"Their skin must be hardened so that they can climb the chimneys without tearing their flesh to pieces. They are forced to stand in front of a hot fire so that their knees and elbows ... " He broke off, stared at her hard, then let out a long sigh. "No. Maybe it's best if you don't know."

His features were pinched and his eyes were brilliant with anger. She wanted to touch him, to say that she understood, but of course, she didn't understand anything.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know. And you're right. I never thought about it."

The pinched look gradually left his face and he smiled. "If you were a regular subscriber to the Courier, you would have known. We did a series of articles last year on the lives of the poor and it didn't make for pretty reading. In fact, it created a storm of protest from our readers."

"They sympathized?"

"The reverse. They thought we should be horsewhipped or locked up for our seditious views. Some prophesied that we would lead the country into anarchy. Most letters sounded just like Mr. Thornley."

"No one supported you?"

"A few." He sounded bitter. "But the poor don't read the papers, because most of them can't read. And even if they could, they haven't the money or time to waste on newspapers. They're too busy eking out a living in mills or hacking coal down the mines so that people like us can be comfortable. They're so poor, they sell their sons into slavery-apprentices, we call them. But their daughters, they have the worst life of all. They-"

He checked himself, drew in a long breath, and let it out slowly. "The point I'm trying to make is that the poor don't have a voice. Someone has to speak up for them. But you're right. I shouldn't have been rude to a guest in your house. I apologize for my conduct."

This was something she had never imagined, Max pa.s.sionately involved in a cause. She knew the Courier only as a purveyor of sensational news, like her own trial. As she gazed at him now, her eyes wide and searching, she could not seem to get the real Max Worthe into focus.

Her throat hurt and her eyes burned. She spoke slowly. "You really are the strangest man, Max Worthe."

The smile began on his lips, spread over his face, and finally warmed his eyes. "That is the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Sara."

Their eyes held.

To cover her confusion, she spoke flippantly. "And you have my permission to be as rude to Mr. Thornley as often as you like. Constance was right. He is pompous."

Max took a long swallow of tea and regarded her thoughtfully. "You're worrying needlessly. Anne isn't in love with the vicar."

She hadn't realized she'd betrayed so much. "How can you be so sure?"

He made a face. "Because she strikes me as a sensitive person and the vicar is a clod!"

She laughed. "It doesn't take you long to make up your mind about people, does it, Max?"

The smile gradually left his face. "I made a mistake with you, Sara, which I bitterly regret. One way or another, I intend to make it up to you."

"Don't-" She shook her head, jumped to her feet and quickly left the room.

Max took another swallow of tea. It wasn't all bad, he told himself. He was bringing her round. Slowly but surely, he was bringing her round. At this rate, he would have her tamed to his hand before the next century rolled around.

Sir Ivor slammed into his library and made straight for the sideboard with its tray of decanters. He poured himself a neat brandy, bolted it, then poured himself another. He wished the b.i.t.c.h had broken her neck when she'd taken those jumps. That she should have a charmed existence, a woman like that, who had cheated the hangman's noose by the skin of her teeth! She was a trollop. She'd started an affair with his son right under her sister's nose. He didn't blame William for taking her.

But he must keep away from her or, by G.o.d, he would find a hangman's noose around his own neck.

What he couldn't understand was where Lord Maxwell fitted into this. Was he the man she'd brought home as her betrothed? His wife said that he was. Well, Sara Carstairs would soon learn that she had overreached herself. Lord Lyndhurst's heir would not dream of marrying a brewer's daughter, let alone a woman who had been tried for murder. Lord Maxwell was an aristocrat. He would not compromise his family's great name by marrying a soiled dove.

All he had to do was wait and Lord Maxwell would come to him and explain himself. He wanted the story for his paper, of course. And maybe he had access to Sara Carstairs's bed as well. Sir Ivor smiled. That's all she was good for, some man's amus.e.m.e.nt.

The sound of girlish laughter came to him from the open window, and he wandered over to it and looked out. Lady Neville was in the rose garden with her footman. Another girlish giggle grated on Sir Ivor's ears. When they were first married, he'd told his wife that she had a laugh as crystal clear as a mountain stream, and he'd been made to listen to it for the last thirty years.

He sipped his brandy slowly. Jenny had a girlish laugh, but it was genuine. She was pure, and he liked them pure. He was in no hurry to deflower her. His body hardened; his breath thickened.

He put down his gla.s.s, shut the window and drew the curtains. Three pulls on the bell rope would bring Jenny to him. He went to the bell rope and pulled on it.

*Chapter Fifteen*

Dinner that evening started off well enough. There was a saddle of mutton for the main course, and it was done to perfection. Everyone remarked on the improvement in Cook's culinary skills. Only Sara seemed to realize that they had Max to thank for it. She stared at him with raised brows.

He answered that look with a slight lift of his shoulders. The problem had been easily solved. No one had ever shown the cook how to use the new stove. She'd been given a sheet of instructions, which were useless because the poor woman couldn't read and was too ashamed to admit it. Not that she'd told Max she couldn't read, but he'd soon figured it out for himself.

