"What in thunder-" Havell said again.

"It is just the spot where Aunt Miriam jumped," Julian said. "But . . . he must just be showing Aunt Dora where it happened. He surely wouldn't push her over. It would be madness. He has three witnesses."

"That will not deter him," George said. He had stopped, but his mind was racing. If he moved any closer, he would merely provoke Eastham into pushing her over sooner. But if he stayed and did nothing, Eastham would do it anyway. He had already drawn her off the path closer to the edge of the cliff. "G.o.d!" He plummeted off a cliff of his own into the sheer h.e.l.l of terror, panic, and despair. There was nothing- That was when Sir Everard Havell took charge of the situation.

"Crabbe," he had said crisply, addressing Julian, "go to your right. I will go left. Get through all that gorse and then call his name. I will do the same directly after you. Perhaps we can distract him long enough to give Dora a chance to break free. Get ready to dash in to help, but only if she has managed to get back a bit from the edge. George, stay here and keep his attention focused on you."

George stayed there because he could do nothing else. It was all hopeless. Just as it had been the last time, though this situation was different. There was no course of action that would prevent catastrophe. Yet inaction would not prevent it either. He was scarcely aware of the other two moving away to the sides. What should he do? Move forward? Utter threats? Beg and plead? None of those options would do any good whatsoever. Miriam had jumped, and Eastham would push. But he took a few steps forward anyway and drew breath to say something.

"Eastham!" It was Julian's voice, not his own, coming from down on the path to the right.

Eastham answered him, his voice raised in mockery.

But miraculously, terrifyingly, Dora jerked away from him and fled in the opposite direction. Eastham recovered his focus almost instantly. She could not possibly escape.

"Behind you, Eastham," George yelled, and Eastham's pursuit was slowed while he turned his head to look in the direction from which Julian's voice had come. But only for the briefest of moments.

He was after Dora again in a flash. Within moments he would have her in his grasp once more. But those moments offered a slim sliver of hope, and George sprang into action. He never afterward knew how he got past the gorse bushes, but get through them he did, leaving deep scratches in his boots and tearing his breeches and drawing blood from his knees and thighs and hands. The path bent around the steep fall of rocks that they used as an access to the beach, but Dora did not go around. She kept on going forward instead, and, even as Eastham's hands reached for her, she disappeared over the edge, moving at a full run.

George felt that nightmare sensation of trying to run at full speed through air grown thick and gummy. But this was reality, not nightmare. He had failed to reach her in time, and Havell was on the other side of the gap in the cliff and too far away to grab her and haul her to safety. Havell was not too far away, however, to raise one booted foot as Eastham turned downward in pursuit. The foot caught Eastham at one ankle, and he tripped and lost his balance.

There were shouting voices-one of them may have been George's-and then a scream.

George arrived at the top of the slope as Havell, teetering on the edge, regained his balance and called a warning down the slope. But George saw only one thing. He saw Dora partway down, her body spread across a jagged, jutting rock.

He was quite unaware of going down to her. He was just there, and he was gathering her to him, calling her name, knowing that she could not hear him, that she was dead.

"Dora!" he said again, and he felt his heart shatter and sanity slip from him. He held her for what seemed an eternity before he heard a sound.

"What kept you, George?" she asked, her voice faint and slurred.

He jerked his head back and stared down at her. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then she was gone, her face as white as parchment.

"Ah, Dora," he whispered against her lips. "My beloved. My only beloved."

"Is she hurt?" It was Julian's voice, and he was crouched beside George and pressing two fingers to the side of her neck. "A strong beat, thank G.o.d. She has just fainted."

George looked at him in incomprehension. "She is alive?"

Julian clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard.

"You look as though you are going to be the next one to faint," he said. "She is alive, Uncle George. Can you hear me? I do not even see any wounds. I believe the only blood is coming from the scratches on your hands. I have some on mine too. Those d.a.m.ned gorse bushes. But she is alive." He squeezed George's shoulder again.

"He is dead," a voice called up from below-Sir Everard Havell's. "I have killed him, and by Jove I am glad. Is Dora hurt?"

