She would never be up to meeting William's mother again. She shook her head.

"Who," she said, a moment later, "is that striking-looking gentleman standing beside her?"

"That," said Anne, "is Beckett. He's Lady Neville's footman. She never goes anywhere without him."

No man could have looked less like a footman. He was too good-looking, too dramatic, dressed as he was in black, and far too bold with his eyes. But if he was bold, so was Constance. As Sara watched, her stepmother dropped her napkin. Both she and the footman bent to pick it up and their hands touched beneath the tablecloth, then they smiled into each other's eyes.

Sara was coldly furious. Lucy was sitting right beside her mother, but fortunately, she was listening to Lady Neville and had missed this brazen act.

"They're lovers," said Sara. She looked at Anne. "They're lovers, aren't they?"

Anne shrugged. "Sara, don't interfere."

"Of course I'm going to put a stop to it. Constance is Lucy's mother. She should know better."

"Don't blame Constance." Anne's lips trembled. "She's lonely. And it's not her fault that she's beautiful and men find her desirable. Leave her alone, Sara. People must be allowed to live their own lives."

A horrible suspicion flashed into Sara's mind, and she gave Anne a sideways glance. She knew that her sister was deeply unhappy, and she prayed that this footman had nothing to do with it. She wished she could say something, but this was the second time that Anne had warned her to keep her distance.

Lady Neville's footman had caught sight of them. His bold eyes roamed over Sara and he smiled. Her look was frigid. Laughing now, he bent his dark head and whispered something in her ladyship's ear. A moment later, he wheeled the chair toward the exit.

"It seems," said Sara, "that Lady Neville isn't up to meeting me either."

Lucy smiled as Sara took the chair next to hers. "We were just talking to Lady Neville," she said. "Did you know her daughter, Sara?"

"Caroline," said Sara and nodded. "But not very well. She was a year or two younger than Anne, and the Nevilles did not mix with Stoneleigh society."

"She died very young," said Anne. "I remember her father took her to the best physicians in London and they could do nothing for her."

"Speaking of Sir Ivor," said Sara, "is he here? Because if he is, I think I'll make myself scarce."

"Me too," said Lucy. "I don't like him at all. In fact, he makes my skin crawl."

"Lucy!" Constance fingered the pearl pendant at her throat. "You are chattering. Pour the tea for your sisters."

Sara half turned in her chair and gazed at the exit. It was the first time in her memory that Lady Neville had attended the local fair. If she'd known the Nevilles would be here, she wouldn't have had the courage to come.

She looked at Constance and Anne and Lucy. Everything seemed normal enough, but there were undercurrents here that she didn't understand. And there wouldn't have been undercurrents if Lady Neville and her footman hadn't stirred them up.

What in heaven's name was going on?

Peter Fallon came up and joined their table.

"Where is Max?" Sara asked.

"Telling fortunes," he said, chuckling, "and do you know what? He's really good at it."

"Max is telling fortunes?" Sara was astounded. "I thought he was only going to sell tickets."

Peter pushed his cup and saucer toward Lucy and watched as she poured out his tea. "The local doctor, I forget his name, was supposed to be the fortune-teller, but he was called away, so Max took his place. They've rigged him out as a gypsy with golden earrings, no less. You wouldn't recognize him if you saw him."

There was a moment of silence, then everyone began to laugh.

Max looked up from his crystal ball and saw Simon, a big smirk on his face, standing just inside the tent flap. "Your fortune is easy to tell," said Max. "I see a tall, fair-haired stranger in your life who is going to have a profound influence on your future." He stared down at his crystal ball. "You can make this easy on yourself or hard; the choice is yours." He looked up and grinned. "But one way or another, things are going to be different for you, Simon."

Simon's smirk had been replaced by a vicious scowl. "You look ridiculous with that scarf around your head and those dangling earrings!"

"Do I? I don't feel ridiculous. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if, in a former life, I had been a fortune-teller. I have a talent for it. As you'll soon find out. That will be three pence, please."

