"I am hardly a child, to report to my elders," he said tersely.

"And what if there were an emergency and we needed to reach you? Be reasonable."

A long, interminable moment pa.s.sed. He walked back to the sideboard and filled another snifter. He did not look at her as he spoke. "You are right. I should have told you how to reach me, in case there was a problem with the boys." He paced away to pause before the fire and stare at it.

She followed. She had noticed a tremor going through him. He was pretending calm. "What were you dreaming about? What has left you so shaken?"

"G.o.d, you are persistent. I don't recall, Amelia." His glance was brief and sharp, filled with warning.

She stepped forward, so they stood side by side. At this proximity, the fire in the hearth was too warm. "I only want to help. And maybe I could help, if I knew what is bothering you so much that you have nightmares about it. Has it ever occurred to you that your distress will affect the boys?"

"Everything I have done, everything I am doing, is for their sake!" he said harshly.

He was in a terrible predicament, she thought. Something had happened, or was happening, to distress him so. "Sometimes you almost sound as if you have been abroad, as if you have experienced the war firsthand."

He looked at her, wide-eyed. "What the h.e.l.l would make you think that?"

She hesitated. "Lucas is involved in the war, Simon, secretly. And Bedford was once an agent for our country."

He paled. "I cannot believe you are telling me this. I do not think you know what you are speaking of."

"I am hardly a spinster, sitting at home in oblivion. When I first met Bedford, he was gravely wounded, and we thought he was a French army officer. He had been in France, spying for Pitt."

"So that is why you have such an imagination," he said, his eyes still wide.

"French deserters looted my neighbor's house. My best friend is an emigre. The war is a terrible fact of my life. I cannot help but wonder if it has somehow affected you."

"I am too busy managing this earldom to even think about the war."

"Then you are fortunate," she said. "Do you have such dreams often?"

He stared incredulously at her. "As I said, you are like a terrier with a bone. Will you ever give up?"

"Not in this instance, not when you are suffering, not when there are needy children in the house." She was final.

"I don't recall the d.a.m.ned dream, and I don't want to," he snapped. "But if you must know, I have nightmares frequently. All of the time, in fact! And next time you happen upon me in such a dream, I suggest you walk away. It is not your affair."

"I am making it my affair," she managed to answer. "Because I am worried about you and I care about the children."

"Then do so at your own risk. Because next time you interfere, I am going to take what I want."

"You are threatening me?" She was shocked.

"No. I am not threatening you, Amelia. I am making you a promise. Next time, I will satisfy my desires-and yours." And with that hard p.r.o.nouncement, his eyes ablaze, he walked abruptly out.

Amelia rushed to the closest chair and sat down before her knees gave out. Then she began to fight the urge to cry. What was happening? Was Simon in danger?

And she realized that all she knew was that Simon was suffering, and it hurt her, too. d.a.m.n it, she would help him, if she could. But first, she had to find out what was going on.

CHAPTER NINE.

AMELIA SMILED WITH EXCITEMENT as she alighted from the St. Just coach. Bedford House was a magnificent home just a few blocks from Lambert Hall; she had meant to walk, but Grenville had caught her going out and he had insisted she take the coach or one of his smaller carriages. Before she could argue, he had ordered the coach brought around. Then he had vanished into the library, closing both doors behind him.

Two days had pa.s.sed. It was the first moment she had been able to spare to go visit her sister. She had been far too busy to call on Julianne. Nor had she sent her a note to tell her she had arrived in town. Instead, she had the house cleaned from top to bottom, the pantries filled to overflowing, the piano and harp tuned, the servants' uniforms laundered. She and Signor Barelli had spent an entire afternoon revising the boys' schedule of cla.s.ses and activities. She had also spent three hours planning the boys' new bedroom decor. John and William had been moved into a guest bedroom; their bedroom was being painted a dark blue with white trim. Navy paisley fabrics had been chosen for their bedding, blue-and-white silks for two chairs, and a pale blue damask for their sofa. All the furniture was being refurbished that week.

She had also taken a few hours to shop for Lucille, who now had an adorable wardrobe of her own, most of the tiny clothes pink or yellow.

She had not seen Grenville except in pa.s.sing. She felt certain he was avoiding her after the kiss they had shared. He probably felt the danger of their attraction, as she did. He probably knew, as she did, that they must keep their distance.

Any kind of intimacy was simply too dangerous.

When she did see him, he was polite and distant. He thanked her after every meal. Mostly, he was either locked in his library or he was out, attending various meetings. Last night he had gone to a supper party at Lord Dell's home. She had been awake when he had come in, and it had been well after midnight.

