"Because no one is supposed to be here." She glanced anxiously toward the door. "Please go."

Anthony's opinion of Mrs. Greene was sinking lower by the moment. Not only did she keep the girl trapped like a prisoner in this crumbling, isolated house, but she obviously bullied her as well.

Still, as much as he longed to stay and confront the woman who was clearly charged with the task of caring for the child, he could not do so without having more information about the situation. For the moment the best he could do was avoid causing the girl any trouble.

"Very well," he agreed as he straightened. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

Miss Cresswell flashed him an annoyed glance. "But . . ."

"Come along, Miss Cresswell." He firmly moved to grasp her arm. "We would not wish to create difficulties."

Without giving her an opportunity to protest, he pulled her from the room and down the hall. Even when they were back in the pale sunlight he continued to ruthlessly steer the reluctant woman across the courtyard and back through the gate.

Attempting to free herself, Miss Cresswell glared at his set profile.

"Mr. Clarke, are we in a race?"

"I fear the mysterious Mrs. Green might very well vent her ill temper upon the girl if she discovers our visit."

"Oh."

Miss Cresswell fell silent as they returned to the fringe of trees. Anthony moved them deeper into the shadows before coming to a halt.

"I b-believe we are out of sight."

Wrapping her arms about her waist, Miss Cresswell glanced back toward the distant house.

"That poor child. I dislike leaving her in that house. She is clearly afraid of her nurse. And I do not believe for a moment she is not allowed out because of her lungs. She is being hidden."

Her fierce words were in perfect accordance with his own feelings, but Anthony was not about to admit as much. Not to this madcap, impulsive chit. He would not put it beyond her to charge into the unfortunate situation without considering the consequences to the poor girl.

"Not such an unusual occurrence, I fear," he retorted in steady tones. "Society is very unforgiving of imperfection. There are many families that have chosen to keep a child in seclusion rather than bear the shame of their malady."

Anthony's voice was laced with a bitterness he could not entirely conceal. Although he had managed to dismiss the occasional cruelties and amusement he had encountered over the years, he had never fully managed to heal the wounds inflicted by his own father. Charles Clarke was a cold, distant man with more pride than affection. He had never managed to forgive Anthony for being flawed. It was only his mother's determination that had prevented Charles from abandoning his son to the care of distant relatives.

Miss Cresswell gave a slow shake of her head. "But to lock her in a dark, remote house with no company beyond a surly old woman. It makes me furious to consider a mother who would abandon her own child in such a manner."

"At least she is safe and seemingly well fed. Someone cared enough to at least see to her basic needs."

"Yes," she grudgingly agreed to his logic, then without warning the hazel eyes widened in shock. "Good heavens."

"What?"

"That house." She turned to meet his narrowed gaze. "It must belong to Lady Broswell."

Anthony stiffened, realizing she was more than likely correct in her assumption. The house was on Broswell property. Which meant the girl was somehow connected to the powerful family. A cold chill spread through his body.

"D-do not leap to conclusions, Miss Cresswell," he said, attempting to halt the inevitable.

Predictably she paid him no heed as she allowed the realization to bloom to full fruition.

"How foolish of me not to have noticed the resemblance to the two Miss Hamlin's from the first. The same pale hair, the same blue eyes. If she were properly groomed she could not be mistaken for anything but a sister."

Anthony's expression became grim as he regarded the beautiful countenance.

"And what if she is Lady Broswell's daughter?"

She blinked, as if startled by the sudden steel in his voice. "What?"

"If the child does prove to be the daughter of Lady Broswell, what will you do with such information?"

"I do not comprehend what you are asking."

Anthony drew in a deep breath. He might be fascinated by this lovely minx, but he would not stand aside and watch her use a hapless child in her bid for revenge.

"Then I shall make myself clear." He narrowed his dark eyes. "You came to Surrey with the intention of punishing Lady Broswell for humiliating you at the opera. This morning you managed to stumble across what might be the perfect means of implementing your revenge."

