But tears or not, he had something of importance to say to her. "The vicar was here earlier."

Her tears dried. "Oh?"

"He tells me that you and the Carstairs women have become quite friendly."

"The Carstairs women?" she asked innocently. "Do you mean Mrs. Carstairs and Anne?"

"Don't prevaricate with me," he snapped. "You know I do."

The childlike innocence was replaced by childish petulance. "We're in the ladies' guild. We are making plans for the Stoneleigh Fair. What would you have me do? Ignore them? Is that Christian? Besides, I don't go to Longfield, and I don't invite them here. We meet only in church. You told me I should go out and about more, and that's what I did. Have you changed your mind?"

"I thought you had more sense than to take up with any of that vipers' brood."

She looked down at her gla.s.s of sherry. "What should I do, then? Shall I resign from the guild?"

"No. That would only start gossip, and there has been enough of that already. Be careful, Jessica. Be very careful. Don't tell them anything, least of all that Lord Maxwell was here today. If you do, they'll only warn Sara Carstairs, and Lord Maxwell will get nothing more out of her."

She pounced on this. "Do you think Lord Maxwell will succeed where everyone else has failed?"

"It's highly unlikely." Her tears wore him down. "Maybe."

She put her index finger to her mouth. "My lips are sealed."

Her lips were sealed except with the person she considered her most trusted confidant, her footman, Beckett, the young man who carried her up and down stairs and saw to her comfort.

"Sara Carstairs," she said, "has come out of hiding. That nice newspaperman, Lord Maxwell, has found her. She won't tell him anything, of course. But still, it's a step in the right direction."

She saw the gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes and her own eyes sparkled. "Do you know what I think, Beckett? I think Sara Carstairs will be back in Stoneleigh before long. We have only to be patient, then we'll both get what we want."

"Yes, m'lady."

"How much does the reward in the Courier stand at now?"

"Five thousand pounds," he replied.

"And it will be yours, if we play our cards right. Now run along. I want to rest before dinner. I'll ring for you when I need you."

In the privacy of her own parlor, she did not use her invalid chair. Sir Ivor rarely entered this wing of the house. If she were to die tonight and Beckett was not around, it would be days before anyone noticed her absence, and longer than that before her husband noticed.

Tears formed at the ends of her lashes and she dashed them away. She did everything in her power to make herself pleasing to her husband, but what used to appeal to him was now tiresome. He'd told her that she could always depend on him, but it wasn't true. She'd learned that the older men got, the younger the females they l.u.s.ted after.

She never made a scene, because Sir Ivor hated scenes. But she also knew what her husband wanted more than anything, and she was going to give it to him. Then she would be his pet again.

The tears vanished as she thought of how grateful he would be. He would lavish her with attention, and she would give up using her invalid chair.

She couldn't do it without Beckett, and she blessed the day that fate had sent him to her door seeking a position as a footman. She'd known at once that he was all wrong. He was too good-looking, too bold, too ambitious, and he did not have a character reference. She'd made enquiries and found that he'd been dismissed from his last post for making love to his master's daughter.

He was all wrong, and that made him just right for her purposes.

She unlocked a door and entered a tiny chapel. The windows were high up on the stone walls and the light did not penetrate to the floor. At the altar, she halted. There were two miniature portraits on stands, one of her daughter, Caroline, and the other of her son.

She picked up Caroline's portrait first. A solemn young girl stared back at her. Poor Caroline. She'd always been sickly. They'd taken her to the best physicians, as far afield as London, but they could do nothing for her. She'd died in London of a lung fever when she was sixteen years old. But at least Caroline had a grave in Stoneleigh's churchyard. There was comfort in that. William had nothing.

She replaced Caroline's portrait and looked at her son. "Soon," she told him, "we'll find you. I promise you, William. And you know that Mama never breaks her promises."

Peter Fallon watched his employer pace back and forth in front of the empty grate. They were in a private parlor in the Cat and Fiddle in Stoneleigh, having just opened a bottle of burgundy while waiting for their dinner to arrive. Max had asked a few perfunctory questions about how things had gone in Exeter, but it was evident that the Exeter Chronicle was of little interest to Max now. Peter wasn't surprised. Sara Carstairs had always been something of an obsession with Max.

