Constance glared at the son who had once been the apple of her eye. She said coolly, "Don't let Oxford go to your head, Simon. We're the poor relations here, and you'd do well to remember it."

"How could I forget when you keep reminding us?"

"Just be sure you do or say nothing to upset Sara. No snide remarks. No temper tantrums. And that goes for you too, Martin."

"Now just a minute," began Martin querulously, "I haven't-"

His mother's voice drowned out his words. "Lucy, do try to show a bit of spirit. Remember, our future rests with you."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake," interjected Simon, "she's just a child."

Constance's eyes narrowed unpleasantly. "You had your chance, Simon, you and Martin both, and you made a mull of it. Now it's Lucy's turn, and I won't have you spoiling things for her." When no one contradicted her, she went on, "There will be no sneaking off to the local taverns, no c.o.c.kfights, no gambling, and no prizefights while Sara is here. Understood?"

"We'll just be one big happy family, same as always," murmured Simon.

His mother chose to ignore the sarcastic remark. Her eyes strayed to the clock, and she wondered for the tenth time in as many minutes what on earth was keeping Sara.

They were stuck, a mile from home, in ruts in a road that the rain had turned into a bog. Sara had pleaded helplessness and stayed warm and dry inside the coach, while Max stepped down to give their coachmen a hand. It was the first time she'd smiled in a long while, the first time she'd felt that things weren't all going Max's way. And when he fell in the mud and came up swearing, she laughed out loud.

She hadn't felt much like laughing when they'd met up with Miss Beattie in Salisbury. Bea was delighted with the way things had turned out. But Bea didn't know the whole story. All they'd told her was that Max had persuaded Sara to let him take Mr. Townsend's place. It wasn't hard to interpret the twinkle in Bea's eyes. She was hoping that this marriage of convenience would turn into the real thing.

Sara had wanted to tell Bea who Max was, but he had scotched that idea. It was essential, he said, that everyone believe his only interest in Sara was to make her his wife. That was the bait to lure William into the open. If it became known that he published the Courier, his credibility might be called into question. Yes, he knew Miss Beattie wouldn't say anything deliberately, but a careless word in the wrong ear could ruin everything.

Sighing, Sara huddled into the warm folds of her cloak as thoughts drifted in and out of her mind. Max had invited Bea to come with them, but she'd refused. She'd told Sara privately that she felt she would only get in the way, and Sara had not tried to change her mind.

And that's how it was left.

So, here she was, stuck in a bog with Max Worthe, the man who had hounded her for the last three years. Was she mad? What on earth had possessed her to make him her accomplice? Certainly not his charm. William had positively oozed charm when she'd first met him, and look where that had got her.

Max couldn't browbeat her either, though he'd made a fair attempt, because bullying only made her hackles rise. Then why had she given in?

She hadn't given in. The truth was, she hadn't had a choice. A fiance might not be as good as a husband, but he was better than nothing. And maybe whoever was sending her those notes would be frightened off. At the very least, it would buy her some time so that she could do what she'd come home to do.

Her thoughts drifted to the dower house and the last time she had seen William.

She shivered and looked up as the coach began to move. It didn't go far, and when it stopped, Max entered.

"Don't say a word!" he said sternly.

She didn't, but the laugh that she tried to suppress turned into a giggle.

Max's lips flattened, then he, too, began to smile. "I must look like a warthog."

She nodded, eyes dancing.

"So much for the good impression I hoped to make on your family."

"Why should you care what they think?"

Max stripped out of his muddy cloak and used it to wipe off his boots and trousers. "I'm supposed to be the eager bridegroom, aren't I? It's only natural that I'd want to make a good impression on your family."

"You mean you want them to like you so you can take them unawares? They can't help you, and I don't want you badgering them with questions. They've suffered enough as it is."

He looked at her curiously. "I understood you didn't get along with your family."

She shrugged. "They think I'm a miser. They think I'm standing guard on a well of money that will never dry up. But apart from that, we get along reasonably well."

"Then why weren't they at your trial?"

"What?"

"Why didn't they come to your trial to support you?"

