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  Unlike his mother, who had died in his absence, he'd had the chance to bid his father a final farewell. Thus, as he stood before his father's grave, upon which someone had planted cowslip and pansies, he felt none of the anguish that assailed him every time he thought of his mother. True, he'd failed his father as much as the others, having broken the deathbed vow he'd made to safeguard the family. But it was he who was haunted by his betrayal of trust, not his father. And for that he was eternally grateful. After whispering a prayer for his father's soul, he pressed his hand against the sun-warmed slate tombstone and silently pledged to right the wrongs caused by his broken promise. Resolving to honor the new vow at any cost, he turned from the grave to survey the four tiny ones beside it. There beneath a burgeoning cover of primroses lay his siblings, babies who had either been stillborn or had failed to live past their first year. He remembered the occupants of those sad graves well, even though he had been young when they had made their brief appearances on earth. Kneeling down, he read the names inscribed on each small headstone.

  The first was a girl named Cherish, a plump, bonny baby who had come a year after Caleb, only to die of measles eight months later. Then there were Benjamin, Ethan, and Jeremy, in that order, all of whom had been born two or three years apart in the nine-year interval between Bethany and Bliss. Benjamin and Ethan were born tragically still, while Jeremy had lived a mere week.

  Offering a prayer for each of the babies' innocent souls, he stood up and glanced toward his lordship.

  Lord Gilbert now stood as well and prepared to take his leave. Judging it best to make the encounter appear accidental, Gideon timed his departure so that he would meet his prey at the lynch gate.

  Arriving there just as his lordship prepared to pass through, Gideon exclaimed in a surprised voice, "My word! If it isn't Lord Gilbert Barham." Though his lordship's appearance had altered a great deal over the years, time having thickened his bull-like build into portliness and coarsened his once-fine features, Gideon easily identified him by his distinctive copper hair.

  His lordship whipped around in a swirl of black mourning coat, wariness creeping across his pale face as his amber-eyed gaze swept Gideon's length. His features tightening, as if displeased by what he saw, he snapped, "Do I know you, sirrah?"

  "Indeed you do, though I fear that it has been a great while since we last met, and that I have changed much in the interim," Gideon replied, unfazed by his lordship's uncharacteristic asperity. It was grief, of course, the strain of which often robbed the bereaved of their manners. Sketching a brief bow, he continued, "I am Gideon Harwood, eldest son of Joseph Harwood, your former curate. Perhaps you remember my family?" He prayed that his lordship not only remembered them, but would also recall either seeing Caleb recently, or hearing news of him.

  His lordship continued to stare at him, his stance tense and his thicket of eyebrows drawn together in an expression of-what? Annoyance? Puzzlement? When he finally deigned to respond, his voice was hoarse and edged with a curious note of uncertainty. "Harwood, you say?"

  Gideon smiled politely and nodded. "Yes."

  The lines between his lordship's eyebrows deepened for a moment; then his brow cleared and he nodded back. "Harwood. Yes. Of course." He nodded again, as if validating the recollection. "Fine man, your father. Been dead- what? Ten years is it?"

  "Twelve."

  Another nod from his lordship. "Twelve, yes." His gaze again traveled Gideon's length, this time slowly, arresting when it touched his boots. Contemplating them as if they were objects of rare curiosity, he murmured, "Well, well. Gideon Harwood. So what brings you to Fellthwaite after all these years?"

  Gideon glanced down at his boots as well, wondering if he had inadvertently stepped in something nasty. But no. Aside from a veneer of road dust from his journey, they appeared respectable enough. Not quite certain what to make of his lordship's unwarranted attention to his footwear, he replied, "I came to speak with you and Lady Silvia on a matter of considerable importance. Indeed, I was on my way to call just now. How very serendipitous that we should meet like this."

  Lord Gilbert looked up then, his mouth tightening into a crescent of pain. "Her ladyship is dead," he rasped, his bluntness exposing a grief too raw for delicacy. "It was an accident-a fall on the garden steps."

