Sedgewick's face lit up. "Then you saw him? Did you capture him?"

"No. We came out on the worse end of it He winged Anthony and managed to pop me a good one. Nor did I see him. He wore a mask, and I was unable to get it off. We were following him and his two cohorts, and they ambushed us. It was a complete, b.l.o.o.d.y failure. I handled it like the veriest raw recruit."

"I doubt that."

"You would not if you had been there," Benedict told him bitterly. "We were saved by Lieutenant Woollery here, and Camilla and her butler."

"Lieutenant Woollery!" Jermyn looked more closely at the other man. His face lit up. "My G.o.d, man, it is you! I hardly recognized you out of uniform. And you've lost a good bit of weight."

"Yes, sir. It's good to see you, sir."

"But this must mean that you made it through, that nothing happened to you."

Woollery and Benedict quickly disabused him of that notion, describing the attack on the young man and the way that Anthony had helped him. They went on to explain their plan to capture the traitor me night before, and its failure.

"I see," Jermyn said, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. "Perhaps my report will be of some use to us, then."

"You mean you've got something?" Benedict perked up. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I'm not sure if it is going to lead us to the traitor. It seems unlikely, but..." He shrugged. "All right. Here is what I learned about the guests at Chevington Park. First of all, Mr. Thorne. Apparently he is exactly what he appears to be, a young man of modest fortune who fancies himself a poet and is at the moment stricken with love for the Countess Marbridge. He came up from the country last year to acquire some town polish and to 'explore his muse.' He has doting parents- Well, he would have to, wouldn't he, to still be alive? But he seems to live within his means, not caring much for the more practical things of life, and the only crime he seems to have committed is writing excruciatingly bad poetry."

Benedict grunted. "What about Oglesby?"

"Ah. Mr. Oglesby is somewhat more interesting. His real name is Jack Cooper, and his father is a bookkeeper. He has no visible means of support-except for his face and form."

"What do you mean?" Woollery asked, puzzled.

"He sells himself?" Benedict put in.

"Nothing quite so cra.s.s as that. However, he seems to depend for his food, clothing and shelter on other certain gentlemen with whom he lives."

Benedict stared at him in amazement for a moment. "Then you mean that Cousin Bertram is a-"

"Apparently he belongs to a crowd of men who prefer the company of other men."

"My G.o.d." Benedict let out a crack of laughter. "I never guessed. So Bertram is given to 'Greek love.' I'd like to see what Harold and Aunt Beryl would say if they knew. No, on second thought, I'd rather not." He chuckled. "So that was why they came into the cave that day-nothing so nefarious as smuggling or spying. Bertram and his paramour were looking for a lovers' nest away from his d.a.m.nable relatives."

"I presume so." Sedgewick smiled. "I was loath to give up on this, though. After all, Bertram could have been blackmailed by the French into doing it Or he could simply want the money. He does seem to run up an appalling amount of debt. Camilla's cousin likes the finer things of life."

Benedict looked interested again. "Do you think he might have done it for the money, then?"

Sedgewick shook his head. "I had to give up the idea. The thing is, he never has paid off any of those debts. He seems to still be living from allowance to allowance from his father. And the rumor mill is quite certain that he came to Chevington Park to escape his creditors for a while. There is still the possibility of blackmail, of course, but there's another...."

"Another? What are you talking about?"

"I checked up on everyone whose name you had mentioned to me as being at the Park. I found that the Reverend Harold Elliot makes frequent trips out of town. He supposedly goes to meet with this or that scholar or to consult with his bishop or to visit some holy spot, like Canterbury. But, in truth, he never goes to those places. Instead, he visits to London. I had it from Giles Annerwick. You remember him, Benedict?"

"Of course. He was a year ahead of us at Eton. Something of a carouser, as I remember." Benedict continued to look at his friend blankly.

"Still is. Drinks like a fish, and spends half his income on opera dancers. Well, he has no family, so I suppose it really does no one harm but himself. He's quite a likable chap. I was talking to him about Bertram Elliot, trying to find out what he knew, you see, and he said that he didn't know Bertram well. He ran in different circles. He said the one he knew was Harold Elliot. He ran into him last year in London, met him at a gaming hall. Giles said he thought it was rather odd, because he had thought the man had become a parson, but he supposed he must have been wrong. Since then he has seen him here and there, all in rather unsavory places, several times."