She did not want to question his whereabouts, but weekday dinner parties usually ended before two in the morning.

She realized then he had a mistress. All men of his stature did.

Oddly, she felt hurt, and not just by his dalliance, if that was what it was. She knew she should be relieved that they were playing the role of housekeeper and employer. Still, it was no easy task. Whenever their eyes met, she felt an instant tension, an immediate awareness, and she knew that he did, too. The moment their gazes met, Grenville would look aside.

She also noticed how tired he looked. Was he still sleeping poorly? Was he having nightmares? Was he in trouble, or even danger? He had been so evasive! Her worry knew no bounds.

Could he have been out so late for a purpose other than dallying with a lover?

She knew better than to ask how he was. The few times she had almost done so, he had immediately turned away, as if knowing where she wished to lead.

Now she kept a decanter in her bedchamber, so she could take her brandy before bed without having to encounter him downstairs. Yet part of her really had no wish to avoid him. A part of her even missed his company! In any case, she knew she could not continue to avoid him indefinitely.

It was midafternoon and she had decided it was time to take care of herself. The boys were in their cla.s.sroom with Signor Barelli-their first day back to their studies, a relief!-the shopping for the day had been done, lunch was over, Grenville was out, and supper was being prepared. Her duties for the moment were done. She missed and needed her sister.

But Amelia felt a tinge of guilt as she hurried to the front door of the palatial house. Momma always took a long nap after lunch and Amelia had encouraged her to do so that day. Amelia knew that Momma would wish to see Julianne-not that she would necessarily recognize her. But she desperately needed to speak privately with her sister now.

And before she had reached the front door, it flew open and Julianne was standing there.

"I saw the coach enter the drive," Julianne cried, smiling. "St. Just never calls. I knew it had to be you!" And Julianne pulled her into her arms.

Amelia embraced her back, hard. Then she took a long look at her sister. Once, Julianne had been a country gentlewoman with limited means. She had spent her days doing ch.o.r.es in a drab housedress, then reading in the library, or agitating for the Jacobins in France. Now she was every bit the countess she had become in her silks and jewels. "I barely recognize you," Amelia said, as she walked inside with her sister. "I don't know if I can become accustomed to your having become so elegant!"

Julianne was tall, willowy, with reddish-blond hair. She was resplendent in a dark green brocade gown with striped gold silk underskirts. She wore an emerald pendant on a chain and emerald teardrop earrings. Her hair was curled and pulled back, to fall past her shoulders and down her back. She was wearing a very small headdress, with a gold headband.

The top of Amelia's head probably reached her chin. "Are you wearing rouge?" she asked teasingly, looking up at her.

"Just a touch on my lips. I am a very fallen woman." She almost snickered, smiling wickedly.

Amelia knew her sister had never been happier. "You are glowing. I have never seen you as radiant. How is my niece?"

"Jaquelyn is crawling everywhere!" Julianne laughed, looping their arms together. "I spend most of my time rushing after her as she vanishes beneath chairs and settees."

Amelia smiled, glancing around the high-ceilinged entry hall. Of course, she had been Julianne's guest for several weeks, just prior to and just after her sister had given birth. She was not a stranger to Bedford House. "Can I see her before I leave?"

"Of course you can. She is napping, but I will do the unthinkable and wake her up if I have to." Julianne's smile faded as she led her into an opulent salon with gold walls, gilded furniture and a vast array of seating arrangements. She released her arm and faced her. "Why are you wearing that horrid dress?"

Amelia hesitated. Julianne had insisted on lavishing funds on her for their family. Amelia had put every penny into a banking account.

Julianne gave her a dark look and smiled at the butler who had just appeared. "Gerard, would you please bring tea and those sinfully decadent chocolate pastries we had last night?"

He bowed and left.

Julianne faced her. "Forget the dress, then. I knew you wouldn't spend a penny of the funds I gave you. I am going to have to deliver some decent gowns to your door."

"I don't need new gowns, Julianne," Amelia said, although that was hardly true.

Julianne scowled. "You did it, didn't you? You really took up with St. Just?"

"I am his housekeeper," Amelia insisted.

"I very nearly swooned when I received your letter," Julianne cried. "I could not believe what I was reading. I could not believe that he had offered you a position as a common servant and that you had accepted!"

"Did you also read about his poor children and the state of his household? His wife has just pa.s.sed away, Julianne!"

"He broke your heart."

Amelia froze.

"Yes, I am going to the gist of the matter. Forget that you are a gentlewoman, and your brother-in-law is Bedford and that you are no longer without means. He broke your heart. He played you for an entire summer, you expected an offer of marriage, and then he simply left. You may have forgotten, but I have not!" She was flushed with anger.

