She tarried in the quiet kitchen, trembling, her heart pounding, her stomach roiling. Her dress was ripped, her torso bruised and battered, but she was very much alive while it was frighteningly apparent that Bentley might not be.

"Oh my G.o.d..." she wailed. "Oh my G.o.d...oh my G.o.d..."

She dawdled, terrified, her mind reeling over how to proceed.

"Have I killed him?" she inquired of no one in particular.

Was there no justice in the world? Was there no luck to be had? What had she ever done but work hard, try hard, do what she ought? Why couldn't anything be easy? Why couldn't anything go right?

She'd simply wanted to retrieve her hairbrush. Was it too much to ask that she be able to do it without being molested?

She was fatigued and angry and afraid, and she glanced down the hall, knowing she should awaken the butler, that she should confess her crime and take her punishment, but considering Bentley's behavior, it seemed grossly unfair.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned if I will," she said aloud, her temper flaring.

She placed the frying pan on the counter, then tiptoed to Bentley, who was still as death. Squatting down, she fumbled through his pockets, delighted to find a purse of coins. Without hesitating, without a ripple of remorse, she clasped hold of it, turned, and ran out into the cold, dark night.

"Are you sure about this, Phillip? Are they the correct two girls?"

"Yes, f.a.n.n.y."

"You have no doubt?"

"None. When she was pregnant, their mother wrote Charles several letters, begging him to come back."

"But he didn't."

"You've met our father. Of course he didn't."

f.a.n.n.y Carrington Wainwright, Viscountess Henley, peered at her half-brother, Phillip Sinclair, and sighed.

She'd only known him a few months, having stumbled on him by accident on her rocky road to matrimony with her husband Michael. From the very first, her connection with Phillip had been potent and undeniable.

They were now so close that they might have grown up together in the same house. It was as if they'd been together since they were babies, and with their golden-blond hair and striking green eyes, there was no question as to their being siblings.

She'd known her father, Charles Sinclair, Earl of Trent, for a few months, too. He was a renowned debaucher of innocent maidens, and his s.e.xual exploits were legendary.

At age forty-six, he was an amazingly handsome man who exuded sophistication and charm. He had a manner of looking at a female that made her feel unique and cherished. His lovers all a.s.sumed that the look was original, that it was bestowed on them alone, and it never occurred to any of them that he gazed at every woman the same way.

He couldn't help it. His seductive appeal seemed as ingrained as his need to breathe.

f.a.n.n.y's own mother had been a nave debutante who'd fallen under the earl's spell, then died in childbirth. Before Phillip had introduced f.a.n.n.y to her father, she'd intended to not like anything about him, but he'd been so amiable that she found it difficult to detest him. She wanted to, but she couldn't.

"Let's knock and see what we can learn about them," she said. "What are their names again?"

"Helen and Harriet."

Phillip went to the door of the country manor where they'd stopped. A butler answered, and they were shown into a parlor and informed that their host, Nigel Stewart, would attend them shortly.

"Are you nervous?" Phillip asked.

"Yes," f.a.n.n.y admitted. "Do you suppose they're here?"

"I don't have any idea, but we'll soon find out."

Phillip was their father's oldest, though illegitimate son, and it had become his life's quest to locate Charles's cast-off children. He was especially apprehensive about Charles's daughters.

There were at least six girls sired the year Charles was twenty-five-f.a.n.n.y being one of them. Phillip was determined to confer with all of them, to be certain they were safe and secure. If not, Charles had agreed to see them situated in better circ.u.mstances.

f.a.n.n.y hadn't met any of her other half-siblings, and as they waited for Nigel Stewart, she was consumed with equal parts curiosity, excitement, and concern.

Were her half-sisters aware of the ident.i.ty of their father? Would the revelation be welcomed or discounted? Would f.a.n.n.y's visit be a blessing or a curse?

Footsteps sounded, and a dapper, attractive gentleman entered. f.a.n.n.y had been expecting someone older, but he appeared to be her age of twenty-one. He was thin and slight, with white-blond hair and bright blue eyes.

He was dressed appropriately, and he seemed cordial and gracious, but f.a.n.n.y didn't like him. She couldn't have described why, but her initial instinct was to not trust him.

"h.e.l.lo," he said, smiling, "I am Nigel Stewart."

They stood, shook hands and bowed all around, then he motioned for them to sit.

"A viscountess!" he gushed in a fashion f.a.n.n.y loathed. "My goodness! Our humble abode will never be the same."

