"Then, why on earth did you marry, my lord? I'm given to understand that your nuptials are quite recent."

Nicholas heaved a ragged sigh that brought his posture down and sent ripples of pain through his shoulder. It had only been two days since the bullet was removed. He would not let the doctor know about the pain and risk being dosed with the opiate again. The subject at hand had to be broached now, before he got out of that bed again, no matter the cost.

"I am hounded by the ton to enter the marriage mart," he began. "Scads of invitations arrive on a daily basis, which I must decline. No wife, no mistress-people were beginning to talk. I've had to have my servants turn away at the door, some well-meaning callers determined to draw me into the social whirl. I cannot leave Ravencliff, for fear of this madness coming upon me at some inopportune moment in some ballroom, opera house, or open market. I've been abroad, Dr. Breeden, trying to live a normal life, and I was very nearly found out in just such a situation. That's why I've become somewhat of a hermit here. I needed to marry to put paid to the hounding that I become an active part of society, and I couldn't even do that other than by proxy."

"But to send your steward, my lord?" said the doctor. "What sort of woman-"

"No, no, Sara is quite well to pass," Nicholas interrupted. "She's the daughter of a knight, Sir Jacob Ponsonby, a Colonel in the army, before he died and left her scorched. There was no male heir, and none to designate. The Crown took back the land, and her personal assets were not great enough to keep her out of the Fleet. Colonel Ponsonby served with my father in India at the beginning of the occupation, as I told you. What I didn't tell you, or her, is that he was with my father when the wolf bit him, and it was he who killed the animal and saved my father's life. They were close friends-military chums. Father mentions him repeatedly in his journals, including the incident of the wolf. You are welcome to peruse them if you wish, though I have done again and again and found no clue to this nightmare that plagues me now.

"When I heard of Sara's misfortune, I offered for her at once. She was hardly in a position to refuse. I took advantage of that, hoping that putting her in my debt might be enough to keep her here once I made my intentions plain and she realized the benefits of the arrangement. The Fleet is an odious place. It would have pleased my father that I do such a thing for the daughter of his friend, but my motives were more selfish than philanthropic, Dr. Breeden. I am... so lonely."

"What were the terms of the arrangement, my lord, if I may be so bold as to inquire?" the doctor queried.

"It was an honorable proposal. I explained that I wanted to marry for the reasons I've already told you- that I required a hostess to preside over gatherings at Ravencliff, such as your visit here now, and that since I did not want an heir, sharing my bed was not part of the arrangement. Furthermore, she would be treated like a queen, want for nothing, and gain title and lands. I own properties abroad that are not attached to the estate. It was a very attractive offer, Dr. Breeden. I am a man of means, and a generous one."

"Forgive me, but you hardly needed to marry. Except for the title as part of the package, you could have taken a mistress, my lord. London is swarming with all sorts of prospects these days-gentlemen's daughters, society mavens, respectable widows-all quite well to pass, who would jump at the chance to broker such an arrangement."

"No," Nicholas returned. "A mistress would have expected bed sport, and I couldn't risk it. Besides, the way mistresses are flaunted in Town these days, taking one wouldn't have exempted me from the marriage mart. It would have made me even more desirable.

"I foolishly imagined that sharing my bed might be a concern. I was counting upon Sara's relief that she hadn't been brought out here to be ravished by a total stranger to get me past that hurdle. I was hoping that once we'd gotten beyond that awkward bit, we might settle into some sort of amiable platonic relationship beneficial to us both. It isn't quite working out that way."

"You expected her to live a life of celibacy as well, my lord?" said the doctor, clearly nonplussed.

"Of course not," Nicholas replied. "I told her I would not object to her taking a lover, as long as she was discreet and it wasn't Alex Mallory. He resides here much of the time, and that would have been awkward. I was soundly upbraided for making such a suggestion."

"I shouldn't wonder."