"Because I didn't want them there. They would have been mobbed. Simon, the eldest, was only fifteen. What could he do? What could any of them do? I told Constance that the best way to help me was to stay at home. Besides, I didn't want them to see me like that ... in the dock. I didn't want them to hear ... " Her voice cracked and she shook her head, then she breathed deeply and went on, "Anne shouldn't have been there either. I was shocked when she went into the witness box. That was my attorney's doing. He thought the trial was going badly and that Anne's testimony would help clear me. I knew she wouldn't stand up well to an interrogation. She gets hopelessly confused when people try to intimidate her. Why are you looking at me like that? What are you thinking? "

"What I think," he said, "is that your family means a great deal to you. There's not much you wouldn't do to protect them, is there, Sara?"

"Don't start that. My brothers were far too young to have anything to do with William's disappearance. Lucy was only a child. Anne is too ... she's just above reproach, that's all. You'll see what I mean when you meet her. And Constance had absolutely no motive for doing away with William. So, you see, I'm not trying to protect anyone, Max."

He studied her set expression. "I've never heard you refer to your brothers as stepbrothers."

"Why should that surprise you? We grew up together. We lived in the same house. I don't know what you're getting at."

"But you never refer to Constance as your mother."

"She prefers 'Constance.' Where is all this leading?"

"Nowhere. I'm just trying to take an impression of your family. When did you last see them? "

"I haven't seen Constance or Lucy or Anne for three years, but we've kept in touch with letters. As for the boys, they've visited me from time to time. Not that I wanted them to. I felt it was better to make a clean break. They had their own lives to lead and so did I. But as they got older, and got into sc.r.a.pes ... well, my letters didn't seem to make any difference, so I decided to talk to them face-to-face."

"Lecture them, you mean?"

Her lips thinned.

Max went on as though she'd answered in the affirmative. "Don't be too hard on yourself. It never does any good, not with boys of that age."

"And you could do better?"

"I hope so. After all, I was once a boy myself. What are they like?"

"Who?"

"Your brothers. Your family. You haven't told me much about them, really."

"You haven't told me anything about your family!"

"I asked first."

"There isn't much time. We're almost there."

"Give me a thumbnail sketch. There's time enough for that, isn't there?"

She looked at him as though she did not like him at all, but she complied just the same. "I've told you that Simon and Martin are Corinthians. We sent them to Oxford to get an education, and so far, being Corinthians is all they've picked up. But they're quite unalike in other ways. Simon, the elder, is really quite worldly, I suppose you'd say. And Martin ... well ... he's only seventeen. I believe it's quite a trying age in boys."

This was said so wistfully that Max couldn't help smiling. "What about Lucy?" he asked gently.

Sara sighed. "I don't know, I just don't know. When I left Longfield, she was a charming child. But now all she can think about is having a Season in London. Constance must be putting these ideas into her head. But it won't do." She looked up with a wry smile. "Constance thinks I won't sponsor Lucy because of the cost. But it isn't only that. No one in our family has ever had a Season in London. We don't have that kind of connections. Who would call on Lucy if she went up to town? Who would invite her to parties? Who would come to a ball in her honor? No one I know. And even if all doors were miraculously opened for her, what would happen when someone remembered that Lucy's sister had stood trial for murder? They would cut her dead. Constance says she is willing to take that chance. But I'm not."

"And that makes you the wicked ogre?"

"That about sums it up."

"And Anne? What's she like?"

"Quiet. Thoughtful. Her burning ambition when she was a young girl was to be a nun. I don't think she's ever got over it." She didn't like talking about Anne, so she quickly changed the subject. "Now it's your turn. Who are your parents, Max? Where do they live?"

He folded his arms across his chest. "My father is Lord Lyndhurst," he said, "and he and my mother live on the other side of Winchester."

Her brow puckered. "I've heard of Castle Lyndhurst, though I've never seen it."

"It belongs to my father. That's where I was born."

"It must take a great deal of money to keep a castle in good repair, and keep it going, too."

"What are you getting at, Sara?"

Her eyes narrowed on him. "Mmm. You're not looking for an heiress to marry, by any chance, are you, Max? You know, your t.i.tle for my fortune?"