Peter was a lean man with light brown hair that was already beginning to recede at the temples, making him look older than his years. His face was far from handsome, but it was a pleasant face, warm, friendly, the kind of face that, as Peter freely admitted, served him well in his profession. His clothes were costly and well-tailored, and chosen to be neither in nor out of fashion. He wasn't the kind of man who stood out in a crowd, and that, too, had served him well in his profession.

On Max's instructions, he'd spent the day interviewing a lot of tiresome people who didn't want to be interviewed. He'd been tired when Max had walked in, but now he was wide awake. They'd finally got her. Sara Carstairs had crawled out of her hiding place, and the Courier had got to her first.

He was jubilant.

It was an act of G.o.d, Max said. He'd climbed through the wrong window, and there she was.

"Sara Carstairs."

"She's calling herself Sara Childe," Max said, "but I recognized her."

"And she doesn't know who you are?"

"She knows I'm Max Worthe, but not that I'm connected to the Courier. Not yet, anyway."

Peter let out a low whistle. "This could be tricky."

Max smiled. "Peter, you don't know just how tricky this is."

Peter looked at Max closely. "You don't look too happy."

Max shrugged. "I haven't figured out how I'm going to handle this. There's more at stake here than you realize."

"I don't see why you're worried. She can't be tried again for the same crime."

"That's what I keep telling myself."

Max then went on to tell Peter about his interview with Sir Ivor. "When I put it to him that William had fathered a child on a local girl, his face went purple. I was astounded at his reaction. After all, no one ever claimed William was lily white."

"Perhaps not, but parents always think their children are blameless. Frankly, Max, I don't think it's relevant either. But I'll check it out if it makes you feel better."

"Thank you. Now what have you found out?"

The serving maid entered with the first course, and as they tucked into lamb stew and dumplings, Peter made his report. Stoneleigh, he said, was shut up tighter than a clam.

"The locals," he went on, "don't want to talk about Sara Carstairs or to anyone who had anything to do with the trial. You see, Max, last time around, they were famous. People and reporters from all over England converged on this little market town and interviewed the residents. It went to their heads. Everyone had a story to tell about Sara Carstairs and William Neville, and if you didn't have a story, you made one up, just to be the same as everyone else. Are you with me, so far?"

Max said slowly, "I think so. You're saying that the stories circulating about Sara were exaggerated?"

"Exactly. And some of those stories may have been out-and-out lies. A d.a.m.n shame, I know, but remember, these juicy tidbits of gossip had no bearing on the trial. The circ.u.mstantial evidence against Sara Carstairs was, and still is, substantial. I still think she's guilty, Max."

"Go on. What else have you learned?"

"Well, take that story about her fiance, for instance, Francis Blamires. The rumor was that he broke the engagement when she was arrested. In fact, it was the other way round."

"Whatever happened to Blamires?"

"Oh, he married and moved away. He's farming in Kent or someplace."

After a moment, Max said, "What about William's friends, the ones who testified at the trial?"

"There weren't locals. They'd come down from London at William's invitation. You know the sort, hangers-on. William put them up at the King's Head, no expense spared. No one knows where they are now."

Max said, "If Stoneleigh is as tight as a clam, where did you get all your information?"

"If I told you my methods, you could dispense with my services. Then where would I be? Now don't look like that, Max. I didn't do anything illegal."

"Peter-"

Peter laughed. "The local constable told me most of it. We shared a jug of ale in this very inn, and I told him I'd been looking for somewhere to settle, but the local people were so unfriendly that I didn't think I could be happy here. So, he proceeded to tell me why Stoneleighers-that's what they're called, by the way-are so tight-lipped around strangers."

"No one remembered you from before?"

"Hardly. That was three years ago, and I know how to melt into the background. If I didn't, I wouldn't be any good at my job."

"So what else did you learn?"

"Well, after the trial, the good people of Stoneleigh thought that things would go back to normal. By this time, Miss Carstairs was home and living with her family. But things didn't return to normal, largely because William Neville's father had posted a reward for information leading to his son's whereabouts. Hordes of people descended on the village. The residents couldn't turn around but they were falling over strangers who were poking around cellars and disused farm buildings or digging up gardens and farmers' fields. And when the Courier doubled the reward, that's when things turned ugly."

Peter stopped speaking when Max abruptly reached for the burgundy and refilled their gla.s.ses. "You couldn't have known that this would be the result," Peter said.

