OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING.

M rs. Treadwell pulled a large key from her ap.r.o.n and unlocked the first door at the top of the stairs. "Here ye are, Miss West! The second-best room in the inn." She opened the door with a grand sweep and stood aside.

Venetia entered, carrying the bandbox she'd brought from London. The bedchamber was smallish, with a lopsided bed beside a large window that overlooked the innyard. Blue curtains matched the homespun bed hangings and the large pillow that graced the bed. A lone chair took up residence beside a washstand containing an old-looking pitcher and bowl, both painted with yellow and blue flowers.

All told, it was nicer than Venetia had hoped. The bed might look lumpy, and a faint draft of air came from the window when the door was ajar, but she was certain it would be warm, and that was all that mattered. Venetia set down her baggage. "This is lovely," she said.

Mrs. Treadwell beamed. "I decorated it meself to look jus' like a picture I saw in Ladies Grace magazine." She looked about critically. "O' course, I couldn't exactly get the shade of blue fer the hangin 's, and the bed isn't as grand as the one in the picture, but it's close enough."

"Are all the rooms this nicely turned out?"

"Oh, the large chamber is the nicest! Mrs. Bloom and her companion are in there. They came in late last night and desired a bit of a nap today, else ye'd have seen them when ye arrived. I daresay ye'l meet them at dinner, fer Mrs. Bloom isn't one to skimp on her meals, if ye know what I mean." Mrs. Treadwell puffed out her cheeks in a meaningful way.

Venetia smiled. "What of the other room we bespoke?"

"Now, that one's a bit small, especially fer two gents. But I thought it best to put ye in here, as 'tis the cozier chamber, being right over the common room. If ye touch that stone right there, it'll toast yer fingers, it's that warm." Mrs. Treadwell sent Venetia a sly glance. "If 'n ye don't mind me askin', how did Lord MacLean come to get such a scar?" She added hurriedly, "Not that it makes a mite o' difference in his looks, fer he 's still as handsome as one of them knights I once seen in a picture book."

"He had an accident when he was fourteen. He and his brothers were forever staging mock battles, and one day, when using a new set of fencing foils, one of the b.u.t.tons came off the tip. Gregor's brother didn't realize the b.u.t.ton had fallen off, and-" Venetia shrugged.

Mrs. Treadwell clicked her tongue. "High-spirited, were they?"

"They still are, all but one," Venetia said. "Callum, Lord MacLean's youngest brother, was killed a year and a half ago." Gregor still grew quiet whenever Callum was mentioned.

Mrs. Treadwell clucked again. "That's difficult, losin' a brother. I daresay ye know that, seein' as how yer own brother could have come to harm today. Daresay that set ye back a bit."

"Ah, of course. He seems indestructible to me."

"I feel the same way about me own brother, Cyril. He rides half-broke horses, races carts, and does all sorts of dangerous things and never comes to the least of harm." She shook her head.

"Yes, Mr. West is just the same. Never uses the least common sense, and yet he's c.o.c.ksure he will never pay for his own foolishness, which is very annoying." A low grumble in her stomach made her realize that in the excitement of the accident, she hadn't had lunch. "Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Treadwell. May I ask when dinner will be ready?"

"Very soon. Mr. Treadwell got us a girl to help in the kitchen. Her name's Elsie, and a better cook ye'll not meet. Ye'll not go hungry here, miss! The Blue Rooster's known fer her hospitality, and I'd not have it any other way."

"I'm certain everyone here would agree with you." Mrs. Treadwell beamed. "Thank you, miss! Now, if ye'll excuse me, I'll go and see if Elsie needs any help. I can't cook, but I can stir a pot, if'n need be." With a quick smile, she left, closing the door behind her.

Venetia walked to the bed and fell across it, hands clasped beneath her chin.

She couldn't believe Ravenscroft's ill-conceived plans had landed her in such a mess. Even more surprising had been Gregor's expression right before he'd left the common room. There'd been a moment, a mere second, really, when he'd looked at Venetia as if he'd desired her.

Her heart thrummed a bit. In all the years she'd known Gregor, he'd never looked at her like that. Actually, now that she thought about it, he had never really looked at her at all. He never seemed to notice if she'd cut her hair or had a new pelisse or anything, really.

She had certainly noticed him, though, and who could blame her? He was dangerously, devastatingly handsome. Worse than that, he knew it.

She grabbed a pillow and hugged it, the worn linen soft as silk under her chin. Fortunately for her heart, although Gregor was almost perfect in appearance, he had plenty of character flaws. He was arrogant, easily irritated, and frequently standoffish with his fellow man. His worst flaw was that he regarded all acts of charity as signs of weakness. If there was one thing Venetia believed in, it was the benefits of being involved with one's fellow man.

