Kit spun and left, and Damian eased down in his chair.

Georgina was walking down the deserted hall, approaching the estate agent's office, when shouting erupted from inside the room. She stumbled to a halt.

Without a doubt, she shouldn't eavesdrop, but it was Mr. Drummond and Mr. Roxbury who were arguing. With each passing minute, she was more fascinated by Mr. Drummond and dying to learn a few pertinent details. But he was so taciturn and reticent he wouldn't provide even the smallest smidgen of information.

She'd never have a better chance to uncover his secrets than when he was quarreling. She crept closer, tiptoeing, but she immediately recognized her folly. Why, oh, why had she listened to them?

Mr. Drummond was irate and yelling at Mr. Roxbury. "You were arrested with me. You were on that prison ship with me. You survived the Boys' Camp for Incorrigibles at Botany Bay. You lived to tell the tale, and you have the gall-the unmitigated gall!-to whine about the world not being fair..."

Georgina was so shocked she clapped a palm over her mouth so she wouldn't gasp aloud. They were felons? They'd been transported to the penal colonies in Australia?

She struggled to fill in the missing pieces of Mr. Drummond's life. Walter Drummond had perished in London, and Mr. Drummond had had to fend for himself. Apparently he'd done it through criminal enterprise.

What offenses had they committed? How serious were the charges? Were they robbers or murderers? Were they highwaymen? What misdeeds could they have perpetrated that would have ended in such a horrid fashion?

While Mr. Roxbury was normal and pleasant, Mr. Drummond oozed hazard and peril. She could envision him involved in terrible transgressions for which he'd have to be punished. Her spirits sank.

Though she was embarrassed to admit it, she'd begun to like him very, very much. He wasn't like any man she'd ever met. He seemed attracted to her too, intrigued by her, and he understood her as others never had. For a woman who'd never had anyone pay attention to her, it was a heady experience.

What was she to think? Why was he in England? Had he served his time? Or was he wanted by the law and on the run? Was he dangerous? She absolutely thought he might be. There was a hint of lethal fury bubbling just below the surface. What if it was unleashed while he was at Kirkwood? Who would be safe?

She had to get out of there, had to sneak off without them knowing she'd been in the hall, but before she could move Mr. Roxbury stormed out and bumped into her.

"Excuse me, Miss Fogarty," he said. "I didn't see you there."

"Don't worry about it. There's no harm done."

"If you were hoping to speak to Damian, I wouldn't bother. He's in a mood."

With that warning delivered, he marched off, and Georgina dithered, not certain if she should slink away or proceed into the room.

Inside there was a loud crash, a glass shattering, then silence. She eased over and peeked in. The place was a mess. Papers had been strewn across the floor, and the ink jar had been thrown against the wall.

Mr. Drummond was seated behind the desk, a decanter of whiskey open next to him. Evidently he'd poured a libation, but instead of downing the contents, he'd hurled the glass at the stove in the corner. He picked up the decanter and drank directly from it.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he asked, glaring at her.

"I'm simply...checking on you."

"I'm just dandy, Georgina. Now get your shapely ass out of here."

"You have no reason to talk to me like that."

"If you don't like my tone, don't dawdle and gawk at me like an idiot."

In other circumstances, she probably would have stomped out, but their gazes locked, and for a quick instant his defenses were down. She saw raw melancholy, incredible loneliness, despair, grief, and rage. But as swiftly as she noted it all, he smoothed his features as if he'd never been upset a single second.

How did he do that? How did he hide his true feelings? It had her wondering if he'd ever acted on the stage. How else could he have acquired such an ability to shield what he didn't want others to observe?

Though he'd likely pretend he hadn't been fighting with Mr. Roxbury, she was suffering from the worst urge to comfort him, and she wasn't about to leave him when he was in such a state. She couldn't exactly describe their relationship, but she assumed they were friends. It almost seemed as if he belonged to her, as if it was her role and responsibility to make him feel better.

She entered and went over to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"You were quarreling with Mr. Roxbury."

"Yes, I was."

"Why?" He didn't answer, and she said, "Tell me. I'm a good listener. Maybe I can help."

He stared up at her, his dark eyes riveting. Again, for a moment, his soul was bared, and she was drowning in the swirl of conflicted sentiment he'd allowed her to view. Again it was hastily concealed.

He pulled her onto his lap, and then he was kissing her like a wild beast. The wrath that had built up when he was shouting at Mr. Roxbury was set free, and though it was strange, the intensity was actually very thrilling. She hadn't known ardor could be so fierce, that there could be such a severe element to it.

She did her best to match his ferocity. He needed something from her, to give her some of the ire that was teeming inside him. Perhaps by participating she could absorb some of his temper and ease his woe, but the encounter rapidly spiraled beyond what she'd expected.

He lifted her and laid her on the desk, and he loomed over her in a manner that was frightening. It was no longer quite so thrilling.

He didn't appear to recognize her. She might have been any female, and she felt despoiled, as if she was a trollop he'd grabbed off the street and could use in a bad way.