He carefully watched the emotions that rippled over her delicate features. Confusion, disbelief, and at last a blazing fury.

"Mr. Clarke, I may be impetuous and even frivolous, but I am not a monster," she gritted. "I would never, ever do anything to harm that poor child."

A sharp, fierce flare of relief rushed through Anthony. It was quite obvious that the volatile Miss Cresswell was not as calculating as he had briefly feared. Indeed, she appeared deeply offended by the mere suggestion that she would use the girl for her revenge.

"I n-never thought you a monster, my dear," he assured her in gentle tones, "but it would have to be a temptation. To expose such a scandal might very well ruin Lady Broswell."

Miss Cresswell was not appeased by his logic. In fact, Anthony was suddenly very relieved that looks could not kill.

"I have no need to use crippled children to fight my battles, sir."

With a toss of her head she turned to stalk through the trees back toward the Carlfield house.

Left on his own, Anthony allowed a smile to curve his lips.

She was magnificent in her anger.

A wild, impetuous, passionate creature.

The challenge of capturing such a female was irresistible, he acknowledged. He slowly turned to follow in her wake.

The hunt was on.

Four.

Although he took care to maintain his role of the ennui-plagued gentleman, Mr. Carlfield could barely contain his glee at having a renowned favorite of the Prince beneath his roof. In an effort to make sure that his neighbors could properly appreciate his good fortune, invitations to dinner were hastily delivered to all the best houses.

Knowing that the Broswell household would be included in the invitations, Rachel dressed with care.

Her gown was a rose satin slip with a white lace overskirt. The hem was set with a deep flounce of lace with dark roses. The bodice was cut low to emphasize her lovely curves and the large ruby pendant lay upon her white skin like a flame of temptation. She pulled back her hair in a simple knot, with a few golden curls left to brush her temples.

When at last satisfied she was appearing her best, Rachel made her way down to the formal salon and situated herself in a prominent position so that she could thoroughly enjoy the expression on Lady Broswell's countenance when she noticed her presence.

She was forced to wait nearly half an hour for the lady to appear, but she was not disappointed when the lofty woman swept into the room and abruptly froze in horror. The pale blue eyes narrowed and the condescending smile slipped from the thin lips. Her horror only deepened at the sight of the tall, lean gentleman attired in a pearl-gray coat and black pantaloons, who was negligently leaning against the mantel. Nearly breathing fire, she stormed across the carpet to openly confront Rachel.

"You." She spat out the word with a healthy dose of venom. "How dare you come to Surrey, you forward jade?"

Rachel allowed a small, contented smile to touch her lips. "Good evening, Lady Broswell. A lovely party, is it not?"

The calm greeting only deepened the fury in the pale eyes. "I asked you why you followed me."

"Follow you?" Rachel gave a tinkling laugh. "Do not be absurd. I am here at the invitation of Miss Carlfield. She is a very dear friend."

Lady Broswell clenched her hands into fists, clearly having forgotten the crowd of glittering guests who were spilling into the room.

"Fah. I do not believe that for a moment."

"You are, of course, welcome to believe what you will."

"You are here to attempt to embarrass me," she accused, her gaze shifting to where the Devilish Dandy sipped his brandy in a bored fashion. "You and that black-hearted scoundrel."

Rachel's expression hardened at the shrill words. This woman was not fit to polish her father's boots. She had turned her back on her own sister, she refused to acknowledge her nieces, she was attempting to bully a hapless gentleman into marriage with her daughter, and worst of all, she was hiding a crippled child in a dark, isolated house with a woman who was indifferent to her happiness. She was a heartless, selfish witch.

"I suggest that you take care in how you refer to my father, Lady Broswell," she warned in icy tones.

Momentarily taken aback, the woman attempted to bluster Rachel into retreat.

"I want you to leave."

"That is unfortunate since I have promised Miss Carlfield to stay for her engagement ball. Besides, Mr. Carlfield has taken a decided liking to my uncle Foxworth."