Dora woke up wondering if it was time to get up yet. But there was something about the angle of the light coming through the window of the bedchamber that was not quite right. It brought her eyes snapping open. What time was it? When was the ball?

She would have thrown back the bedcovers if her hand had not been imprisoned between two larger hands.

"George?"

He was sitting on the side of the bed, looking as pale as a ghost. "Thank G.o.d," he said. "You recognize me."

"Recognize-?" She frowned, and remembered.

"Oh." Her eyes widened. "How did I get here?"

"I carried you," he said. "You fainted. More than fainted actually. We could not bring you around. You have been unconscious for more than an hour."

She stared fixedly at him. "He was going to kill me. An eye for an eye, he said. A woman and child for a woman and child. He had no personal grudge against me, he a.s.sured me. It was revenge against you."

"And a very effective one, had it worked," he said. "A thousand times more effective than killing me."

"What happened to him?" She tried to sit up, but he coaxed her back against the pillows with one hand on her shoulder.

"Sir Everard tripped him as he turned to follow you down the slope," he said. "He fell almost to the bottom. He is dead."

"Dead," she repeated. "He meant to kill himself too, you know. That was why he was unconcerned about you and the others witnessing what he did. I think he actually wanted to be seen, especially by you. But what did you say? Sir Everard tripped him?"

A stifled sob drew Dora's attention to the foot of the bed. Her mother was standing there, clinging to the bedpost on the other side, just as pale as George.

"It was all my fault, Dora," she said. "I sent you to talk to him. You almost died."

"But I did not," Dora said. "And I did not have to go out there to him. It was my decision, remember?" She closed her eyes again for a moment and licked dry lips.

"Sir Everard saved your life, Dora," George said. "He arranged the diversion with Julian to distract Eastham to give you a chance to break away, and then he stopped Eastham before he could pursue you down the slope."

Dora's eyes filled with tears as she looked at her mother.

"He fears heights," her mother said.

Dora smiled wanly. How could it be that they had come full circle now? That the very man who she had always believed had ruined her life by stealing her mother away had now saved her life? And then her eyes widened in sudden panic. "But what time is it? There must be guests arriving. It must be almost time to-"

The hand that had pressed her shoulder back down to the bed was still there.

"It is time to lie where you are," George said. "There are other people to show the guests to their rooms. Dodd ought to be here soon. Julian went dashing off to fetch him."

"But I do not need a doctor," she protested. "I need to get ready for dinner and the ball. What time is it?"

"It is still only late afternoon," he a.s.sured her. "Listen to me, Dora. You have suffered a severe shock. I do not suppose you have felt the full effects of it yet. And there is the added complication that you are with child. You will lie there until Dodd has examined you, and you will lie there even after that if he feels you ought. And that is a command. Dinner and the ball will proceed without you if they must, though everyone will regret your absence, no one more so than I. Philippa has agreed to host the evening's events if necessary, and she is perfectly capable of doing so."

"I will stay here with you, Dora, if the doctor advises rest," her mother said. "You will not be alone. And no one will blame you for not putting in an appearance. Word of what has happened has no doubt spread through the village and beyond by now. And your condition is common knowledge. Indeed, I would think everyone would be more surprised if you did appear tonight."

Dora looked in dismay from one to the other of them. "But this is our first grand entertainment together," she said to George. She turned back to her mother. "And we deliberately planned it for the time you and Sir Everard would be here."

"There will be other b.a.l.l.s and parties and concerts, Dora," George said. "But there is only one of you."

"It is enough that we are here," her mother told her. "Everyone has been most kind. You and His Grace especially."

Dora clutched a handful of the bedcovers with her free hand. "I am not going to lose the baby, am I?" she asked.

Her mother shook her head, but it was George who answered.

"It is to be sincerely hoped you will not," he said, "but you must listen to the doctor, Dora, and do as he says. I would not risk our child or-and, frankly, far more important at this stage-you for the sake of a mere ball, important as I know it is to you. My G.o.d, I almost lost you today. I almost lost you and would have had it not been for Sir Everard and Julian."

His eyes glittered down into hers, and she realized that he was on the verge of tears. She relaxed back against the pillows.

