At this point Juliana entered the room with a flourish, as though conjured up by Vanessa’s thoughts. “It is an utterly miserable day, is it not?” she sang out in the gayest of voices. “I vow the fog is hanging over the hills in a most sinister manner, as though setting the stage for a tragedy.” Her laughter bubbled out as she stalked across the room like a villain preparing to attack. Her giggles brought a smile to the worried countenance above the worktable.

  “I believe you are right,” said Vanessa. “I do not know if the rain or the fog is more annoying. Perhaps tomorrow will be better.” Returning to her earlier thoughts, she inquired, “Is Mrs. Hewit to dine with us this evening?”

  Juliana sobered instantly. “I very much doubt she will wish to venture out in such weather. It almost makes me glad for the fog. Oh, I cannot bear to think of dear Nicholas married to such a woman. I had begun to entertain thoughts in another direction.” She peeped at Vanessa to gauge her reaction to the too-casual words tossed out in seeming innocence.

  “I beg of you, no nonsense, please. I am persuaded his marriage to such an admirable lady will solve all his problems, financial and otherwise. She is quite lovely,” Vanessa sighed, thinking with great lack of charity of the lamentably flat bosom displayed in the elegant, though slightly unfashionable gowns worn by the widow.

  “Lovely she may be, but never kind. Did you observe how she continually demands—in the nicest possible way, mind you—that I fetch her a shawl or perform some other service for her, as though I were her personal servant? I vow, if it were not for Nicholas I would tell her to either do for herself or call her maid. I am out of patience with her, you may be certain!”

  Then she ceased her pacing about to break into a cherubic smile. “However, things do progress with Harry. If this beastly weather ever breaks, you must go with me on another painting expedition. Harry mentioned there is a particularly fine patch of bloody crane’s-bill not far from Eastthorpe Hall that ought to bloom before too long. Also, he knows where I may find a large plant of the deadly nightshade.”

  She assumed her villain pose once more and giggled again as she added, “It’s as well Mrs. Murdoch does not venture into the woods or you might find it in your soup one day.” Catching Vanessa’s look of alarm, she added, “Oh, I have seen how she glares at you. Whatever did you do to put her back up?” Juliana perched on the edge of the worktable, studying Vanessa with frank curiosity.

  “I suspect she resented that expression of sympathy I made some time ago—you know, when I asked if she needed more help. Poor woman undoubtedly needs spectacles and is too vain to wear them, or else she would see the dust about here. I do not know what possessed me to step beyond the line in that fashion. It is not my usual thing, I assure you.”

  Vanessa hesitated to mention the scene in the stillroom, when she had overheard the bargain struck by Mrs. Murdoch. A check of the estate books might prove wrongdoing. Surely the woman would attempt nothing as drastic as Vanessa’s demise, would she? Just to be on the safe side, Vanessa resolved to eat nothing not first tasted by others.

  “You are all that is proper, dear Vanessa. I doubt you ever get an improper thought in your head.” Juliana suppressed a grin at the rising hint of pink in Vanessa’ s cheeks. “Well, I, for one, am going to see what is offered for luncheon today. I live in hope it is better than yesterday’s presentation. That was truly horrendous!” She slid off the table and strolled toward the doorway, then paused to look back to where Vanessa sat at her needlework. “Do you know, I tried to consult with Murdoch on menus, as you suggested, and she acted as though I was trying to take over her job! Fubsy-faced old woman. Pamela Hewit is welcome to her. I intend to be gone from here before too many months pass by.” With a flounce of her skirts, Juliana turned, leaving the room as suddenly as she had entered.

  The afternoon passed quietly, Juliana reading out loud while Vanessa continued at her work in the fog-induced gloom with the aid of two branches of candles.

  After Juliana left for her room, claiming a dry throat, Vanessa slipped from the saloon to find her way to the estate office. Mr. Millbank was out on business, she knew. Peeking into the books was extremely distasteful to her, but if she was to discover any proof of Mrs. Murdoch’s cheating, this was one spot she might find it.

