The words were gentle enough; his thoughts, she suspected, were anything but. He wasn't an intrinsically gentle man; he wasn't the sort to resign from a fight, to ride away from the field at the first reverse. He would rally-and drive relentlessly, ruthlessly on toward his goal.

Much good would it do him; she wasn't going to bend.

But she'd warned him-and he'd warned her. A truce of sorts, complex and conditional but enough to allow them to go on. Not just in exploring what lay between them, but in facing what the next days would bring. The "gentleman from Bow Street" and the inevitable unmasking of Kitty's murderer. Whatever came, they would face it shoulder to shoulder, bound by an understanding so fundamental it didn't require stating.

The day had been long; its events had wrought untold upheaval.

Minutes ticked by; the heavy thud of Simon's heart just beneath her ear soothed and comforted.

Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the night.

Simon woke her as she'd wished to be woken the morning before.

She was a sound sleeper; her body responded to his practiced ministrations even while she slumbered. Spreading her thighs, he settled between and eased into her.

Felt her arch, felt her breath catch, then she sighed, and opened brilliant blue eyes. Eyes so dark they mesmerized; as he moved within her, he felt like he was drowning in their depths.

She rose with him, clinging, clutching, lids falling at the last as she fractured with a soft cry.

A cry that ripped through him, sank talons through striving muscle and bone, wrapped about his gut, his heart, his soul, and hauled him into the void, over the edge of the world and into sweet oblivion.

Cocooned in the covers, he lay fully atop her, acutely conscious of how well they fitted, how perfectly she matched him. She turned her head and their lips met, clinging, caressing. She held him easily in her arms, cradled between her slim thighs.

Dawn was near. He couldn't let her sleep. He roused her further, rousted her out of bed and into her clothes.

Grumbling, she gave him to understand that early morning was not her favorite time to be sneaking around country houses.

He got her back to her room unobserved, opened her door, kissed her fingers, then bundled her in and shut the door.

Portia heard his retreating footsteps, frowned at the closed panel. She would much rather have remained, safe and warm in his arms, for at least the next hour. Long enough to recoup her energies-energies he'd very efficiently drained. Keeping pace with him through the corridors had required concentration-to keep her muscles moving, ignoring the odd twinges and aches.

She had a strong suspicion he had no real idea how . . . vigorous he was.

Stifling a sigh, she turned and surveyed the room.

It was as she'd left it last night, the bedcovers turned invitingly down, the window still open, curtains undrawn.

She considered the bed, surely the most sensible option given her state. But if she lay down, she'd fall asleep-she'd have to take off her gown and don her nightdress, or how would she explain to the maid?

The problem was insoluble, at least in her present state; she had insufficient energy to undo the buttons down her back that Simon had just done up.

That left the chair by the hearth or the window seat. The breeze wafting through the window carried a dawn chill; she headed for the armchair. The cold hearth was an uninspiring sight; tugging the chair about to face the window, she dropped into its cushioned comfort with a deep sigh.

And let her mind roam. Looked into her own heart, wondered about his. Revisited her goals, reassessed her aspirations. Recalled with a grimace her earlier thought that of all the gentlemen present, Simon, Cynster as he was, epitomized the most marriageable qualities-what she'd meant, could now see clearly enough to admit, was that the qualities he possessed were those most likely to persuade her to marriage.

His less attractive aspects she also knew well. His overprotectiveness had always irked, yet it was his dictatorial possessiveness that most frightened her. Once she was his, there would be no escape; that was simply the way he was.

She shivered, wrapped her arms around herself-wished she'd thought of fetching her shawl but couldn't raise enough energy to get up and do so now.

The only way she could accept Simon's suit-give him her hand and accept all that that meant-was if she trusted him always to consider her feelings, to deal with her, treat with her, not arbitrarily to dictate.

Not a small thing to demand of a tyrant.

Last night, she'd gone to him knowing she'd have the whip hand, trusting that he would allow her to wield it. He could have filched the reins from her whenever he'd wished-yet he hadn't, even though that restraint had, from all the evidence, cost him dearly.

He'd abided by the conditions she'd set. She'd spent the night safe, reassured of her own vitality, her ability to live and even love. Her ability to trust and gain trust's reward.

Previously, he'd never have let her dictate terms as he had last night, regardless of the situation. It simply wasn't in his nature . . . hadn't been, but now was, at least with her.

A willingness to share the reins, to try to accommodate her as he'd promised. She'd felt it in his touch, read it in his eyes . . . events confirmed it truly had been there, and wasn't just a figment of her wishful imagination.