It never occurred to him to enlighten the others. Whatever he did would be misconstrued, and since harmony reigned at the dinner table, he decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Besides, he'd got what he wanted-a dinner he could enjoy.

It was Anne, in all innocence, who stirred things up. "Dobbs tells me," she said, "that you had Arrogance out this morning and managed him very well."

"I think it's fair to say," said Max, "that Arrogance managed me very well. He antic.i.p.ates what I want to do, almost before I think of it myself."

"Max is very modest," said Sara, teeth gleaming, her tone of voice implying the opposite. She saw Simon's face and her next words withered, unsaid on her tongue.

Simon sc.r.a.ped back his chair and got up. "Who gave him permission to take Arrogance out?" he asked Sara. He was furious.

"Dobbs did, I suppose," said Sara. "What's wrong with that?"

"You let him take out Arrogance, but I can't?"

Anne said in a painfully husky voice, "Sara has nothing to do with it, Simon. She's been away for three years. You know that Dobbs decides who rides Arrogance now. He's a highly strung thoroughbred. He can be dangerous. He's thrown you more than once, hasn't he? Obviously Dobbs thought Max could handle him."

"How will I ever learn to handle him if I'm not given the chance? "

Anne's eyes dropped away. "I'll speak to Dobbs and see what he says. Maybe if Max went out with you-"

"Max!" Simon's mouth twisted in a sneer. "How very chummy! He may have won you over, but he hasn't won me."

"That's enough, Simon," Sara said quietly.

He gritted his teeth. "It's not enough, not nearly enough. Are you all blind? Can't you see what's going on? He's going to be master here! Nothing will be the same again. It would be different if he were fond of Sara, but he's not."

He turned to Sara. "Can't you see what he is? Oh, he's polished, I'll give you that. But he's a fortune hunter. Lord Maxwell! A courtesy t.i.tle that was bought and paid for in trade, I don't doubt. He'll ruin you, Sara, ruin us all."

Sara rose slowly. She was clutching her napkin and her face was paper white. "You've said quite enough, Simon. Either apologize to Max or leave the room."

"I am not a small boy for you to lecture!"

"Then stop acting like one."

Simon uttered an oath and flung out of the room. Martin looked down at his plate, hesitated for a moment, then he, too, left the room.

One of those ghastly silences that Max was coming to think of as a "Longfield" silence blanketed the table. Sara sank back in her chair. One by one, they picked up their cutlery and began to eat.

Oddly enough, Max felt a certain sympathy for Simon. It had to be galling for a young man who fancied himself a Corinthian to be pa.s.sed over for a stranger, especially a stranger he despised. If he'd known Arrogance was forbidden to Simon, he would have chosen another mount, if only to save the boy's pride. But Arrogance was only the tip of the iceberg. Something else would have come up to set Simon off.

It was more than time that he and Simon had a private, man-to-man talk.

Anne sc.r.a.ped back her chair. "I'd best go and calm him down," she said. And with that, she left the room.

Anne was sure Simon and Martin would make for the stables, and she was hastening after them when she saw a horse and rider coming toward her. Drew Primrose reined in. The last person she wanted to meet was Drew Primrose. She'd found him once with her stepmother, and she couldn't look at him without letting her feelings show.

"Anne," he said.

She didn't care about finding Simon and Martin now. Turning on her heel, she quickly returned to the house. In the vestibule, she halted, taking a moment or two to compose herself. She didn't blame Drew for having affairs, because the woman he wanted was out of his reach. But she did blame him for starting an affair with Constance. It could so easily have been Lucy or Simon or Martin who entered his cottage that afternoon to find their mother in Drew's bed.

Constance hadn't seen her, but Drew had. She'd been standing transfixed in his office because she recognized the woman's voice coming from behind the closed bedroom door. She must have made some sound, because before she could slip away, Drew opened the door and stepped into the office. He was half-clothed, and his hair was disheveled. They'd stared at each other for a long, long moment, but neither of them had said a word. She knew she hadn't concealed her disgust. And from that day on, she could hardly bear to be in the same room with him.

Maybe she was making too much of it. Constance was lonely. Drew was lonely. She could accept that. What she could not accept was that they carried on their affair so close to home.

There was a mirror on the vestibule wall and she caught sight of herself pacing. She stopped and stared at the girl reflected in the mirror. She was no beauty. She'd known when William had married her that he'd married her for her money, and she'd been content. It was the most she could hope for, she'd thought then. Fate had played a cruel trick on her. Even the little she'd hoped for was swallowed up in a nightmare of brutality.

Sara didn't know the half of it. Sara thought she was a dutiful wife. But she hadn't been dutiful, and now she was paying for her sins.

She was frightened. Max Worthe was asking everybody a lot of questions. Sara had been acquitted. Why couldn't he leave well enough alone?

She breathed deeply and slowly, trying to calm herself. The vicar had told her that G.o.d was merciful. She wished she could believe it, because sometimes she thought she was living in h.e.l.l.