He sat up straighter. "Certainly not!"

"Good. Because this heiress is not for sale. Besides, I don't think my share of my father's fortune would be enough to keep a castle going." She smirked when he glared. "Ah, here we are."

Max closed his mouth on a blistering reply and looked out the window as the coach made a turn and pa.s.sed between two stone pillars with a gatehouse on one side. "What happened to the village of Stoneleigh?"

"It's a mile further on. Why do you ask?"

"No particular reason. I'm just trying to get my bearings, that's all."

The trees and shrubbery on either side of the drive were so dense that it was impossible to get any idea of the lay of the land. He wanted to ask where the dower house was in relation to the house, but decided that this wasn't the right moment. He was aware that Sara had suddenly gone as tense as a bowstring.

"Nervous?" he asked.

For a few seconds, her eyes held his, eyes that had a startled, fearful look about them, then the look was gone, and she said in a natural tone, "Does that surprise you?"

No. The nervousness didn't surprise him, but the fear did.

"You've got that look on your face again, Max. What are you thinking this time?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

What he was thinking was that it was about time that someone shouldered some of Sara's burdens; he was wishing that he'd known her before the trial, before he was prejudiced against her; he was wishing he could kick himself. But the idea that possessed his mind was that this lovely, willful, yet vulnerable girl was in sore need of a champion, whether she knew it or not, and he did not see why he should not fill that slot.

When Max caught sight of the house, he let out a low whistle. It was an Elizabethan gem that had been spared the sorry fate of so many centuries-old houses. It was intact, with no neocla.s.sical facade to disfigure its stolid beauty and no spurious wings running off from the main building. With its ivy-clad stone walls and a stalwart tower at each corner, it resembled a miniature Hampton Court, the palatial home of Cardinal Wolsey, before later generations had tarted up the grand old dame and ruined her forever.

"When was it built?" he asked reverently.

"In the last years of the sixteenth century. It was originally owned by a wealthy wine merchant, who eventually held some minor position at court, so you can see why it appealed to my father."

"It's beautiful."

"Yes, isn't it? But before you get carried away with admiration, Max, let me warn you that my father restored the interior to its original state as well."

"Meaning?"

"Some people find Longfield too austere, too primitive."

"And you love it?"

"I was happy here," she replied simply.

No more was said as their hired coach swept through the great arch into the interior courtyard. Before the coach came to a halt, the front doors opened and footmen hurried down the steps.

As they reached for the baggage, Sara smiled and greeted each one by name. Max stood a little to one side, taking everything in. Sara was in no hurry to get out of the rain, and he wasn't sure if it was because she was genuinely interested in catching up on her servants' doings in the last little while or because she was afraid to enter the house.

Then, when everything was said, she squared her shoulders and turned to face the house. For some reason, Max found the gesture oddly touching. It was a moment he wanted to share with her.

"Take my arm," he said.

"I'm not afraid to face my family, if that's what you think."

"No, but I am. Please?"

The unfaltering stare faltered, then gradually melted. She took the arm he offered and returned his smile. "If I know you, you'll have them all eating out of your hand before the day is through."

They pa.s.sed through a small vestibule and entered the Great Hall. Four people were waiting for them, stiff, lifeless figures that seemed frozen in place. They were all dark-haired and strikingly handsome in their different ways. When Sara dropped his arm and took a few paces toward them, they let out a collective breath.

"Sara!"

It was the youngest who broke the silence, Lucy, Max supposed, pretty, with delicate features, and clothed all in white muslin.

Lucy's voice quavered. "I thought you would never come home." She took a few mincing, ladylike steps toward Sara, then suddenly, childlike, catapulted herself into her sister's arms. "Oh, I've missed you, Sara!"

Here was real affection, thought Max, as he watched Sara embrace the younger girl, then all was confusion as the others came to life, all talking across each other. Simon and Martin, the aspiring Corinthians, received only a cursory glance. It was the woman whom Sara addressed as Constance who received Max's full attention.

The stepmother! thought Max, and was dumbfounded.