"You do that even when I look like a washerwoman." Her brow furrowed. "Seriously, do I look fit to be your fiancee?"

Seeing her concern, he forced himself to concentrate. Perhaps some would not call her a beauty because she didn't have cla.s.sically perfect features and that spectacular red hair looked distinctly naughty. But she was allowing her strength and warmth and intelligence to show, and to him, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Beautiful, and more. "You are every inch a refined lady," he said seriously. "You've always been beautiful. Letting the world see that beauty must make you feel more confident, and that makes you even more beautiful. But I am a bit jealous because now everyone will see you as I do."

"I'm glad I look sufficiently ladylike." She brushed her fingers through his hair, very much his Ca.s.sie despite her new appearance. "Though otherwise you're not making a lot of sense, and you smell of beer. Are you drunk?"

"Yes," he said meekly.

She touched his bruised cheek. "Were you in a fight?"

"Yes. But I won."

"What did you win?"

"The right to buy the fellow a beer."

"I suppose that makes sense to males." Her laughter was soft. "Are you happy?"

He sighed and pulled her closer. Lovely decolletage. Lovely gown. He wanted to take it off her. "Yes. Especially now that you're here. Would you like to go upstairs so I can make mad, pa.s.sionate love to you?"

"Later, perhaps, but at the moment, I wish to feed another appet.i.te," she said. "The Powells serve supper to anyone in residence and Kirkland intended to stop by if he had time. Join me, for you need some food and some strong coffee."

"I expect you're right. I believe that I forgot to eat."

"It's good that you're a happy drunk rather than a mean one." She descended the last few steps. "My lord, will you give me your arm to take me into dinner?"

"Let me see if I remember how to be gentlemanly." He made a sweeping bow without falling over, then straightened and offered his arm. "If you would do me the honor ..."

As she stepped toward him, he stroked her hair, enjoying the silkiness and bounce. The bright auburn had to be natural, for it suited her complexion much better than the dull brown. "How did you manage to transform yourself so quickly?"

"Kiri did it all. I just obeyed orders. Kiri's sister is near my size and she contributed several lovely gowns. Kiri's own modiste came personally with some partially made up garments, plus seamstresses for instant alterations. Kiri even managed to get cards engraved and printed for me." She pulled a card from her dainty little reticule and handed it to Grey. "The ink is still damp, but they look very proper."

"I'm surprised to see you carrying a purse too small to conceal a weapon," he remarked as he took the card.

"I've weapons concealed elsewhere," she a.s.sured him, amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes.

He glanced at the card, then read it again, startled. "The Honourable Catherine St. Ives. Your father was a peer? You've always implied that you're from a lower order of society. In fact, you said your family was not the rank of mine."

She shrugged. "My father was a mere baron, the third Lord St. Ives. We're merchant stock, not old and prestigious and wealthy like the earldom of Costain."

"Close enough. You come of n.o.ble blood." It was another piece of the puzzle that was Ca.s.sie Fox. Or rather, Catherine St. Ives. Returning to her childhood station after spending a lifetime as peasant and peddler had to be ... supremely disorienting.

"That meant nothing when I was cleaning out chicken coops in France," she said dryly. "And it means even less now."

"Your brother would have been the heir," he said. "Who inherited instead? Or were there no heirs so the t.i.tle went into abeyance?"

"My father had a younger brother, and he had three sons. The two oldest were around my age." She made a dismissive gesture. "There was no shortage of heirs."

"Haven't you ever written your cousins?" he asked. "Surely they would be glad to know that you survived."

"Catherine St. Ives died," she said impatiently. "She would have stayed dead except that resurrecting her for the next week or two will make me a more convincing fiancee. When I leave Summerhill, she will return to her French grave, this time for good." She turned on her heel. "Enough of this nonsense. I'm hungry."

As she headed toward the dining room, Grey slipped the card into his pocket. She might not be interested in her family, but he was. He'd have a word with Kirkland.

He caught up with her and offered his arm again. She laid her hand lightly on his forearm and they progressed to the dining room as if they were entering a grand ball. Kirkland, Mr. and Mrs. Powell, and a nondescript young woman Grey hadn't met were eating family style around the table.

Everyone glanced up as Grey and Ca.s.sie entered. There was a stunned silence as everyone, particularly the men, stared at Ca.s.sie.

Kirkland was first to rise to his feet. "Miss Fox." He inclined his head and permitted himself a small smile. "I always knew you were brilliant at disguise, but I didn't recognize that your greatest disguise was concealing your natural beauty."

"Flatterer," she said without heat. "The credit goes to Lady Kiri and the helpers she summoned to transform me." As Grey pulled out a chair for her, she continued, "I am not Ca.s.sandra Fox at the moment. I decided using my birth name will best suit this particular charade." She gave Kirkland a card.

His face became very still. "Your father was the third Lord St. Ives?"

She nodded, her expression opaque.

