"See?" Burton declared. "What did I tell you?"

Stephen Hurst poured himself another glass of ruby-red Bordeaux, drank down half, then swiped a palm across his mouth. "Sorry, old man, but I didn't have many options, what with the rush to leave Town and all. Had to take what servants I could find."

Which leaves slim pickings, considering the wages Hurst is willing to pay, Burton thought. Given the current emptiness of his own pockets, however, he supposed he had little right to complain.

Grinding his teeth at the realization, he leaned forward and plucked a peach out of the silver epergne in the center of the table.

Even Hurst's sluttish cook can't ruin this, he mused. Opening his penknife, he began to peel the fruit.

"Thought we might take in some fishing tomorrow," Hurst suggested. "The trout run thick in the lakes this time of year."

Idiot drunk, Burton thought as he chewed a slice of peach. Listen to him prattle on as if the two of us really did come up here on holiday.

If he'd had any other choice, he'd never have set foot in the Lancashire countryside. But with his recent financial setbacks and his lamentable failure to spirit off Lady Maris as his bride, he'd decided it prudent to remove himself from Town for a while.

When he returned in a few months' time, should rumors of her attempted abduction still be on the wind, he would declare his innocence and feign ignorance of the entire matter. After a while, enough people would believe his lies so that the scandal would fade away into nothing more than a nine-day wonder.

He understood that crippled do-gooder, Waring, had come looking for him, wanting to demand satisfaction. The fool should be glad I didn't stay to take up his challenge, he thought. As a skilled marksman, I would have enjoyed putting a bullet between the good major's eyes.

A smile turned up the corners of his mouth at the notion, but his pleasure quickly evaporated as he recalled the other news he'd heard, that the inestimable Lady Maris was now engaged to the major. Hadn't taken Waring long to cast aside his lily-white honor and cash in on Maris's fat dowry, he mused.

He thrust his knife deep into the fleshy peach, juice running like blood over his fingertips.

Hurst emptied the last of a wine bottle into his glass. "Demmed glad we came up here. A man can relax instead of having to watch his back all the time."

Burton stifled a sigh. Was Hurst singing that tired old tune again?

"He has spies everywhere, you know," Hurst continued.

"I assume by he that you mean Pendragon?"

"Who else? Had to dismiss one of my footmen after I caught the weasel reporting on me."

Burton's interest increased marginally. He selected another peach from the epergne. "Caught him how?"

"Followed him one night, down to a tavern. Bloody snoop sat there having a drink for near an hour. I was beginning to think my suspicions about him were wrong when who walks in but Pendragon's giant, Hannibal. The two of them sat whispering thick as thieves, little traitor telling him God knows what about me."

The story gave Burton pause. Perhaps Hurst wasn't as shatter-brained as he'd thought. "What did you do? Did you confront your man?"

"No. Just sacked him a few days later. I didn't want word getting back to Pendragon that I was on to him."

"Why didn't you mention this to me earlier?"

Hurst's hand shook slightly as he drained his glass. "Well, you'd told me not to bother you about such matters."

Burton ignored the reminder as he set down the fruit and dried his hands on a napkin. "Anything else you've noticed?"

Hurst perked up at the query. "I feel as if I'm being watched wherever I go. He's trying to rattle me, that's what I think, rattle me and put me off my nerve. And now that I know about that rat in my house, I suspect he may have riffled through some of my personal papers and belongings. Maybe the run of bad luck I've been having these past few years isn't happenstance, after all." He made a sweeping gesture with his glass, causing a dollop of red wine to splash onto the white tablecloth. "I tell you, Middleton, he's after us. He's taken down Underhill and Challoner and now he's coming for the pair of us."

Burton considered the matter anew.

Before, when Hurst had carried on about the topic, he'd dismissed it as nonsense. Now he wasn't so sure. Hurst was a drunk and a paranoid, but perhaps a few of his ravings had merit. Not even Hurst could have imagined the meeting between his footman and Pendragon's man at the tavern.

Then there was Burton's own unfortunate streak of bad luck lately. Lucrative investments unexpectedly gone sour. Creditors suddenly unwilling to extend additional lines of credit.

"For all you know, Pendragon sabotaged your plans for that Davies girl," Hurst said. "A few words whispered in the right ears might have been enough to scare her and her family away."

Burton scowled.

"You'd do better to look for a rich Cit's daughter next time," Hurst suggested, his slurred words showing how deeply he was into his cups. "Shameful lineage and all that, but for enough money anything can be overlooked, eh? And if you get tired of her, you can always send her on a quick trip down the stairs."

