewhat nervously.

"And how would you expect to purchase a bottle of Burgundy'93?" George grumbled. "Must cost a fortune."

"The same way I purchased passage across the Channel, George." Miss Crane finally looked at him pointedly over the top of her book. That made him turn a rather rashlike shade of red, and he again sought the solace of the breeze from the open window.

Such a look was shared between the two of them, that Jason knew there was more to that comment than was being said. And being brother to a rather notorious gossip, was well honed in his desire to know more.

"Miss Crane, if you are in need of funds for your journey, I would be happy to lend you a few notes," he said, reaching into his breast pocket. He had a small coin purse there. He never carried a fortune on him, but he had enough to see him through a few days in the country, funds he could use to patch tenant roofs or dig a ditch, if required.

"Thank you, sir, but it is unnecessary," Miss Crane replied kindly. "Phillippa-that is, Lady Worth-has insisted on being my sponsor for this trip. She has written ahead and arranged room and board, and carriages for us for every stop we will make. All bills are to be sent to her." She lowered the book then, and directed her hazel gaze at Jason. "I am sorry; I do not mean to speak of something so vulgar as money, but my cousin was unhappy to learn that I had attracted someone-a woman, of all people-willing to sponsor my efforts."

"Not unhappy, Winnifred-but I don't believe we are meant to sit back and enjoy a leisurely trip on her sovereign!" George replied, scandalized. Although Jason had to suspect the man's displeasure stemmed not from the idea of overspending their benefactress's largess, but instead that he had been counting on a lack of funds to be a stumbling block to Miss Crane's ambitions.

"Oh, don't be so missish, George," Totty tried to intervene. "One bottle of burgundy will not bankrupt Lady Worth-as I should know. She wants nothing more than for us to have a marvelous time on this endeavour."

"Now, Totty, this is not a pleasure trip, and you know it. We will not be stopping and taking in the sights," Miss Crane interjected.

"Here, here," George concurred. "You must give Lady Worth no reason to be embarrassed by her generous support of your schemes."

Miss Crane turned her assessing gaze to Mr. Bambridge. "I'm surprised to find you with such morals about spending other people's money. They never stopped you from having supper at my father's table almost nightly on his sovereign," she replied calmly.

Jason had to look down at his toes to keep his laugh hidden from the assembled party. But some members of the party had keener eyes than others.

"I'm so sorry, sir," Miss Crane said, her expression aghast. "There is no more unpleasant topic than money."

"Do not apologize, Miss Crane," Jason replied to ease her fears. "On the contrary, I appreciate your candor. I was simply thinking that I have a rather hearty appetite myself."

"You do?" She blinked.

"Yes. I have been known to put quite the dent in a nice rounder of beef." He got lost in thought for a moment, a small gurgle from his stomach giving away the contents of his thoughts. "But I never thought of my oversized appetite in monetary measures before," he finished, snapping back to himself, only to find a small, bemused smile painting Miss Crane's face.

"Men often do not, as they are not the ones to barter with the butcher on Sundays."

"Sad but true." Jason tipped his hat to her. "I must bow to your superior argument."

"Don't bow to her arguments, Your Grace," George mumbled from beyond the window. "At least not yet. Embattled conversation is fun for her. She would debate a pope about the virtues of sin."

"And the devil into a righteous life?" Jason's eyebrow cocked up. "Much like your father, if I recall."

"Yes, in class he adored debating his students. And of course, during the student dinners he held." She smiled at him again. "You could debate well enough yourself then, if I recall. And put away a decent amount of roast at the same time."

Jason could only sit up straighter in delight. "Your father spoke to you of our shared suppers?" Alexander Crane invited a gathering of students to a meal once monthly, and Jason had been shocked to be invited while he had been Crane's student. He hadn't thought he stood out much, but to have been remembered by Alexander Crane, enough to be mentioned to his daughter, what a delightful and flattering thought.

But a frown simply crossed Miss Crane's brow as she regarded him queerly. "Spoke to me?" she asked, and then shook her head. "Your Grace, you don't remember me at all, do you?"

"Ah . . . erm . . . ," were all the syllables Jason could manage. Miss Crane shook her head again and then returned her eyes to her book, smiling to herself. Whether she was amused at his lack of memory or at his acute embarrassment, he was not to know. Because the subject was rendered forgotten after they hit a bump in the road and George Bambridge, his head still luckily out the window, made a noise unheard of from the human side of the animal kingdom. Apologies were offered, Miss Crane kept her nose in her book, Totty sipped her flask . . . and the whole round started again.

They stopped at a posting inn on the outskirts of Dover for a very late supper and to rest. Morning tide was in a few short hours, but the opportunity to lay down flat in a bed was too tempting to pass up, so they took the rooms Jason had sent a rider ahead to reserve. It had been a beyond exhausting day-George's stomach eventually settling, Totty sipping her flask and dozing at turns, and Winnifred reading, her anxiety over her upcoming trip obvious in the way her foot would wag, the way she occasionally clutched at the small heart-shaped locket around her neck.

As for Jason, he would only be too glad when he had seen Miss Crane safely on her ship, thus fulfilling his duties. And able to go back to London and . . . do what came next.

All members of the party were asleep before their heads hit their pillows.

But, despite Jason's eagerness to deposit his charge and be on his way, when the first few streaks of pale pink light began to lift the sky, it was Miss Winnifred Crane who descended the stairs first.

She was alone in the pub room (which in the mornings was transformed into a breakfast room) when Jason found her. She couldn't have been there for more than a few minutes, as she was mulling over her options at the bar, which was now the freshly stocked breakfast buffet, picking out a scone. She checked over one shoulder, then, seeing no one, knocked the scone on the bar.

"A bit stale, is it?" Jason asked, leaning his arms against the door frame at the base of the stairs.

Miss Crane jumped, only slightly, but enough to make Jason smile. Framed against the morning light streaming in the window, she looked even more like a child caught at mischief. It was hard to imagine that she was a woman, full grown and mature, embarking on a desperate quest.

"A bit. Likely yesterday's scones, but it will do." She put it on her plate and slathered a sufficient amount of jam over it. Jason joined her by the buffet and wrinkled his nose.

"Not hungry?" she asked as he made no move to fill a plate.

"That scone made quite a solid thunk," he said, regarding the oily sausage and eggs speckled with . . . something. Normally, Jason could eat anything, in ridiculous quantities. And frequently did. Once, when he was up at Oxford he had, on a dare, eaten actual boiled shoe leather, paired with a concoction whose full list of ingredients were to this day a mystery to him-though he was certain it had included port, cow's milk, and bearnaise sauce.

However, this particularly unappetizing repast matched with the prospect of another morning ride with George Bambridge's queasy stomach . . . "Maybe it would be better if I waited a few hours to break my fast. After all, we'll be at your ship within an hour or so, and then I'll . . ."