She looked at him in that way she had, sidelong beneath her lashes-the one that reminded him where he had inherited his unsteady nature. Not from his upright patrician grandfather, certainly. "Oh yes," she said with a little dismissive gesture of her hand. "I have had news of Lady… Callista. She engages herself again… to marry. It is a very stupid thing."

Trev grew still. He said nothing, only let it wash over him and past, a wave of emotion and anger and all the things he had no right to feel. So, she had done it. He'd advised her to. He gave his mother a tight smile. "Congratulations to her. Sturgeon, I suppose?"

"That military man… who left her at the altar before." She made a sound of vexation. "It is because… you went away. I cannot approve!"

"It isn't your place to approve, Maman, after all." He took firm hold of his composure, building a wall between himself and the space Callie occupied in his heart. "It's not a bad match for her. She wants to have a home of her own and a place for her cattle. He should be able to give her that much, at least."

The duchesse sniffed, wrinkling her nose. "He doesn't love her."

"What's that to say? It's a marriage, not a love affair. He'll respect her as his wife, that I can promise you."

"Bah, how is that so, that you can promise it?"

Trev shrugged. "I had a little talk with him on the subject. In a back alley."

She lifted her slender eyebrows.

"You know I won't let him hurt her, Maman."

His mother gave a vexed sigh. She put her handker chief to her face as it become a cough. He watched her, concerned and guilty to see how weakly she moved.

"You should sleep now, before Nurse hears you and comes back to discover you dancing jigs against her advice," he said.

"One thing… would make me dance," she whis pered hoarsely.

"Maman-"

"You make me… cross," she said, speaking with effort. "Go and sleep… on the f loor. And if these Runners should come into my… house, you must pull the… blanket over your head!"

The news that Lady Callista Taillefaire was engaged to be married to Major Sturgeon had created a sense of wonder and awe among the inhabitants of Shelford that equaled the appearance of a comet or some other profound astronomical event. Certainly it had occurred with less warning. But the gentlefolk of Shelford overcame their astonishment in their eager kindness and sent such a number of small gifts, congratulatory cards, and perfumed letters that the pile threatened to overwhelm the porter's table in the hall, and this in spite of the fact that no formal announcement had yet been made.

Callie knew where to lay the blame. Obviously the major had mentioned it to someone-probably Colonel Davenport, in strict confidentiality-and from there the word raced with that mysterious speed and force that only a secret in a small country village could obtain. By the next day after her interview with the major, it was known to Mrs. Adam, Mr. Rankin, Miss Cummins, and Miss Poole. By the second, Reverend Hartman, Mrs. Farr, and Polly Parrot were acquainted with the facts of the matter. By the third day, it was old news to the goats. Callie was only left to wonder if she ought to make a formal announcement to Hubert. She supposed he must know, through the goats, but she wouldn't want to hurt his feelings by being the last to mention it to him.

"Pssst!"

She paused, uncertain if she had heard the whisper, which seemed to emanate from somewhere behind the bales of silk and shawls and cloaks piled high in what passed for the fashion showroom of Miss Poole's mantua-shop. There was no one else in the back room; nothing but fabrics and a faint sour-sweet scent that Callie could not quite place. She had wandered there on the excuse that she was looking over the fabrics, but in truth to escape the frequent congratulations from Miss Poole, which seemed to be unremitting. Callie herself felt rather numb and lacked an appetite, but she could not quite tell if it was from being engaged or expecting momentarily to hear that Monsieur Malempré had been sent to his trial in Bristol.

The hissing sound came again. Callie frowned and looked about the dim corners. Her sister and Dolly drank tea in the front room, poring over the fashion book while Dolly made acidic comments on the poor selection in a country town. It was only an emergency that had brought them to the length of consulting Miss Poole. Having got wind that Callie had used up her sister's rejected coquelicot wool for a costume to be worn at the masquerade ball two days hence, Dolly had positively shrieked with disgust. The impossibility of allowing this cloth to be viewed in public by the guests at Shelford Hall, particularly on Callie, had precipitated a sudden crisis. It was to be a royal blue, or she could appear in her petticoat, Dolly declared. Callie would have preferred to simply remain in her room, but Hermey protested that this would make her appear as if she wished to hog all the attention, when everyone knew that Callie was engaged now too. They would appear together-in suitably harmonious colors-or Hermey would break off her betrothal and enter a convent, or become a milkmaid, or something on that order, but worse. So Callie was at Miss Poole's, to be judged against the silks.

"My lady!" A plump white hand appeared from behind the mantled shape of a dress form. It held a note, the folded paper waving in the faint light. Callie peered around the form. Mrs. Easley crouched down behind it against the back door, holding her bottle in her lap. Callie recognized the sweet scent of gin now.

The woman pushed herself to her feet and leaned against the door frame. "The madame," she said, pushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead.

At that, Callie snapped the note from her hand. She opened it hurriedly. It said only, My good dear Lady Callista-I beg of you to come to me at once. The handwriting was shaky, and the duchesse's signature trailed off at the end to a fine thread.

Callie did not hesitate. She edged behind the dress form and followed Mrs. Easley out the back door of the shop.

"An' so you're to be married, m'lady!" Mrs. Easley mumbled as she made weaving but gallant attempts to keep up with Callie's stride. A fine sprinkle and lowering clouds threatened rain, but as yet it was only a misting. "Dare s'y you'll be wantin' a cook for the new establishmuum?"

Callie ignored this, drawing her shawl up over her head against the light dust of raindrops. Her heart was too far in her throat to compose any sort of reply that would not come back to trouble her in the future, so she merely kept walking and hoped Mrs. Easley would fall behind. That hope took on substance when the former cook halted abruptly, barely keeping her balance, as they came upon Dove Lane and saw a man in the distance ahead of them. Callie would have hurried ahead, but Mrs. Easley grabbed her elbow.

"Hssst! M'lady! That's a one of 'em!" Her slurred voice took on sharp urgency, and her fingers dug into Callie's arm. "Stop!"

Callie had little choice, as Mrs. Easley seemed bent on dragging her bodily back. "One of who?" she asked, trying to disengage herself from the drunken cook's grip.

"'Em runner fellows, up from London. Thief takers, m'lady!"

Callie looked back. She could see the man loitering far up the lane, moving from side to side in a strange manner, as if he were inspecting something in the dirt. She gave an exasperated sigh. A genuine thief taker was a rare article in Shelford. The occasional disappearance of a farm implement, which was usually discovered next spring where it had been left under a rick during the last haying season, was what passed for a wave of criminal activity in Shelford. In fact Callie could not remember ever hearing of one of the profes sional policemen in the vicinity before. But doubtless if they were looking about for thieves, Mrs. Easley had her reasons to avoid them. "You may go back, then," she said. "The duchesse needs me."