"His lordship has definitely spared the rod where that one is concerned." Mrs. Johnson narrowed her eyes and wagged her finger at Benjamin. "Someone ought to take the strap to you for speaking to Lady Blayne in that manner. She is your better. You and your mother owe your living to Lord Greythorn's good graces."

Sunny turned to the housekeeper. "Leave us, Mrs. Johnson."

Mrs. Johnson blinked in surprise. Sunny didn't break from her stare and the older woman whirled and in a crisp rustling of starched petticoat and wool skirts and started down the corridor.

Mrs. Taylor's expression relaxed, she put her hand over the boy's maroon colored waistcoat. "You have surely tossed the fat into the fire this time, Benjamin. Apologize to Lady Blayne."

Benjamin continued to watch Sunny with wary eyes. "I don't know you, my lady."

"So, perhaps it was wrong of you to make any judgments of her?" Mrs. Taylor said.

Benjamin cast a gaze toward the floor. "Perhaps."

"Come." Sunny motioned to her chambers. "Sit with me."

Mrs. Taylor hesitated, then urged the boy forward. They entered and Sunny closed the door behind them.

"Have a seat, Benjamin." She nodded at the settee.

He complied while Mrs. Taylor stood near his end of the couch.

Sunny sat on the settee and looked at him. "How did you get here all the way from Greythorn House?"

"I rode a hackney as far as the money in my pockets would allow."

"And then?"

"I walked."

"Your business with Lord Greythorn must be very urgent?"

His eyes widened in fear.

Sunny turned to Mrs. Taylor. "He must be famished."

"I'm not hungry," the boy said.

"Perhaps just a little something." He opened his mouth to argue, but Sunny said, "I will send for Lord Greythorn."

"Oh, no you should not do that, my lady," Mrs. Taylor said quickly.

"Why not?"

Mrs. Taylor looked from her to the boy.

"Tell me why not." Sunny heard the edge beneath her voice, shocked again at the quiet authority that rang in her tone.

"Well...his lordship ordered that Benjamin was to stay away from Greythorn House and this house whilst you and the Lady Ailise are in residence."

"Why should he order such a thing?" Sunny demanded.

"Well, our Benjamin here is not..." The servant's voice trailed off.

"You mean he is not legitimate?"

Mr. Taylor shook her head. "Oh, there is just no nice way to say it, is there my lady? It seems a hard burden to put on a child."

"Indeed," Sunny replied. "Benjamin, tell me why you need to contact Lord Greythorn."

Benjamin looked at her with wide-eyes, a new respect dawning on his expression. "You said you would send for my uncle. Can you do really that?"

"I can." Whether or not James would comply was another matter. Of course, she didn't know where James was, but someone at Greythorn House apparently did. And by the day's end she would know as well, of that she was determined.

Benjamin cast a sideways glance at Mrs. Taylor.

She hesitated then nodded.

"My mother is gone."

"Gone?" Sunny repeated, even knowing in her heart what he meant.

"She is gone." His voice became higher pitched, making him sound younger than his nine or ten years.

"Oh, my poor boy!" Mrs. Taylor cried. She looked helplessly at Sunny.

"I want to talk to my uncle." His voice was small, like a younger boy, injecting his tone with all the hope in the world, as though he could make James appear.

"What happened?" Sunny asked gently.

His shoulders sagged. "It happened two days ago. She had a cough and a fever. We called for the doctor. She continued to worsen. She died shortly before dawn." He held himself rigid, his face whiter than chalk.

Mrs. Taylor placed a hand on his shoulders, clearly trying to control her own grief as well as comfort him.

He continued to hold himself stiff, reminding Sunny of a little wooden toy solider. "I sent for Uncle James but a whole day passed and I heard nothing. So, I set out for Greythorn House."

"Why didn't you send one of the servants instead?" Sunny asked.

"I-I had to see Uncle James. I just had to." His eyes grew brighter. "But he seems to have vanished." A single tear escaped the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek. He sniffed, convulsively then held himself rigid again. "He was always there before. Now it is the very worst time of all, he's not here. How can he not be here?"

"They told you, love, he left town," Mrs. Taylor said in a tearful tone.

"This is so far from Mayfair. I thought they meant he'd come here." He paused. "M-mama-" He stumbled over the word. "She used to refer to coming here as 'leaving town.'"

"Your uncle has become a very important man," Sunny said. "Pressing matters will often take his attention. We must cope on our own the best we can." She tried to smile, despite feeling her throat burn with the truth of her words.

What had started as a cold morning had warmed to a pleasingly brisk afternoon. Radiant midday sun caused the water spray from a bronze fish's mouth to sparkle like tiny diamonds on the grand central fountain. It was likely to be the last such mild day and it had been impossible to resist the temptation to have an al fresco luncheon. The ladies were busy with their water coloring and their soft chatter and occasional polite laughter blended with the birds' singing. In the shade provided by a line of well-sculpted cypress tress, a slight breeze ruffled the Duke of Hornby's fading golden locks. He ran a smoothing hand over them, then regarded James with his brown eyes seriously. "You know that you are my first choice."

