Viola did not deign a reply. Really! How unfeeling of the woman to say such a thing. She wondered if the dowager had suggested it.

"The dowager said ye might be feeling a bit out of sorts because o' yer woman time. She said that if ye were, I was to toss the water from yer washbasin on ye. I don't like to do such a thing, meself, but if it'll rouse ye..."

Despite her best intentions, Viola's eyes flew open. "That woman told you to throw water on me?"

"Aye. Actually, she wished me to throw water on ye and then tell ye to get up, but I didn't think that a sportin' thing to do."

Viola's temper exploded. She sat upright and glared. "Please inform the dowager that I am not in the mood for tea."

"I daresay ye aren't," Liza said, unperturbed by Viola's icy voice. "But ye needs to come anyway. There's guests, and the dowager isn't too pleased, as she only had four scones readied for tea."

Viola's gaze went to the window. The snow was finally melted, but the roads were a river of mud. "Who would come on a day like this?"

"Yer daughter is one o' the guests. Some of her acquaintances seem a bit ragtag to me, though one o' them is as beautiful as Lucifer!" Liza shivered deliciously. "He even has the devil's own scar across his face!"

"Sweet roses!" Viola hopped off the bed so suddenly the maid jumped back. "Get my blue morning gown! And don't waste another moment, you foolish girl! We must hurry!"

Viola was dressed in a remarkably short time. She heard the dowager's quavering voice as she flew down the steps, along with several other voices. What had occurred to send Venetia here? And who was with her?

Viola stepped into the sitting room, her gaze immediately finding her daughter. Venetia, who was elegant even under the most strenuous circ.u.mstances, was sadly crumpled and tired-looking. The entire group appeared to be out of sorts, muddied, mussed, and wrinkled.

"Mama!" Venetia rushed forward and threw her arms around Viola.

Venetia had always been an affectionate child, but there was something almost desperate in the way she hugged Viola. "Venetia! What are you doing here? Not that you're not welcome, but goodness, what has happened?"

Over Venetia's shoulder, Viola caught Gregor's gaze. He returned her look evenly, but she had the fleeting thought that something was different.

Something significant.

A flicker of hope lifted in Viola's breast. She patted Venetia's shoulder. "There, there. You must tell me everything."

"I will. It's a long story. Meanwhile, allow me to introduce my traveling companions. This is Miss Platt."

A thin woman with mousy brown hair bobbed her head nervously.

"And this is Miss Higganbotham, and Sir Henry Loundan." An exceptionally beautiful girl, who was unfortunately covered in mud, blushed and nodded a greeting. The distinguished gentleman beside her, who had risen to his feet on Viola's entrance, bowed.

"And you know Ravenscroft."

He bowed from where he stood by the window, away from the main group.

Viola eyed him with interest. Lord Ravenscroft seemed somewhat sullen, his usually carefully disheveled locks now not so carefully disheveled. He appeared to have slept in his clothes, for his cravat was oddly knotted, his coat rumpled, his hair standing on end, and mud streaking one leg.

The thin, angular woman cleared her throat and said in a painfully arch voice, "This is an interesting house. The exterior is so morbid and the interior quite dark. I cannot help but think we've all stumbled into a Gothic novel of some sort. One of us might wake up dead before morning!"

The dowager was not pleased. Dressed in her habitual black and lavender, her hair covered with a huge, improbably red wig that was stuck with a ma.s.s of glittering jeweled pins, she sniffed loudly. "Miss Flat-"

"It's Miss Platt." The woman t.i.ttered again.

The dowager's thin brows snapped down. "Miss Flat, I do not like the implications of your words. If you find my house offensive, feel free to leave. The door is over there." The dowager pointed to the wall to one side.

The entire group looked at the wall. There was no door there, only a large window that opened an entire story above the garden.

Viola stifled a tired grin even while she admitted that Miss Platt was right about the house; she wouldn't be a bit surprised to discover a dead body in one of the lesser-used rooms, along with a set of clues pointing directly to the owner of the house.

"My lady," Miss Platt said, looking nervously at the window. "There is no door there. It's-"

"Venetia!" The dowager glared at her granddaughter. "Did I invite you?"

"No. However, you have told me many times that I don't visit you often enough."

"I didn't mean for you to arrive like this, unannounced and with a group of scoundrels!"

"Grandmama!" Venetia said, her eyes flashing. "Please don't be rude."

"It's not rude to speak plainly." Her grandmother squinted at Gregor. "You there! You've the look of the MacLeans about you."