"Good G.o.d!"

"So I did some checking on the good reverend. It seems he keeps a small apartment in London. He goes to London frequently, and visits the gambling clubs and brothels. He drinks a great deal, gambles far too much, and commits a variety of sins with a number of light women. In short, the man lives a life quite at variance with his chosen profession-and, more importantly for our purposes, quite above any apparent means of living."

"Good G.o.d!" Benedict shot to his feet, shoving back his chair so hard that it toppled over onto the floor.

"Interesting, is it not?"

"Interesting! Disastrous. The man is at Chevington Park right now. With Camilla!"

Benedict turned on his heel and rushed out of the room.

Camilla hurried out of the Earl's bedroom and down the stairs in search of Benedict. Her heart soared. Benedict's anger of last night no longer mattered-nor did the fact that he had concealed his name and t.i.tle from her. None of it mattered, not even the fact that one of her eyes was puffy and bruised, and she would normally have been too embarra.s.sed to let anyone see her. No, the only thing she cared about now was that Benedict had told her grandfather that he loved her. She had to find him and talk to him. She had to find out if it was true.

She rounded the corner and walked into the sitting room, where she found Lydia, needlework in her lap, and a rather glazed expression on her face. "Lydia, have-"

"Camilla! There you are at last," came Cousin Harold's voice from behind her.

Camilla groaned beneath her breath and turned. Cousin Harold was just rising from the small secretary where he had been sitting. No wonder her aunt had such a dazed look on her face; she had been having to listen to one of Harold's long expositions.

"h.e.l.lo, Harold. I didn't realize you were here."

"I sincerely hope not, since I have been waiting here for you for half an hour."

Camilla's eyebrows lifted. "Waiting for me?"

"Don't you remember? You and I were scheduled to work on the church bazaar together this morning. You told me last Wednesday that you would be glad to help, and I suggested that today would be a good time-well, actually, I suggested yesterday, but men I remembered that I had an appointment, and so we settled on today."

"Yes, yes, of course," Camilla agreed hurriedly. "I remember now. I am so sorry, Cousin Harold. I forgot It's terrible that you came all this way for nothing."

"Oh, it's not for nothing," Harold told her cheerfully. "We can work on it now. I have ample time."

"Actually, right now I need to speak to Benedict."

"Then there is no problem. Benedict isn't here. We met as I came in. He said he had urgent business in Edgecombe to attend to."

"Ah. I see." No doubt the urgent business had been avoiding Cousin Harold's company. Camilla wished she had some of the same business.

"So you are perfectly free. Isn't it wonderful how things always work out for the best?"

"Mmm."

Harold held out the chair in front of the secretary for her, and Camilla sat down resignedly. It did not surprise her that Lydia almost immediately rose from her chair, remembering a task that awaited her. The work would not have been that bad, Camilla reflected, as she began to compile a list of donated items from the various sc.r.a.ps and pieces of lists that Harold had acc.u.mulated, if it were not for having to listen to Harold drone on about his church, his parishioners and various other topics that interested only him.

Camilla listened with half an ear as she recopied the list in her neat copperplate handwriting. When she had finished, she gathered up the sc.r.a.ps and tossed them in the wastebasket.

"No, wait!" Harold gasped, looking horrified. "I had notes for my sermon on the back of one of those." He bent down and began to paw through the pieces of paper in the basket. He was still wearing his gloves- a bit formal, even for Cousin Harold, Camilla thought-and they made him clumsy. He stripped off his right glove and sifted through the paper until he found the right piece.

"Aha!" He smiled triumphantly and sat down on the edge of the chair that Camilla had just vacated, smoothing out the crumpled piece of paper. "This is it. I have a quote I heard from Dr. Livermore the other day, and I did not want to lose it. A most learned man, Dr. Livermore."

Camilla said nothing. Her throat was suddenly too tight to speak or even swallow. She was looking at her cousin's hand as he smoothed out the piece of paper. His knuckles were red and raw, sc.r.a.ped like a man who had been in a fight.

