Baxter escorted her to the drawing room, then retreated. Five minutes later, Genevieve entered the room, her beautiful face alight with pleasure. A pastel green muslin gown adorned her lush figure, and her pale blond hair was arranged in the simple chignon she favored, a style that highlighted her pansy blue eyes and full lips. At two-and-thirty, Genevieve's complexion remained creamy, and even the faint lines etched around her eyes and on her forehead could not detract from her beauty.

"What a lovely surprise," she said, crossing the blue-and-cream Axminster rug with her slow, measured steps. "I thought you'd be too weary after your journey to visit today."

As was her custom, Genevieve blew her a kiss in greeting, touching her lips to her gloved fingertips. Catherine returned the gesture, her heart pinching with sympathy for her friend at her misshapen hands that even the heavy gloves could not hide. In all the years they'd been friends, Catherine had never seen her friend's hands bare.

"I had to come," Catherine said. "There is something we must discuss."

Genevieve gave her a sharp-eyed look. "What happened to your lip?"

"That is part of what we need to discuss. Come, let us sit."

Once they were seated on an overstuffed brocade settee, Catherine told her friend about the shooting.

"Dear G.o.d, Catherine," Genevieve said, her eyes filled with concern. "What a horrifying ordeal. How do you feel now?"

"A little achy and sore, but much improved. The wound was superficial."

"How fortunate. For all of us." Her expression grew fierce. "Hopefully the scoundrel who did this will be apprehended. When I think about what might have happened with a stray shot... you, or anyone else at the party, could have been seriously injured. Or killed." A delicate shudder shook her frame. "An absolutely horrifying accident. I'm so relieved you weren't seriously hurt."

"As am I. But..."Catherine drew a deep breath. "Actually, I'm not convinced that it was an accident." She quickly told Genevieve about the conversation she'd overheard just prior to the shooting, concluding with, "I'm praying it was indeed just a random incident, but I'm frightened. Afraid that it might have been specifically directed at me. That someone, perhaps this investigator, has discovered my connection to Charles Brightmore. And if that is so..."

"Then I would be in danger as well," Genevieve said slowly, her expression turning to one of deep sorrow and regret. "Oh, Catherine. I am so sorry that your involvement with me, with my book, has placed you in this untenable situation. This must be stopped. Immediately. I shall travel to London tomorrow to speak with our publisher and instruct Mr. Bayer to reveal that I am Charles Brightmore."

"You shall do nothing of the kind," Catherine said firmly. "That would only serve to place you in more imminent danger and destroy your reputation."

"My dear, do you think that matters when compared to your life? I can always leave and resettle elsewhere. You have Spencer to think about."

"You will not leave here," Catherine insisted. "You need the warm waters for your hands and joints as much as Spencer does."

"There are other warm springs in England. In Italy." She looked down at her hands and her lips tightened.

"I've cursed these crippled hands so many times. They cost me my livelihood. The man I love..."A humorless laugh pushed past her lips. "After all, who wants a mistress with hands like these? No man wants to be touched with such ugliness. But never have I cursed them more than I do now. If I were physically capable to write, to hold a pen, I never would have enlisted your aid to author that cursed book."

"Please do not say that. I wanted to help you. Writing the book, listening to your dictation, being involved, gave my life a sense of purpose that had been lacking for years. You think you took something from me, but just the opposite is true. You've given me more than I can ever repay."

"As you've always given me, yet you cannot deny I've taken away your sense of safety, that this enterprise I involved you in has placed you in danger."

"We can't be certain that is true. Crime is rampant in London, and this very well could have been an accident."

"Yet how will we determine that?" Genevieve asked. "We cannot simply wait until one or both of us is harmed. Or worse. This must be stopped. Immediately. I must speak with Mr. Bayer."

"I beg you not to, at least for a day or two. There was a witness who can identify the culprit. My father promised to write to let me know if the perpetrator is caught. If he is, then our worries are for naught. Let us wait to hear from Father."

Genevieve worried her lowered lip, then finally jerked her head in agreement. "Very well. However, if you haven't heard from him by tomorrow evening, I am going to London the following day. In the meanwhile, we must do something to guarantee your safety. Baxter will see to it that no harm comes to me, but I fear that although Milton and Spencer are brave, they cannot offer you adequate protection should the need arise."

"I have already taken care of that. My brother's American friend, Mr. Stanton, accompanied me to Little Longstone and is remaining for a visit."

"But is he capable of protecting you?" Genevieve asked in a dubious voice.

An image of Mr. Stanton carrying her in his strong arms flashed through her mind, and to her mortification, heat crept up her neck. "Er, yes. He is definitely capable."

Genevieve's gaze turned speculative, then she hiked up one perfectly arched blond brow. "Indeed? Well, I am vastly relieved. I recall you mentioning this Mr. Stanton, but only in the vaguest terms. What is he like?"