"What?"

"I don't tell fortunes for nothing. Three pence, if you please. Don't be such a bad sport. It's all in a good cause."

Simon fished in his pocket and counted out three pennies, which Max deposited in a jar that was filled to the brim with coins.

"Talking of sports," said Simon, "it's time for the boxing contest."

Max rose. "Who is going to take my place here?"

"How should I know?"

"I can't just leave my post! This is a little gold mine we've got going here. Look, take this jar to the vicar and tell him the problem. If he can't find someone to replace me, he'll have to do it himself. Go on. I'll be all changed and ready when you get back."

"Give it to me!" Simon reached for the jar of coins, hoisted it in his arms, and quickly left the tent.

After pulling the red kerchief from his head, Max carefully removed his bra.s.s hooped earrings. He was really sorry to give up the earrings.

"Look at that," said Max as he and Simon left the fortune-teller's tent. He was pointing to the long queue of people who had lined up to see the fortuneteller. "My fame has spread. There was only a trickle of people when I took over from Doctor Laurie. I don't know what they'll do when they hear the vicar has taken over from me. They may even riot."

"Don't let it go to your head," said Simon. "It's not your talent as a fortune-teller that has drawn that crowd. What they want to see is the fortune hunter who has snagged my sister."

Max shook his head. "Do you know, I've never met a family like yours? It's not only Sara. You're all the same. Money is all you ever think about. Don't you know how to have fun? Enjoy yourselves? That doesn't take money."

Simon flashed Max a look of pure dislike. "That's easy for you to say, now that you've got control of my father's fortune."

Max studied Simon for a moment or two. "Sara didn't mention-"

"What?"

"Sara didn't mention our marriage contract?"

"Not to me. Why?"

A slow smile tugged at the corners of Max's lips. "I thought-"

"What did you think?"

"I think," said Max with a broad smile, "that your sister is beginning to see the light. Where is she, by the way?"

"She's washing up dishes, now that the teas are over."

"Alone?" asked Max sharply.

Simon misunderstood the edge in Max's voice, and because he was thoroughly annoyed with Max's good humor, he said spitefully, "Of course she's not alone. Drew Primrose is with her. You'd think he'd know better, now that Sara is a married woman." He had his reward when Max's lips thinned.

Max saw Simon's smirk and said tightly, "I was going to go easy with you, but that last remark has made me change my mind."

Simon gave an exaggerated shiver. "What, no holds barred?"

"No holds barred," agreed Max grimly.

They walked on in silence, past booths that were mostly deserted now that all their wares had been sold. The crowds were thinning out, though the flame-thrower and sword-swallower were still doing a brisk trade. In another hour, the fair would be over, and the monumental task of clearing up would begin. But there was one attraction that kept most of the men hanging around-the boxing contest.

It was as far from the ladies' booths on that small common as it could possibly be, and if the vicar had had his way, it wouldn't have been there at all. But the fair was not under the jurisdiction of the church. It was run by the mayor and aldermen, and they were astute businessmen who knew how to part a man from his money.

The area was roped off, and Simon gave a shilling to the ticket collector to pay admittance for himself and Max.

"Sam," said Simon to the ticket collector, "this is my brother-in-law, Max Worthe." Then to Max, "Sam is our local butcher."

Max saw a small, monkey-faced man dressed in a dirty ap.r.o.n, who was eyeing him as though he were a side of beef.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Simon.

Sam Weaver shook his head. "I'll give 'im one round, if 'e gets that far."

Max took umbrage. "My dear man-"

He got no farther. Simon took hold of his arm and dragged him away. "If we don't get there soon, we'll be disqualified. We're last on. Can't you hear them? The crowd is getting restless."

When he came out of the crush of men, Max saw that a platform had been built so that the spectators could have a good view of the ring.

"This is my brother-in-law," said Simon to the man who was evidently in charge.