  She made a number of notes regarding transactions from the housekeeper’s domain, then carefully left the office, first checking to see if anyone was about, while wondering just how she might have a look at the housekeeper’s account books. Had anyone told her she would ever resort to this manner of skullduggery, she would have said he was daft in the head.

  “Miss Tarleton! Have you lost your way?”

  Startled, betraying the guilt felt at snooping into the estate books, though she had learned nothing she had not already suspected—that it was doing well enough—she felt the warmth stealing into her cheeks. “Lord Stone! No, I . . . er, was looking for Mr. Millbank.” The reply was not exactly an untruth. She had taken care to see him . . . depart.

  The gloom that had settled over the surrounding hills appeared to have entered the house, judging from the expression on Lord Stone’s face. “He’s too busy for dalliance, though I must say I believe you two to be an ill-matched pair.”

  Since Vanessa had reached the identical conclusion some time ago, she could scarcely argue with the earl. “Ah, it regards some purchasing needs.” She stole a look at the watch pinned to her bosom, then fluttered a hand.

  “I must dress for dinner, milord. I will see you then.” With barely disguised relief, she rushed off, clutching her slip of paper hidden in the folds of her skirt.

  Nicholas stared after her precipitate flight and wondered what she was hiding.

  It was a dismal dinner. Nicholas wore a rather grim expression. Vanessa wondered whether it was because of the absence of Mrs. Hewit or the ill-prepared meal before him. Juliana chattered on, freeing Vanessa from the task of attempting conversation. She was relieved when she could safely escape to her room from the depressing company in the drawing room. Even her harp hadn’t drawn her tonight.

  She fussed at Katie as she dressed for bed. “I have not seen my little dragon pin today, Katie. Know you where it is? I looked earlier, but cannot for the life of me recall where I put it.” She watched Katie in the mirror while that redoubtable miss brushed Vanessa’s long golden tresses.

  “Nay, milady. I’ve not seen it for several days. Sleep on it. Perhaps it will come to you in the night.” Katie took the question in good humor, knowing Vanessa to be the best of ladies, never demanding or accusing.

  “Maybe. Come, Hercules, up on the bed. I never knew what an excellent foot-warmer you would become when I took you in.” She stroked the soft white fur, smiling as his green eye gave her a pleased wink.

  “What you need is a good man to keep you warm at night. If you be thinking it cool now, what will you do come next winter?” Katie paused by the wardrobe in the act of checking a dress.

  “I may be gone by then, Katie, and have no need for a masculine foot-warmer.” Vanessa bent her head, the sudden image of Nicholas Leighton arrayed in a nightshirt too overwhelming to contemplate.

  “We’ll see, milady. We’ll see.” Taking her candle with her, Katie left the room, plunging it in darkness. Vanessa suffered an uneasy sleep.

  Sometime during the night she awoke with a start, as she was wont to do when something was pestering her mind. She sat up, recalling precisely where the dragon pin was to be found. Lighting her bedside candle, she made her way to the mahogany highboy, where her fingers searched the top drawer, then found the little pin. She had tucked it in with the linen cap she wore the day before, completely forgetting it until her dreams prompted her memory.

  Holding it carefully in her hand, rubbing at the patina with a fond finger, she glanced to where Hercules sat on the windowsill watching the courtyard below. The cat turned his face toward her, blinking those peculiar eyes in a canny way.

  “What is it, Hercules? Do you fancy you see something out in the night?” Still clutching her dragon,

  Vanessa walked to the window, her bare feet wincing at the cold wood along the wall. A draft from the slightly open window caused the candle to sputter and go out, leaving Vanessa in total darkness.

  The fog had lifted, with tatters of clouds sweeping across the sky. The moon, now half-full, cast strange shadows before the house, floating wisps. It looked much like a running figure, which was nonsense, of course. Yet it seemed as though someone was there, moving in an erratic path away from the house. A cloud cut it from sight, plunging the courtyard into an unfathomable gray.