Burton grew still. "What did you say?"

"Said you can always do her in like you did your first wife."

Hurst froze and clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes widening. "Oh, didn't mean to mention it," he said in a loud, overly apologetic whisper. "Never would say a peep to anyone, Middleton, you know that. Your secrets are my secrets. After all, haven't I kept quiet all these years about what we did to that girl? That little blondie who was supposed to marry Pendragon." He rubbed a hand over his dissipated face. "Shouldn't have done it, you know, raped that girl. It was fun and all at the time, but look where it's got us. That's what set him against us, why he's sworn to do us in. You should have killed him years ago when you had the chance. But I guess it's hard to kill kin even when they're some bastard half brother you hate."

Cold fury flowed through Burton. How dare Hurst call that wretched piece of scum his father had sired his brother! He had no brothers, as his mother had pointed out from the time he'd been a young boy. She'd told him about his father's "other family," refusing to shield him from the degrading truth, as she'd called it.

When his father went away on one of his many trips, Burton had known it was because he'd rather spend time with his doxy and her unholy brat than share it with his real family. He remembered the tears his mother had shed, the pain in her eyes whenever she spoke of his father. He remembered her anguish, her humiliation, and had vowed years ago to assuage it.

He'd done what he could to ease her suffering while she'd been alive. How he'd relished the chance, when it finally came, to toss his father's whore quite literally out into the cold and strip his father's bastard of everything he held dear.

Ah, those had been sweet moments indeed. But he saw now it had not been enough.

No, with Pendragon it was never enough.

Deadly calm, Burton finished eating his peach.

"You seem to know a great deal about me, Hurst," he remarked as he patted his lips clean against his napkin. "More, I must say, than I had realized."

"I've got a good eye for detail, even if I'm foxed half the time. Write some of it down, too, don't you know."

Burton's fingers tightened against the napkin. "Really? And where do you do this writing, pray tell?"

"Oh, I keep a journal. Have for years. Helps me sometimes when I can't sleep."

"And what do you say in this journal?"

"Oh, most anything that comes to mind, just random thoughts. Latest conquests, a good bit of liquor I drank, latest mills and routs and such."

"And am I included in any of these musings?"

Hurst scuttled his brow. "You must be mentioned a time or two, but don't worry, I know how to keep mum." He tapped a finger against the side of his nose.

Yes, Burton thought, I am beginning to realize just how well Hurst keeps secrets. The cabbage-head has probably detailed all of our dealings together over the years, from the rape to my wife's murder. I must get my hands on that journal and see for myself what it contains.

"So do you have it with you?" Burton asked, striving to sound casual.

"Have what?"

"The journal."

"No, in the hurry to leave, I forgot it back in my townhouse. I'll have to make a trip into the village to get a fresh one."

"Yes, you must do that. Perhaps we'll go tomorrow if we aren't fishing."

Chapter Sixteen.

JULIANNA HURRIED INTO her townhouse and up the stairs to her bedchamber, desperate to be alone. Somehow, during the ride home, she'd managed to hold back most of her tears, but a floodgate threatened again.

Daisy entered the room scant moments after, stopping to exclaim over the sight of Julianna's swollen, tear-ravaged face.

"My lady, whatever has occurred? Are you unwell?"

Unwell?

Yes, Julianna thought, I am most unwell. My heart is shattered.

She pressed the heel of one hand against her eyes and struggled to control her emotions. The affair is done, she cautioned herself, and I will think of him no more. From this moment forth, Rafe Pendragon does not exist.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat at the preposterous idea. As if I could ever forget Rafe.

A pair of hot tears escaped, racing over her cheeks. "I'm not quite myself today, Daisy. My head..." She heard her voice quaver, high-pitched and trembling, and knew she might give way if she said so much as another word.

"Poor ma'am, you must be coming down ill. Perhaps it's a summer cold. Let me get you out of your things and into bed. I'll bring you a nice lavender compress for your head, and something soothing to help you rest."

She wished Daisy could bring her something to take away her pain, but she supposed her heart would have to heal on its own. If it ever did. She very much feared even time would fail to repair the rent Rafe Pendragon had torn in her soul.

As she let Daisy tend to her, she realized she hadn't lied-she really did feel unwell. Her head throbbed as if a knife were lodged between her temples, and when she swallowed, her throat burned, raw and strained from the strength of her earlier sobs.