Knowing that Max Worthe had the eyes of an eagle, she pinned a smile on her lips before she made her way upstairs.

No one lingered in the drawing room that evening. Everyone was preoccupied with his or her own thoughts. Constance pleaded a headache and excused herself; Max went for a walk; Lucy and Anne played a game of checkers, then drifted away; and Sara went in search of Simon and Martin.

They weren't in their rooms and none of the servants knew where they were. It was just as well, she told herself, as she dragged herself up the stairs to her own chamber. She would probably have lectured them again, especially Simon, and it never did any good.

She was sinking into self-pity when she entered her chamber. The same old thoughts crowded her mind. She'd tried to do the best for her family and they weren't even happy. With the exception of Lucy and Anne, they were quarrelsome, selfish, self-centered, and insufferably rude.

Had they always been like this?

Just once, she would like someone to ask her what would make her happy.

She wandered over to the window and looked out. Though it was almost ten o'clock, it was still light. It had started to rain again, but at least it was warm. There would be no need to light a fire tonight.

She breathed out slowly, and as she exhaled, she felt the self-pity wash out of her. Her family was abominable except in one respect: her trial for William's murder had made no difference to them. They didn't look at her askance or watch her speculatively, as others did, wondering whether she was innocent or guilty. They didn't fear she might turn on them. They treated her as they'd always done.

They thought she was innocent, of course.

If only she could leave things the way they were.

But she couldn't leave things as they were. She had to come to some decision about the dower house. She couldn't afford to rebuild it until she came into her money, and even then, she didn't want to rebuild it. Drew was right. It was better to raze it to the ground.

Her hand was being forced every way she turned. The time for prevarication was past. That's why she'd had a quiet word with Dobbs before dinner. She'd told him that every night from now on, he should take as many men as could be spared and make sure that there were no vagrants or gypsies or tinkers camping out in the dower house.

Tonight, somehow, she would find the courage to do what had to be done.

When she turned from the window, he eyes fell on her dressing table. Propped against her silver hairbrush was a folded piece of vellum. She knew what it was before she reached for it.

Her name was written on the outside in William's beautiful copperplate. Her fingers trembled as she tore open the wax wafer.

Welcome home, was all it said.

*Chapter Sixteen*

It had stopped raining, but the gra.s.s was drenched and the trees were shedding enough drops of water to make it necessary to raise the hood of her cloak. From time to time, Sara looked back at the house. There were no lights at any of the windows. All the same, she was careful to keep to the shelter of the trees and shield her lantern with her body. In her right hand, she grasped her father's pistol. It was heavy and clumsy, but it was also vastly comforting. She wouldn't have had the courage to leave the house in the dead of night without it, not after receiving that note.

Welcome home.

After all the agonizing she'd done tonight, she felt curiously detached, almost fatalistic. In the next few minutes, she'd learn the truth about William. She didn't know how it would help her. If William wasn't sending her these notes, someone else was, someone close to her. Someone who hated her.

The suspicion lay like a shadow on her heart. After the first wave of shock had receded, she'd stared at the note in black despair. Only someone in the house could have put the note on her dressing table for her to find, either a servant or one of her family.

She was glad Max had not been there when she received it. He wouldn't leave it alone. He'd probe and probe until he found the answer. And she was so terribly afraid of what the answer would be. It had been a mistake to allow him to come here. She should have defied him, told him to do his worst. What did it matter if he wrote about her in his newspaper? There were worse things than that. He wanted to clear her name, but if the truth ever came out, he would only destroy her.

A twig snapped close by and she froze. Every muscle in her body tensed, and she slowly raised the pistol in her right hand.

A badger shuffled out of the undergrowth. He wasn't afraid of her, but inquisitive. His bright beady eyes seemed to sum her up, then he sniffed and swaggered into the darkness.

Only then did she let out her breath. She wasn't a fool. She'd known she was taking a risk by exposing herself like this. But it had to be done. If not tonight, another night. This was why she'd come home.

She knew she was nearing the dower house when the familiar haze of summer scents wrapped around her, honeysuckle and jasmine and the heavier fragrance of roses. In her mind's eye, she could see the dower house as it used to be, before the fire, with a profusion of scented flowers carelessly draped over the garden walls.

s.n.a.t.c.hes of memories flitted through her mind. She was eight years old and standing on top of the wall. I'm the king of the castle, she'd cried out, and had promptly taken a fall. She'd been on the point of crying, she was so shaken, but Anne had started to bawl, and she'd had to comfort her sister instead.

Absurdly, tears filled her eyes now.

In those days, the house was rented out most of the time, but when there were no tenants to chase them away, the dower house had become their playground, her's and Anne's.

They'd learned all its secrets. And they'd kept those secrets themselves.

Fear squeezed her heart, and she waited a moment until she had mastered herself. There could be no turning back now. On that thought, she made herself move, picking her way over tree roots and broken branches. At the big iron gate at the entrance to the garden, she halted. The padlock on the gate was broken.

The light from her lamp barely reached the house. Veiled as it was in semidarkness, it looked curiously untouched, and as quiet as a tomb.