  Vanessa continued to watch, puzzled at what she thought she saw, while knowing it must be her imagination, then turned her glance toward the entry. She drew in her breath sharply as she placed the dragon on the windowsill while leaning forward to see better. Was that a rosy glow from two of the windows? It was highly unlikely anyone would be in that part of the house now. The library, where Nicholas often sat until the wee hours of the night, was far removed.

  Pausing only to grab up her robe from the foot of her bed, she groped her way from her room, impelled by an unreasonable fear. The candles in the hall were burning very low, near the guttering point. She tore down the stairs and rounded the corner at a panic. That untold dread urged her to hurry, in total disregard of her bare feet and possible dangers. At the door to the green room, now standing tightly closed, she paused. If she had guessed correctly, this ought to be the room. She opened the door, then gasped.

  Holland cloths torn from the furniture blazed in the center of the room, chairs heaped up catching fire even as she watched. She tore her hands from where it had touched her mouth in horror and ran for the bell pull. It would be useless to scream for help, for the servants slept far from this part of the house.

  Not waiting for the arrival of whoever might answer her summons, she ran to the pyre of furniture, pulling at the chairs, tugging at the holland cloths. A small rug near the door caught her eye in the light of the fire. She whipped it at the fire, a frenzied figure silhouetted against the rapidly rising flames.

  “Good God!” Peverly’s voice reached Vanessa through her frantic efforts. The stunned butler froze at the door.

  “Ring the alarm! We need all the help we can get!”

  Moments later she was startled by the sound of a bell clanging with eerie vigor as she continued her battle against the fire. It was spreading, creeping along the fabric of the holland cloth, licking at the writing desk Vanessa strove to push away from the blaze.

  When Nicholas joined her, his shirt hastily pulled over hurriedly donned breeches, he ordered, “Get out of here, Vanessa! You could be burned to death.”

  “Never! Help me pull this writing desk away so the fire can’t damage it further.” As they shifted the delicate desk away from the flames, footmen hurried into the room to assist.

  Outside, the fire engine was pulled up to the front door, with the well-drilled men, seven on each side, rushing into action. The flexible leather hose snaked around the corner of the door, then down the hall, pulled by a team of fierce-eyed men intent on getting the water to the fire.

  Side by side Vanessa and Nicholas fought the blaze, carrying exquisite pieces of furniture, selected in order of value, to a place close to the door, where others could remove them. The men sought to repel the creeping flames that coiled out, writhing, snapping at the wood in its path. Water came, but the stream was pitifully small in such a large room. Vanessa rubbed her cheek in frustration as she watched the footmen tear down the newly hung draperies, flames curling up the green silk, while the room filled with thick, suffocating smoke and the terrible smell of burning wood and fabric. The men bundled up the draperies, now ruined beyond any hope of repair, to extinguish the fire.

  Buckets of water were also brought from the pump, nearly thirty men now involved, gaining in the fight on the blaze. In the hall Juliana joined the maids in continually sweeping the water out the hall door.

  Mr. Millbank paused by the door as he carried another burden from the house, valuables, papers, jewels—just in case. He hurried on his way, intent on saving as much as possible, his nightcap—forgotten in hasty dressing—tipped at a comical angle on his head.

  Nicholas wiped his brow with his arm. The advance of the fire was stemmed; it only remained for embers to be stamped out, the debris to be removed. He studied the soot-streaked face of the woman at his side. “I think we have it under control. Come, we will let the men finish putting out the embers. You must be exhausted.” He gently drew her from the ruined room.

  She glanced down at herself, dismayed to see her good robe covered with charred holes, splotches of soot everywhere, her nightgown meeting a similar fate where exposed. Her hands were bruised, small burns now beginning to hurt where they had been ignored in the heat of danger.

  Nicholas fared no better. The branches of candles lit by Peverly to show the way revealed soot-stained breeches above bare feet, a shirt so spattered with burns it scarcely held together.

  “Aren’t we a pair, though?” Her amusement also made clear her shaken state, for her voice trembled badly. Her extreme pallor alarmed Nicholas.