  Though his expression of shock was feigned, Gideon's sorrow was real, for he had genuinely liked and respected Lady Silvia. Hoping that his voice reflected the sincerity of his regret, he said, "Please accept my deepest sympathies for your loss, my lord. Her ladyship was a fine woman, one of the finest I have ever had the privilege to know. You may be certain that I shall always remember her kindness to my family and hold her memory dear." His lordship smiled faintly at his words. "As I recall, she harbored a particular fondness for you and that limb of Satan you called your brother. What was his name?"

  "Caleb," Gideon supplied, his hope sinking at the question. Surely his lordship would remember Caleb's name if he'd had recent news of him? Then again, grief did queer things to the mind, including making one forgetful.

  "Ah, yes. Caleb. Her ladyship used to find his antics most diverting. Indeed, she often said that if she were to have a son, she would wish him to be exactly like Caleb." Lord Gilbert sighed. "My poor, darling Silvia. Such a pity that she never had children of her own. It was the sorrow of her life, and mine." He seemed to lose himself in memory for a moment, a sweet one, judging from the tender smile tugging at his lips. Then he regained his sense of time and place, his smile fading as he said, "I believe that you have business with me?"

  Gideon inclined his head. "Indeed I do." Clinging to his last, admittedly tenuous threads of hope, he explained his quest.

  His lordship listened carefully, now and again nodding when Gideon made a salient point. When, at last, he fell silent, having told what pitiful little he knew of his brother's disappearance. Lord Gilbert shook his head. "I am sorry, truly I am. But her ladyship never confided whatever it was she knew of your brother."

  Though his response came as no real surprise, the words dealt Gideon a crushing blow. Feeling sick and bruised with defeat, he said in as light a tone as he could muster, "Well then, that is the end of it, I suppose, so I shan't detain you any longer. Please accept my apologies for intruding upon you during your time of mourning." Remembering to bow, he added, "It has been a pleasure to renew your acquaintance, my lord. I hope that we will meet again under happier circumstances." His farewell thus tendered, he turned to leave.

  "You appear to have done exceedingly well for yourself, Harwood."

  Gideon froze, taken aback by the unexpected nature of the remark. "Pardon, my lord?" he said, pivoting around to gaze at the other man in question.

  "You look quite prosperous." Lord Gilbert advanced toward him, gesturing at Gideon's clothing with a sweep of his hand. "Indeed, if I do not miss my guess, your Hessians were made by Finster's in Pall Mall."

  Wondering what had prompted the conversation and where it was leading, he glanced down at his admittedly costly Finster boots, saying, "I have been very fortunate, yes." When he looked back up again, he saw that his lordship was watching him with a queer, almost calculating expression. It was an expression that vanished in the next instant when he saw Gideon looking at him.

  Now smiling with jovial charm, an abrupt shift in demeanor that Gideon could only attribute to the capricious idiosyncrasy of grief, his lordship said, "With all of your newfound wealth, you must spend a great deal of time in London. Most men in your position do, you know. Many even seek entree into the ton."

  Aware of the contempt with which the ton viewed commoners like him who had made their fortunes in India, Gideon emitted a short, snorting laugh. "I have no more interest in society than they have in me. The same holds true for London and her more opulent pleasures. I go to town only when business dictates that I must and stay for as brief a time as possible."

  "Indeed," his lordship intoned, seeming to carefully consider Gideon's words. "Hmmm. I must s
ay that you are going about matters in a sensible fashion. The ton can be rather, er, cool to outsiders, especially those of common birth. It is why I never took Lady Silvia to town when I was forced to go there on business. Being of common birth and a modest nature, she would have found the experience most disagreeable. As her husband, it was naturally my duty to shield her from all unpleasantness."

  "Most commendable of you, my lord," Gideon replied, again wondering at the direction of the conversation.

  Apparently there was none, for in the next instant his lordship clapped him on the back and boomed, "Well, it was good to see you again, my boy. Do give my regards to your sister Bethany, and best of luck in finding your brother."

  Gideon nodded. "I will, and thank you." As he watched Lord Gilbert Barham pass through the gate, he grimly reflected that it was going to require much more than mere luck to find Caleb. At this point, it was going to take a bloody miracle.

