"Forgive me, Lady Rosalind…" That sounded absurd; the child was holding a fistful of snails in one grubby palm. He tried again. "Rosie, I'm very sorry. I didn't realize they were for you."

Rosie said solemnly, "That's all right. It wasn't as if they'd been promised, or anything. They were just going to be a surprise."

Sylvester blinked. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Theo went into a peal of laughter. "Yes… in Rosie-talk."

"Oh." He looked so chagrined that Theo took pity on him.

"Never mind," she said. "Rosie and I will walk down to the Hare and Hounds this afternoon and beg some more from Mrs. Woods."

"That will be my responsibility," Sylvester said, remounting. "I'll confess my thievery and beg a replacement. It's the least reparation I can make." He raised his hat. "I give you good day, Lady Belmont… Cousin Theo… Rosie."

" 'Bye," Rosie said unconcernedly, her concentration now on the contents of her palm. "Oh…," she said, suddenly looking up at him. "You aren't in a hurry for us to move, are you? I have to move my museum to the dower house, and it might take a long time… because everything has to be packed up very carefully and carried by hand down the drive."

"Rosie!" Elinor exclaimed.

It was Sylvester's turn to laugh. "No, little cousin, I am not in the least anxious for you to leave the manor. I'm sure we can all manage to live in harmony for as long as it takes." He shot his other cousin a quick, quirking smile. "Isn't that so, cousin?"

"That remains to be seen, sir," Theo said, but without conviction.

Chapter Five

The door to the earl's bedroom stood open. Theo paused in the corridor outside. She'd been in that room many times, particularly in the weeks leading up to her grandfather's death. She knew the elaborate carving of the bedposts, could trace in her mind's eye the whorls and twists that her hand had played over during the interminable vigils she had kept by the bedside. She knew the rich serpentine designs on the embroidered canopy, matching the patterns in the Chinese carpet. She thought she knew every knot in the paneling, every thin fissure in the plaster ceiling.

The room was empty, and she stepped through the doorway, looking round. The furnishings hadn't changed, and yet the room felt different. Her grandfather's spirit no longer inhabited it, the faint musty smell of sickness and old age was gone. The new earl's possessions were scattered round, his silver-backed hairbrushes on the dresser, his boot jack beside the armoire, unfamiliar books in the bookshelves.

Her eye fell on the portrait of her father in his dress uniform. It hung above the fireplace, opposite the bed, where her grandfather could see it whenever he was awake. He'd had it hung there, he'd told her once, so that it was the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing at night. And it hung there now for the indifferent eyes of a Gilbraith.

The anger and frustration – inextricable with her grief and never far from the surface these days – rose anew, closing her throat, contracting her scalp, filling her eyes with bitter tears. She stepped farther into the room, drawing close to the portrait. Viscount Belmont smiled out at her, his hand on his sword, his blue eyes as clear as rainwashed pools. She tried to conjure up her own memories of that face, of his voice, of his scent. She could remember his arms round her when he lifted her onto her pony. She thought she could remember his voice, deep and warm, calling her his madcap Theo…

"Can I help you, cousin?"

She spun round at the earl's slightly ironic voice behind her. She had no right to be in this room… not anymore…not without an invitation from its present owner. She looked at him blindly, seeing not Sylvester Gilbraith but the embodiment and cause of her grief and the deep rage that accompanied it.

She flung out a hand as if to ward him off and moved to push past him.

"Hey, not so fast!" He caught her arm, turning her sharply to face him. "What are you doing in my room, Theo?"

"What do you think I'm doing, my lord?" she demanded. "Stealing something? Spying on you, perhaps?"

"Don't be foolish," he said brusquely. "Were you looking for me?"

"Why ever would I want to do that?" she demanded, her voice heavy with scorn and the tears she wouldn't shed. "If I never laid eyes on you again, I'd be very happy, Lord Stoneridge."

Sylvester's quick indrawn breath told her she'd gone too far, but she didn't care, blindly wanting to wound the man who was standing where her father should be standing. She pulled her arm free and pushed him aside.

Sylvester seized her plait, preventing further progress. "No, you don't," he said furiously. "I am sick to death of this incivility. What the hell have I done to deserve it?"

"You don't have to do anything… you just have to be," she exclaimed in a low voice. "And if you're too insensitive to understand that, sir, let me tell you that that's my father's portrait hanging on your wall!"

Startled, he turned to look behind him, dropping her braid. Theo took advantage of her release and left him, almost running in her anxiety to get away before she was overcome by her tears.

Sylvester swore softly, but he made no attempt to go after her. He examined the portrait, wishing he'd noticed it early enough to avert that scene. He hadn't realized who it was. The house was full of family portraits.

He went in search of Foster. "Have the portrait of Viscount Belmont moved into Lady Theo's room, Foster. Unless Lady Belmont would prefer it."

"Lady Belmont has her own pictures of the late viscount, my lord," Foster informed him gravely. "But I'm sure Lady Theo will appreciate the gesture."

"Yes… good," the earl muttered.

That done, he turned his thoughts to dealing with Theo. He'd been in the house two days, and whenever Theo couldn't manage to avoid him, she was abominably rude to him. So far, he'd failed to persuade her even to ride round the estate with him. It was hardly a promising courtship. Perhaps that devious old devil had known he'd be on a fool's quest and had relished the thought of making a laughingstock of his unknown but detested heir.

He strode through the open doors of the drawing room onto the long stone terrace. Perhaps that was it, and he'd fallen into the trap through greed… through need, he amended, sitting on the low stone wall separating the terrace from the sweep of green lawn.

And it wasn't just the need for money. He needed a purpose, a function, in the world, and managing an estate the size of Stoneridge would take all his skills. He'd joined the army at the beginning of the war – or rather the first Revolutionary war. The present battle against Napoleon was a different matter from those early skirmishes with the untried ragtag French revolutionaries. For fifteen years the army had been his life. There'd been women… some passionate affairs… but they'd been part of the heady excitement of the war, the deprivations, the terrors, the fierce exultations of victory. He'd felt no urge to marry, to set up his nursery. For the last twelve years, after the death of Kit Belmont, he'd known he would come into the Stoneridge title and inheritance, and he'd been content to wait for that time before committing himself to marriage, children, and new responsibilities.

And then Vimiera had happened – twelve months in a stinking French jail in Toulouse. And then the court-martial.

He stood up abruptly, beginning to pace the length of the terrace. He'd been acquitted of cowardice. But not in the hearts and minds of his peers. He'd resigned his commission, ostensibly because of the lingering effects of his head wound, but everyone knew the real reason. He couldn't endure the turned shoulders. He would have returned to the Peninsula a marked man, the story flying ahead of him. There would be endless humiliations, some small, some large. And he didn't have the courage to face them down.