"What else was I to do? I thought I was offering her a practical solution to a problem I hadn't anticipated. Added to it, she couldn't imagine why I wouldn't want an heir. She even questioned my sexual preference. You can certainly see why I cannot have children. I cannot risk passing this... whatever it is on to another generation. The madness must end with me. I couldn't tell her that, of course. I did say that there was a defect in the blood that I did not wish to pass on. It was half-truth, and I doubt she believed it. God knows what she believes."

"Yet she has remained," the doctor mused.

"Unfortunately, there is a mutual attraction," said Nicholas.

"Why is that unfortunate?"

"Surely you can see the impossibility of such as that? I am aware of her attraction to me, and I've done everything in my power to keep her from realizing that it's mutual-even to the point of boorish behavior that disgusts me."

"You are falling in love with her."

"That is something else I didn't anticipate."

"Love conquers many things, my lord."

"Not this."

"Do not sell love short, Baron Walraven."

"There is... something else," Nicholas said. He couldn't meet the doctor's eyes. The man saw more with that silver gaze than any man had a right to see. "She has become... attached to Nero," he murmured.

There was a long silence. It tasted of death. Not even the sun shone on that moment. Clouds scudding before the risen wind had obliterated it, and though it was midday, the room was clad in bleak semidarkness.

"How did that happen?" said the doctor at last.

"I am at fault," Nicholas confessed. "It was the only way I could be near her... close to her... bear her touch... touch her myself. It is torture. I live with her scent. It is with me always. It is in me. She is in me. Nero gives me what little I will ever have of her-the innocent, unconditional love of a mistress for her pet."

"This must cease."

"I have tried."

"A man was nearly killed, my lord. We do not yet know how badly he was mauled till we find him, and that is the least of the danger in such an association. The hopelessness alone! How do you bear it? The baroness believes that Nero is dead. I implore you, let him stay so."

"He very nearly was, wasn't he, Dr. Breeden?" Nicholas murmured.

"Do you always remember what has occurred during the transformations once they are over, my lord?"

"For the most part, yes-in bits and pieces according to their importance, the way you remember parts of a dream."

"What does happen usually?"

"Nothing memorable," said Nicholas. "Nero runs off whatever emotion it was that summoned him. He and I both have an affinity for the sea, and he haunts it-runs the strand in a way that I long to do, but never could in my two-legged incarnation, through the surf, over the rocks. He bathes in the tide pools, and races the wind, free, as I can never be free as long as we are joined.

"Sometimes, he prowls the house, observing the servants, and Alex. You would be amazed at what those occasions yield. He roams at will, virtually ignored, privy to all sorts of shocking tidbits. Through Nero's eyes, I know who's diddling whom, and who would like to be. Who can be trusted, and who cannot. What the servants really think, and how they gain and cull and hone the bits of information they gather for their deuced on-dits. Every estate in the kingdom should have a Nero wandering about, Dr. Breeden. There'd be far less skullduggery afoot, I guarantee you."

"How long has Nero lived in this house, my lord?"

"Nero has had many incarnations over the years... and many names, but he is still the same creature, my alter ego. We are one. What am I, Dr. Breeden... man, or animal?"

"I shall have to see this manifestation with my own eyes in order to make a positive assessment of your... malady, my lord," said the doctor, "but from what you tell me, it appears that something of the wolf has been transferred to you from your father through the blood upon conception. You yourself were not bitten, so the taint is diluted in you. The mold has been broken, as it were, and you are, in my estimation, what is known as a nonviolent shapeshifter. Werewolves are technically shapeshifters as well-anyone who changes form would fall in that category-but not all shapeshifters are werewolves. The term covers a broad spectrum of entities, the werewolf being the darkest, most violent creature, as different from you in your affliction as night from day."

"Can you help me, Dr. Breeden?"

"It is too early to tell, my lord," said the physician. "There is no cure, if that is what you're asking, but there are other ways of... dealing with the problem. You will have to be patient, and you will have to trust me."