When she didn't say more, Kirkland continued, "Since you're traveling to Dorset as a lady, you need a maid, so one of my a.s.sociates will take that role." He gestured to the girl next to him. "Miss St. Ives, may I present Miss Hazel Wilson? I think you'll find that she has the usual skills of a lady's maid's, and a few more as well."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Wilson," Ca.s.sie said formally. "Thank you for taking this position on such short notice."

"Call me Hazel, miss," the girl said with a London accent. She stood and curtsied. She had brown hair and a pleasant if unremarkable face. Her blue eyes showed humor and intelligence. "This would be Lord Wyndham, I presume?"

Grey bowed with the respect due one of Kirkland's agents. "Indeed I am, Hazel. Thank you for your willingness to leave London for the wilds of Dorsetshire."

Hazel bobbed her head. "I look forward to dressing your beautiful hair, miss!"

Ca.s.sie blushed. "I hated my red hair when I was a girl. I was called the Carrot."

"Any girls who teased you then are now envious, and the boys will be languishing for your smiles," Grey said as he took his own seat.

"Your gilded tongue is in good working order," she said with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"He's right, miss!" Mr. Powell blurted out.

"I think the la.s.s is more interested in shepherd's pie than flattery," Mrs. Powell said, giving her husband a stern glance. "If you pa.s.s your plates, I'll fill 'em up."

Grey and Ca.s.sie obeyed. As he smelled the steaming-hot pie, Grey realized he would enjoy this common fare more than the elaborate meals served in his parents' homes.

Though his appearance was once more that of a gentleman, he was a very long way from the young Lord Wyndham who had left Summerhill ten years earlier.

Chapter 32.

London was dark when they left the next morning. The journey from London to Summerhill could be made in a day if the roads were dry, but it was a long day with numerous changes of horses. Ca.s.sie and Hazel spoke occasionally, but Grey mostly gazed out the window, disinclined to talk as he watched the familiar landscape go by.

How often had he made this journey? Very often. He knew every town and village, every posting inn, and he'd known a few friendly barmaids on this route as well.

He liked seeing landmarks like the spire of Salisbury Cathedral, but his tension grew with every mile. If his father died when Grey might have been there at the end if he hadn't taken an extra day to mentally prepare for the trip ...

But he and Ca.s.sie had needed that day in different ways, and his family would benefit by the advance notice of Grey's return from the dead. Though his mother might choose to keep the news from his father, she would tell Peter and Elizabeth. They must be grown by now, but in his mind, they were still children.

His family would welcome him even if they were also disappointed in him. Once he got beyond the first few days, it would be all right. So he told himself repeatedly. In between prayers for his father's survival.

It was dark again by the time they finally reached the estate. As the carriage turned in at the gate, his heart was pounding and he realized he was clenching Ca.s.sie's hand. Summerhill, Summerhill, Summerhill!

The long, tree-lined drive up to the house wordlessly declared the long history of Costain wealth and power. He took comfort in the thought that he was merely one slightly bent twig on an otherwise healthy family tree.

As the carriage halted under the porte cochere on the east side of the house, Grey said tersely, "This house is fairly new, less than a hundred years old. Far more comfortable than the rambling original building."

"I'll take comfort over historic drafts any day," Ca.s.sie said lightly as he helped her from the carriage. He felt tension in her gloved hand, but she concealed it well.

Now that she wanted to look fashionable, she had the superb French sense of style. She looked every inch the sort of aristocratic beauty a man like him would be expected to marry. Yet she was so much more.

"Courage, mon enfant," she whispered in French under her breath.

"And you also, mon pet.i.t chou," he whispered back. "At least here our lives aren't threatened. Only our pride and sanity."

Her face brightened with suppressed laughter. "Since you put it like that ..." She took his arm and they walked to the door, where he wielded the ma.s.sive bra.s.s knocker. It was shaped like a dolphin, a sign of the sea that lay on the other side of the hill.

There was a long wait and Grey knocked again, all too aware that the death of the master of the house would cause this kind of disruption. Finally, the door was opened by a flushed young housemaid. Her gaze pa.s.sed over the visitors with no recognition beyond seeing that they were obviously well born. She bobbed a somewhat ragged curtsy. "Are you expected, sir? Madame?"

"We are," Grey replied. "Lady Costain has been notified of our visit. Please tell her we have arrived."

"Very good, sir. If you'll wait in the small salon just over here, I'll inform her ladyship." The girl bobbed another quick curtsy and darted off without asking his name.

The salon was cold and ill lit. Too restless to sit, Grey took the tinderbox from the mantel and started a fire. "Housekeeping standards have slipped," he said. "That child has not been well trained."

"Obviously receiving guests is not her usual job." Rea.s.suringly composed, Ca.s.sie settled on a brocade-covered chair.

He straightened as the fire caught and small flames appeared. "Do you think that means my father has ..." His throat closed and he couldn't continue.