Max's name was duly marked off, and after shaking hands with Simon, and wishing him luck (a convention of the sport), Max disrobed till he was down to trousers and boots. He'd hoped for a chance to limber up, but there was no time, he was told, and he was hustled into the ring.

Then all became clear to him.

"Lord Maxwell, sir," said his opponent with an evil grin. "Wot is you doin' here? I thought you'd learned your lesson in Reading."

Mighty Jack Cleaver, all seven feet of him, stared down, a long way down, into Max's stricken face. Max thought of Simon, and rage rolled through him like a torrential river. He knew he could outbox Jack Cleaver with one had tied behind his back. What he could not do was make an impression on the man. Those muscles were made of iron. But all Jack had to do was bide his time and get in one iron-fisted punch, and it was match over.

Simon had set him up.

If he had any sense, Max told himself, he would say it was all a ghastly mistake and beat a hasty retreat. It was probably what Simon expected him to do. But Simon had vastly mistaken his character. It was now a matter of honor.

He searched the crowd for Simon and found him with Martin, in the front row, right next to the ring. Martin was clutching a towel, and Simon held up a bottle of water and jiggled it.

The scoundrels were his seconds.

Martin looked worried, as well he might, but Simon was laughing his head off. Max ground his teeth together.

The referee entered the ring at that moment. Cheers all round from the crowd. Max and Mighty Jack shook hands, then took up their positions. At a word from the referee, the fight began.

Martin closed his eyes. "Tell me when it's all over," he told Simon.

"Good G.o.d!" said Simon. "Max just hit the champion right in the solar plexus and he didn't even flinch."

"Who, Max?"

"No. Mighty Jack. You have to give it to Max, he-! Martin, did you see that? Did you see that? Max landed a punch ... oh no."

Martin opened his eyes. Max was flat on his face. He shook his head once, twice, then dragged himself to his knees and finally tottered to his feet. The crowd went wild.

They went at it again. Mighty Jack moved around the ring like a great oak that had uprooted itself. Max was obviously the better boxer, but compared to the champion, he was a mere sapling.

"What a sport!" said Simon, whistling in admiration at one point.

Then Mighty Jack landed a punch, and Max spun like a top and his momentum carried him into his own corner. He got to his feet, but it was the end of round one.

Martin and Simon scrambled into the ring. Max's nose was bleeding, and he was breathing hard and fast. Simon poured water down his throat while Martin used the towel to stop the bleeding.

Simon said, "All right, Max, you've proved your point. No one is going to think the less of you if you concede defeat now."

"Concede defeat? Concede defeat? Never!" said Max through gritted teeth. "I'll go till I drop."

Now Simon was beginning to look worried, and that pleased Max. He closed his eyes and prayed for a miracle.

Martin said, "You have a powerful right hook, Max. Why don't you hit Mighty Jack on the jaw?"

Max opened one eye and glared up at Martin. "Because," he said, "my arm doesn't reach that far."

The second round was no better than the first. Simon and Martin were no longer worried; they were scared to death. Max was puffing like a broken-down bellows. He was staggering, and blood was running from his nose and mouth. But he adamantly refused to give up.

When he came out for the third round, the crowd fell silent. His knees were buckling, but he kept his fists up. Everyone knew Mighty Jack had only to deliver the coup de grace and it would be all over for Max.

Max knew it too. He dodged and weaved to evade those iron fists, but he was winded and couldn't get a punch in. But Mighty Jack did, and down Max went again. It looked as though the referee would stop the fight, and the crowd began to boo. Max pulled himself to his feet.

Someone in the crowd shouted, "We're with you, yer lordship! We're with you!" and the crowd yelled its support.

Mighty Jack was momentarily distracted. Max lashed out and caught the champion a blow to the throat. The champion stepped back, shook his head, and swatted Max as though he were a pesky fly. And Max went down again.

Simon clutched Martin's arm. "It's all over. It's got to be all over this time. Why doesn't the referee stop it? Stay down, Max. Stay down!"

Before his horrified eyes, Max got up on one knee, then the other, and pulled himself to his feet.