And the image came suddenly and vividly to mind of the vast emptiness of s.p.a.ce that had yawned a mere foot or two in front of her with the Earl of Eastham's hand gripping her arm and propelling her forward. She thought of the desperate flight when she had somehow managed to wrench her arm free and of her split-second decision to take the slope down rather than the path around-and the almost simultaneous realization that she was never going to make it to the bottom alive. She remembered a tumbling, screaming body hurtling past her. She remembered arms holding her tight and a voice from the encroaching darkness as she lost consciousness, calling her name. She remembered a voice from the depths-Ah, Dora. My beloved. My only beloved.

George's voice.

"I ought to have heeded you when you begged me to have nothing more to do with him," she said. "But I thought I knew better than you. I thought there might be a way of reconciling the two of you."

"It was not your fault," he said. "I ought to have given you a reason. But let us all stop a.s.suming blame for what happened this afternoon. There was only one man to blame, and he will never hurt you again."

"He is dead." She closed her eyes and drew a slow breath. "How dreadful that I cannot feel sorry."

"Neither can I," her mother said with some spirit. "I am only sorry it was Everard's foot that tripped him, not mine."

Dora smiled at her. "I am glad it was Sir Everard," she said.

Her mother looked back in some surprise.

"I am only glad someone did," George said fervently, and Dora turned her gaze on him. And remembered . . . Ah, and remembered.

George's son had not been his but the Earl of Eastham's. The earl and the d.u.c.h.ess had harbored an illicit pa.s.sion for each other for many years. Their father had forced her into marriage with George in order to separate them. Had he known about her pregnancy? Perhaps. Probably, in fact. When had George discovered that the child was not his? Had he always known? Dear G.o.d, he had been only a boy at the time. What sort of permanent effect had that knowledge had upon him? But she was looking upon those effects, had been looking upon them for as long as she had known him. The almost perpetual kindness in his eyes also held a tinge of sadness. She had never quite identified that sadness until now. And there was his very private loneliness she had sensed but never been able to penetrate.

His hand tightened about hers, and two tears spilled over and trickled down his cheeks.

"I almost lost you," he said.

"Oh," she said, "I am not so easily misplaced."

Her mother went to open the door to whoever had just tapped on it and stepped aside to admit Dr. Dodd.

The physician was unable to detect any physical sign of the ordeal Dora had endured during the afternoon. There was no indication that a miscarriage might be imminent. She had suffered a dreadful shock, of course, and he could not predict how that might manifest itself in the hours and days ahead. But at present her pulse was steady and her color healthy and her mind clear. He strongly advised a few hours of bed rest. It was up to the d.u.c.h.ess herself to decide if she would put in an appearance before her guests during the evening, but if she did, he advised that she not exert herself unduly and that she not partic.i.p.ate in any vigorous dancing.

Dora reluctantly agreed to remain in her apartments during dinner. She would decide later what to do about the ball.

"Though I do hate to miss even the dinner," she told George with a sigh. "And really, I feel fine and quite fraudulent lying here."

She was not willing for her mother to stay with her.

"Though I do appreciate your concern, Mother," she a.s.sured her, "I would not be able to sleep if you were in the room. I would want to talk so that you would not be bored."

Fourteen persons sat down to dinner an hour later. It was all a severe trial to George. The guests were polite, of course, but it was clear they were bursting with curiosity to know exactly what had happened during the afternoon that had somehow sent a dead man to the village to await an inquest and the d.u.c.h.ess to her private apartments, where a physician had attended her. There was no point in being overly evasive, George had decided in consultation with Julian and Sir Everard and the ladies. Everyone already knew that the Earl of Eastham had once accused his brother-in-law of pushing the first d.u.c.h.ess to her death and had more recently renewed that accusation at the duke's wedding to the second d.u.c.h.ess. He had been silenced on that occasion, but clearly he had been obsessed and perhaps even deranged by his conviction that his sister did not take her own life-even though it had been clear to all who knew her that she was beside herself with grief over the recent death of her only son. So George and Julian had agreed that the rest of the story should be explained, that Eastham had come to Cornwall, tricked the new d.u.c.h.ess into walking with him along the headland at Penderris, and tried to push her and her unborn child to their death in the exact place where his sister had died. They did, however, refrain from mentioning Havell's specific role.