"Annoying and opinionated," she answered without hesitation.

Genevieve laughed. "Darling, all men are that. Does he possess any good traits?"

Catherine shrugged. "I suppose if pressed to do so, I could think up one or two." When Genevieve continued to wait with an expectant expression, Catherine looked toward the ceiling and blew out a resigned sigh. "He was apparently quite helpful after I was injured last evening. And, um, he does not have an unpleasant body odor."

Something that looked suspiciously like amus.e.m.e.nt flashed in Genevieve's eyes. "I see. Quick-wittedness and a commitment to personal cleanliness are indeed good traits in a man. Tell me, how precisely did he prove helpful after the shooting?"

Another wave of heat engulfed Catherine. "He applied pressure to the wound until the doctor arrived."

"Excellent. Clearly he knows something about treating injuries." Her eyes widened. "Oh, but please tell me the doctor didn't examine you right there in the drawing room!"

"No."d.a.m.nation, but it was warm in here. Knowing Genevieve would eventually worm the information from her, Catherine met her gaze squarely and said in her best noncommittal voice, "Mr. Stanton was kind enough to carry me to my father's chamber so as to remove me from the prying eyes of the other guests."

"Ah, a man of discretion as well," Genevieve said with an approving nod. "And I take it you ascertained the fact that he does not possess an offensive body odor while he carried you."

"Yes."

"And obviously he possesses superior strength."

Catherine shot her friend an arch look. "Are you implying that I weigh more than I should?"

Genevieve's musical laugh rang out. "Of course not. I merely meant that only a strong man could carry a woman from the drawing room to the bedchamber-a journey that naturally requires navigating stairs-all while applying pressure to her wound. Very impressive. Does he possess any fortune?"

"I've never asked."

Genevieve shook her head. "My dear, you must have some idea. How are his clothes?"

"Very fine. Expensive."

"His residence?"

"Rooms on Chesterfield. I do not know their condition as, naturally, I've never visited."

"A fashionable part of town," Genevieve said with approval. "So far he sounds quite promising."

"Promising? For what?"

Genevieve's innocent expression resembled that of an angel. "Why as adequate protection for you, of course."

"A fortune and tailored clothing are not prerequisites. He is an expert fencer and accomplished pugilist, and brawny enough to present a threatening presence. That is all I require."

"You are right, of course. And a pugilist, you say. I suppose he bears many scars and healed broken bones. Pity." Genevieve blew out a sigh. "I gather he is remarkably unattractive?"

Catherine's fingers fidgeted with the velvet cord of her reticule. "Well, in all fairness I wouldn't say that ."

"Oh? What would you say?"

That this conversation has taken a most unsettling turn. An image of Mr. Stanton, sitting across from her in the carriage flashed in her mind, his dark eyes steady on hers, a teasing smile playing about his lips. She cleared her throat. "While Mr. Stanton is not cla.s.sically handsome in any sense, I can see where a certain sort of woman might find him... not unappealing."

"What sort of woman?"

The living, breathing sort. The words popped unbidden into her mind, appalling her. Heavens, she was losing her senses. "I really wouldn't know," she said, much more stiffly than she'd meant to. "Perhaps the nearsighted sort?"

Unfortunately, Genevieve ignored her stiff tone. "Oh, dear. Poor man. What exactly does Mr. Stanton look like?"

"Look like?"

Concern clouded Genevieve's eyes. "Darling, are you certain that b.u.mp on your head is not more serious than you thought? Your manner is most odd."

"I'm fine." She drew a deep breath. "Mr. Stanton looks like... he has..."Dark, compelling eyes that you must actually force yourself to look away from. A slow, engaging smile that for some insane reason makes my heart beat faster just thinking about. A strong jaw, and that lovely mouth that looks both firm and delightfully soft at the same time. Silky, dark hair, strands of which fall over his forehead in a manner that makes one's fingers itch to brush the locks back into place- "He has what, darling?"

Genevieve's voice jerked Catherine from her reverie with a start. Good Lord, her thoughts had positively run amuck. Perhaps she had b.u.mped her head harder than she'd thought. "He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a, um, rather nice smile." Her conscience balked at the lukewarm description of Mr. Stanton's smile as "nice," but she firmly swatted her inner voice aside.

"So he's just very ordinary."

Ordinary? Catherine tried to attach that word to Mr. Stanton, and was spectacularly unsuccessful. Before she could think up a reply, Genevieve continued, "Well, that is just as well. He is here to protect you. If you were attracted to him, you might consider entering into a liaison with him, and that could lead to all sorts of complications that could distract him from his duties."

"I can a.s.sure you that a liaison with Mr. Stanton-or anyone else for that matter-is the furthest thing from my mind."

