A man's hand clasped Michael's shoulder, pushed him back, and a man's figure stepped between them-Prince Sandre, handsome, suave, wealthy, and as corrupt as any fiend in this land of corruption. "Gentlemen. Gentlemen. This ball is one of the highlights of the season. People are watching. You're making a scene."

Michael stood, knees stiff, eyes locked with Rickie's. "You have no idea what a scene I could make."

"But is it worth it to lose your freedom? Again?" Prince Sandre asked with mild curiosity.

At the pointed reminder, Michael stumbled backward. He had to play the game. No matter what, he had to play the game. "No."

"Before I am finished with you, you will give me whatever I want." Rickie stalked off, his long limbs loose and disjointed.

At thirty-five, Prince Sandre was a man in the prime of his life. He rode hard, fenced with devastating results, seduced women with careless ease. His dark hair was combed back, revealing the premature silver that streaked like wings on the sides of his head. No matter what the occasion-a party, a bad turn at the gambling table, a bout of heinous torture in his dungeon-his dark blue eyes sparkled with humor, and he smiled as he watched the crowd avoid his cousin, like a school of small fish shunning a shark. "You do have a way of irritating Rickie."

"I try my best."

"What is it that you've done this time?" He lifted a champagne flute from a circulating waiter, took a sip; then, as if he had just remembered, he said, "Oh! That's right. He was curious to know whether you were friends with the Englishman Raul Lawrence."

Michael knew better than to avoid the question, or say one word different from what he had to Rickie. The de Guignards would later compare notes, and he didn't dare get caught in a falsehood. "We are acquainted, but he is a bastard, Prince Sandre. The heir to the dukedom of Nevitt does not associate closely with a bastard." Michael well knew his own value as one of England's top aristocrats. "If you suspect him of some nefarious deeds, you'll have to find out by the usual means-spying and deceit."

Prince Sandre did not leap into a rage in the manner of his cousin. Instead he gave a small bow and said, "You seem to be enjoying your house arrest, my lord. Lady Fanchere says you are the perfect guest. It was she who convinced me to allow you to attend this ball."

Liar. You seek to discover what I know by subtler means, by observing to whom I speak and who speaks to me, by slacking off on the leash and unexpectedly tightening it, choking me and hoping that the pain will loosen my tongue so I tell you at last who conspires against you and your throne. "I must remember to thank Lady Fanchere."

"I would have let you have a bit of liberty sooner, but I understood your reluctance." Prince Sandre sipped again. "Your voice . . . it was very bad."

Michael touched the cravat that covered his throat. "Yes."

"I'm delighted to hear it so much improved. Pray God you are able to keep it healthy." It was a threat inflicted with skill and malice. A threat-and not a well-disguised one. But why should Prince Sandre bother to mask his intentions from Michael?

Michael was one of the few men who had seen all the way into his rotten soul. Or rather . . . one of the few men alive who had seen that soul. "I assure you, Prince Sandre, I would not do anything to jeopardize my . . . voice." How he hated Sandre.

"Yes. Because it's difficult to take your proper place in the House of Lords when you cannot speak. Harder yet when you are dead."

"Actually, Parliament is frequently so boring, the lords therein appear to be deceased. And sometimes are."

Prince Sandre laughed. "So I understand."

"Interesting institution, Parliament. Allows for input into the government. Saves on uprisings like the one that led to the French guillotining their own king."

Prince Sandre's nostrils flared-but still he smiled. "So does a secret enforcement police with a strong hand to guide them." Prince Sandre lifted his champagne flute and, in a slow, controlled motion, crushed the bowl in his fist.

The sound of splintering crystal cut the sound in the ballroom to a frightened hush. Nearby guests froze in place. Champagne dripped onto the polished wood floor.

Prince Sandre dropped the stem, and it shattered as an explosive exclamation point.

Then he pulled a shard of glass from his palm. Blood immediately stained his white glove. With his customary smile, he said, "How clumsy of me. I hope you'll forgive me, my lord, while I seek out my hostess to bandage this."

"Of course." Michael bowed. "Prince Sandre, I hope you've done no permanent damage."

"No." He stripped away his stained glove and held it in his fist to stem the bleeding. "I always know exactly how much pressure to exert."

As if his words were a signal, waiters rushed forward to clean up the floor, the quartet picked up their instruments, the volume of voices rose again, and movement resumed.

Lady Thibault appeared at Prince Sandre's side. "If you would follow me, my prince, I will fetch my personal physician to tend to your wounds."

"As always, you're kind, but it's not worth a visit from the physician. Tend to me yourself." Prince Sandre caught her arm with his free hand and squeezed the soft flesh above her elbow.

Michael saw her grow pale, and sweat broke out on her brow.