A dark flush stained the older woman's countenance as she realized she had come to dinner in honor of a man who was in truth Solomon Cresswell.

"I have no doubt his ridiculous fascination with Mr. Foxworth would come to an unpleasant end if he were to discover that he was no more than a common thief."

Rachel did not so much as flinch at the blatant threat. "But he will not discover any such thing."

"You can hardly be certain," the woman hissed.

"Oh yes, I can. Because if there is even the slightest hint that my father is anyone but Mr. Foxworth, then I will see to it that everyone in Surrey is aware of our close family connection, dear aunt."

A sharp, brittle silence fell as Lady Broswell struggled to contain her flaming temper. Rachel did not doubt that she longed to screech at her like a fishwife. It was only the knowledge that she would be the source of amusement among her neighbors that kept her tone lowered.

"You would not dare."

"I will do so with pleasure."

The massive bosom heaved with frustration. "You will be sorry for this."

Rachel gave a slow shake of her head. "No, you are the one who will be sorry for the manner in which you have treated me."

Abruptly realizing the dangerous glint in Rachel's eyes, Lady Broswell regarded her warily. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Rachel gave a faint shrug. "I have heard the unfortunate rumors that your daughters have once again failed to receive an offer during the Season."

The thin lips nearly disappeared as the thrust slid home. It was no secret that Lady Broswell had been sorely disappointed that neither of her daughters had managed to contract a brilliant match. Or even a respectable match. The fact that both misses were of high birth with large dowries only deepened the humiliation of their utter failure.

Of course, she was not about to reveal her inner humiliation to Rachel. Instead she gave a loud sniff.

"As is only proper, my daughters are excessively particular. They have no interest in gentlemen who would flock about the more vulgar members of society."

She left no doubt that Rachel was among those vulgar members.

"Indeed." Rachel deliberately widened her smile. "Then you are no longer attempting to bring Lord Newell up to scratch?"

The woman stiffened in outrage. "Lord Newell is very devoted to Mary."

"No, he is devoted to his quarterly allowance which he fears will be brought to an end if you complain to his mother. It is well known that you and Lady Newell have attempted to bully him into marriage since he came of age."

"You know nothing of the matter, but how could you?" Lady Broswell grated, the plumes in her gray hair quivering in a ridiculous fashion. "Women of your stamp could have no notion of family duty."

The notion of having this woman lecture family duty to her sent a bolt of fury through Rachel. How dare she? Rachel would never turn her back on her sisters. Or treat a poor child as an unwanted mistake to be tossed aside.

Still, she had promised herself that she would not be goaded into losing sight of her goal. It was imperative that she remain in command of the confrontation.

"Perhaps not, but I do know when a lamb is being led to the slaughter," she said with cool mockery. "You know, I almost pity Mary. It can not be pleasant to realize that her prospective bridegroom would rather have a tooth drawn than wed her."

Clearly indifferent to the thought of condemning her daughter to an empty marriage, Lady Broswell gave her a superior glare.

"Mary accepts her responsibility. Unlike your mother."

The hazel eyes flared with an effort to maintain her temper. "My mother accepted that following her heart was more important than the dismal trappings of a loveless marriage. She enjoyed more happiness in her short life than you will ever know in your entire bitter existence."

A stunned silence followed her sharp words and before Lady Broswell could adequately recover, the tall form of Mr. Clarke appeared at Rachel's side.

A brief flicker of irritation at the interruption raced through Rachel until she lifted her head and met the deep brown eyes. In that moment, even her earlier pique at his accusation that she would use a helpless child to enact her revenge was forgotten. For all his strength and smoldering masculinity there was a tenderness in those eyes that made her heart quiver and her knees weak.

"Miss Cresswell, I believe that Violet is searching for you," he said in his soft tones.

Knowing that she had at least lodged a prick of unease in Lady Broswell, Rachel gave a gracious nod of her head.

"Thank you, Mr. Clarke."

"I will escort you to her."