"Fustian!"* was Marcus's uncompromising response. "You're up to something, and it's been my invariable experience that when you decide to keep something from me, it develops into the most monumental bone of contention. I am not prepared to join battle with you yet again… either now, or at some point in the future when whatever it is is finally brought unassailably to my attention. So you will oblige me with chapter and verse, if you please."

If she hadn't had such a weight on her conscience, Judith could have responded to this provocation in the manner it deserved. But tonight she was too cowed by the truth to fight back. "Please," she said, pressing her temples. "I am truly too tired to be bullied."

"Bullied!" Marcus was momentarily thrown off balance. "I want to know what's troubling you, and I'm bullying you?"

"You don't want to know what's the matter," she cried, stung by this clear misrepresentation of the conversation so far. "You believe I've been up to something and I'm keeping it from you. That's not the same thing, I'll have you know."

"In my book, where you're concerned, Judith, it is." He shook his head with every appearance of reluctant resignation. "Oh, well, have it your own way. Don't say you weren't warned."

"Marcus!" Judith shrieked, as she found herself lifted onto a low table. His shoulder went into her stomach and the next instant, she was draped over his shoulder, staring at the carpet, her ringlets, falling loose from the ivory and pearl fillet, tumbling over her face.

"Yes, my dear?" he asked, all solicitude as he strode with her to the door.

"Put me down!" She pummeled his back with her fists and sneezed as her hair tickled her nose. The absurdity of her position struck her with full force as they reached the hall. Her gown of emerald taffeta was hardly suited to such rough handling, and the pearl drops in her ears dangled ludicrously against Marcus's back. She kicked her feet violently in their white satin slippers.

"When we get upstairs," he said calmly, placing a steadying hand on her upturned rear, but other than that ignoring her gyrations.

"But the servants." Judith gasped. "You can't possibly carry me through the house in this mortifying fashion."

"Can I not?" Laughter quivered in his voice. "You've had every opportunity to be cooperative, lynx."

Judith subsided with a groan, closed her eyes tightly and prayed that everyone had gone to bed… everyone, that is, except for Millie and Cheveley. She reared up against his shoulder at the thought. "Oh, God. Marcus, you have to let me walk into my room." "Do I?" "Please!"

He stopped, halfway up the stairs. "If you tell me straightway what I want to know, I'll allow you to enter your room on your own two feet."

"Oh, God," Judith muttered again. But inspiration came to her in the same instant. It must have something to do with all that blood rushing to her head. It wouldn't be a lie, either, just half the truth.

When she didn't immediately reply to his ultimatum, Marcus resumed climbing the stairs, carrying his burden seemingly with the greatest of ease.

"Please!" she yelped as they reached the head of the stairs. "Put me down and I'll tell you as soon as we're in my room. I will, I promise."

Marcus made no reply, merely continued down the corridor to Judith's chamber. At the door, however, mercifully, he stopped. "Word of a lynx?"

"Word of a Davenport," she said with a gasp. "I couldn't bear to be carried in there like a sack of potatoes."

Laughing, he lowered her to the floor, holding her waist as her feet touched ground. "I did tell you I had various methods of persuasion to hand."

Judith brushed her hair out of her eyes and tried to smooth her much-abused gown. She glared up at him, her face pink with indignation and the results of her upside-down journey. "How could you?"

"Very easily." He opened the door for her, gesturing she should precede him, offering a gently mocking bow.

"Lawks-a-mercy, my lady!" Millie squawked, jumping up from her chair. "Look at your dress." She stared with some disbelief at Judith's rumpled gown and wildly tumbled ringlets.

"I feel as if I've been dragged through a hedge backward," Judith declared, shooting her husband a fulminating glare.

Marcus grinned. "You may have fifteen minutes to prepare yourself for bed, ma'am. Then you will fulfill your side of the bargain."

"Some bargain," Judith muttered as the connecting door closed on his departure. "Help me undress, Millie. Fifteen minutes is no great time."

"No, my lady. But whatever's happened?"

"It's his lordship's idea of a joke," Judith told her, peering at her image in the cheval glass. "What a mess!"

Millie helped Judith into her nightgown and brushed her hair, returning order to the copper cloud. "If that'll be all, I'll take this for sponging and pressing, m'lady." She picked up the much-abused gown on her way to the door.

"Yes, thank you, Millie. Good night."

Judith blew out all but one candle and hopped swiftly into bed, propping the pillows behind her head, pulling the sheet up to her chin, offering her husband a demure bedtime image when he came in to hear her explanation. Her guilty panic had vanished under the spur of action, and now she knew how to handle the situation, she was as calm as if she were playing for high stakes on Pickering Street.

"Well, madam wife?" Marcus closed the door behind him and trod to the darkened bed. "You may look as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, but I know better. Out with it!" He snapped his fingers.

Judith frowned and sat up straight against the pillows. "I told you it was silly and I was making a mountain out of a molehill, but since you insist, then I'll tell you. It's Agnes Barret." She sat back again, with the air of one who has discharged a difficult but possibly pointless duty.

"Agnes Barret?" Marcus sat on the end of the bed. "Explain."

"I don't know how to," she said, and the ring of truth was in the admission. "She upsets me dreadfully. I feel as if we're fighting some war to the death, but I don't know what the issue is or what the weapon is. Whenever I'm obliged to talk to her, I feel as if an entire regiment is tramping over my grave."

"Good God!" Marcus lifted the candle, holding it high so that her face was thrown into relief. He could read the truth in her eyes. "So what happened tonight?"

She shrugged. "We just had words… or, at least, not even that, but I prevented her from driving Harriet home and she was furious. We exchanged looks, I think you could say. For some reason, she's cultivating Harriet." She plucked at the coverlet. "I believe Agnes and Gracemere are lovers."

Marcus frowned. "It's not inconceivable, I suppose. I

gather they've known each other from childhood. Why should it concern you?"

"It makes things awkward," she said, catching a loose thread on the sheet and twisting it restlessly around her finger. "That's why I didn't want to talk about this. I think Gracemere is trying to court Harriet-only she won't have anything to do with him-and Agnes is constantly trying to throw them together."

"I see." It was a flat statement. Harriet wouldn't be the first heiress to receive Gracemere's attentions, Marcus mused. But if she was holding him at arm's length, she was no Martha. Presumably Sebastian was a more potent counterweight to Gracemere's courting than he had been.

"You're scowling," Judith said. "And I haven't said anything yet to annoy you."

He banished the scowl with the memories and smiled. "Oh, dear, lynx, are you about to?"

"I don't know whether it will or not," she said judiciously, still twisting the thread.

"Out with it!"

"Well, whenever I'm with Harriet and she's with Agnes, Gracemere is usually not too far away." She looked up at him, her dark eyebrows in a quizzical arch. "I didn't want to bring up a potentially contentious subject."