Gregor's better traits made their friendship worthwhile. He was intelligent, witty, and very close to his family, and he possessed an old-fashioned sense of chivalry, though it would kill him to admit it. Best of all, he was an excellent friend, listening to her woes and celebrating her triumphs without the least reserve. If she fell from her horse, he was the first to help her back on and never utter a criticism. If she took a superior jump, he was the first to congratulate her unreservedly-a rare trait in men, she'd found.

She rolled to her side and looked up at the ceiling, absently noting a crack in the heavy white plaster shaped like a question mark. She and Gregor had done well in maintaining their friendship, which wasn't easy given Gregor's natural-what would she call it?-sensuality.

She thought of the look he'd given her in the common room and nodded to herself. Oh, yes. She would definitely call it sensuality. Now that she'd experienced that look, Venetia knew why so many of the young women in London had made fools of themselves over him. She had felt attractive, seductive, lightheaded, almost punch-drunk. All from one little look.

Gregor had the ability to intrigue and captivate without even trying. He was a pied piper, drawing women after him with the invisible strains of a mysterious melody so potent that one might well fall over a cliff before she even knew she was in danger. Venetia had seen it happen again and again, each time shaking her head at their foolishness. Now, however, she thought perhaps she understood a little bit more.

Outside, she heard a shout, then the creak of the bolt being thrown open on the barn door. She got up and went to the window, pushing the heavy curtain aside. Cold air seeped from the loose panes of gla.s.s and she shivered. She leaned one hand on the windowsill and used her other arm to rub the gla.s.s free of fog. Ravenscroft's groom was just arriving, riding one carriage horse and leading the other.

The hostler and Gregor's groom, Chambers, came out to help with the horses. Gregor stood by the huge barn door, ready to close it as soon as the others entered, the snow landing in his black hair before melting away. She wondered what it would be like to be a snowflake and to land in his soft hair, right at that tantalizing spot where his warm skin disappeared beneath his collar.

A faint shiver traced through her. Stop that, she told herself firmly. It is just Gregor.

But "just Gregor" was something to behold. He was still wearing his greatcoat, though it was unb.u.t.toned as though he'd just shrugged it back on. Beneath it, she could see his dark blue coat with silver b.u.t.tons, his cravat as white as the snow, his red waistcoat with dark b.u.t.tons fitting snugly against his broad chest. His black breeches outlined his muscular thighs before tucking down into a pair of shiny black boots.

The window fogged from Venetia's breath, and she had to use her sleeve to wipe it clean again. The movement caught Gregor's attention, and he turned to look up at the window.

Venetia froze, unable to move as their eyes met. Her heart quivered, her blood heating wildly. Despite the cold window, her skin burned, her body quickened as if heated.

His eyes darkened, his brows contracting a bit. Venetia forced herself to smile naturally, despite her heart thundering in her ears. It's just Gregor. Only Gregor.

The hostler said something to Gregor, and he turned to reply. The spell was broken, and Venetia slid to the side, deep in the curtains. She could still see outside but was out of sight from the barn, where Gregor stood.

She paused there, imagining him turning back to see if she was still at the window. Would he look disappointed? Perhaps he wished her to be there and- What am I doing? I don't want him to wish to see me here, mooning over him like a fool!

"Stupid carriage accident," she muttered. It had muddled her brains.

She took a steadying breath. She wasn't really mooning over him; she was just watching. That was totally different. She leaned forward a bit, catching a glimpse of Gregor as he held the horse Chambers had been leading. They were examining the horse's rear haunch.

Venetia frowned. Had the poor animal strained a muscle from the accident? She'd go and see to it herself, after dinner. Her gaze flickered back to Gregor. He was now standing beside the horse, one arm along its back, his head bent toward Chambers, who was talking rapidly, no doubt describing the accident in full detail.

Venetia sighed. It was rather annoying to see so much and hear so little.

She stared at the back of Gregor's head, noting how his damp hair was once again curling at the collar. Venetia scrunched up her nose and closed the curtains with a decided flick, hoping Gregor had noticed. Blast it, it was difficult being friends with a man whose hair always seemed to look better than hers.

A brisk knock sounded on the door, and Venetia went to answer it.

Mrs. Treadwell stood in the hallway, holding a pail of water that steamed invitingly. "Thought ye might want some warm water to wash with." She bustled past Venetia and went to fill the smaller basin on the washstand. "It's been an excitin' day, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has. I don't suppose-no, never mind."

