"Nicholas should never have come into the title and that's the truth of it. My precious Richard should be the earl.

"I have friends, missy, friends who know the Sherbrookes, friends who have told me about Ryder Sherbrooke and his collection of little beggars, one of which you have been for over ten years. Ah, I can see the shame in your eyes. What do you have to say to that?"

"I say thank you to God, every single night, that Ryder Sherbrooke found me and saved me life. Do you think I should do more? Oh, dear, all my money comes from him as well. I did knit him some socks one year for Christmas, and he did wear them, bless him."

Rosalind sincerely prayed Lady Mountjoy wouldn't fall over with apoplexy. Her powerful lungs looked ready to burst through her lavender bodice, her fists knotted at her sides. Perhaps Rosalind should stop laying it on with a trowel.

Miranda, Lady M o untjoy, was frustrated and baffled by this far too smart young lady with her glorious red hair, which even Richard had remarked favorably upon, unwillingly, of course. She wished the girl's hair were coarse and vulgar, what with all the thick riotous curls, but it wasn't. And those blue eyes-her own boys' father had had such blue eyes, beautiful eyes-but he was dead, that inconsiderate lout who'd really been too old for her at the time she married him, but she'd insisted-and then he'd had the gall to croak after barely twenty years. She yelled at Rosalind, "You are not paying proper attention to me, missy!"

"Ah, it just occurred to me that once I am wed to Nicholas, I shall take precedence over you. You will call me Lady Mountjoy and curtsy. You will be the Dowager Lady Mountjoy."

Lady Mountjoy picked up what was close at hand-a lovely green brocade pillow-and hurled it at her. Rosalind plucked it out of the air, laughing. She was very relieved that Lady Mountjoy did not have a cane in her hand.

"Pray, ma'am, if you would care to be seated and converse like a reasonable person, I would be delighted to respond in kind. Do you wish to leave or do you wish to sit down and calm yourself?"

Even as Lady Mountjoy's vision blurred in her rage, she sat herself down across from Rosalind in a high-backed brocade chair that matched the pillow. The lines on either side of her mouth appeared even deeper, a pity. She sat perfectly straight as if a board were down her back, imperious as a judge, Rosalind thought. But there was an air of uncertainty about her now. Could it be that she'd fired all her cannon? She could think of no more insults, no more attacks?

Rosalind rose and walked to the fireplace and pulled on the bell cord beside it. When Willicombe appeared barely ten seconds later, Rosalind asked him for tea and cakes.

"Shall I inquire if Mistress Sophia is available, Miss Rosalind?"

"Oh, no, Lady Mountjoy and I are having a charming time. She is to be my future stepmother-in-law, you know."

Willicombe did know" and it took all his training not to tell the old besom to climb back on her broom and ride out of there.

The two ladies sat across from each other, Lady Mountjoy tapping her fingertips on the arm of the chair, frustration pouring off her. Rosalind swung her foot and whistled a lilting tune until Willicombe made his stately way back into the drawing room, bearing a silver tray with tea and cakes. When all was in order, Rosalind found she nearly had to shove Willicombe out. She closed and locked the door.

She smiled pleasantly at Lady Mountjoy. "My Uncle Ryder always says if there is bile to be spilled, it is wise to lock the door. He also says there is nothing quite like a good cup of hot tea to set things aright."

"A man would say something stupid like that, curse all of them to the Devil."

"So, ma'am, would you care for tea?"

Lady Mountjoy told her she wasn't thirsty, requested two sugars and a drop of milk, and proceeded to pour it down her gullet.

"My Uncle Ryder is quite right about the bile spilling, don't you think?"

"He is not your uncle!"

Rosalind said quietly, "I know. I often wonder if I have an uncle by blood out there somewhere. Perhaps he is still looking for me. More likely, he believes I died many years ago."

Lady Mountjoy appealedmomentarily disconcerted. She managed a substantial snort and then snarled; "I certainly would not look for you."

That was an impressive blow. Rosalind sat back, her cup of tea in her hand. "You never told me why Nicholas's father sent his five-year-old firstborn son away. I imagine it was after you wedded his father, is that right?"

"When Richard was ham, my dear husband knew he was

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the rightful son, the one who deserved to follow in his footsteps, not Nicholas."

"What was Nicholas like, ma'am?"

"He was an impossible child, sly, always hiding and spying on me. He hated me, hated his father, claimed his father had murdered his mother and that I had helped him. I knew he would try his best to murder poor little Richard once he was born, and so my husband sent him to live with his grandfather, that mad old man. But he came back. Damn him, he had the gall to come back!"

"I believe his mother had only been dead five months when you and his father wed?"

"What does that matter? We were in love, we'd waited long enough. His mother was a pious creature, one to rival the vicar in black looks and condemnation. When she died of a lung infection, it was a great relief to everyone, particularly her husband. Even though she fancied herself a saint, she still complained endlessly that it wasn't fair the old earl was still alive-I must admit she was quite right about that. The old man had enjoyed quite enough years on this earth." She sipped at her tea. "Mary Smithson-yes, that was the name everyone had to call her. As for the old earl, he simply became more and more eccentric-thought himself some sort of magician, if you can believe that. He was mad, I always thought. He raised Nicholas to hate us all the more-"

"But why?"

Lady Mountjoy eyed her with loathing. "That is none of your business. Let me tell you, missy, you are not clever. You string words together that sound clever, but they are not. The old man taught Nicholas strange things, otherworldly cants and mysterious rituals, mad ceremonies with ghosts and spirits invited, the brewing of deadly potions. There was wicked magic going on at Wyverly Chase, all knew it."

The words clogged in Rosalind's throat, then broke loose. "Do you really think Nicholas's grandfather was mad? Or deep down do you believe he was a wizard?"

"Don't be a blockhead. There is no such thing. I told you-the old man was mad, nothing more, and he taught Nicholas bad things. I believe it quite possible that Nicholas could inherit this madness from his grandfather, that he could become crazed, and thus any hay child you presented to him could carry the seeds of madness."

"If that is your belief, it is very sad, ma'am, for that means you are discouraging your own three sons from wedding and providing you with grandchildren because of the taint of madness."

"You have the brain of a scallop. It is well known that madness passes only to the eldest, never to the other children."

"I have never heard that."

"That is because you are ignorant. Since the old man had Nicholas to mold, he paid no attention to my three sons, didn't even acknowledge their birthdays. Even without any of the old man's wealth, they grew up straight and tall and worthy to be what they are, the sons of an earl."

"I understand your husband wasn't supposed to be the earl, that he had an older brother."

"I never met him but I know that Edward was a small-minded varmint of a man, always dreamy-eyed, and could never answer a question sensibly. My husband told me he spoke to rosebushes while he stroked their petals. Then Edward died and the title came to the rightful son, Gervais, and he became Viscount Ashborough."