"I have forgiven him, Julianne," Amelia said. "And I am asking you to do the same."

"Like h.e.l.l I will," Julianne cried, trembling. "How on earth could you forgive him? How can you manage his household? How can you care for his children?"

Amelia knew that Julianne's rage was a direct result of the love she felt for her sister. But she sighed. She so needed her sister's advice, but if Julianne was this angry, her advice would not be worth very much. "They are suffering," she said softly.

"Has he seduced you?" Julianne demanded. "Is that what this is about?"

Amelia gasped in surprise. Before she could deny it, Gerard and a maid returned, wheeling in a cart filled with exotic pastries, a silver teapot and porcelain cups and saucers. Julianne managed to thank the servants. When they had left, Amelia said, "That is unfair."

"No, his leaving you was unfair!" Her gray eyes flashed. "His pursuit was unfair! The kisses you shared with him were unfair!"

Amelia sat down. Julianne was fiery and pa.s.sionate. She would let her ramble on, until she calmed down. Eventually her sister would become reasonable, but she was sorry she had mentioned, all those years ago, that he had kissed her.

"So, is he still dark and handsome? Is he still dangerous and dashing?" Julianne asked, oddly accusing.

"He is still an attractive man," Amelia said, far more calmly than she felt. "But he has changed, Julianne, terribly. I am very worried about him."

"You are worried about him?" Julianne cried, aghast. She sat down beside Amelia, the tea forgotten. "You never answered my question. Oh, Amelia, he hurt you so-I don't want you ever hurt that way again-and he isn't good enough for you!"

Amelia chose her words with care, taking Julianne's hand. "First of all, he has not seduced me." She hoped she wasn't blushing. "I am his housekeeper. I cannot tell you enough how much his boys need me-how Lucille needs me. But... I am also his friend."

She choked. "Only you would find it in your heart to befriend him now!"

"He dearly needs a friend."

Julianne shook her head. "Is Lucille the baby?"

She nodded. "Julianne, Lucille isn't his daughter. She is Lady Grenville's b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and he is very angry about it!"

"Oh, dear!" Julianne cried, clearly forgetting her grudge against Grenville now.

"She is so beautiful and so innocent! I am in love with her already. She is one of the reasons I took the post. That poor infant has neither a father nor a mother, and I am so worried about her."

Julianne hugged her. "Of course you are. I cannot imagine how I would feel if Jaquelyn were being raised in some stranger's home. Oh, the one thing I have learned a great deal about is male pride. St. Just must be grieving, of course, for Lady Grenville-but he must be furious to be left with her b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Amelia debated keeping the truth from her sister, but she could not. "They did not have a good marriage. They did not care for one another."

A moment pa.s.sed. "And how would you know that? You never heed gossip."

"He told me so himself."

Julianne paled and stood up. "He told you? And you believe him? I knew it. You have never gotten over him. That is why you never married. Amelia, you cannot be friends, after all that he has done!"

"You hardly know him, Julianne. You should not suggest that he is lying about his marriage, or that our friendship is false." Amelia stood, grim.

"I am going to look after you, Amelia, when you have always been the one to look after me. I believe I am a bit better acquainted with men than you are. He is playing you now, the way he played you ten years ago."

Amelia thought of how seductive Grenville could become, in the blink of an eye. If she allowed him liberties, he would not hesitate. Was Julianne right? Could he be playing her? She had believed him when he had declared that, in spite of everything, they were friends.

"I see you are uncertain," Julianne said. "You do know he has a miserable reputation."

She tensed. "If you are going to tell me that he is a ladies' man, I do not want to hear it."

"No, but he is a renowned recluse, Amelia. And everyone knows better than to invite him to supper, for he will most likely brood."

Amelia ached for Simon. "Then perhaps the changes I have seen in him began some time ago. He was not a recluse when we were young." She smiled, feeling sad. "He has become dark and anguished. I noticed the changes the moment I saw him at the funeral, before we even had a chance to speak." When Julianne was silent, she said, "Something is bothering him, but he will not tell me what it is."

"Perhaps he is simply afflicted with melancholia," Julianne said. "Did he recognize you, Amelia? Did he remember your affair?"

Amelia didn't hesitate. "When I heard that Lady Grenville had died and I knew we would see one another at the funeral, I was certain he would not even recognize me. But he remembered me, Julianne."

She started. "After all these years?"

"There is a connection, Julianne, that defies all common sense-that defies the past we shared." How calm she sounded, Amelia thought. "And that is why we are friends now."

"How can you be friends when you were in love with him once? You cannot ignore your past."