"Don't suppose what?"

"I was wondering if I might get a full bath at some point?" Venetia asked a little wistfully. She loved a hot bath almost as much as she loved hot scones covered with cream.

Mrs. Treadwell beamed, her plain face bright. "O' course ye can! I have a real copper tub, I do. Me own sister sent it to me from York. She has one just like it, and when I went to visit her, I says, 'Oh, how I'd love to have a tub like that!' and blame me if she didn't send one out the very next year!"

"How lovely of her! A bath would be perfect."

"I'll set Elsie to warming the water whilst ye're supping. Supper's nigh on the table. William-that' s her husband as works in the stables-can fetch the tub and water here. Ye'll have a nice, hot bath in no time."

"Thank you so much."

"Oh, 'tis nothin'. I want me visitors happy, I do. Mayhap then ye'll mention me to yer London town friends."

"I will be glad to," Venetia said, though she couldn't think of any who might be eloping any time soon. "I shall freshen quickly and join the company downstairs."

"Very good, miss." Mrs. Treadwell went to the door. "I'll take the rest of this water to Mrs. Bloom and her companion. Mrs. Bloom do seem to be a disagreeable sort, forever complaining about this and that. Reminds me a bit of Mr. Treadwell's mother, she do." Mrs. Treadwell's expression darkened. "Why, Mrs. Bloom has already had the temerity to tell me that the beds were damp! As if I'd allow a bed in my inn to dampen!"

"Perhaps she's had a trying day today, too."

"That don't give her reason to call my beds damp. Mr. Treadwell and I have never had anyone say such a thing in all the years we've owned the Blue Rooster!"

Venetia sent a cautious glance at the doorway across the hall. She was certain whoever occupied it could hear every word. If Mrs. Bloom was out of sorts before, she'd be very out of sorts now, after hearing her landlady maligning her in the open hallway. "I'm sure the beds are fine, Mrs. Treadwell," Venetia said hastily. "Thank you again for the fresh water."

The woman nodded, her silver curls bobbing as she turned to the other door, straightening her shoulders as if preparing for battle. Venetia shut her door and turned to unpack her portmanteau.

She had just lifted the latch when she heard the door across the way opening and a woman's high, shrill voice complaining about the fact that the curtains didn't quite shut and demanding to know what could be done about it.

Mrs. Treadwell seemed to have described Mrs. Bloom accurately. The voices faded, and Venetia turned back to her portmanteau.

Every gown she'd brought was horridly wrinkled and, worse, wet from the baggage taking a tumble in the snow. She'd packed in haste, too, so nothing was as it should have been. She hadn't thought to bring more hairpins, and she'd lost quite a few when she fell. She hadn't imagined it would snow, either, and so except for the damp half-boots she had on her feet, the slippers she'd packed would be woefully inadequate. She'd brought her white round gown with the blue ribbons to wear in the morning but hadn't remembered to pack the matching ribbons to tie up her hair; she'd brought a lovely gray gown for visiting, but in her haste to leave she hadn't packed any white gloves; and while she'd remembered to bring her embroidery hoop and her latest efforts, the packet of thread was gone, probably lost in the snow.

It was frustrating, though her rumbling stomach didn't allow her to linger on it. She spread out the damp clothes as well as she could, changed into the only gown that was halfway presentable-a deep green with a split front skirt over a striped tan under-skirt, long sleeves, and a high, rounded neck. Though wrinkled, it was in better shape than her others. Venetia washed her hands and face with the deliciously warm water, found her ivory comb (though not the mirror), and repinned her hair with the few pins she had left. As she slid her feet into her brown silk slippers, she realized with a sense of relief that not once in the last ten minutes had she thought of Gregor, not even a little.

The thought made her smile, and it was with a lighter heart that she made her way downstairs. She entered the common room just in time to see Ravenscroft throw himself into a chair by the fireplace, his face lined with exhaustion, his clothing rumpled.

Gregor was dressed as if ready to be accepted at any house in London. He was bowing over the hand of a large woman in a puce-colored gown, her white hair ridiculously adorned with a thick ma.s.s of ostrich feathers.

His gaze immediately flickered to Venetia and ran down her from head to toe, leaving the oddest trail of p.r.i.c.kly heat and a delicious tickle. Her cheeks suddenly hot, Venetia looked away and found herself facing a rather plain, thin woman wearing a drab gray dress and lackl.u.s.ter pearls.

The woman immediately dropped into a deep curtsey. "Good evening," she said in a rather breathless voice. "I am Miss Platt."

Venetia curtsied in return. "How do you do? I am Miss Venetia O-"

"Miss West!" Gregor's deep voice came from across the room.

