She was a Granville and she’d just betrayed her Granville heritage in Rufus Decatur’s bed. Would Jack consider she’d betrayed him? Maybe not. He’d pursued pleasure himself without too much thought of principles and consequences.

But the shadow now would not be thrown off. What was to happen to her now? Had this changed anything? What did she wish to happen now?

“I’m not in the least sleepy,” she said, jumping from the bed, hiding the chill of her reflections under the mantle of her previous exuberance. “And the piper’s still playing. Let’s go back down again.” She bent to pick up her discarded britches and drawers.

Rufus hesitated. But in the chaos of noise and revelry below, he could postpone reality for a while longer. So he said only, “‘You’re tireless,” and began to dress.

It was close to dawn when silence fell over Fanny’s house of doubtful repute. The hall was a disaster area-tables and benches overturned, drink spilled, dogs searching out bits of food among the debris, moving stealthily among the bodies’ that were sleeping where they’d fallen.

Rufus was among the last to succumb and he found Portia curled in the inglenook, finally defeated by sleep. He scooped her out of the embers and carried her upstairs, rolling her beneath the covers before collapsing beside her. Two hours was all he would allow any of them before they resumed the journey. But they were grown men and could take the consequences of their excesses.

Cato Granville looked up from the pile of dispatches at the tentative knock on the door to his bastion room. “Enter.”

To his surprise, his daughter slid into the room. He couldn’t remember when Olivia had last sought him out. With conscious effort, he smoothed away his frown.

Olivia curtsied and stood in silence for a minute. She was wearing a rather drab gown, Cato thought. The dull yellowish brown didn’t suit her dark coloring. It made her look sallow. And then it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen his daughter in a dress that did suit her. He made a mental note to ask Diana to direct her stepdaughter to a more attractive wardrobe.

“I was wondering about P-Portia, sir.” Olivia finally spoke. “When is she c-coming back?” Her black eyes had a painful intensity, and her hands were screwed tightly together against her drab skirt.

“The business is very complicated, child,” Cato said dismissively. “I don’t know what will happen.”

“B-but it’s not fair!” Olivia protested, her eyes intently focused on the inner landscape where she formed her words. “It was supposed to be me. Not P-Portia. You owe it to her to bring her back.”

Cato was as displeased as he was astonished at such a challenge from his normally reticent daughter.

“This business does not concern you, Olivia,” he said sharply. “And I do not appreciate your discourtesy. You may leave.”

Olivia flushed. In silence she curtsied again and backed out of her father’s sanctum. She stood leaning against the closed door, gathering herself together. That interview had required a great deal of courage, and it had achieved nothing except a show of her father’s anger.

The clock in the bastion tower struck four, and she remembered with dull distaste that she was supposed to be attending Diana in the stillroom. Some jars of preserves had gone missing, and Diana was interrogating the stillroom maids. Her stepdaughter was supposed to be learning the arts and skills of household management.

She pushed herself away from the door and trailed grimly down the corridor toward the domestic part of the building. As she rounded the corner at the end of the passage, a voice said, “Well, if it isn’t the little Olivia. My own little sister.”

Olivia raised her eyes. Her stomach churned. Brian Morse, her father’s stepson, barred her way. He’d come after all. And Portia was not here. She had promised to be here, and she wasn’t.

Brian Morse was a slight man, with an elongated face, small brown eyes like pebbles, and a startling white lock of hair growing back from his narrow forehead.

Portia would not be afraid. “I am n-not your sister,” Olivia managed in a voice that was almost steady.

“Oh s-s-such a f-f-fierce little th-thing, aren’t we?” he mocked. He stretched out a hand and made to grab her shoulder.

She jumped back, her face white, her eyes great black holes of disgust and fear. “Don’t t-touch me!”

He laughed with the same mockery. “You’ve changed your tune, little sister.”

“No!” With a sudden movement, she ducked sideways and raced past him, for the first time in her life desperate for Diana’s company.

Brian Morse watched her go, a smile on his thin lips. She was growing up, turning into quite the young woman. Tall for her age and with a nicely emerging bosom. Mind you, from that little encounter, she appeared to be still such a pathetic-creature that it was barely worth the effort to tease her. He’d always liked a little challenge to his sport.

But then again… His smile grew. It might be very amusing to see how far he could push that emerging womanhood on this visit. Four years ago, as he recalled, it had been remarkably easy to drive her to near hysteria. Like taking cake from a baby.

He went on his way to Cato’s sanctum, knocking briskly on the door and entering at the command.

Cato half rose from his chair when he saw his visitor. “Brian, I hadn’t known whether to expect you or not, under the circumstances.”

“There are many families torn apart in this war, my lord.” Brian shook the extended hand. “I respect your decision even if I cannot accept it.”

“Mmm.” Cato gestured to a seat and resumed his own. Brian’s sentiments were always appropriate, but glib.

“Oh, forgive me…” He remembered his duties as host and got up again. “Wine?” He poured from the flagon on the sideboard into two pewter goblets and handed one to his guest. “Your attendants are being looked after, I trust?”

“I came alone.”

“Oh?” One mobile eyebrow lifted in surprise. “The countryside is not conducive to solitary travel these days.”

“I’m on a private mission for Prince Rupert.” Brian’s smile was smug as he took the scent of his wine.

“Then you’d best keep it to yourself,” Cato said shortly. “How long do you intend staying?”

Brian looked momentarily discomfited. “If my presence is unwelcome, I trust you would say so, my lord.”

“As a supporter of the king’s cause, your presence here is inconvenient,” Cato said deliberately. “As a member of my family, of course, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

“My visit is of a purely social nature. I came to pay my long overdue respects to Lady Granville. I deeply regretted being unable to attend your wedding.”

Cato sipped his wine and gave a noncommittal nod. He was aware, although Brian probably didn’t know, that his stepson had been absent from the wedding because he had been detained in a debtors’ prison in Paris.

“I bumped into Olivia just now,” Brian continued. “Such a young woman she is now. Hardly a trace of the little girl I remember from my last visit.”

“No,” Cato agreed somberly. “Hardly a trace.” He reached for the bellpull. “You must be in need of rest and refreshment after your journey… Ah, Bailey, escort Mr. Morse to a guest chamber and have someone attend him during his stay.”

The servant bowed and stood aside for Brian to pass through the door.

“I’ll escort you to Lady Granville when you’ve refreshed yourself,” Cato said.

The door closed behind his unwanted visitor, and he flung himself back into his carved oak chair, crossing his legs, long fingers playing with the quill on the table. What exactly was Brian doing here? Was he spying for Prince Rupert? He would be able to gauge the size of the Granville militia and its readiness for war. But those were no secrets. It would do no harm for the royalists to know what was easily available to anyone in the area.