Genevieve smiled. "Then thank heavens you do not find him the least bit attractive."

"Yes, thank heavens."

Yet even as those three words pa.s.sed her lips, her inner voice whispered three words of its own.

Liar, liar, liar.

Chapter 6.

Many men feel disinclined to give a woman what she wants if she is bold enough simply to ask fir it. In addition, many men disregard superb ideas simply because they were suggested by a woman. Therefore, the most expeditious way for Today's Modern Woman to get what she wants and to implement her ideas is to lead the gentleman in question to believe that it was his idea all along.

A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore Andrew leaned his shoulders against the white marble mantel in the drawing room and tried his best not to glare at the monstrous floral tribute that dominated the room. Clearly he was not entirely successful-either that or Spencer was clairvoyant-because the lad said, "Dreadful, isn't it?"

He turned his attention to Spencer, who sat on an overstuffed brocade settee next to the fireplace. The boy's attention was fixed upon the trio of fruit tarts remaining on the silver platter Milton had served with their tea.

"Dreadful,"Andrew agreed. "Whoever sent that bouquet must have emptied every flower shop in the district."

"The Duke of Kelby," Spencer said, plucking a strawberry-topped tart from the tray. "Horrendously wealthy, although I'm certain the flowers came from his private conservatory, not a local shop."

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. The quizzing gla.s.s sporting, carplike duke was horrendously wealthy. With his own d.a.m.n private conservatory.

Before Andrew could comment, Spencer looked up at him with a worried frown. "Is my mother all right?"

Wariness skittered through Andrew. "What do you mean?"

"She seemed worried. Did something happen in London to upset her?"

d.a.m.n it, he didn't want to lie to the boy, yet he couldn't ignore Lady Catherine's request not to mention the shooting. "I think the journey back to Little Longstone exhausted her," he said carefully.

There was no mistaking Spencer's relief, and Andrew felt like a cad of the first order for not being honest with the lad. G.o.d knows he'd uttered an uncountable number of lies over the years without so much as batting an eye, but being less than truthful with this young man did not sit well at all.

Anxious to change the subject lest he be forced to say something else less than truthful, he asked, "Tell me, what sort of man is this duke?"

"Don't really know. But he looks like a carp. I'd say he belongs in your museum with the rest of the relics." Spencer stuffed half the tart in his mouth with a huge, enthusiastic bite that had Andrew holding back a grin. He swallowed, then added, "But it's not just that he's carplike. He doesn't care about my mother."

"And how do you know that?"

Spencer jerked his head toward the flower monstrosity. "Because he sent her those. She hates large, ostentatious displays like that. If he knew anything about my mother, he'd know that she'd prefer a single bloom."

Andrew made a mental note of that useful information, and, burying the guilt that p.r.i.c.ked him at questioning Spencer, he asked, "What else does your mother like?"

Spencer screwed up his face, clearly giving the matter serious thought. "Girl things," he finally said.

"Girl things?"

"Yes. You know, gowns and ribbons and flowers and such. But simple. Not like that." He pointed toward the huge bouquet.

Hmmm. Not much help there. "What else? Jewelry, I suppose?"

Spencer shook his head. "No. Or at least not very much I don't think, as she rarely wears any. Mum likes animals. Walking in the gardens. Tending her flowers. Taking the waters. And strawberries. She's very fond of strawberries." He popped the other half of the tart into his mouth and grinned. "Me too."

Andrew smiled in return. "Me three." He leaned down, to help himself to a strawberry tart, which he ate with only marginally less gusto than Spencer, eliciting a laugh from the boy.

"Well, I'm glad that the duke doesn't know what Mum likes," Spencer said, his expression sobering, "or any of those other gentlemen who are trying to win her favor. She doesn't need them. We don't need them." His gaze wandered down to his misshapen foot, and his jaw tightened. When he raised his gaze, Andrew's heart lurched at the thousand hurts he read shimmering in Spencer's eyes.

"I wish I could make them all just take away their flowers and invitations and gifts and leave her alone," Spencer said, a quiver evident in his fervent voice. "I wish I was strong and could fight. Like you. Then they'd leave her alone."

"I fight gentlemen in the pugilist's ring," Andrew said gently. "I don't make a habit of going about popping dukes in the nose-even if they do send horrible flower arrangements." Of course, I could change my policy on that...

Spencer didn't respond with the smile Andrew had hoped for. "Uncle Philip said you are also an expert fencer."

"I'm pa.s.sable."

"Uncle Philip said you've defeated him, and he is an expert." Before Andrew could reply, Spencer rushed on, "Who taught you to fight with your fists?"

"My father gave me some instructions-after I arrived home one afternoon with a bleeding nose, swollen lip, and two blackened eyes. The rest I learned the hard way, I'm afraid."