Max looked up briefly. "No. I couldn't have known. Finish what you were saying, something about things turning ugly."

Peter was beginning to wish he hadn't opened his mouth. He knew Max well enough to recognize that he was stone cold angry, and that anger was turned against himself.

"Well?" said Max.

"Well," said Peter, belatedly choosing his words with care, "a party of young bucks, thugs, really, descended on the Carstairs's house. They'd been drinking. They had guns and demanded that Sara Carstairs show them where she'd hidden William's body. They fired shots through the windows. Luckily, no one was hurt, and when someone inside the house returned their fire, they backed off. But they weren't done yet. They found the dower house in the grounds, the house where Anne and William Neville once lived, and set fire to it. The next day, Sara Carstairs left Stoneleigh and went into hiding."

Peter took a long swallow of wine. He was tempted now, to kick his own backside. What had started off as a joke had turned flatter than stale ale, and he didn't know why. It was time to veer off in another direction.

"Do you know what I think, Max? I think she's making for Stoneleigh."

"That doesn't seem likely after what you've just told me."

"But that happened years ago, right after the trial. Things are different now. The locals are ashamed of the way they behaved then. They'll accept her, or they'll tolerate her, at least as long as the curiosity seekers stay away."

"That's not what Sir Ivor says. He says the locals will stone her."

"Oh, no. That's wishful thinking on his part."

"Why would she go home?"

"Maybe she's tired of living under an a.s.sumed name."

"Then why is she traveling as Miss Childe?"

Peter let out a long sigh. "I have no idea. All I know is what my nose is telling me: she's coming home. Look, she came all the way from London to Bath, where she's staying for a few weeks. Maybe she's waiting to make sure that no one is following her. Or maybe she's waiting for someone- a husband, a lover-who knows what she's been up to during the last three years? But my nose tells me she's coming home. Bath is only a day's drive from Stoneleigh. She's coming in, slowly and carefully, but believe me, she's coming in."

Max stared at the amber liquid in his gla.s.s. "You're convinced she's guilty?"

"Nothing has made me change my mind on that point. What happened to her at Stoneleigh after the trial was reprehensible. I truly regret it. And maybe William Neville was a swine. But that doesn't change anything. Sara Carstairs was involved with him. She's never denied it. And-"

Max held up a hand. "Stow it, Peter. I'm not a fool. I'm not swayed by feminine wiles. I want to know only one thing-is William Neville alive or dead?"

"And if she leads us to his body?"

Max brushed his hand over his sleeve. "Then we'll know she's guilty, and we'll publish the full story in the Courier." He looked at his watch. "I'd better get going while it's still light. I may make it as far as Salisbury before dusk."

"You're returning to Bath straight away?"

"Of course."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Stay here and wait for Miss Carstairs. What cover are you using?"

"Mmm? Oh, that I'm just getting over a respiratory infection and my doctors have advised me to convalesce in the fresh country air. But what about you? Where will you be?"

Max drained his gla.s.s. After a moment, he said, "If you see a shadow with Sara Carstairs, Peter, you'll know it's me."

*Chapter Eight*

Sara studied her reflection in the long cheval mirror. As befitted a lady's companion, her high-waisted gown was of gray crepe and had long sleeves. Her hair was swept up and demurely covered in a lace cap. She'd achieved her object. She looked much older than her years, a staid, sensible lady who knew exactly what she was doing.

She was nervous, very nervous, because tonight she was going to reveal to her best prospect, Mr. Townsend, that she was the lady who had placed the advertis.e.m.e.nt in the Chronicle. He would ask questions that she didn't want to answer, but one thing she couldn't get around. She had to tell him who she really was. The name on her marriage certificate had to be her own. It had to stand up in a court of law if ever it were put to the test.

Just as the marriage settlement had to stand up in a court of law if ever it were put to the test. She had it rolled up in her reticule, a doc.u.ment that her London attorneys had a.s.sured her was as binding as any business contract. She wondered what Mr. Townsend would make of it all.

He'd answered her advertis.e.m.e.nt, she reminded herself. Only a man in desperate circ.u.mstances would go that far. There was every chance that he would accept her offer.

Over the last two days, they'd had several conversations, and with each conversation, she'd come to like him more. He spoke mostly about his children, occasionally about his wife. He was a nice man, and if only he could have been her uncle or her father, she would have been the happiest girl in the world.