He stood looking at her, a slight frown creasing his brow. He shook his head slightly. "A mistress, I comprehend you mean. Pardon my bluntness. No, my lady, I had not contemplated such a thing."

"Oh come," she said, adding another scoop of barley and giving the mash a hard stir. "Pray do not lie to me."

A silence stretched between them. He averted his eyes and shrugged. "Perhaps at one time I did." He looked at her askance, his lowered glance traveling from her hem to her throat. "I cannot, at the moment, comprehend why."

"Perhaps you will remember later," Callie said dryly. She would hardly be an object of admiration in her canvas apron and mucking boots. "It doesn't matter. That is my stipulation, along with my choice of property for our home and a settlement in which I have ample allowance to pursue my cattle husbandry."

He examined the plume on his hat, running his fingers over the feathers. Then he shrugged. "I will agree to that, my dear, if it's truly what you wish."

Callie found herself even more f lustered. She'd rather hoped that he would find her requirements too onerous, but of course except for his pride, there was little to burden him in her requests. Her mouth was dry as she nodded. "Very well."

He reached as if to take her hand to kiss it, then stopped himself, looking conscious. He substituted with a brisk military bow. Callie gave him a shallow curtsy in return.

It was settled, then; she would truly marry this man and go away from Shelford Hall with him.

"Ah yes!" he exclaimed with a forced brightness. "But in the excitement of our coming to an under standing, I'd forgot that I've news for you. You'll be pleased to hear that my efforts to apprehend that so-called Belgian scoundrel for you have borne fruit."

She lifted her eyes quickly. "Indeed?"

"Yes, I had word from some men I hired out of Bow Street. He was spotted boarding a ship, but when the port police learned that there was warrant for him, they sent an officer out to take him off before it left harbor."

"Oh?" To hide her reaction, Callie turned to the bucket of mash on the stove. She took up a cloth and clasped both hands about the wooden handle of the pail, gripping it tightly.

He reached to help her lift it from the stove. "They're low fellows, those thief-takers, but they know the criminal mind. Careful! Allow me, my dear. They tracked him from Hereford to the Bristol docks. He's jailed and awaiting the assizes by now. Take care!" He leaped back as the bucket tilted and clattered to the f loor, spilling a f lood of hot molasses and barley grain.

Trev should have been on a packet ship for Boston instead of under his mother's bed. His trunk-and Jock along with it-were aboard. But Trev had gone ashore with the last mail, telling himself he ought to leave a final note for his maman and that he'd somehow find the words to write it on the Bristol quay. He hadn't, of course. Six beakers of blue ruin in a dockside gin house had not loosened his pen, but they had succeeded in making him miss the last call for the ship tender.

Jock was doubtless a little put out. Trev sincerely hoped that Boston had excellent tailors.

He'd woken up with a thundering headache and no purse. By the time his head was clear, he'd been halfway to London on borrowed blunt, with the intent to track down whoever it was who had blackmailed Sturgeon. It was a bothersome itch in the back of his mind-though not as bothersome as the dust ball that was tickling his nose at the moment. He stif led a sneeze.

"Why is this window wide open to the cold night air?" Nurse demanded. Her sturdy shoes clumped across the f loor, making the boards vibrate under Trev's cheek. He'd just made it under the bed before the door opened. "The plain truth is, that young maid is a good-for-nothing! I'd supposed Madame would be asleep," she added severely. "And the candle still lit!" There was an ominous pause. "I daresay you didn't think to ring for me to snuff it?"

"You may put it out now," his maman said faintly. "No-ah no, pray-there is no need for you to… occupy the dressing room tonight."

Nurse's feet clumped indignantly. "My duty to you, Madame."

"But… you wish me to sleep," the duchesse said in a plaintive tone. "Do you not?"

"Certainly, Madame."

"Then I think… " His maman trailed off. "I do not say that the snore would… wake the dead. But perhaps I think it might."

Trev pressed his fist to his mouth and nose, subduing a sneeze and a laugh. It was said with such a pretty, tremulous naïveté that the nurse didn't even feel the sting. She huffed and clumped about, grumbling, but after slamming shut the window, placing all the uten sils of her black art to her satisfaction, and snuffing the lamp, she made a decisive effort to tiptoe on the way to the door, threatening to rattle the medicine bottles off the shelf.

After the door closed behind her, a silence descended on the room. Trev waited. The sound of Nurse's shoes receded, replaced by the creaks of the f loorboards overhead as she took possession of the attic.

"Mon trésor," his mother murmured. "The toast is clear."

Trev worked himself from beneath the bed frame, wincing as he bumped his head. "The 'coast,' Maman. The coast is clear." He fumbled to light the bed candle that Nurse had just extinguished.

"That is a great relief to me." She gave a faint smile. "Toast I never could comprehend to be clear. Particularly as the English… put butter on it. Are you hungry?"

He observed her intently, suspicious that his first impression had been correct-that her eyes had filled with tears when she first reached out her hand to him. "I'll eat later. Constable Hubble is presently engaged on some murky business with Cook in the kitchen, which I prefer not to know too much about."

"You have been… traveling?" She seemed uncon cerned that he had entered through the window. It seemed to be his typical means of ingress and egress to any respectable establishment these days.

"Yes." He did not elaborate but sat down on the bed and put his finger under her chin. "What is this?" He examined her face from side to side. "You've been gay and raking while I wasn't here to restrain you, I see. Too many parties, Maman. You're run off your feet."

She smiled. Then she gripped his hand and pressed it against her cheek, kissing his palm fiercely. Her eyes glittered as she took a single sobbing breath.

When she released him, he brushed his fingertips tenderly over her pale hair and down her chin. She greeted him with tears. Tears, and he had never seen his maman weep before except when his brother had died. She had lost four more children, but if she shed tears, she had done it in someplace beyond where anyone could see or hear.

"I won't leave again," he murmured.

"But the constable…" she said.

"Aye, and the Bow Street Runners too," he said, dropping his hand with a sigh. "I'll be put to some lengths to dodge them, I fear, but I won't leave you again, Maman."

He hadn't expected to have the Runners on his track. After a narrow escape from a brickyard where he'd been meeting with a clerk from the Bank of England, they'd made London too warm for him in the circles where he was asking questions. So even while he was developing a deep suspicion that there was something amiss with Callie's fortune, he'd been forced to abandon the inquiry and leave for a little holiday in the country.

He should have avoided Shelford, of course. He'd meant only to make a brief pause there to face his final farewells. Getting inside Dove House had not proved to be difficult, but staying only a moment with his maman proved impossible.

"Who are these… Runners?" she asked, frowning a little.

"Fellows from London. Thief-takers by trade." He saw her glance up at him quickly and gave her an easy shrug. "It's about the bull, I suppose. Lady Callista's magistrate friend is a determined prosecutor, but they'll never discover me under your bed, eh?"