"Damian," she said, yanking away. "Damian, please stop."

He was lost in a fog of emotion he couldn't control so he didn't heed her. She had to beseech him three more times before he finally realized she was speaking to him.

"What?" he snapped.

"You're scaring me."

He froze and gaped down at her, confused, as if he couldn't figure out why she was stretched out beneath him.

"Pardon me," he murmured.

He drew away and dropped into his chair, but he kept a hand on her thigh, as if he needed to be tethered to her, as if he might simply float away if he released her.

She was a muddle, her skirt rucked up, her stockings shoved down, a garter ripped off. She pushed herself up so she was perched on the edge of the desk.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"It's all right," she said, though it really wasn't. She didn't comprehend what had transpired, but she'd seen a side of him she didn't care to see again.

"You should go."

He picked up the whiskey decanter and took a long swig, and she slid to her feet. She hovered over him, and it occurred to her that she'd never witnessed a man who looked lonelier or more alone. She leaned down and pressed her forehead to his. They stayed like that, his palm on her waist, their breath mingling.

"Don't fret," she whispered. "Whatever it is, you and Mr. Roxbury will work it out. I have no doubt."

"I told him to leave Kirkwood and never come back."

"You didn't mean it."

"I did mean it."

"What did he do, Damian? What was so terrible?"

He pulled away and muttered, "It doesn't matter."

"That's a lie. From how distraught you are, I'd say it matters very, very much."

"It doesn't," he insisted, his expression a blank slate.

"I heard you and Mr. Roxbury."

"You shouldn't have listened."

"I didn't intend to pry. I stumbled in while you were arguing. You mentioned some tragedies that happened when you were a boy-after you left Kirkwood."

"You're mistaken. I never discuss my past." He pointed to the door. "Would you go? I don't feel like chatting."

She couldn't bear to abandon him. It didn't seem healthy or wise. "It's a beautiful afternoon. Would you walk with me in the woods?"

"No."

"Then how about if we sit in the front parlor and I play the pianoforte for you? I know some lovely songs, and I think it would calm you."

"I'm fine, Georgina, and I'd like you to leave. Now."

He was motionless, as if he had perfected the skill of being extremely quiet. It was almost as if there had been times in his life when he'd had to hide, as if he'd needed to be invisible. She shuddered with dread to imagine what those occasions might have entailed.

"Could I visit you tonight after everyone is in bed?" she asked.

"No. I don't want that from you anymore."

"What if I want it?" she brazenly inquired.

"You're not safe with me. I've just proved that to both our satisfactions."

"You didn't hurt me."

"I might have though."

"You couldn't hurt me. You never would."

"You have no idea what I might or might not do."

"I'm supposed to depart tomorrow. Is it still your wish?"

He pondered forever, his face still completely blank, not providing a hint of his opinion. Ultimately he said, "We'll talk about it in the morning."

She rested her hand on his shoulder again. "If you change your mind and decide you'd like some company, send a servant to fetch me. I'll come back."

"I won't send for you," he claimed, but he reached up and squeezed her fingers.

She went to the door, and she paused, waiting for him to comment, hoping he might ask her to remain after all. But he didn't, and she continued on into the silent hall.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

It's about time you showed your sorry face at Kirkwood."

"Always nice to see you too, dear sister."

Sophia glared at Miles as he smiled a fake smile and plopped down across from her at the dining table. They were in Drummond Cottage, but the brief interval was about to end. Mr. Drummond was evicting them the following morning.

Sophia had arranged for a personal rescue. That rescue was to come from Mr. Roxbury, but it wasn't finalized yet. He had to talk to Mr. Drummond, had to gain Mr. Drummond's permission for Sophia to stay. Until that conversation was held, she wasn't sure of any detail.

Her mother would have a fit. Miles would too. And Georgina? Sophia couldn't guess what her cousin would think. As long as Sophia didn't speak of it aloud, she could pretend it wasn't really happening. She was dying to blurt out the news. Miles would explode with rage, and it would be a relief to get through the initial confrontation, but she couldn't bring herself to initiate it.

"Where have you been?" she asked him.

"In town."

"Honestly, Miles," she scolded, "we're supposed to leave tomorrow. Would it have killed you to keep us apprised of your location?"

"Why would I have?"

"We don't know what to do, and Mother has been in an absolute state. She hasn't made any arrangements for our departure, and we've needed your guidance and advice. After all, you created the entire mess."

"How dare you blame me! If anyone is at fault, it's that wretch, Damian Drummond."

"Could you provide us with a bit of leadership?"

"On what topic?"

"Where is Mother to go? She hasn't asked a single neighbor for assistance. She hasn't written a single letter to any of our relatives. She's so disordered in her logic that I'm beginning to fear for her sanity."

He scoffed with disgust. "She's always been a lunatic and could easily be pushed over the edge to total madness. Don't expect me to supply a cure."

"Why were you in town?"