  Chapter 2

  London

  "D! I see a D. Do you see it, Caro?"

  "Yes, I do believe you are correct, Amy," replied the exceedingly elegant and well-connected Lady Caroline Riddell. "What do you think, Mina?"

  Mina, as Lady Wilhelmina Edicott, daughter of the immensely wealthy Earl of Cranham was fondly referred to by her friends and family, couldn't have looked more thrilled by her friends' conclusion. "Yes! Yes! It is most definitely a D," she cried, her pale blue eyes shining and her normally pasty cheeks awash with color as she peered at the plate before her. "Surely you agree, Helene?" She transferred her gaze to the sable-haired girl at her right, her euphoric expression tainted by anxiety.

  All eyes shifted from the dear but decidedly frumpish Mina to the dazzling Lady Helene Dunville. Beautiful Helene was not only the daughter of the politically powerful Duke of Hunsderry, she was the acknowledged toast of the Season, an influential position that made the younger set defer to her out of a sense of awe.

  Now puckering her famous ivory brow-famous in that it had been praised in at least eight sonnets that Season- Helene considered the letter in question. "I think that it rather resembles an O." She nodded once. "Yes. There is simply no doubt about it, it is an O." Slanting Mina a sly, sidelong glance, she finished with, "O, as in Offchurch."

  The game they played was an old one, born of an ancient superstition that claimed that a maiden could divine the identity of her future husband by placing a snail on a pewter plate. According to the belief, the snail would track upon the plate the first initial of the last name of the man the maid would someday wed. Because marriage was the desired outcome of any Season, the pastime was a favorite among the girls of the ton, who would spend hours at gatherings performing the ritual and then guessing at the identity of the man for whom the resulting initials stood.

  This particular gathering was an intimate breakfast party given by Helene, the purpose of which was to gossip about the ball they had all attended the night before. Their speculation about several of the gentlemen in attendance had led them to consult with garden snails that had been hastily procured by the Duke of Hunsderry's elegantly liveried footmen.

  Hence, they now sat at a small, round mahogany table in what Helene grandly called the Print Room, a name that referred to the selection of hunting prints displayed on the Pompeian red walls.

  Mina, who had begged to go first, looked crushed at the mention of Lord Offchurch, a viscount whose lack of looks, conversation, and grooming made him the object of much ridicule among the ladies. Her previously blissful expression now much as it might be if the Naples biscuits she adored suddenly ceased to exist, she admitted, "I-I suppose that it could be an O."

  "Well, I say that it is a D," Caro declared, giving Mina's arm an affectionate squeeze. "What do you say, Julia?"

  Lady Julia Barham, who was currently suffering through her third Season, and had thus played the tiresome game more times than she cared to remember, heaved an inward sigh and dutifully leaned forward to study the plate.

  "O or D?" Caro prodded.

  Helene sniffed. "Really, Caro. I do not understand why you insist on bothering Julia. Can you not see how very bored she is by our company?"

  Julia smiled at Caro, who was quickly becoming her bosom bow. "It isn't the company I find tedious, just the game," she explained. And it was true. Though famous Helene did try her patience, she could never accuse the girl of being boring. As for Amy, Caro, and Mina, well, Amy's sauciness could be diverting, Caro was clever, and Mina was simply a dear.

  "Mmm, yes. But of course you would be bored, dear," Helene said. "You must have played the game dozens of times by now. After all, this is-what?-your fifth Season?" She regarded Julia with an air of horrified fascination.

  "It is her third, and you know it," snapped Caro.

  The famed forehead furrowed. "Did I? Hmmm." Helene assumed a pose of pensive contemplation, a pretty, if calculated, posture that had prompted more than one gentleman that Season to wax poetically upon the picture she made. At length, she nodded. "Yes, yes. I do believe that you are correct, Caro. How very silly of me to forget. Now that you have prompted my memory, I also seem to recall that she was not an utter failure her first Season. You had- was it two proposals your first Season, Julia, dear?"

  "It was six her first Season," Caro answered for her friend. "And as if that were not quite enough for any girl, she received four more in her second Season, and two so far this year."