  “Vanessa, dear girl, how did you get into this?” He wrapped an arm about her, guiding her away from the debris of the fire toward the drawing room.

  Seeing Peverly, he ordered, “Tell Mrs. Murdoch to see to it the men get refreshments of some sort . . . ale and cheese with bread. ’Tis hard work, this firefighting.”

  “I have not seen her. Perhaps she is a sound sleeper. I’ll rouse her myself, if need be, milord.” His bow was, as ever, correct, and he disappeared as Vanessa sagged down on the floor of the drawing room near the fireplace, refusing to sit in the chair Nicholas pushed toward her. She felt utterly filthy.

  She asked the dreaded question. “What—or who—do you suppose started the fire? Of a certainty, it did not start itself. A person had to light the holland covers, place the chairs atop the pyre.”

  Nicholas poured out a glass of brandy for each of them, then sank to the floor beside Vanessa, taking the poker with which she nudged the fitful fire from a trembling hand, replacing it with her glass.

  Vanessa stared at the deep amber brandy in the glass, then downed the fiery liquid in one swallow, shuddering at its impact on her poor stomach. To Nicholas she appeared about to collapse. He removed the glass from her unresisting fingers, setting it aside with his.

  “Here, allow me to help you.” He slid an arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him. He had been so wary of this woman. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, rather that he didn’t trust the way he felt about her.

  Plucking at a hole burned in her robe, Vanessa looked up to Nicholas, her eyes a storm-tossed blue. “Sorry-looking spectacle I am. I ought to get to my room to change. You need your burns attended to as well.” Her voice trailed into a whisper as she continued to meet his eyes, trying to see what emotions lay in their midnight depths.

  It was irresistible. They drew together slowly, both aware of details—the smell of smoke in her hair, his soot-streaked cheek. The kiss was at first tentative, a hesitant touching of lips. Then Nicholas found he could no longer hold back the desire that had been growing within him these past months. He crushed Vanessa to him, molding her body against him, caressing the beautifully modeled curves as though he had every right to do so. His lips sought hers in a kiss as fiery as the conflagration just left behind.

  Could she be dreaming? Was this heady sensation singing through her body true? His mouth persuaded her response. Fatigue slipped momentarily from her as she yielded, trembling with awakening passion. Vanessa permitted her hands to slide up the tattered cambric shirt to clutch at his broad shoulders. His skin was warm, his body rock solid. Oh, it was real, all right. She wasn’t asleep in the least! Sanity wrenched her from his arms. She stared up at him, eyes wide and wondering.

  Nicholas slowly dropped one hand from where it had caressed a slim shoulder. In a voice that was deep, husky with emotion, he rasped out, “Why the devil did you have to be poor?”

  Stung as though he had slapped her across the face, Vanessa pulled away from him, wrapping her arms about her in an age-old gesture of defense. “I fear I had little to say about it. I am as much the victim of circumstances beyond my control as you.”

  Bitterness seeped into her eyes as she stared at him. Her anguish tinging the words with her pain, she lashed out at him. “I sought an honorable way to solve my dilemma. At least”—she bit off her words sharply— “I am not selling myself or a title.” Her eyes flashed with scorn, defying him to deny the truth.

  Nicholas gave her an anguished look. Her charge cut deeply into his conscience-stricken soul. If she only knew how tortured he was. Lord knew he’s tried to find a different solution. What else could he do? Could love withstand hardships? He recalled how it had been for his mother, for Vanessa too, like as not. Could he offer Vanessa a life of straitened circumstances? He failed to recall that she would know that regardless of what he did.

  “Vanessa . . .”

  She cast him a desolate look, silent yet not condemning, and pointedly turned again to the fireplace, shivering as though ill with an ague.

  A sound, a stirring at the door, and Juliana wearily entered the room, dropping down on the floor close to Nicholas. “The water has been cleared out of the room and the hall. I told the maids to go to bed—we can do the remainder in the morning. How strange Mrs. Murdoch never joined us. Cook saw to food and ale for the men.”

 

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