"Oh, I don't know," he replied easily. "I'm at a loose end. I might as well stay on and take in all that Bath has to offer."

"I'm glad to hear you say that." Miss Beattie's sharp eyes flew from Max's face to Sara's. "In my opinion, Bath is vastly underrated. If you do decide to stay, Mr. Worthe, I'm sure you'll find the experience worthwhile."

He smiled. "I hope so."

Max did not stay long after that, and as he made his way out of the Pump Room, the older ladies began to compare notes.

"He seems like a nice young man," observed Miss Beattie.

Mrs. Hastings chuckled. "I've no doubt that he is, but if he is anything like his friend-Ash Meynell, I mean-the mothers in Bath had better start locking up their daughters, yes, and themselves as well. The stories I could tell you!" Her eyes twinkled and she shook her head. "You'll think I'm speaking ill of young Mr. Meynell, but really, I'm not. We all like him, in spite of his reputation. But when he's in town, he is inclined to shake us up a bit."

Miss Beattie looked wistfully at Max's retreating back and Mrs. Hastings gave another chuckle. "I'd wager that every lady's heart beats just a little faster when Mr. Worthe walks into a room. Well, just look around and tell me if I'm wrong."

Sara and Miss Beattie obediently looked around the Pump Room. There was no doubt about it. Max Worthe had caught the surrept.i.tious glances of many ladies, irrespective of age.

Mrs. Hastings suddenly exclaimed. "Maxwell Worthe! I remember him! He's Ash Meynell's best friend. Lord Maxwell, that's who he is. He's a charmer, all right. Don't say you haven't been warned. And you, too, Miss Childe."

The warning was unnecessary. Sara had already made up her mind that Max Worthe was nothing but trouble.

Over the next few days, Max made sure he just happened to be at all the functions Sara attended. It wasn't difficult to do. Miss Beattie had taken a liking to him, and, when Sara wasn't within earshot, she would casually mention where they were going to be that afternoon, or evening, and Max would be there too.

On this occasion, he'd just returned from the Pump Room to his lodgings in the Christopher Hotel. There were no personal servants waiting for him when he entered his chamber, no valet to brush out his clothes or help him choose what to wear. He'd given up all the trappings of his rank and wealth when he'd become a newspaperman. An aristocrat who traveled with a retinue of servants was not taken seriously in his business, and Max was determined to be taken seriously.

He'd sent to Castle Lyndhurst, the family seat, for the garments he kept there, and one of the hotel's footmen was just finishing unpacking them and putting them away. When the footman left, Max opened the large mahogany wardrobe and made an inventory of what was there.

At last he had something decent to wear.

He wondered if Sara would notice the difference. Probably not. She was convinced that he was an idle dandy with nothing more serious on his mind than the cut of his garments and chasing women. She hadn't asked him any questions about his family or connections. She'd made up her mind that he was trouble, and the only way she could cope was to keep him at arm's length.

She'd practically handed him a script to keep her in his...o...b..t.

With a m.u.f.fled oath, he flung himself down on the bed.

Sara. The only thing he was sure of was that the feelings she had aroused at the Black Swan were still there. In fact, they had only grown stronger, and that appalled him. He should know better. There was a file on her an inch thick in the Couriers offices in London, and it wasn't pleasant reading.

Sara Carstairs was a woman of loose morals. She'd started an affair with William Neville right under her sister's nose, which wasn't hard to do, considering that the Nevilles lived in the dower house in the grounds of Longfield, the show home Samuel Carstairs had restored to its original Elizabethan splendor.

She'd never denied that she'd had an affair with her brother-in-law, and if she had denied it, the letters she had written to him would have proved her a liar. Moreover, William's friends had testified that he was inflamed when he heard that Sara was going to be married. He'd left them drinking at the King's Head tavern in Stoneleigh, swearing that he would make her pay, and he'd never been seen again.

It was William's father who had raised the alarm. The following morning, he'd found William's horse wandering the downs. And then had begun the ma.s.sive search for William's body.

The constable had come to Sara first.

Her alibi was unconvincing. She wasn't at Longfield, but at the dower house, where she'd spent the whole night nursing her sister, so she said. Of course, it just happened that Anne Neville's only servant was conveniently visiting relatives in Winchester at the time.

And Sara swore under oath, in the statement that was read to the court, that William hadn't come home that night. Her sister had corroborated her story, but since Anne Neville had been dosed with laudanum, no one believed her.

Max threw himself off the bed and went to stand by the open window. His room overlooked the side of the abbey and beyond that, the gardens that sloped down to the river Avon. What in Hades was a woman like Sara Carstairs doing in a place like Bath?

When he'd started out from Reading and realized she was traveling west, he'd guessed that she'd make the turn at Thatcham to take the road to Stoneleigh. He'd been so sure in his own mind that he'd sent an express to Peter Fallon telling him to drop everything and meet him in Stoneleigh. And that's where Peter was right now. But when they reached Thatcham, her coach did not make the turn to Stoneleigh but continued to drive west.