Venetia forced a smile and managed a nod to Gregor, though her heart was still galloping like a shied horse at her near blunder. "Lord MacLean."

He bowed. "Miss West, I am sorry to interrupt you, but your brother and I were just making the acquaintance of Mrs. Bloom and her companion, Miss Pl-"

"Miss West," Mrs. Bloom said in a loud voice that boomed like artillery fire. "Your guardian just informed me that you live in London. Might I ask what part?"

A rather superior smirk crossed the woman's heavy jowls. "I know most of the town, as I've lived there for more than twenty years now. I believe I know about everyone, don't I, Miss Platt?"

The companion nodded immediately, her gaze darting nervously toward her employer, then away. "Oh, yes," the lady said in a breathy voice, "Mrs. Bloom knows absolutely everyone in town! I am forever saying that dear Mrs. Bloom is related to half of London and on the guest list of the other half!"

Venetia's heart sank. If the woman was indeed an accepted member of society, which was vaguely possible, then they could run into each other at some later time, and the game would be up.

She sent a cautious glance at Gregor, to see if he recognized the dangers as well, but his urbane smile did nothing to alleviate her fears. He was completely impervious to the situation and the possible outcome. Heart heavy, she mustered a smile and kept her head high. Good G.o.d, I shall be ruined after all.

Chapter 5.

It takes a patient woman to handle an impatient man. Unfortunately, there's naught that can handle an impatient woman.

OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING.

R avenscroft cleared his throat, sending Venetia an apologetic glance. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bloom, but my sister and I spend more time in, ah, Yorkshire than elsewhere. I doubt you would have seen us in London."

"Which is entirely my fault," Gregor said in a serious tone. "I do not approve of the frivolity a.s.sociated with London. I prefer that my charges spend their time in a more worthy manner, such as reading devotionals or studying Greek."

Mrs. Bloom waved a hand. "I am sure that is wise." She sent a significant glance at Miss Platt. "Like your brother, my dear. There are many as would be led astray in a place like London, if they are not cautious."

Miss Platt turned a bright red. "My brother Bertrand was not led astray; he was taken advantage of. That is quite a different thing!"

Suddenly, Gregor, who had been staring at a far wall, visibly started.

Everyone turned to look at him.

He pointed to a painting by the window. "Mrs. Bloom, pray look at that painting and tell me if you think it might be a Vreeland. I daresay with your London experience, you are more familiar with the arts than anyone else here."

Venetia frowned. Here she was, on the verge of ruin, and Gregor was discussing art?

Mrs. Bloom swelled with importance. "Like the prince, I adore the Dutch masters. My late husband, G.o.d rest his soul, bought a lovely picture from the king's own collection just two years ago. It's hanging in my library even now."

Gregor nodded. "You must be an expert, then." At Mrs. Bloom's t.i.ttered agreement, he added, "Would you be so kind as to examine that picture and give me your opinion if it is a Vreeland?"

"Of course." She turned and squinted toward the wall. "But, ah...what picture?"

Venetia blinked. The picture was as large as a platter. If Mrs. Bloom couldn't see it, she must be as blind as a bat. Relief flooded Venetia; even if she ran into Mrs. Bloom again, there was a very good chance the older woman wouldn't recognize her. That was why Gregor had not been upset.

Mrs. Bloom squinted until her eyes were almost closed as she walked toward the wall. About three feet from it, she straightened. "Ah! That picture! It could indeed be a copy of a Vreeland. He has a light touch."

Breathing easier, Venetia sent Gregor a thankful look that caused him to smile slightly and shrug.

"It's a lovely pasture scene," Mrs. Bloom said, returning to their group by the fire. "As peaceful as it looks, I, for one, cannot imagine why anyone would like to live in the country when London has so much more to offer. I spend at least seven months of each year in town, for I cannot abide the countryside more than that."

"Oh, I love the countryside," Venetia said brightly. "Miss Platt, which do you pref-"

"I only like the Lake Country," Mrs. Bloom said, not even sparing a glance for her companion.

As Miss Platt sent Venetia an apologetic smile, Venetia seethed at the older woman's rudeness. Mrs. Bloom seemed determined to cut poor Miss Platt at every corner. Well, she wouldn't put up with such nonsense.

She smiled gently upon Miss Platt. "I do hope you'll sit by me at dinner, for I'd enjoy speaking with someone who has the same love for country life."

Mrs. Bloom gave a rather heavy laugh. "Really, Miss West. There is no need to encourage Miss Platt. She is a town dweller and has frequently said she cannot stand being locked away in the country, either."