"Just tell me there is hope."

"There is always hope, my lord, but for now you must rest and mend. You haven't fooled me, you know.

You're in pain. I shall dose you with laudanum, repair to my suite, and read those journals you spoke of, if you will allow. Will you give me leave to tell the baroness that Nero is dead?"

"No, Dr. Breeden," Nicholas murmured, looking him in the eyes. "That, I cannot do."

The doctor processed his reply without speaking. This time Nicholas met his mercurial stare, meaning to

punctuate and underscore his words that there be no mistaking his resolve. It was the doctor who broke

eye contact.

"Very well, my lord," he said. "Though I implore you, think on it... objectively. We shall take the matter up again, when you've had time to consider the consequences."

The doctor dosed him and left him then, his bushy brows knit in a contemplative frown. Mills stepped in as he quit the chamber, and Nicholas beckoned his valet closer. The laudanum was beginning to work, and he needed to have his say before it rendered him inert.

"What is it, my lord?" said Mills.

"Is there any sign of Alex?" he asked.

"No, my lord, he seems to have disappeared without a trace."

"That is impossible. Did you go round to the stables and inquire of Watts, as I told you to?"

"I did, my lord. All the horses and carriages are accounted for, and Watts wasn't even aware that Mr.

Mallory had re-turned, much less disappeared. He arrived by post chaise."

"This is impossible. He has to be somewhere. He cannot just have vanished into thin air." He shook his

head in a vain attempt to forestall the effects of the opiate. "Breeden's given me a proper dose, by God,"

he grumbled. "I'll be out before I have this said."

"You need to rest, my lord. Everything is being done that can be done. You need to mend, so you can

take command again."

"You've searched the house?"

"We have, my lord, a thorough search from top to bottom."

"Search it again! He knows where most of the hidden chambers are. He's hiding in one of them-he has

to be. He must have left a trail of blood. He was badly bitten. Did you follow it? I should think that would have been your first course of action, Mills."

"Begging your pardon, my lord, but Nero left a trail of blood as well. One trail ended here, the other at

the landing. He must have bound the wound somehow."

"Look again. He may have bled somewhere else. Mills, he has to be found. We do not know how Nero's bite will affect him. He may be as I am, or he may be something far worse. There is no way of telling. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"Merciful God, my lord!" the valet breathed. "Suppose-"

"Is her ladyship guarded?" Nicholas interrupted.

"The hall boys, Peters, Clarke, and Gibbons are taking turns outside her door, my lord, whether she is in her suite or not. She is watched day and night. They have orders to alert us at once if Mr. Mallory should approach the tapestry suite. What should we do with him if he does surface, my lord? You cannot see him as you are."

"Get those... damned pistols, for one thing," said Nicholas, his speech thick and slurred as the laudanum took him deeper. "Then turn him out-no, you cannot... I am not thinking clearly. He must remain until we know. You will have to... confine him somewhere until... until I can confront him. Just do it, Mills... however you must. Everything depends upon it."

Chapter Twelve.

Something was wrong, very wrong. It had been three days, and still Nicholas hadn't returned-neither had Alexander Mallory or Nero. Sara was beside herself. None of the servants would tell her anything. She was kept confined in her suite at Mills's instruction, acting in Nicholas's stead. The reason given her was that Alexander Mallory was doubtless deranged and dangerous, and until he was apprehended and disarmed, she was safer in her suite.

She should be in the dining hall extending hospitality to their guest in Nicholas's absence. She wanted to prove herself to this strange husband, who evidently thought of her with no more regard than he did a piece of his furniture. What had taken him away from Ravencliff? What "urgent business" was it that was more important than taking a coach to London to marry his bride? She couldn't imagine it. How could she have been so wrong about what she'd felt in that one delicious unguarded moment in his strong arms?