Quick and efficient, her maid helped her out of her dress and into a soft lawn nightgown, freeing Julianna's hair from its pins before giving her tresses a few light strokes with a brush.

On a grateful sigh, Julianna slid between the sheets. Tucking her in with the care she would have used for a child, Daisy closed the drapes to darken the room.

Only when her maid was gone did Julianna give herself permission to break down, bitter tears scalding her eyes, wracking cries muffled by the pillow she held to her mouth. How could I have so mistaken matters? she berated herself. Why did I think he wanted me, when what he actually wanted was to be rid of me?

His words repeated in an endless loop inside her head, taunting her, tormenting her for having been such a simpleton.

When Daisy returned, she let the other woman think she'd been crying because of her headache. After blowing her stuffy nose, Julianna drank the offered sleeping draught, then lay back with the compress on her forehead. The scent of lavender drifted soothingly around her, but did nothing to ease her misery.

At length, she drifted off to sleep.

But sleep offered little comfort, her dreams filled with Rafe, changing from images of him as the tender, passionate lover she'd known to nightmares of him at their last meeting, his cool eyes filled with rejection and pity.

She spent the next three days in bed, refusing to get up, refusing company. She even sent Maris and Harry away when they called, the pair of them justifiably concerned about her health.

Daisy fussed despite Julianna's orders to leave her be. As the days progressed, her maid finally threatened to call the doctor. Julianna prevented her, using the excuse that her "illness" was just a passing malaise brought on by exhaustion from her hectic social schedule. She would be better soon, she assured her.

The following morning she awoke to the knowledge that she couldn't continue to hide away from the world forever. Whether or not she wished, she was going to have to climb out of bed and get on with her life.

All was not a loss. She had achieved the goal she'd originally set out to accomplish. Harry and the estate were secure. Maris had enjoyed her Season and found herself a wonderful man to love and marry as well. Those were the things that mattered. The fact that Julianna had traded her body and lost her heart in the process were of scant regard.

For a brief while, she tried to hate Rafe, attempted to revile him for using and manipulating her for his own selfish purposes.

But she could not. She had come to him freely, and he had in no way deceived her.

Six months as his mistress. Six months' use of her body in repayment of her brother's debt. And in the end he had released her early, even going so far as to waive the last of her obligation when he'd decided he no longer wished for her company.

Another man might have demanded the money still owed. A blackguard would have enjoyed her body, then tossed her aside and still foreclosed on her brother's estate.

But not Rafe. He was in all ways an honorable man.

It wasn't his fault she'd wanted more. It wasn't Rafe's fault she had fallen in love, while he had not.

Well, she would repine no more. Her life had been a happy one before, and it would be again.

At least that is what I will tell myself, she vowed, as she reached out and rang for Daisy.

Not long after, her maid tapped on the door and came inside. "Yes, my lady?"

Julianna swung her legs out of bed. "Good morning, Daisy. Would you draw a bath for me please, then set out my apricot walking dress? I've decided to call on my sister and see if she would like to go shopping today. There is much to be done for her wedding."

A relieved smile lighted the younger woman's face. She curtseyed. "Yes, my lady. Right away, my lady."

Julianna stood and took her first steps back into her life.

Seven weeks later, Rafe sat at his desk and reviewed a recent list of acquisitions, including a stud farm that contained one Derby winner and several other prime blooded stallions. He'd already decided to put all but two of the thoroughbreds up for sale at Tattersalls next week, where he knew he would turn a handsome profit on his investment.

A quick knock came at his office door. Without waiting for permission to enter, Hannibal stepped inside.

"We've found him. He's in Lancashire."

Rafe set down his pen. "Lancashire? I wouldn't have thought St. George would decide to go to ground there. He hates the countryside."

Soon after St. George left the city, Rafe had sent Hannibal and a couple of other men off in search of the viscount. For a time their hunt had proven unsuccessful, as if St. George had quite literally vanished. Meanwhile, they had also set out in search of Hurst, his departure suspicious since it conveniently coincided with the viscount's, both men having left London on the same day.

"You were right about Hurst," Hannibal said as he lumbered further into the room. "The two of them are holed up in his hunting box. Seems nobody knew he had it. Won the house off a rich merchant at the gaming tables about six months afore. He finally contacted his man here in the city in need of 'civilized' provisions. Seems he's to gather up a number of items at the house and shops, and ship them north."

"A fresh supply of liquor, most likely. I doubt the local vintages are to Hurst's liking, or St. George's either. Good thing Hurst's man is our man as well."