  Helene's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "An even dozen? No wonder our game holds no charm for you, Julia. After turning down twelve proposals, you must be quite out of prospects."

  Having spent much of the current Season fielding similar observations, Julia simply shrugged. "That has yet to be seen. Whatever the case, I shall not wed without love, and I did not love any of the men who proposed." That much was true, on both counts, though it constituted only a small part of the reason for her refusal to wed.

  "Love?" Helene's eyebrows raised a fraction higher. "Bah! A clever girl seeks a coach-and-six and an income that will keep her in style. If you have any sense at all, you will forget about love and take what is offered, or you might find yourself a permanent resident of the shelf you presently occupy."

  "I would scarcely call Julia on the shelf." This was from Lady Amy Manners, the pretty, golden-haired daughter of the estimable Marquess of Shepley. "Furthermore, I must say that I envy her parents' tolerance in the matter. She is beyond fortunate that they are allowing her to wait for her perfect match."

  Tolerance was hardly the word Julia would have assigned to describe her parents' feelings toward her refusal to wed. Dismay, frustration, and anger all fitted with a more precise accuracy. Indeed, not a day passed that her father, the socially prominent Marquess of Stanwell, did not lecture her on her duty to make a brilliant match. Her mother, who prided herself on being London's premier hostess, was just as relentless in her nagging and never missed an opportunity to harp on the shame of having a daughter in her third Season.

  Though Julia would have liked to believe that their vexation stemmed from concern for her future, she knew better. Her parents cared only about their position in the ton. Because they believed that her failure to wed was beginning to dull their social brilliance, her father had recently decreed that he would choose a husband for her, if she failed to select one for herself by the end of the Season. Having endured several excruciatingly interminable evenings in the company of one or another of her father's candidates, she could only shudder at the prospect. But what was she to do?

  Before she could contemplate her dilemma, Mina prodded, "So, Julia? Is it an O or a D?"

  "Oh, do stop being such a goose, Mina," Helene snapped. "It is obviously the letter O." Her prose-provoking lips curled into a malicious smile. "O, as in Offchurch, your most promising suitor."

  For a moment Julia was tempted to tell Helene exactly what she thought of her spiteful baiting, to brutally inform her of the real reason their set suffered her disagreeable presence: because their parents insisted that they
do so to further their own friendships with Helene's highly esteemed parents. Reminding herself in the next instant that to do so would serve only to provoke yet more censure from her parents, she resisted the urge and instead said, "It is a D, as in Denney." She smiled at Mina. Though the girl had never voiced her feelings for Lord Denney, an angelically beautiful viscount with a bookish bent, Julia had seen how awkward she became in his presence and guessed that she harbored a crush on him.

  "Lord Denney?" Mina's doughy cheeks blushed a becoming shade of pink, thus confirming Julia's suspicion. "But his lordship has never betrayed so much as a passing interest in me."

  "That is because you have never given him any encouragement, dear," Julia returned, giving the plump girl by her side a fond hug. Poor Mina. Every time Lord Denney strayed within a yard of her, she became hopelessly tongue-tied. Resolved to promote her friend to the best of her ability, she added, "If you like, I shall have Mama seat his lordship between the two of us at the picnic she is having at the end of the month. That way, I can help you converse with him, should you need me to do so."

  "You would do that?" Mina exclaimed in a breathless voice.

  Julia nodded. "Of course I would. Are we not friends?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes! Forever." It was Mina's turn to hug Julia.

  Smiling, Julia hugged her back. No doubt her parents would interpret her request as an interest in Lord Denney for herself, which, of course, would result in him being thrown in her path at every turn. Oh, well. If she was clever, and she prided herself on being so, she could arrange to have Mina by her side at such times and thus encourage a match between the pair. Once his lordship saw past Mina's lumpish exterior, and she was certain that he would, given his scholarly nature, he was bound to be as taken with her as she was with him. Satisfied that something good might possibly come out of this otherwise wasted morning, she turned her attention back to her companions, intent on tendering an excuse and taking her leave.