She was going to be married, she said.

He might have believed her if she had ordered him out of her room before things went too far.

William, she'd whispered when he'd climbed through her open window, and she'd sounded deathly afraid. But later she'd told him that William was ancient history because he was dead.

I thought I was in love with him once. There was a local girl. She was with child. William's child. He deserted her.

Was William alive or dead? That was the question that had obsessed Max on the long drive from Reading. If William was alive, then they'd all misjudged Sara, himself most of all. And if William was dead, it was entirely possible that at her trial, Sara Carstairs had had them all believing exactly what she wanted them to believe.

Her eyes were dark, but they weren't brown, as they'd seemed to him in the dimly lit interior of the Black Swan. They were gray, and as dark and fathomless as the waters of the cold North Sea.

What secrets was she keeping from him?

He would be going contrary to everything he stood for as a newspaperman if he didn't go after the story.

His mouth curved in a smile that revealed recklessness as well as humor. He couldn't lie to himself. There was more to his pursuit of Sara than getting his story. He had a vested interest in discovering the truth. He had to know whether she was the woman he'd met in the Black Swan or the Sara Carstairs who had been painted as a heartless murderess at her trial.

He turned from the window and began to pull off his clothes. He had things to do, plans to make. Sara and Bath could wait for a little while longer. He was going back to where it all started.

*Chapter Seven*

The manor house, Sir Ivor's ancient family seat, was nestled in a lush valley about five miles out of Stoneleigh, on the road to Winchester. With its honey-colored stone walls and mullioned bay windows, it was a picturesque English gem. But that was only a facade. The manor, as Max remembered, had been built on a medieval fortress and was a warren of rooms and long pa.s.sages that went nowhere.

Max was waiting in an anteroom while Sir Ivor's butler carried his card to his master. He'd hoped to have a few words with Lady Neville also, but the butler had told him that her ladyship was not receiving visitors. Max remembered the woman as a pathetic case of arrested development, a giddy schoolgirl entrapped in an aging sh.e.l.l. His mother, who was much more charitable than he, said it was a wonder poor Lady Neville had not ended up in an insane asylum, considering who her husband was.

His mother did not like Sir Ivor Neville. Though they could hardly be called neighbors, they were among the leading families in Hampshire, and inevitably their paths crossed. He wondered about Sara's family. In their own way, they would have been considered among the leading families in and around Stoneleigh. They were Sir Ivor's nearest neighbors, their house, Longfield, only a mile or two along the road. But Max doubted that Sir Ivor had made friends with Samuel Carstairs. He was too full of his own importance to make a friend of a man who made his money in trade. It must have stuck in his craw when his son and heir married Anne Carstairs.

The butler returned at that moment and indicated that Sir Ivor would see him now. When Max entered the library, Sir Ivor rose from his desk and offered Max his hand, then waved him to an oversized wing armchair that flanked a ma.s.sive stone fireplace that could have heated a castle. Sir Ivor was dressed formally in blue cutaway coat and breeches. His silver hair was immaculate. Everything about Sir Ivor was immaculate. It was the first time Max had ever thought of William Neville with a twinge of sympathy.

The reporters at Sara's trial had dubbed this man "Sir Prig," and it was an apt description. Tradition and bloodlines were the yardsticks by which Sir Ivor measured the world. He was a proud man. It must have been hard for William Neville to meet his father's standards. Maybe that's why he had married Anne Carstairs-to spite his father.

"This is a pleasure," Sir Ivor said, "and a surprise. I understood from your father that you were spending the summer in Exeter, setting up a newspaper or something."

"Well I was, but the negotiations fell through."

"Ah, so you're taking a well-earned rest from your labors, are you?"

"Not exactly. Nothing for me," Max added when Sir Ivor held up a decanter of brandy and jiggled it invitingly. "I like to keep a clear head when I'm working. But I wouldn't say no to coffee."

Sir Ivor replaced the decanter, snapped his fingers and addressed the footman who stood just inside the door. "See to it, man." As soon as he and Max were alone, he took the chair behind the desk. "All goes well at Castle Lyndhurst, I hope?"

Sir Ivor always spoke as though he and Max's family were intimate friends, and that irritated Max. Keeping his expression bland, he said, "My parents aren't there. They always spend the summer in Derbyshire."

Sir Ivor snapped his fingers. "Of course. They are great hill walkers, are they not?"

Again, Max was annoyed, because he detected a thread of amus.e.m.e.nt in Sir Ivor's voice, as though hill walking were beneath his dignity. "They like to keep fit," he said, "and keep up with our Derbyshire relations."

Sir Ivor linked his long, thin fingers and rested them on the flat of his desk. "But you did not come into Hampshire just to pa.s.s the time of day with me."

"No," said Max. "I came to ask you about your son."

"Has someone claimed the reward?" Sir Ivor asked quickly.

"No."

"What then?"

There was no way of putting this gently. Sara had given him some clues the night he'd climbed in her window, and he had to follow them up. "What can you tell me," he said, "about a young woman, a local girl, who had a child to your son?"