He bowed. "I am Gregor MacLean."

"Humph. Are you the scalawag who keeps flirting with my Venetia but won't come up to snuff and marry her like a G.o.dly man?"

Venetia covered her eyes with both hands.

To Viola's surprise, Gregor smiled faintly. He crossed to the dowager's side and took her gnarled hand from the arm of her chair and kissed it with a gallant air. "I am that same MacLean; both a scoundrel and rogue. But not because I won't marry your granddaughter. I have asked her to marry me, and she has refused."

Viola gasped.

"What?" Ravenscroft cried.

Miss Platt crossed her hands over her heart. "Miss West! You never said a word!"

Miss Higganbotham and her beau appeared confused.

Viola wondered who Miss West could be while Venetia dropped her head, her eyes still covered by her hands, a moan escaping her.

The dowager stomped a foot. "Why won't she have you?"

"Because I botched my proposal in the most ham-handed way possible. I am hoping to persuade her to give me another chance, for I feel we are eminently suited." Viola's heart leapt. She never had seen MacLean give her daughter such a heated look before.

Something had definitely changed. But why wasn't Venetia responding?

The dowager eyed Gregor. "I'm surprised you're letting a mere gal tell you no."

"Grandmama!" Venetia said, dropping her hands. "Please stop this. And do not call Gregor names."

"Huh!" The dowager hunched her shoulders. "Any family that's been given a weather curse is scoundrelly in my book."

Gregor grinned. "In my book, any woman who was able to torment my great-grandfather to the point of madness is a sad romp."

"Ha!" she said gleefully, her wrinkled cheeks pink. "Told you about that before he kicked off, did he?"

"You are a legend in my family. Your portrait is still hanging in the grand hall, facing his-much to the fury of my long-deceased great-grandmother. They say she still walks the halls, gnashing her teeth and wailing, almost fifty years since she died."

"That was Pauline for you. Cried at this. Wept at that. Reminds me of other people I know." The dowager looked directly at Viola.

Viola opened her mouth to protest, but the dowager was off again. "I may lose my temper now and again, but I never waste my time weeping. If something is wrong, then you fix it. This namby-pamby generation won't address their problems. They just dance around them and wring their hands." She eyed Gregor a moment, her gaze lingering on his legs. "You may sit beside me."

Gregor bowed. "I shall do just that, once all of the ladies have taken their seats."

Venetia visibly gathered herself. "Grandmama, everyone has had a long and difficult journey. I believe it would be best if we all retired to have baths and to rest awhile."

The dowager shrugged. "Do as you wish. I don't nap. Never have, never will." She looked sharply at Viola. "See to the guest rooms. I don't give a d.a.m.n where these others stay, but put MacLean in the Pink Room, where Bonnie Prince Charlie once stayed. Then put Venetia in the Blue Room."

Viola met the dowager's gaze, a smile quivering on her lips. The Blue Room and the Pink Room were adjoining. In that moment, Viola could have hugged her p.r.i.c.kly mother-in-law. "Of course. I shall take them there now, and-"

"No, thank you," Venetia said in a firm tone. "I would much rather have my usual bedchamber in the east wing, if you please."

Viola frowned. "Venetia, your grandmother has kindly offered you the Blue Room, which is much nicer."

"I said no, thank you, Mama. And I mean it."

The dowager scowled. "Still obstinate, eh?"

Venetia returned her grandmother's gaze evenly. "I am an Oglivie."

The dowager's thin lips cracked into a smile. "Yes, you are, by G.o.d. Very well, I will allow your insolence this time. Just don't expect me to be patient forever. Viola, take these hooligans to their rooms. I don't nap, but I do like my quiet."

Viola agreed, though she was disappointed with the dowager's capitulation. The old bat had no compunction in ordering Viola about-why couldn't she have done the same for Venetia, especially when it concerned something as important as Viola's future grandchild?

Viola collected the group, who made their formal (and unappreciated) good-byes to the dowager, and led them into the mazelike, dimly lit corridors of the Dowager House.

Viola was certain they all longed for hot baths and soft beds, neither of which they'd receive. The servants were so old and the rooms so far removed from the main part of the house that the bathwater would be tepid by the time it made it to the respective tubs, and the beds were all lumpy from lack of turning.

Viola kept Gregor and Venetia with her to the last, bursting with curiosity about Gregor's proposal. They reached the Sun Chamber first, the room Venetia traditionally enjoyed while at her grandmother's. It was as far away from Gregor's room in the west wing as possible.

