What this family needed, Max decided, was someone who would not be swayed by their temper tantrums and fits of pique, someone like him, someone who would whack them into shape so that they would take responsibility for their own lives.

He was well aware that his purpose in being here was a serious one, and went far beyond his relationship with Sara and her family. They would get to that later, after he'd discovered what had happened to William Neville.

The only thing he had to go on so far were the notes that had been sent from Winchester. He believed Sara on that point at least, because nothing else explained her anxiety to settle her affairs and escape to America. If William were dead, however, and he was convinced of it, the letters must have been sent by someone who was close to her, someone who knew where she was staying, someone, perhaps, in this very room.

There was no offer of after-dinner brandy for the gentlemen, not that Max wanted to encourage the Streatham boys to acquire any more vices than they already had, but he'd wanted some time alone with them, if only to prove that there was a new top dog in the pack, and they had better fall into line, or else.

They'd retired to the drawing room, sans Simon and Martin, who, without a word of explanation, had silently vanished into thin air, just like their sister, Anne. It seemed that good manners in this family were as rare as snow in the tropics. Yet no one saw anything wrong in it. To them, it was how they all normally behaved.

"Would you care for a sherry, Max?" asked Constance. She held a decanter in one hand and had set out two crystal sherry gla.s.ses.

They were sitting on chairs close to the grate. Now that Martin was no longer there to object, the fire had been lit. Sara and Lucy were at the piano, at the other end of the room, playing a duet.

"I'd prefer something stronger, if you have it," he said.

"Wouldn't we all?" Constance tossed her head and laughed, her green eyes flirting with him. "Not in this house, Max. You see, my husband was very abstemious in his habits. He didn't approve of strong drink. Sherry and wine were the only drinks we were allowed, and then only at Christmas."

"But he was a brewer."

"Yes. There's never any logic to how people behave, is there? He inherited the business from his father, but Samuel never really approved of it. Now that he's gone, we break out the sherry and wine on special occasions. It's not as I would have things, but Sara is mistress here, so sherry it is, like it or not."

"I see." He accepted the gla.s.s Constance offered him, took one sip, grimaced, and set the gla.s.s aside. He was thinking that, like it or not, he preferred brandy, and Sara would just have to get used to it.

He looked at Constance. Her delicate brows went up. "Yes?" she said.

"I was thinking," said Max, "that Sara has been away for three years, more than enough time for you to arrange things to suit yourself."

It looked at first as though she'd taken offence, then her generous mouth curved in a smile. "This will only take a moment," she said, then swiftly rising, she left the room. Not long after, she returned with a bottle and handed it to Max.

"We'll just have to use the sherry gla.s.ses," she said. "And just remember, if we're discovered, I know nothing about it."

This generous gesture went a long way to restoring Constance's credit in Max's eyes. He disposed of the sherry by pouring it back into the sherry decanter. He did it quite openly, but the pair at the piano were preoccupied, so his action went un.o.bserved. After that, he poured out two gla.s.ses of brandy and set the brandy bottle out of harm's way on one side of his chair.

After one mouthful of brandy, Max began to feel a good deal more civilized, and he settled back in his chair to enjoy the duet. He didn't know much about music, but he knew that Sara and Lucy were good. Their nimble fingers flew over the keyboard in perfect harmony.

Their harmony showed in other things: how they sat on the bench, shoulders touching, smiles flashing; the odd chuckle from one or the other. Lucy, at least, was glad to have her sister home.

When the piece ended, it was the two at the piano who burst into applause. They were delighted with their performance, as their exuberance showed. As Max studied Sara, he felt like an artist whose model refused to sit still. Just when he thought he'd captured her, she moved, and he had to start over from scratch.

"I told you I'd been practicing," said Lucy in response to something Sara said.

They were smiling when they rose from the piano. Sara's gaze touched on Max, went beyond him and froze. Then all the life and laughter in her face suddenly vanished.

"Anne," she said hoa.r.s.ely.

Max swivelled to face the door. A couple had entered, the woman standing motionless, a little ahead of the gentleman. Her garments were torn and sodden to the waist, her hair, as dark as Sara's, fell about her shoulders in wild disorder. No one would ever call this young woman pretty or beautiful. But her face was arresting-strong features, straight black brows, and eyes that looked huge against the pallor of her skin.

So this was Anne, he thought, and slowly got up, positioning himself so that he could observe both sisters easily.

Anne motioned with one hand. "Our gig overturned in the ford, on the other side of Stoneleigh. That's the reason I wasn't here to meet you. Can you ever forgive me? "

Sara blinked rapidly. "Your gig overturned?"

Anne nodded. "Mr. Thornley, the vicar, you know, suffered a concussion. So I couldn't leave him. If Drew hadn't come along, I don't know what I would have done."

This little speech brought a tremulous smile to Sara's lips. "You're here now," she said as she crossed to Anne, "and that's all that matters."

It seemed to Max that it was a restrained embrace, but it did not lack affection. Then Sara exclaimed over Anne's filthy garments, but Anne refused to be hurried away until Max had been introduced.