Max had expected shock or anger, but Sir Ivor looked as though he'd turned to stone. All the color washed from his face, and he began to stutter. In the next instant, however, the color surged back in a fiery red, and he said furiously, "What has this to do with William's death?"

"You don't deny it?"

"William did not confide in me."

Sir Ivor rose abruptly, went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He bolted the first shot, then poured himself another. When he returned to his chair, he had himself well in hand.

He smiled faintly. "Forgive me. No one likes to hear ill of his son. If William had a child to some local girl, I know nothing about it. I trust you will be discreet. It would break his mother's heart if it got back to her. Who is the girl?"

"I don't know."

"But you'd like to know, wouldn't you? Personally, I don't think it's relevant. I'm not excusing my son's behavior if what you say is true, but many young men sow their wild oats. Regrettable, but not unnatural."

Max said, "I mention the girl only because it's possible that her father or brother may have killed William in revenge."

Sir Ivor shook his head. "You're on the wrong track. Sara Carstairs murdered my son." He sat back in his chair and his shrewd eyes narrowed on Max. "Who told you about this girl?"

"A reliable source. That's all I can tell you."

"Oh, no. It was her, wasn't it? It was Sara Carstairs!"

Max shifted restlessly.

"You had that from her, didn't you?" Then incredulously. "You've found her, questioned her, and she's trying to shift the blame onto someone else."

Max didn't confirm or deny it. "All I'm trying to do," he said, "is tie up a few loose ends."

"But why now? The case has been inactive for three years. Oh, no, you've found Sara Carstairs. Nothing else makes sense."

So much, Max thought, for trying to keep Sara's name out of it. Peter Fallon would have handled this much better. "Yes, I found her," he admitted reluctantly.

"She's here in Stoneleigh? My G.o.d, she'll be stoned when the local people get to hear of it."

"No. She's not here. She's still in hiding. And that's all I'm going to tell you."

"I see." Sir Ivor's face twisted in a sneer. "You're a fool if you believe anything that jade tells you."

Max kept his voice and expression neutral. "I'm only trying to get at the truth."

"I'm surprised she would confide in you. Your paper has hardly shown her much sympathy in the past."

"She doesn't know I'm connected to the Courier!"

There was a silence, then Sir Ivor began to laugh. "Ah, now I begin to understand. I doubt if your father would approve of your methods, but I most certainly do. I know she cannot be tried again for William's murder ... " His voice turned husky. "But if she can lead you to his remains, his mother and I will be forever in your debt."

He cleared his throat. "What else can I tell you?"

Lady Neville was waiting in the library when her husband returned after seeing Max out. He frowned when he saw that she was in her invalid chair. More and more of late, she'd taken to using the chair when the doctor said there was no necessity for it. It was all in her mind, Dr. Laurie said, a kind of hysteria, the result of losing first a daughter, then a son, under tragic circ.u.mstances.

Sir Ivor kissed her on the cheek and nodded a dismissal to the burly footman who was his wife's personal servant.

"You're looking well today, Jessica."

"Beckett wheeled me around the gardens. I think the fresh air did me some good."

She gave Sir Ivor a brilliant smile when he handed her a gla.s.s of sherry. "Thank you, dear."

Her figure was slight, almost frail; her features were as regular and as dainty as those of a china doll. There were lines on her face, but they hardly showed. As the years pa.s.sed, her ladyship had become more adept in her use of powder and paint to preserve her youthful complexion. If there was silver in her pale blond hair, no one would have known it. She was dressed in primrose muslin, the color that Sir Ivor had told her, thirty years before, made her skin glow like warm honey.

"You would do better," Sir Ivor said, "to walk around the gardens. Jessica, you really must try not to give in to these foolish fancies. Dr. Laurie says-"

He stopped when her face fell and she looked at him with the hurt of a child. Once, he'd found her childlike innocence attractive. It was many years since it had begun to grate on him.

Berating her didn't do any good. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know you do your best. What is it you wished to say to me? "

The careless compliment did the trick, and the radiant smile appeared again. "I saw Lord Maxwell Worthe arriving when I was in the rose garden. What did he want, Ivor? Is it something to do with William?"

He could easily have put her off, but knew that if he did, she would only start questioning the servants, and servants' hall gossip was something he would not tolerate.

"He has found Sara Carstairs," he said. "She's still in hiding, but he's found her. I don't know what good it will do. She hasn't confessed, and even if she did, she can't be tried again. And it won't bring William back to us."

Her thin lips formed a round O.

"Jessica, did you hear me?"

Her eyes focused on his face. "Maybe she'll tell Lord Maxwell where she hid William's body."

He shook his head. "Not the Sara Carstairs I know, not the woman I saw at the trial. She's as hard as nails. Accept it, Jessica. We're never going to find out what happened to William."

She nodded, but her lips trembled, and her faded blue eyes filled with tears. He knew better than to try and comfort her. The tears would turn into a deluge.