Dr. Breeden had been to see her several times during her confinement. He'd been pleasant and reassuring on those occasions, and he'd told her that he was quite content to sup alone and repair to his rooms early to peruse some of the tomes from Nicholas's impressive library. She mustn't reproach herself. All would be well. Nicholas would soon return. Hopefully Mr. Mallory would be found by then, and things would go back to normal-whatever that was. Sara hadn't had one normal experience since she'd entered Ravencliff Manor.

It was Nero's absence, however, that troubled her most of all. No one had seen him since the shooting. He'd been seriously wounded, and he hadn't returned to her suite. Fear that he had crawled off somewhere to die gave her no peace. Dr. Breeden hadn't been very encouraging. Though he said that dogs often crawled off to lick their wounds when injured and sometimes survived, he also said the longer his absence the less likely that would be. It didn't bode well, and by the end of the fourth day of her confinement, Sara had memorized every tapestry in her suite, as if she willed Nero to materialize from among the hunting hounds that lined her walls. She had to do something. She had to get out of those rooms before she went mad.

It was late. Nell had long since retired. Outside a wicked wind had kicked up, and the sound of angry breakers beating on the rockbound strand and rolling up the cliff was music to her ears. The racket would cover any noise she might make exiting her suite. There would be a hall boy posted outside. She was counting on the hour to find him nodding, or if it were Peters on watch, that he would have stolen away for one of his customary nocturnal assignations with Nell. The latter was evidently the case. When she eased her door open, the bench the sentries occupied in their turn was vacant. Bless the boy! She stepped into the corridor, and pulled the door to, leaving it slightly ajar for Nero. Just in case.

She had no plan. Just getting out of that suite had emboldened her to the point of recklessness, and why not? She was Baroness Walraven, wasn't she? Who was to stop her? Certainly not her enigmatic, absent, unfeeling husband. Puffed up with that, she strolled over the second-floor hallway, gaining confidence in her liberation with each forbidden step.

She was still dressed. She had cried off when Nell came to prepare her for bed. The seed of this escape had been germinating for days, waiting for the perfect moment to sprout. She should have put her pelerine on over the thin white muslin frock, however. The halls were drafty, the dampness penetrating. Would it be this way all summer as well? She shuddered to wonder.

Having reached the grand staircase, she hesitated on the landing, glancing upward toward the restricted third floor. It suddenly struck her that now, during Nicholas's absence, would be the perfect time to have a look inside the master suite in hopes of unearthing some clue, some nugget of understanding of the man she'd married. Curiosity egged her on, and moved her up the third flight of the carpeted staircase on feet that made no sound.

That she had no idea which suite was Nicholas's didn't matter. She would find it, if she had to throw every door open until she did. Other than that it was a turret room in the north wing, which would put it on the west side of the corridor facing the sea, she had no idea where to begin. Never having been out on the cliff to view Ravencliff from the sea side, she could only speculate as to where the turret suites were located. Since the bifurcated staircase divided the house into north and south wings, she turned right, and began her search.

She'd just poked her head into the second chamber on the left side of the corridor, another suite where the furnishings were draped with Holland covers, when a door halfway down the hall came open, throwing a puddle of candlelight onto the crimson carpet. She ducked inside the chamber she'd just checked, leaving the door open just enough to see who passed by on the way to the stairs.

Sara's heart pounded in her breast, thudded against her ribs. Pressed up against the crack in the door, she held her breath in anticipation of the author of the heavy footfalls coming closer. Not the footfalls of one of the servants, certainly, who were well skilled at moving about without making a sound. No, these footfalls had no care for discretion, their owner was weary and borne down. When he passed, she gasped in spite of herself. It was Dr. Breeden!

What was this? The doctor's rooms were on the second floor, not the third. She had chosen them herself, and Mrs. Bromley had made them ready. Sara waited until he disappeared in the shadows of the landing below, before stepping into the corridor again. No candlelight flooded the hallway from the chamber he had vacated now, only a thin sliver of light seeped out from under the door. She crept toward it.