Judith raised the refilled glass, then gasped, slamming it back on the table. Her hand went to her throat and, under Gracemere's astonished, horrified gaze, she turned a delicate shade of green. With a sudden gasp, she flew behind the screen to the commode from whence came the most unromantic and unladylike sounds.

Marcus made his wife's excuses to the Willoughbys, offering a polite white lie. He did what was required of him, making the rounds of his fellow guests, most of whom he'd known since boyhood, ate an indifferent dinner, enjoyed good burgundy, and followed his fellow guests to the drawing room for the recital.

"My Lord Carrington, this is an unexpected encounter." Agnes Barret materialized on the arm of her elderly husband just as the harpist took her place. "We are come so late," she whispered, sitting beside the marquis. "We had another dinner engagement, but we couldn't offend the Willoughbys. Such old friends of my husband's." She fanned herself vigorously and looked around the room, nodding and smiling as she met recognition.

Marcus murmured something suitable, thinking that she was a most attractive woman, with those fine eyes and high cheekbones and that curiously familiar wicked curve to her mouth.

"Lady Carrington isn't with you?" Agnes turned her smile upon him.

"No, she had a previous engagement," he said.

"Ah." Agnes frowned as if in thought. "Not in Jermyn Street, of course."

Premonition shot up Marcus's spine like flame on a tarred stick. "I hardly think so, ma'am."

Agnes shook her head. "No, of course not. Silly of me, I had the unmistakable impression I'd seen her alighting from a chaise… it must have been a trick of the light. The lantern over the door was throwing strange shadows."

Marcus sat still, a smile fixed on his face, his eyes on the harpist as she began to pluck her instrument. He felt enwrapped in tendrils of malice, the evil mischief emanating from the woman beside him seeming to weave around him. Judith had been right. Agnes Barret was not harmless. Agnes Barret was dangerous. And if Agnes Barret was Gracemere's lover, then Judith was in danger. How or why, he couldn't guess. But he was as certain of it as he was of his own name. Martha's battered little face rose vividly in his memory, the despairing whimpers filling his ears anew.

He rose without excuse from his chair and left the room, while the harpist's gentle music continued behind him.

Agnes, startled, watched him stalk from the room. She'd done no more than sow the first little seed. She hadn't mentioned Bernard. That would come tomorrow or the next day, a whispered word to set the gossip on its way. What could possibly have driven the marquis to leave so precipitately?

Marcus left the house without making farewells and walked fast to Jermyn Street.

Gracemere listened for a minute in horrified impotence to the sounds of violent retching behind the screen. Then he strode to the door, flung it open, and bellowed for help. Madame came up the stairs, two of her girls on her heels.

"Whatever is it, my lord?"

He gestured to the room behind him. "Her ladyship appears to be unwell. Do something."

Madame listened for a minute, gave the earl a most telling look, and hurried into the room, disappearing behind the screen.

Gracemere paced the corridor, unwilling to return to the scene of such a horribly intimate disintegration. He thumped a fist into the palm of his other hand, cursing all women. It couldn't have been the wine, she'd only had one glass and she'd been perfectly sober when they'd arrived.

Judith staggered out from behind the screen, supported by Madame and one of the women. She was waxen, a faint sheen of perspiration on her brow, her hair lackluster, her eyes watering.

"My lord, I don't know what…" She pressed her hand to her mouth. "Something I ate… so mortifying… I don't know how to apologize-"

"You must go home," he interrupted brusquely. "The chaise will take you."

She nodded feebly. "Yes, thank you. I have to lie down." Staggering, she fell onto the divan, lying back with her eyes closed.

Madame took her fan and began to ply it vigorously. "My lord, I can't have sick women in my house," she said, an edge to the refined accents. "It doesn't look good, and what my other guests would think, listening.."

"Yes, yes," Bernard interrupted. "Have her taken downstairs and put in the chaise. Tell the driver to take her back to Berkeley Square."

Somehow, a limp and groaning Judith was bundled down the stairs and into the waiting chaise. Bernard stood at the window, watching as the vehicle moved off down the street. Some devil was at work here, throwing all his carefully engineered schemes awry. He went to the table and flung himself into a chair, moodily refilling his glass. He might as well eat the dinner he'd ordered with such care.

Marcus turned onto Jermyn Street from St. James's. He was amazed at his own calm as he looked down the street. Three houses had lanterns outside their doors. Behind one of those doors he was certain he would find his wife in the company of Bernard Melville, Earl of Grace-mere. He had no idea why she was there, why she would have allowed herself to be trapped by Gracemere, but the reasons didn't interest him at the moment. There would be time for that later. He had but one thought, to reach her before she was hurt.

The first door had no knowledge of the Earl of Gracemere. The butler in the powdered wig behind the second door bowed him within immediately. Madame emerged from the salon, all smiles, ready to greet a new customer.

"Where is Gracemere?"

The clipped question, the burning black eyes, the almost mask-like impassivity of expression impressed Madame as nothing else could have done. "I believe his lordship is abovestairs, sir. Is he expecting you?"

"If he's not, he should be," Marcus said. "Direct me to him, if you please."

Madame made a shrewd guess as to the business the new arrival might have with the earl. She gestured to Bernice. It was none of her business if Gracemere chose to invoke outraged husbands, and she wasn't prepared to have a scene in her hall. "Show this gentleman to Lord Gracemere's parlor."

Marcus strode up the stairs after the girl. At the door, he waved her away. He stood for a second listening. There was complete silence. After lifting the latch gently, he pushed the door open. The room had a single occupant.

Gracemere was sprawled in a chair at the table, a glass of claret in his hand, his eyes on the offensively cheerful glow in the grate. His head swiveled at the sound of the door opening.

"Ah, Gracemere," Marcus observed, deceptively pleasant. "There you are."

"I'm flattered you should seek me out, Carrington." Bernard sipped his wine. "To what do I owe this unlooked-for attention?"

"Oh, a simple matter." Marcus tossed his cane onto the divan and took the chair opposite the earl. He examined the place settings for a minute before returning his attention to the earl. "A simple matter," he repeated. "Where is my wife, Bernard?"

Gracemere gestured expansively around the room. "Why ask me, Marcus? I dine alone."

"It would appear so," Marcus agreed. "But you are clearly expecting a guest." He picked up the fork at his place, examining the tines with careful interest, before reaching for the second wineglass on the table. It was half full. "Has your guest made a temporary departure?"

The earl gave a crack of sardonic laughter. "I trust not temporary."

"Oh? You interest me greatly, Gracemere. Please explain." He turned the stem of the wineglass between finger and thumb, regarding the earl intently across the table.

"Your wife is not here," the earl said. "She has been here, but she is by now, I trust, safely tucked up in her own bed."

"I see." Marcus rose. "And the circumstances of her departure…?"