The eyes that searched his face were as deep a gray as Sara's. She looked shy and sweet and very uncertain. She stammered over her words. "I hope ... I know you and Sara will be very happy. Welcome to Longfield." Then, with a little laugh, "And now, if you'll excuse me, I must change out of these wet garments. No, Sara, Lucy will help me. You must stay and talk to Drew. I won't be long." And with that, she slipped away, with Lucy following after her.

Sara gazed at the closed door for a moment, then, clearing her expression, turned to the young man beside her. "Drew, how are you?" she said.

"Happy, now that I've seen you with my own eyes. It's good to have you home, Sara."

He held out his arms, and Sara walked into them as if she belonged there. Max looked at Constance. She was sipping her "sherry," gazing at Drew Primrose over the rim of her gla.s.s. Max composed his features into a mask of amiability and waited, with diminishing patience, for the embrace to end.

The couple broke apart laughing. Sara made the introductions. "This is Drew Primrose," she said, "a good friend to our family, and a partner in our firm of attorneys. Drew, this is my betrothed, Lord Maxwell Worthe."

It was the reference to the attorneys that jogged Max's memory. He'd seen Drew Primrose before. He was the young attorney at Sara's trial who had a.s.sisted her defense counsel. Max remembered how Sara's eyes had fastened on this young man as though there were no one else in the courtroom.

He was powerfully built, considering his occupation, and Max judged him to be close to thirty. He had brown hair, blue eyes, and regular features that might have been considered pleasant but for the deeply etched lines on his forehead. It seemed to Max that, in spite of the present smile, Drew Primrose must frown a lot. His dark coat and beige breeches were well fitting and of superior quality, though not exactly fashionable. The eyes that looked into Max's were as clear as a mountain stream, and just as cool.

They made their bows; the usual pleasantries were exchanged. What was plain to Max was that the announcement of Sara's betrothal came as no surprise to Drew Primrose. What was equally clear was that the young attorney did not approve.

It seemed that no one approved of him, and this was a new experience for Max. Sara was an heiress, and any man who came near her was highly suspect. He didn't know whether to laugh or stand on his dignity. If they knew who he was, they'd be kissing his boots.

Sara linked her arm through Drew's and led him to the fire. "You'll have a sherry?"

"I'm afraid I can't," he replied. "I'm dining with the Heatheringtons, and I must go home and change. Good evening, Mrs. Carstairs." He nodded to Constance. "Please excuse my dirt. I wouldn't be here had Anne not insisted. She wouldn't allow me to leave without seeing Sara."

"I should hope not!" replied Sara. "A few minutes more won't make any difference to the Heatheringtons, will it?"

"Perhaps not. But I'm always punctual, and they're bound to worry about me."

"Max, do sit down. You're blocking the fire," said Sara.

Max sat, but Drew remained standing, unmoved by all Sara's entreaties. "I just wanted to make sure that Anne was all right," he said. "She was rather shaken by the accident."

Constance said, "What about poor Mr. Thornley? It seems to me that he was the one who suffered most."

"What is he like, our new vicar?" asked Sara casually.

"Pompous," replied Constance at once, and took a long swallow from her gla.s.s. "And I should know. He is chairman of the church committee that is planning our contribution to the fair."

The young attorney ignored this moot observation. "At any rate," he said, "no harm was done, and Anne is none the worse for her experience." He looked at Max. "I presume we shall meet again very soon, Lord Maxwell. You'll want me to give you an account of Sara's financial holdings and so on. You realize, I presume, that there's a great deal of money involved?"

Though he knew he was being irrational, because it served his purposes to be taken for a fortune hunter, Max was becoming thoroughly fed up with this low opinion of his character. And because he was annoyed, he behaved with less that his usual grace. "If you mean do I know that Sara is an heiress, the answer is yes. I'm one of those who believes that it's just as easy for a man to fall in love with a rich woman as a poor one. And I consider myself a fortunate man indeed to have captured Sara."

"Quite," was the frigid response.

"Would tomorrow be too soon? To go over Sara's financial affairs, I mean. It's not that I'm mercenary, it's just that my own finances are in such a muddle that I hoped I could borrow a small sum on account."

"Max, behave yourself," said Sara with a light laugh. "Sometimes you carry your jokes a little too far. Come along, Drew, and I'll see you out."

From beneath lowered brows, she nailed Max with a look that an exasperated mother might bestow on a delinquent child, then, all smiles again, she ushered Drew from the room.

Max wandered over to the window and looked out.

"You won't see them from there," Constance said, gazing at Max shrewdly. "The rooms across the hall look out on the courtyard, and that's where Drew's buggy is probably tied up."

"I a.s.sure you, ma'am ... " began Max, then let his words hang on the air. He smiled sheepishly. "They seem very close," he said.

"Very. They grew up together, you see. Drew's father was the head gardener at Longfield. Drew was older than Sara, of course, and she hero-worshiped him. At one time, her father and I thought they might ... well, that's old history. Nothing came of it."

"He's done well for himself," said Max. "There are not many gardeners' sons I know who have the education to become attorneys."

"That's because my husband paid for his education. It's what Sara wanted, and my husband could never refuse Sara anything. It wasn't charity, though. It was a loan, and I believe Drew paid back every penny."