"There is no reason to believe he's gone," she said swiftly. "And no point in worrying. We'll find out soon enough."

Another wait. Grey was tempted to go in search of his mother, but before the last of his patience vanished, the door swung open and he heard her voice saying, "You should have taken their names, child!"

Lady Costain swept into the room, followed by the maid. She was still tall, blond, and beautiful though she looked strained, as if she'd been carrying too many burdens.

Grey had believed he'd never see her again, and the fact that she was here, now, paralyzed him. Half afraid she was a dream and would disappear, he managed to whisper, "Mother?"

She said brusquely, "My apologies for ..." Her gaze reached Grey and she stopped dead in her tracks. Color drained from her face. "No, it's not possible!" she whispered. Then she crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

"Mother!" Horrified, Grey rushed to her side and dropped to his knees, cradling her in his arms. "Mother, it really is me, not a ghost!"

"Bring smelling salts quickly," Ca.s.sie ordered the housemaid. "Are there any other members of the family available?"

"Lord Wyndham is here," the girl replied.

Lord Wyndham? Peter must have a.s.sumed the t.i.tle when Grey had been given up for dead. Grey snapped, "Send him here immediately. Tell him his mother is ill."

Tenderly he carefully lifted his mother onto the sofa, then spread a knitted knee robe over her. She looked so tired, with lines in her face that hadn't been there ten years before. But it really was her. His wry, patient, loving mother. He blinked back tears.

Lady Costain's eyes fluttered open to see Grey bent over. She made a choked sound and raised a shaking hand to touch his cheek. "You ... you're real?"

He caught her hand and held it. "I am." A pulse beat hard in his throat. "Didn't you get the message Lord Kirkland sent yesterday? I wanted to avoid shocking everyone like this."

Her gaze searched his face, as hungry as his. "A message arrived, but I didn't bother to open it. He writes now and then to say he has found no information about you, but continues to search. With your father ill, I couldn't be bothered to read that."

"So much for my good intentions," he said ruefully as he helped her sit up. "I'm sorry, I wanted to spare you this."

"When I saw you here, I ... I had the horrible superst.i.tious thought that you were a ghost come to guide your father to heaven." She pulled him into a hug as tears ran down her cheeks. "Of all the times to ignore a message! Oh, Grey, Grey!"

Pounding feet could be heard and a distraught young man burst into the room. "Mother, are you all right?"

Grey straightened and saw ... himself at twenty. Or close enough. Peter had reached his brother's height and was blond and heartbreakingly handsome. His face looked designed for laughter-he'd always been a cheerful child-but he was haggard, worried now for his mother as well as his father.

Peter skidded to a halt, his astonished gaze going from his mother to his long-lost brother. "Grey?" he asked incredulously. Disbelief on his face, he stalked closer, his gaze searching. "You must be an imposter! My brother has been dead these ten years."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Peter," Grey said with a twisted smile. "I would have written to disabuse you of the notion, but the prison where I resided was shockingly short of amenities such as paper and pen."

"My G.o.d," Peter breathed as he studied Grey's face. "That scar on your left eyebrow, from that time you fell on broken stones and cut yourself. It really is you!"

Grey touched the faint mark. "The scar I acquired when you shoved me down at the pond, if I recall correctly."

They'd been playing by the water on a hot summer day and Peter had gleefully caught his older brother off balance, only to be horrified when the cut Grey received had bled copiously. In retrospect, it was a happy, playful memory. Grey offered his hand hesitantly. "You apologized for days."

"I'll apologize again if you like." Peter caught his hand with both of his and pumped enthusiastically. "Prison, you say?"

Grey started to explain, then couldn't. His return home had released a torrent of raw emotion. If he tried to explain Castle Durand, he'd fall apart entirely. He managed, "For ten years. Later, I'll tell you more, but not tonight. Please, tell me about Father! What happened? How ill is he?"

His mother joined her sons, composed again. "Costain fell when he was hunting and his horse balked at a high fence. He broke a bone or two, but the real danger is a head injury. He ... he's been unconscious since the accident."

Several days then. That was bad, very bad. Grey closed his eyes for long moments as he battled despair that he might have arrived too late. "Can I see him?"

"Of course. Your sister is with him now. We've been taking turns sitting with him." Lady Costain's eyes narrowed as she registered Ca.s.sie's presence for the first time. "Please introduce your friend to me, Grey."

He turned to Ca.s.sie, who had stayed tactfully in the background. Taking her hand, he drew her forward. "Allow me to present my affianced wife, Miss Catherine St. Ives." He whispered a silent "Thank you" that his family couldn't see. "Ca.s.sie, my mother, Lady Costain, and my brother, Peter Sommers."

His mother's gaze intensified as she studied Ca.s.sie. "St. Ives. Are you one of the Norfolk St. Ives?"

Ca.s.sie's fingers tensed, but she said with the confident calm of a born aristocrat, "I am, Lady Costain. But I met Lord Wyndham in France."