Which left them going forward, examining the possible.

Beyond the window, the sky turned rosy, then faded into the pale, washed-out blue of a hot summer's day.

The click of the latch jerked her from her thoughts. Swiveling in the chair, she watched, mentally scrambling, as the cheery little maid who tended her room came bustling in.

The maid saw her; her eyes turned round, her face filled with sympathy. "Oh, miss-did you spend all night there?"

"Ah . . ." She rarely lied, but . . . "Yes." She looked back at the window, gestured. "I couldn't sleep . . ."

"Well, that's hardly to be wondered at, is it?" Bright and breezy, the maid produced a cloth and set to wiping and polishing the mantelpiece. "We heard tell as how it was you found the body-stumbled right over it."

Portia inclined her head. "Indeed."

"We was all talking in the servants' hall, frightened it might be one of the gentlemen, but Mrs. Fletcher, she's the housekeeper, told us it was the gypsies, sure as anything."

"The gypsies?"

"That Arturo-he's always hanging about, putting on airs. 'Andsome devil, he is, and quick with the ladies, if you take my meaning."

Portia inwardly frowned. She wrestled with her conscience for all of two seconds. "Did any of you have any reason to think it might have been one of the gentlemen?"

"Nah-that was just us, imagining-like."

"Did the staff like Mrs. Glossup?"

"Mrs. G?" Picking up a pewter vase, the maid rubbed hard, concentration in her face. "She was all right-had a temper on her, o'course, and I suppose some might call her flighty, but then all young married ladies are, aren't they?"

Portia bit her tongue.

The maid set down the vase, tucked her cloth into her pocket. "Ah well, wouldn't you know it-it's the day for the sheets." She strode across the room to the bed; Portia watched her, envying her her energy.

"Blenkinsop says as how there'll be a man coming down from Lunnon." Gripping the turned-down corner, the maid glanced at Portia. "To ask about what happened."

Portia nodded. "Apparently it's required."

The maid's lips formed an O; she yanked back the sheet- Furious hissing filled the air.

The maid leapt back, her gaze locked on the bed. She paled. "Oh my Gawd!" The last word rose in a shriek.

Portia leapt up and rushed to the girl's side.

The hissing escalated.

"Oh my heavens!" Portia stared at the adder, angry and irritated, coiling in the middle of her bed.

She tugged the maid's sleeve.

The maid squealed.

As one, they turned and fled across the room, yanking open the door, then slamming it shut behind them.

The maid collapsed against the nearby stair rail, gasping for breath.

Portia checked that the bottom of the door fitted flush to the floor-no space for an angry adder to slide through-then slumped against the wall.

An hour later, she sat in Lady O's room, her hands wrapped about a steaming mug of cocoa. Not even the scalding brew could stop her shivering.

Her bedchamber was at the end of the wing; Blenkinsop, doing his morning rounds opening up the great house, had been at the bottom of the stairs when she and the maid had come flying out of her room. He'd heard the commotion and come hurrying up, just in time to quell the maid before she launched into hysterics.

Portia had explained. Blenkinsop had paled, then quickly taken charge. He'd ushered her downstairs to a small parlor, summoning footmen to assist him, and the housekeeper, into whose charge he assigned the sobbing maid.

In an unsteady voice, she'd asked for Simon to be summoned. Didn't stop to consider the proprieties, only knew she wanted him, and he would come.

He had; he'd taken one look at her, and insisted on sweeping her upstairs again-to Lady O's room, into Lady O's keeping.

Propped high on her pillows, Lady O had listened to Simon's abbreviated explanation, then fixed him with a black stare. "Fetch Granny."

When Simon blinked, she'd snorted. "Granville-Lord Netherfield. He may be a trifle feeble these days, but he was always a good man in a crisis. His room's in the middle of the main wing-closest to the main stairs."

Simon had nodded; Lady O had transferred her gaze to Portia. "As for you, gel-you'd better sit down before you fall down."

She'd complied, sinking into the chair by the hearth; Simon had left.

Sliding from the bed, tugging her wrap about her shoulders, Lady O had picked up her cane and clomped over to take the other armchair. Easing down into it, she'd fixed her with a sapient eye. "Right then. Tell me what happened and don't leave anything out."

By the time she'd satisfied Lady O-allowing the fiction that she'd fallen asleep in the armchair in her room to stand-Blenkinsop had appeared.