Harold looked up and caught sight of Camilla's face, as white as the paper in his hand, and her wide eyes. "d.a.m.n!"

His reaction was all the confirmation Camilla needed, but she reached out anyway and jerked at the glistening white stock that was tied around his throat. Harold jumped to his feet, but not before she caught a glimpse of the semicircle of reddish marks that her teeth had made in his neck the night before.

He started toward the door, but Camilla jumped in front of him, spreading her arms wide. "Harold! No!"

"Get out of my way, you little fool!" He grabbed her arm and pulled her aside. "Don't make me hurt you."

"You already have!" Camilla cried indignantly. "You can't leave. I won't let you! You are Benedict's traitor." She clutched at his coat.

"d.a.m.n that man to h.e.l.l," he cursed, and flung her aside.

He stepped out of the room, but Camilla ran after him doggedly, crying out, "Benedict!" Oh, curse the man! Why had he chosen this morning to go into town? "Anthony! Purdle! Help! Help me, someone!"

Two footmen came running at her cry and stopped in the hall, goggling at the sight of Camilla wrestling with the vicar in the hallway.

"Help me, you fools! Don't just stand there!"

Harold pulled away from her grasp, but before he had taken three steps, the front door flew open and Benedict charged in. Before Camilla could even take in what he was doing, Harold wrapped his arm around her waist, jerking her back against him so tightly that the air whooshed out of her lungs. In the same swift movement, he pulled a pistol from inside his coat pocket and jammed it against Camilla's temple.

Benedict stopped so fast that Lieutenant Woollery, running in after him, b.u.mped into him. Camilla stopped struggling. The hallway was suddenly, utterly silent.

Benedict's eyes went to Camilla's face, and his hands clenched into fists. "Leave her alone, Elliot. You are in enough trouble, don't you think, without shooting the Earl's granddaughter? Your one hope to get out of this mess is his influence and mine. I am Lord Rawdon, not-"

"I know who you are, you fool!" Harold snarled. "I knew as soon as you arrived. I have seen you, heard of you. Do you think I'm such a fool that I don't investigate my opponents? From the moment you came, I knew that it was a sham, that your name was not La.s.siter, that you were not really married to my cousin. I played along with you, all the while laughing up my sleeve at your attempts to investigate the smuggling. I know what all of you think of me. Old Cousin Harold, pedantic and boring. I have used it to my advantage all my life. No one ever a.s.sumes that it is I who has done something wrong. I am too staid, too proper, too boring, aren't I? I'm sure my foppish brother could tell you how many times he or Graeme got blamed for something they didn't do. But even they, like the rest of you, were too blind to see what I was really doing. I am a comic figure, not a villain. Why, Camilla could hardly believe the evidence when it was right in front of her eyes."

"Harold, be reasonable," Benedict said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "We know that you are the traitor. That you killed Nat Crowder and one or more of my men, as well. You tried to kill Lieutenant Woollery. You must see that you can't get away unscathed. Not only Woollery and Camilla and I, but also Jermyn Sedgewick, know about you. You cannot escape for long. Hurting Camilla will only make it harder on you." His face darkened. "I can promise you that I will make sure you die a slow, hard death if you hurt one hair on her head."

"A difficult threat to fulfill when you are dead, Rawdon."

"Then shoot me." Benedict took a step forward, opening his arms wide. "Go ahead. Kill me now. Right here." He thumped his hand against chest.

"Benedict! No!" Camilla screamed. She knew what he was doing. He was hoping to so enrage Harold that he would fire at him, thus using up the single bullet in his gun and making it possible for Camilla to get away unharmed.

At that moment, Aunt Beryl came sailing down the stairs, scowling, her daughters trailing her like pale shadows. "What in the world is going on down here?" she complained, stopping at the bottom of the stairs in between Harold and Benedict.

Benedict let out a curse.

"Why is everyone shouting? I have a headache," she continued pettishly.

"You had better speak to your son." Benedict pointed toward Camilla and Harold, frozen in the hallway.

Lady Beryl looked at Harold. "What is going on? Why are you holding that gun-and, Camilla, why are you in my son's arms? It's not at all the thing, you know."