Poor woman. Even so small an act of violence as breaking the glass had aroused Prince Sandre, and now she would pay the price.

As Michael moved back to allow the waiters to finish mopping up the mess, he caught sight of the drab gray gown Miss Chegwidden wore. She was moving with her usual stealth, head down, shoulders hunched, toward Lady Lettice, and she held the damp handkerchief in both hands as if it were the Holy Grail.

Poor dab of a thing. He would have further assisted Lady Lettice's unfortunate companion if he could, but with matters standing as they were, he could help no one else without consequences more dire to everyone concerned.

The worst of her crisis was over. She was better off without him now.

The crowds had thickened, and Emma had circled the ballroom almost entirely before she caught sight of Lady Lettice, sitting like the queen toad on her lily pad with her suitors swimming like guppies around her. Thank heavens; Emma would hate to think she had found her way into the same room but failed to locate her employer.

Walking up behind the little group of suitors, Emma heard Cloutier say, "She must arrive within the next minute, or I lose!"

The despicable little group of guppies had been wagering on the time she would return-or if she would return. Unexpectedly, the anger she thought long crushed beneath Lady Lettice's mighty displeasure surfaced, and she stepped briskly into the circle. "Lose what, my lord?"

Cloutier said, "Ha!"

Lady Lettice jumped. Her skin turned ruddy with displeasure all the way down to her amply displayed breasts, and she snapped, "Where did you come from, you vexsome girl?"

Emma curtsied and smiled disingenuously, because she knew that whatever wager Lady Lettice had made, she'd lost. "The ladies' convenience, as you commanded." Emma extended the handkerchief.

Lady Lettice plucked it out of her palms. "It's wadded up, and too wet. You're so stupid."

Emma's brief, unexpected surge of confidence began to wilt.

"Can't you do anything right? Must I instruct you in every nuance? To think that you are the best the Distinguished Academy of Governesses had to offer is simply appalling. I shall write the director and complain. I shall!" With a flip of the wrist, Lady Lettice opened the handkerchief.

And a tiny, still-wiggling goldfish slipped out and down her cleavage.

She screamed. Leaped to her feet, slapped at her chest. Screamed again.

The music stuttered to a stop. The dancers turned to look.

Lady Lettice plunged her hand into her own cleavage, fighting against the restriction of her stays, trying to reach the tiny, wiggling creature.

The men around her burst into hearty laughter. Mr. Graf went so far as to double over with glee.

Still screaming, she lifted her skirts, revealed pudgy legs, and leaped onto the chair. Leaning forward as far she could, she shook like blancmange, but no acrobatics she performed could dislodge the fish.

Word spread through the ballroom. Dancers crowded around, hooting and pointing. Mirth blazed as brightly as wildfire.

And Emma Chegwidden backed away, hand over her mouth, whispering, "I am ruined. I am ruined."

Chapter Four.

Emma stood on the lonely dirt road outside the chteau, shivering from cold and fear. She was alone as she had never been in her life, in a foreign country, without a way of supporting herself and without even the barest necessities-a furious and humiliated Lady Lettice had made sure of that. Emma hadn't been allowed to collect her cloak. Her meager belongings were at the hotel, miles from here. She hadn't eaten since morning. The moon was new, and the stars barely touched the sky with light. Dense woods and tall mountain peaks surrounded the chteau. And her thin slippers were not made for walking.

But she had no choice. She could either walk, or sit down and die. Lady Lettice had done everything-slapped her, scolded her, humiliated her-yet no matter what, Emma had refused to break. No matter how miserable her life seemed at this moment, no matter how downtrodden and hopeless she felt, she couldn't convince herself to give up. Not yet.

So she stood indecisively looking left and right, trying to remember which way they'd come in, which way would lead her back to the hotel and then to Tonagra, where she might find work and lodgings. But the carriage that had brought them had arrived as the early-evening sunlight still streaked through the trees. Everything looked different then. And while she could memorize a route, given the chance, at the time she'd seen no reason to think she would have to know. Closing her eyes, she re-created their route in her mind. They had come from the left; she was sure of it. So she turned left and walked.

Behind her, the chteau with its lights and music faded to nothing. The road wound along the mountain ridge through the darkest part of the forest, and even as her eyes adjusted she saw nothing but tall trees blotting out the sky. Within the stands of pines, she heard the rustling of animals. Once a dark shadow swooped toward her. She gasped and ducked. The owl hooted and sailed on.

The high-mountain temperature dropped rapidly, and she tucked her hands into her armpits in a futile attempt to keep them warm. Just when she thought she should turn back, the road plunged downward, and she well remembered the difficult climb to the chteau. So she was going in the right direction.