"I'm recently wed to Viscount Henley," she explained, "so it's a new t.i.tle, and I'm still not used to it. I'd be happy if you would call me f.a.n.n.y."

"I would be honored, and you must call me Nigel."

"I will. Thank you."

"My butler informs me," he said, "that you're actually here to speak with my cousins, Helen and Harriet."

"Are they at home?" Phillip asked.

"No. They haven't lived at Brookhaven for several years." Nigel's smile slipped and worry creased his brow. "I hope they're all right. You haven't come with bad news, have you?"

"No."

"I'm so relieved to hear it."

"Do you know where they are?" f.a.n.n.y inquired. "Do you know how we might contact them?"

"No." Nigel's cheeks flushed. "It's a bit of sad family history, I'm embarra.s.sed to say."

"Perhaps it's best that they're away," Phillip said. "Is your father here? Might we talk to him?"

"My father pa.s.sed away last August. I was the eldest and only son, so Brookhaven is mine."

"I see," Phillip murmured.

He paused, critically a.s.sessing Nigel, and f.a.n.n.y sensed that Phillip was having her same vague misgivings. With their discovering Helen and Harriet to be absent, there was no reason to remain. They could conclude their business and go.

Phillip would be anxious to return to London and his wife, Anne, who was very pregnant and about to give birth to their first child.

f.a.n.n.y was eager to get home, too. Her baby daughter, Elizabeth, was two months old, and f.a.n.n.y's trip with Phillip was the sole time they'd been separated. Her husband, Michael, was extremely protective, and he'd be fretting. He'd been irritated over her traveling-even though it had involved a journey of only a few hours.

"Might we be frank?" f.a.n.n.y said.

"Yes, of course," Nigel responded.

"Our father"-f.a.n.n.y gestured to Phillip and herself-"is Charles Sinclair, Earl of Trent."

Nigel narrowed his gaze, studying f.a.n.n.y, then he declared, "Ah...I see it now."

"What is that?" Phillip queried.

"Helen and Harriet are your half-sisters. The two of you look just like them."

"Really?" f.a.n.n.y had no other blood kin, and at the news, she was inordinately thrilled.

"So you know that Trent is their natural father," Phillip said.

"Oh, yes," Nigel admitted. "We've always known. Their mother was madly in love with him. It was never a secret."

"And what about Helen and Harriet?"

"They weren't apprised until they were sixteen."

"How did they take it?"

"Not well. They were away at school, and they left. We never saw them again."

"Where did they go?"

"We a.s.sume to London-to confront Lord Trent. They wrote a note to the headmistress."

"But they never arrived or returned?"

"No." Nigel shrugged. "We searched for them, but London is a large place."

"And you haven't had a clue since?"

"No," he said again. "May I ask why you're hunting for them?"

"As their siblings," Phillip claimed, "we simply want to introduce ourselves."

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help," Nigel said.

"So am I." Phillip stood and offered Nigel his card. "If you should ever hear from them, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know."

"I will."

f.a.n.n.y stood, too. "Thank you for seeing us."

"It was my pleasure."

They collected their things, and Nigel escorted them out, waving them off with a friendly goodbye. It was all very correct, very affable, but once their carriage pulled away, f.a.n.n.y peered over at Phillip and inquired, "What do you think?"

"I don't like him."

"Neither do I."

"I can't put my finger on it," Phillip said, "but there's something dodgy about him."

"I agree. Did you notice the rug or the sofa?"

"No. Should I have?"

"You're a typical male, so no. The house is elegant and well-designed, but it's in a terrible state of disrepair."

"Interesting."

"Isn't it? The carpets are tattered, the drapes and couches badly worn. There were dust b.a.l.l.s under the writing desk-as if they have no maids for cleaning."

"So Mr. Stewart is broke, but exhibiting a public show of affluence?"

"Precisely."

"And Helen and Harriet? Do you suppose they're actually missing?"

"I'm not certain," f.a.n.n.y said, "but we ought to keep searching. I wouldn't take Nigel Stewart's word for anything."

"Mother! Mother!"

"What is it, darling?"

Nigel rushed up to his mother, Barbara, knowing that he was her dearest favorite, her one true joy in life.

"You'll never believe what's happened," Nigel said.

"Tell me," she urged, swept up in his excitement.

"We've had visitors."

"Who?"

"A fellow from London named Phillip Sinclair and his half-sister, Viscountess Henley."

"A viscountess!" Barbara imbued the appellation with the same awe that Nigel had used when speaking to f.a.n.n.y Wainwright. "What did they want?"