Venetia hugged her mother. "Thank you, Mama."

"I shall deliver Gregor to his room and return so we can have a long, comfortable chat."

Venetia's expression grew guarded. "Not now, Mama. I am too tired. I think I shall sleep until dinner."

"Won't you want some tea? Or some lavender water to-"

"No, thank you. I just wish to sleep." Venetia dipped a frigid curtsey to Gregor, who bowed deeply and winked.

Venetia's cheeks pinkened, and she disappeared into the room so quickly Viola was left speechless in the hallway.

Gregor eyed the firmly shut door for a long moment, his gaze considering. After a moment, he turned back to Viola. "Mrs. Oglivie, I am going to marry your daughter."

"That would be nice," Viola said bracingly, though she couldn't shake the thought of the sad, determined turn of Venetia's mouth. Viola patted Gregor's arm. "I wish you luck."

His jaw tightened, and it dawned on Viola that perhaps Gregor MacLean was just as hardheaded as Venetia. The thought gave her hope.

"Come, you must be exhausted. Let me show you to the Pink Room. It's quite isolated, as it's the more formal part of the house, and the dowager rarely allows anyone there. It's quite a compliment to you."

Gregor offered Viola his arm and smiled in such a way that her heart fluttered. "Lead the way, madam. I a.s.sure you that I am prepared for the worst."

Venetia ordered a bath and washed and combed her hair, letting it dry before the fire. Afterward, she donned her night rail and, tossing her robe over a chair, sent word to her grandmother that she had a headache and would not be joining the party for dinner. This impertinence earned her a tersely worded reply that Venetia ignored and a visit from her mother, who arrived carrying laudanum, a cup of herbal tea, a cold cloth soaked in Egyptian milk for her forehead, and a hot brick for her bed.

It soon became apparent why Mama had come. every question she asked had to do with Gregor' s proposal. Venetia refused to cooperate and directed the conversation toward her adventures, how Ravenscroft had tricked her into leaving London, and how the others had come to be at the inn. She left Gregor's name out of her recital almost entirely.

When the dinner bell rang, Mama gathered the empty tea cup, kissed her on the forehead, tucked her into bed with the hot brick at her feet, and left.

Surprised at her mother's unaccustomed tact, Venetia snuggled beneath the covers, hoping sleep would come.

Of course, that proved a vain hope. After tossing and turning for a good half hour, Venetia eventually rose and went to sit before the fire.

It was so tempting to think that marrying Gregor would not only save her reputation, but might also bring them closer. Perhaps love would grow between them.

But what if it didn't? Did she want to start a marriage on such a poor basis? What if, one day, Gregor looked back at their marriage and felt cheated somehow? What if she did?

She couldn't do it. She couldn't take the chance that- The door flew open.

Venetia whirled around, half expecting to face deep green eyes, but found her grandmother, dressed in a formal evening gown of lavender trimmed with black ribbons, a huge red wig on her head that made her seem amazingly tiny, and diamonds winking from pins and brooches, necklaces and bracelets.

The old woman limped in, her butler hovering behind her. She pointed with her cane to the small table before the fire. "Set the tray there, Raffley."

"Yes, madam." The butler did as he was told. "Will there be anything else, madam?"

"No. That's all." She waved him out.

Venetia blinked at the tray, which held a teapot, two cups, a small dish of tarts, and stiff linen napkins. "Grandmama, this is so nice of you, but I am not hungry."

"This isn't for you. It's for me." Grandmother limped to the tray and picked up a tart. She popped it into her mouth and said around it, "Couldn't eat at dinner with that Miss Flat woman yapping like a drunken sailor."

Venetia had to smile. "I see." She went to the tray and took a seat across from it. "Come and sit. I 'll pour the tea."

"Can't sit; my hip's been giving me fits. But I will have some tea. Extra cream, please." She took the cup offered, her bright eyes fixed on Venetia's face. "Well, Miss West? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Venetia sighed. "I see you know everything."

"Most of it. From what your mother was able to tell me-which wasn't easy to understand, the way she mealy-mouths everything-and from what those ramshackle travelers of yours had to say over dinner, I think I pretty well know what's what."

"Oh?" Venetia doubted the old woman could know everything.

A brow went up over the shrewd eyes. "That fool Ravenscroft went over the line, and MacLean is willing to throw himself on the fire. You won't have him on those terms, so you told him no. That about sum it up?"

Venetia nodded, a lump in her throat. "I can't allow Gregor to do so, of course."