Max a.s.similated this in silence and finally said, "He seems rather young to have so much responsibility. Isn't there a senior partner?"

"Yes, but Sara insisted that Drew, and only Drew, handle her affairs. She places a great deal of dependence on him, not only as an attorney, but also for managing Longfield."

"He's the steward here, do you mean?"

"I suppose that's one way of putting it. He looks after things, that's all I know. When he's not in Stoneleigh, he's usually to be found here. Not that we've seen much of him when Sara was away, but now that she's home, I expect we'll see a great deal more of him. Do you play cards, Max?"

He nodded absently. He couldn't make up his mind whether Constance was trying to make him jealous or whether she was one of those women who couldn't help letting her tongue run away with her.

He looked up to see that Constance had produced a pack of cards and was sitting at a green baize table skillfully shuffling them.

"Yes," she said, noting that Max was watching her dexterity with the cards. "I've had plenty of practice. Usually, I play solitaire. Well, you see how it is. Simon and Martin are away most of the time, and when they're here they find other things to do. Anne does church work; Lucy practices on the pianoforte. And Sara, well, to Sara, I was always the woman who tried to displace her in her father's affections. We're not very close. Shall we play piquet?"

Max took the chair opposite Constance's. "What about the others? Shouldn't we wait for them?"

"It may be some time before they appear. Drew and Sara haven't seen each other for three years. They'll have much to talk about, don't you think? Letters are a poor subst.i.tute for a good heart-to-heart conversation."

Max looked at the cards in his hand and rearranged them. His gla.s.s was empty. He reached for the bottle and filled his gla.s.s to the brim.

*Chapter Thirteen*

Sara waved to Drew as his buggy pulled out of the courtyard, the same shabby one-horse buggy he'd acquired when he'd become a partner in the firm. Her brothers could never see it without hooting with laughter. One day, she promised herself, she was going to buy Drew, if she could persuade him to accept it, a spanking new curricle that would wipe the mocking laughter right off her brothers' faces.

Drew had meant a great deal to her over the years. He'd been quiet and serious as a boy and was now a quiet and serious young man. But something was wrong; she knew something was wrong. He'd been stiff and formal in the drawing room. She'd expected him to be like that with Max, but not with her, and not with Constance. Drew was more like a member of the family.

She'd been away three years, and now everything was different. What on earth was going on?

He'd mentioned the dower house, and that had really shaken her. He wanted her to raze it to the ground because vagrants had broken in, and the house was dangerous. The roof, he said, could fall in at any time.

She'd fobbed him off with the excuse that she was thinking of having it rebuilt. But she couldn't put him off for long.

A horrible feeling of approaching doom settled over her. She had to leave this place as soon as possible, and she had to persuade Anne to go with her.

On that thought, she entered the house and made straight for Anne's room. Lucy was easily distracted and went off quite happily to look for sheet music that Sara had bought in Bath.

Anne was at her dressing table in a fresh gown of blue sarcenet, trying to do up her hair. It occurred to Sara, then, that Anne was painfully thin, and it took all her willpower to keep a smile on her face.

The eyes of the two sisters met in the mirror.

"Here, let me help you with that," said Sara, striving for a light tone. She crossed to Anne. "Even as a child, you were all thumbs when it came to doing up your hair."

"And you were always there to fix it for me, weren't you, Sara?"

There was an odd note in Anne's voice that Sara ignored. "Yes, well, that's what big sisters are for."

She gathered the fall of thick hair into a rope and twisted it into a plait to lie smoothly along Anne's neck. "Pins?" she said.

"I can only find one," said Anne. "I think I must have lost them all in the accident."

"It doesn't matter. I have enough pins in my hair to do both of us."

When the pins were in place, Anne got up and reached for her shawl.

"No. Wait," said Sara. "I want to talk to you. Just for a few minutes. It's been three years, and you were never much of a letter writer."

Anne sank back in her chair, and Sara sat on the edge of the bed. Anne said, "Nothing much ever happened at Longfield, so there wasn't anything to tell you. But ... "

"Yes?"

Tears filled Anne's eyes. "I've missed you, Sara. I've missed you so much. When I heard you were coming home, I could hardly believe it. You will stay for a little while, won't you?"

"Of course, darling."

Sara abruptly rose, went to kneel by Anne's chair and hugged her. It was something that she'd been doing all her life. She barely remembered their own mother, but she remembered comforting Anne after their father had gently told them that their mother was in heaven now and they had to be brave little girls.

She'd always been stronger than Anne, not emotionally, but physically. Anne had been susceptible to every childish ailment and had spent a good deal of time in the sickroom. And she'd spent time there too, not only to keep Anne company, but because she was so afraid the angels would take her sister to live in heaven with their mother. Childlike, she'd made up her mind that she wasn't going to let that happen, not even if she had to fight the angel Gabriel himself.

But Anne wasn't weak. It took a woman with stronger nerves than Sara's to live with William Neville as his dutiful wife.

Sara held Anne at arm's length. "You should have written more often."

"I know, but as you said yourself, I never was much of a letter writer."