The story was exclaimed over and discussed among the guests almost to the exclusion of any other conversational topic. George was very glad Dora was not present to hear it. He hoped he could dissuade her from coming down later, though he would not forbid it. Everyone who came for the ball would be agog with whatever facts and rumors had reached their ears and would want to know the truth and to hear it from those who had been personally involved. Dora would be the star attraction if she were present.

What had Eastham told Dora out there on the headland? A great deal that she had not known before, no doubt. A great deal that he ought to have told her himself. But there was little time for introspection or shock or self-blame. He was hosting a dinner. He smiled, answered questions from those seated closest to him, changed the subject, answered more questions, changed the subject again, and ate his dinner without tasting a thing or even noticing what was being served. His chef would weep if he knew.

At last he was able to go back upstairs to see if Dora had slept and to try persuading her to stay in bed. She was in the private sitting room, he realized as soon as he entered the bedchamber. He could hear music coming from that direction. He went through his dressing room to find her.

She was seated at her old pianoforte, playing something soft and sweet and totally absorbed in it. And she was dressed magnificently in a shimmering gown of fuchsia pink expertly styled to show the elegant, slim curves of her body. She was wearing his diamonds at her neck and in her ears. Her dark hair had been piled high in elegant curls with waved tendrils trailing over her neck and ears. And she was wearing the d.u.c.h.ess's diamond tiara that had been his grandmother's and his mother's but never Miriam's. A pair of long silver gloves was draped along the top of the pianoforte. One soft silver slipper was wielding one of the pedals.

She looked her age, George thought, but the very best a woman of her age could look. She was surely more beautiful now than she could possibly have been as a young girl. Every line of her body professed maturity, womanhood in its fullest bloom. And growing within her womb was their child. For a moment his knees threatened to give out from beneath him when he thought of that scene out on the cliffs earlier.

She finished what she was playing and looked up with a smile. She must have sensed his presence in the doorway.

"Are you going to a ball by any chance?" he asked her.

"Indeed I am," she said. "I am looking for an escort."

"Allow me the honor." He made her an exaggeratedly courtly bow after proceeding a few steps into the room.

She turned on the stool. "How was dinner?" she asked him.

"It was probably delicious," he said. "I might have noticed if I had been paying attention to it. Our guests seemed well satisfied, though. Philippa took your place without fuss and with a quiet charm. She is a real gem, Dora. The tale of what happened this afternoon was told and retold. Nothing was withheld. Nothing was either exaggerated or dismissed. I wish I could say that now everyone is satisfied and prepared to enjoy the evening without further reference to what occurred, but of course most of the ball guests were not even at dinner. The story will have to be told again and yet again. I wish you would stay here."

She got to her feet and came toward him to make some minor adjustment to the folds of his neckcloth.

"And waste this gown and these jewels and Maisie's very best hairdressing effort?" she said. "Everyone will be agog to see me, knowing what almost happened this afternoon. It is human nature, George. If they do not see me tonight, then it will happen on another occasion, at church on Sunday, perhaps. I cannot hide away all my life. I would rather it be now. They would rather it be now. Besides, I have been looking forward to our ball immensely and am likely to have a tantrum if I am forced to miss it."

He gazed into her eyes and saw fathomless depths there. The story that had been told at dinner was a true and accurate one but not a complete one. Only she knew the rest of it. But she would never refer to it, he realized. She would never confront him with whatever Eastham had told her. She would leave him his privacy and the illusion of his secrets.

It was perhaps at that moment that he realized fully how much he cared for her. How much he loved her. He loved her more than the air he breathed. He loved her with all the youthful pa.s.sion he had packed away in some hidden inner vault immediately after his first marriage. He had long since thought he had lost the key. But somehow she had found it and fitted it into the lock and turned it.

"We will talk," he told her, taking her hands in his and raising them one at a time to kiss the base of each palm.

"If you wish," she said. He could see that she understood what he meant.

"I wish."

He went to fetch her gloves from the pianoforte, waited while she drew them on, and offered his arm.

Their ball guests would be starting to arrive very soon-and he doubted anyone would be late tonight.

20.