"He is threatening to kill me!" Camilla lashed out. "For pity's sake, Aunt Beryl, can't you see that?"

"Ridiculous," Aunt Beryl replied stoutly. "Harold, put down that gun at once and come here. Is this some sort of bizarre jest? I have told you a hundred times that I won't have you boys playing pranks in my house."

Camilla groaned. No doubt in another moment Mr. Thorne would come wandering through, trying to find a rhyme, or Cousin Bertram would walk in and comment that his brother's pistol did not go with his suit.

"Aunt Beryl, he is threatening to kill me!"

"Nonsense. Harold, I said put it down. This is absurd."

"No! I'll tell you what is absurd-it is trying to maintain any sort of decent lifestyle on that pitiful stipend a vicar makes. It's impossible, of course. That's why I jumped at it when Billouart offered me all that money to infiltrate the smugglers. I was never interested in becoming the vicar of St. Anne's. Everyone a.s.sumed I would because Grandfather would give me the living. Bertram would get everything important because he is eldest, and Graeme was allowed to go into the army, as he had always wanted. And because I am the youngest, I was expected to go into the Church. Well, it's not right. It's not fair!"

"Are we back on that old argument again?" his mother said with a sigh. "Honestly, Harold, what possible good can it serve at this point? It is a good living and exactly what should suit a scholarly sort like you."

"Dammit! It doesn't suit me at all!" he raged, the gun trembling so in his hand that Camilla's stomach knotted with fear that it would go off by accident "I want to enjoy myself! I want to have fun! I don't want to be old stuffy Harold and spend my life with my nose in a book while everyone else is out having a good time!"

"Of course you don't, Harold," Camilla said soothingly. "And you shouldn't have to. I never realized. I apologize. None of us knew- I always thought you preferred to-"

"Sit inside with a musty old book about the Sacraments instead of running and playing outside?"

"Still complaining about that, old fellow?"

Everyone's head swiveled toward the other side of the hall, where Cousin Bertram had just strolled in from the conservatory, the silent Mr. Oglesby behind him. He set the tip of his elegant gold-topped cane on the floor and struck a pose, surveying the others sardonically.

"My, my, what a gathering. Have I interrupted anything?"

"Bertram, go away." Harold ground out the words. "I have no desire to listen to your witticisms just now."

"But, dear brother..." Bertram strolled languidly forward. "I am not planning to be witty at all."

Camilla looked out the corner of her eye toward Benedict, who was edging silently around Aunt Beryl toward Harold. She could only hope that Cousin Bertram's inanities would keep his brother occupied a little longer.

"I wondered what all this commotion was about," Bertram continued. "Why are you holding a gun to Cousin Camilla? It cannot be her attire which has offended you. I have to admit that Camilla always dresses in the best of taste." He directed a look toward his mother and sisters and sighed. "Something that cannot be said of all my family."

"Bertram, you are a fool," Harold snapped. "Now would you kindly go away and let me get on with this?"

"I can hardly do that," Bertram protested mildly. "After all, how would it look if you went about killing off our relatives?"

Suddenly, moving faster than anyone would have believed possible, Bertram lunged forward, whipping up his cane in the same motion and cracking it hard against Harold's wrist. The gun went flying, firing up into the air and shattering several crystal drops of the chandelier. Aunt Beryl and her two girls went into hysterics. Camilla threw herself forward and down, rolling across the floor, and Benedict leaped across the last few feet between himself and Harold and crashed into him.

Within seconds it was over. Benedict knocked Harold unconscious with two well-placed hits, then left him to Lieutenant Woollery to bind. He crossed the hall and dropped down on his knees beside Camilla, pulling her into his arms and squeezing her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. Camilla did not mind, however. She clung just as tightly to him, while he rained kisses over her hair and face, interspersing them with low, breathless endearments.

"Are you all right?" He released her for a moment to lean back and peer at her, searching for injuries, then pulled her back into his arms.

"I'm fine."

"G.o.d, I was so scared. I thought he was going to kill you, right in front of me."

Camilla nodded. "I know. But you were crazy to try to make him shoot you instead!" She thumped her balled-up fist against his chest. "What made you do such a crazy thing?"