"We've removed the viper, miss. The footmen have searched the room-there's no danger there now."

She'd murmured her thanks, inwardly struggling to believe that such a thing had actually happened, that this wasn't some disordered dream. Lady O had summoned maids to help her dress and sent another to fetch Portia fresh clothes. And the cocoa.

When a tap on the door heralded Lord Netherfield and Simon, she was sitting, primly neat in a gown of magenta twill, sipping the cocoa and trying to assimilate the fact that someone had tried to kill her. At the very least, to scare her witless.

Lord Netherfield was concerned yet practical; after she'd recounted her story, catching Simon's eye when she explained why she'd not slept in her bed, his lordship, perched on a stool between the armchairs, sat back and regarded them all.

"This is all most distressing. I've asked Blenkinsop to keep the matter quiet. None of the other ladies heard the commotion, it seems, and the staff are all trustworthy-they'll keep mum."

One arm braced against the mantelpiece, Simon frowned. "Why?"

Lord Netherfield looked up at him. "Starve the enemy of information, what?" He looked again at Portia. "It might not be much, but we have to face the fact that that adder could not have got under your covers by itself. Someone's expecting you to be dead, or if not that, then at least hysterical enough to leave immediately."

"Before the gentleman from Bow Street arrives?" Simon glanced at his lordship, who grimly nodded.

"That's the way I see it." Again, he looked at Portia. "How do you feel, my dear?"

She thought, admitted, "Shaken, but not shaken enough to flee."

"That's my girl. So"-his lordship slapped his palms on his thighs-"what can we learn from this? Why did Kitty's murderer-in the circumstances, I think we must assume it was he or she-want you gone, one way or t'other?"

Portia looked blankly back at him.

"Because," Simon answered, "the murderer believes you saw something that identifies him."

"Or heard something, or in some other way know something." Lady O nodded. "Yes, that has to be it." She skewered Portia with her black gaze. "So-what is it you know?"

She looked back at them. "Nothing."

They questioned her-took her back over all she'd done, all she'd seen since entering the front hall the previous afternoon. She knew what they were doing, and why, so kept her temper. In the end, she put down her empty cup, and simply said, "I can't tell you something I don't know."

With a humph, a sigh, and a concerned frown, they finally accepted that.

"Well, then!" Lord Netherfield rose. "Next thing is to see this fellow Bow Street sends down. When you speak with him, tell him everything you know-about Kitty and everyone else here, too. Not just from yesterday, but ever since you arrived . . . no, more than that. Anything you know about those presently here from farther afield, too." He met Portia's gaze. "We can't tell what little piece of information you may have that points a finger at the blackguard."

She blinked, then nodded. "Yes, of course." She started mentally cataloging those of the guests she'd known before.

Lady O snorted. "What is this business of persons from Bow Street? Why are they involved?"

"It's the way things are done now. Not comfortable, but in the interests of justice, it seems to have its merits. Heard about a most peculiar case at my club not long ago. Gentleman done to death with a poker in his own library. They were all set to blame the butler, but then the investigating chappie proved it was the man's brother. Huge scandal, of course. The family were devastated . . ."

His lordship's words trailed away. They all remained silent, all thinking the same thing.

Whoever had killed Kitty, there was a good chance it was one of the guests or one of the Glossups, either Henry or James, his lordship's grandsons. If the murderer was unmasked, there would be a scandal. Potentially a very damaging one. For someone, for some family.

Lord Netherfield eventually sighed. "You know, I can't say I liked Kitty. Didn't approve of her, of how she played fast and loose with Henry. She was a supremely silly and brazen chit, yet"-his lips twisted-"for all that, she didn't deserve to be done in like that."

He focused on them all. "I wouldn't want her murderer to escape retribution. The poor woman deserves at least that."

They all nodded. A pact had been made. They knew each other well enough to recognize all they held in common, a belief in justice, an instinctive reaction against those who flouted it. Together, they would work to unmask the murderer regardless of who it was.

"Well, then!" Lord Netherfield clapped his hands together, looked first at Portia, then Lady O. "Let's head down to breakfast-and see who's surprised to see Miss Ashford in the pink."

They rose, shook out skirts, settled coats and cuffs, then headed downstairs to do battle.

Much good did it do them; there was so much nervousness about the breakfast table, some starting at every little thing, others sunk in abstraction, that it was impossible to point to any one response to Portia's appearance as especially indicative.

Everyone was already pale; many looked wan, as if they'd slept poorly.