"You indicated that before," James replied with a slight smile.

"It must be Charlotte's decision, of course."

"Of course."

"And I cannot let her come to you until after her nineteenth birthday, which is next fall. But I give you leave to court her. You will have a decided advantage over those other suitors who are to meet her at her debut ball this Season."

Lady Charlotte Bingham was not a beauty. Nor was she a great wit. She was an extremely well-dowered, exceptionally well-connected virgin, the daughter of a duke. A practical, good natured girl with flawless manners and elegant tastes.

And she was completely different from Catriona.

That was important. He was going to have to bed this woman at some point. The whole process would be easier to stomach if she in no way reminded him of Catriona.

James took a sip of coffee, trying to ease the heavy, sinking sensation that pulled down through his innards. The warmth didn't help. He set his cup back on the saucer then prepared to reply in the affirmative.

His mind supplied the words but his tongue had stopped working. He could not command it.

He frowned. There was no reason not to commit himself. The girl was everything he needed in a countess. He had spent a few hours' time in her company every day for the past week and found her level-headed and easy to converse with. She was thoughtful and kind. She didn't seem the type to be prone to dramatic, tearful late-night confessions.

He wanted for us to run away to America...I-I was tempted...But I could no' love him...I could never hate him, I hurt so badly for him after we parted. I grieved for him, maybe harder than I grieved for anything or anyone in my life. But that's not love, is it?

Catriona's voice echoed in his mind, soft and sensual. Wrenching his heart.

He forced himself to focus on the Duke's countenance. Forced himself to think of the matter at hand.

"Why me?" he found himself saying. A ploy for time.

"Why you?" The duke regarded him for a moment and then gave a small smile. "I admire the way you have come along in your life. You have not always had an easy time of things. You are not soft as so many of these young, idle noblemen are. That's important. Charlotte is a strong-minded girl. She needs a strong man to respect."

The sound of approaching boots upon the garden stones made both men turn to see a liveried servant hurrying toward them. He bore a silver tray with an envelope upon it, and to James' surprise, he brought it to him, not to the duke.

James took the letter, then glanced at the wax seal. His heart's beat quickened. His hands began to shake. Something was wrong with Catriona.

He pushed the irrational thought away. By God, if she was playing at a game of manipulation, she would have the very devil to pay. He tore the seal then his gaze fell on the vellum and he saw Catriona's elegant yet embellished script.

Come to me. Now.

Four simple words. A plea she knew damned well he'd not be able to deny.

Blast her for picking this moment. Did she possess some feminine instinct that led her to be able to interrupt this important meeting?

"Trouble, Greythorn?" the duke asked.

James didn't look up. He knew if he did, he'd reveal the sudden lack of color in his face. The torment in his eyes. "I have to beg your leave, Your Grace. Something has happened which requires my immediate attention."

The first thing James saw was the black wreath on the door. His heart stopped. He hurried up the steps then flung the door open. He took the stairs two at a time. "Catriona!"

He knew a terrible moment of dread. His pounding heart deafened him. His throat was dry and his stomach in a knot.

The door to one of the chambers down the corridor burst open.

Catriona stood there, her hair lank and tangled, hanging over one shoulder. Her face was pale and strained. She wore a dark, drab gown over which she had tied a simple white apron which bore many stains.

He thought her chin had begun to tremble. But he couldn't be sure from this distance. He ran to her.

The lines of strain in her face relaxed as he approached. "Oh, James..."

He stopped in front of her and without further thought, he cupped her face, letting his gaze drink in her visage. "Cat," he said, then his mouth was on hers, kissing her fiercely.

She went limp in his arms.

He pulled away then studied her. "You're exhausted. It's so late. You should be in bed."

"No, I can't-"

He swept her off her feet and into his arms.

"No, no, I cannot go to bed," she cried.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Hush." James began the walk down the corridor to her chamber.

"I am needed now."

"Whatever it is, Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Taylor can handle it."

"No, this requires my personal care. Benjamin is-"

He stopped. "Benjamin is here?"

"Yes."

Pain slashed through him.

Oh, Catriona, I did not want you to find out about Benjamin this way.

"Benjamin doesn't belong here. Why is he here?" James demanded.

"He is a very ill little boy. The doctor said it is diphtheria. It took Benjamin's mother and now he is very-"

"Diphtheria!" Fear froze his blood.

Images flashed into his mind. Her leaning over the railing on the roof of the dowager house at Brownwood, that terrible moment when he'd thought she would either leap or fall over. How long it seemed to take for him to reach her and pull her to safety. He couldn't fathom the possibility of losing her again.

Diphtheria.

The word echoed in his mind with horrific effect.