She continued on, exhausted, hungry, and half-frozen. The road got rougher. She comforted herself that the ruts were growing larger because the carriage wheels had dug them deeper, and not because water had cascaded down these slopes during the spring runoff-a runoff that had finished months ago. Deep in her heart, she knew carriages could never descend this grade, nor get through the trees that pressed closer and closer, clawing her with leafy fingers.

She stopped. Brushed her hands across her forehead.

It was so dark. It was so steep. She was so cold. And hungry. She wanted to lie down and sleep. . . .

Directly in front of her, she heard a deep, guttural snarl.

She stopped.

A pair of pale eyes shone from the thicket beside the road.

She took a step backward.

A creature slunk out of the forest, stopped before her. The growl grew louder, more hostile.

The hair lifted on the back of her head.

The wolf lunged toward her.

She screamed. Turned and ran. Behind her, she could hear the wolf panting. Her foot slid into a rut. She twisted, fell, and leaped up again, clawing her way up the track, hoping against hope that someone would hear her, rescue her. Looking up toward the top of the rise, she saw it. Salvation. A man's form rose from the mist, blocking out the stars. With a swell of hope, she put on another burst of speed . . . and realized in horror that this was no living man.

His skin was chalky. His clothes were white and tattered, the winding sheet of a corpse. Behind him stood a horse as ghostly and unearthly as his master.

She was staring at the Reaper.

She screamed again, high and shrill. She tried to run backward. She tripped over a tree root. Her poor, abused ankle gave way, and she fell into the brush. Brittle branches scratched at her flesh and broke beneath her weight. Out of control, she rolled into the pine needles that littered the forest floor. She hit her head on a rock, and for a moment she was airborne and unconscious.

When she came to, she rested on her stomach, her face pressed into the rich loam of the forest. The scent of pine needles rose in her nostrils. Disoriented, she pushed herself up on her hands, then collapsed back into the dirt.

Her head was swimming. Every bone in her body ached. At last, after so many horrible days and so many debilitating nights, her spirit had been crushed. She had reached rock bottom, and she was going to die.

Hands clasped her under her ribs. She felt the heated rush of breath as the being turned her to face him. She looked up into that ghastly visage. It was the Reaper, and his eyes . . . were nothing but empty eye sockets.

With a quiet moan, she fainted.

Picking her up, the Reaper tossed her over his shoulder, mounted his horse, and rode away into the darkness.

Later that night, much later, the Reaper sat in the saddle, the horse warm and restive between his thighs. The stars were bright in the west, but in the east, the faintest tinge of dawn lit the sky. He watched as the long line of carriages inched down the road away from the ball. Outrunners carrying torches lit the way. Occasionally drunken laughter drifted in on the night's breeze, but for the most part it was quiet, the revelers exhausted from hours of dancing, gambling, and drinking. One by one, the carriages peeled off, taking different roads, and still he watched. Slowly at first, then with more vigor, he moved down the mountain, guided only by his plan, formed in desperate circumstances, and his thirst for revenge.

Chapter Five.

"Rickie. Rickie!" Lady de Guignard shook her husband's shoulder.

"For the love of God, Aimee." He sounded half-asleep and exasperated at the same time. "It's four in the morning. Whatever foolish fit has you in its grasp now, can't it wait?"

"No. No! Do you know they say that a ghost haunts the roads by the dark of the moon?"

"Who's they?" Rickie sounded casual as he tried to stretch his long legs in the cramped carriage.

But she'd lived with him for twenty years. He couldn't hide the truth from her; he had gone on alert. "It was that Englishwoman Lady Lettice. She knew all about the Reaper. She told me about it in the ladies' convenience. She said the Reaper was the specter of King Reynaldo."

"So it is headless?" She couldn't see Rickie in the darkness, but he sounded impatient and contemptuous. "Because when the de Guignards took the country, we hanged Reynaldo until he was dead, then cut off his head and stuck it on a pike in the town square in Tonagra."

Aimee gasped. "A headless specter? I don't think she knew that!"

"My God, woman, you are the stupidest . . ." His voice ground with irritation.

Lady de Guignard fussed with the lace ruffles at her throat. "If you'll look outside, you'll see it is the dark of the moon."

"So it is. Reynaldo's been dead for centuries. Why would he start haunting the countryside now?"

"He's the harbinger of the new king's return," she recited.

"The devil take it!" Rickie sat straight up. "How did that rumor get started? We cleaned out that rat's nest of second-rate royalty. There's no king to return."

"Lady Lettice said the royal family is in hiding not far from here in one of the chteaux. She said they are plotting the overthrow of the de Guignards' cruel regime, and-"

He interrupted impatiently. "You do realize 'the de Guignards' cruel regime' includes you?"

"Oh, no! It's you."

"You are my wife."

"Only by marriage."