The two inhaled sharply, flushed, and then paled in unison. Cedric smiled. Their anger at this public humiliation pleased him, and the fear that made them swallow their anger pleased him even more, although it increased his contempt.

Only Celia, of all the Penhallans, had stood up to him.

Suddenly he lost interest in tormenting his nephews.

The image of Celia filled his head. And the girl he'd seen yesterday. The girl who for a minute he'd mistaken for Celia. It was absurd, of course. His memory was hardly accurate after all these years. He'd been fooled by the fair hair and the slight frame. Nevertheless, it had been an extraordinary resemblance. The girl was probably about the same age Celia had been when he'd sent her away. That was what had given him such a start.

She'd been traveling with St. Simon. He looked up again at his nephews, an arrested light in the piercing black eyes. “What did you say about seeing St. Simon with some doxy this morning?”

Charles and David visibly relaxed, knowing that their uncle had lost interest in his malign castigation. “They were in the sea in the cove, sir,” David said hurriedly. “We couldn't see very clearly from the cliff top, but they were naked. The girl was so scrawny, she could have been a boy, we thought.” He chuckled, looking at his twin for corroboration.

“We thought perhaps St. Simon had developed new tastes in the Peninsula,” Charles said with a curl of his thin mouth.

“Don't be a fool,” his uncle said wearily. “What was she like?”

“Small, very fair hair.” Charles made haste to repair his error. “That was all we could see.”

Cedric frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully. It fitted with the girl he'd seen in Bodmin. “St. Simon bringing his mistress to Tregarthan?” He shook his head. “That's not his style. Who the hell could she be?”

He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud, and he didn't notice the quick look that flew between the twins. He helped himself from a platter of roast potatoes and chewed steadily. Silence returned to the dining room, but the twins now felt safe enough to resume their own dinner.

Cedric found his mind returning yet again to his sister. He rarely thought about her these days, but the girl in Bodmin had triggered a host of involuntary memories. Celia had been clever, very quick-witted. She could have been very useful to him if she'd agreed to follow his direction and mingle with the right people. He could have used her as a conduit for his influence. She would have been a worthy partner in his ambition if she'd agreed to be molded.

He wiped a dribble of gravy from his chin. But Celia had been so devilishly unpredictable, with no sense of family duty. And she'd threatened to ruin him. He'd had no choice but to take drastic measures to deal with her. A pity, really… it might have been amusing to have her companionship at this stage in life, when he was surrounded by people who wouldn't even look him in the eye. As for his brother's two sons…

Nasty pair they were… had been from the moment they'd passed into his guardianship at the age of seven. But they'd surpassed themselves over that business with the girl and St. Simon. If he hadn't opened his purse generously to the wench's father, it could have been very ugly. St. Simon had been insisting on hauling them before the justices, but the girl's father had settled for the equivalent of a handsome pension to keep his daughter quiet, and St. Simon hadn't been able to persuade him to change his mind. But St. Simon had sworn his own retribution if the Penhallan twins set foot on his land again, and Cedric had no doubt he meant it.

In fact, he thought, looking at their thin, pointed faces, he might almost enjoy watching St. Simon exact that retribution. Their reputation preceded them wherever they went. It was no wonder no respectable family would countenance a match with either of them, despite the Penhallan name.

“Bring cognac to the library,” he ordered, pushing back his chair with a harsh rasp on the oak floor. His voice and the sound of the chair were like a thunderclap after the long silence.

The twins half rose politely as their uncle stalked from the dining room without a further word to them, the butler following him with the brandy decanter.

A footmen placed a decanter of port at Charles's elbow, bowed, and left them to themselves.

“What say we answer his question for him?” Charles filled his glass and pushed the decanter across the table to his brother.

“What question?” David squinted in the candlelight that now lit the room. His eyes, like his brother's, were glazed. While they'd had little appetite for dinner at the beginning of the meal, they'd had no such problem with the wine.

“About St. Simon's doxy,” his brother explained carefully, draining his glass and reaching for the decanter again. “Governor wants to know who she is, we'll find out. He'll be glad to know, stands to reason.”

“Maybe even grateful,” David said, tapping the side of his nose suggestively. “But how do we find out?”

“Ask her… politely, of course.”

“Ah, yes, ask the whore politely,” his brother agreed, winking. “But how can we ask her if we're barred from St. Simon land?”

Charles thought about this, staring into his glass as if the answer would be contained in its ruby depths. “She's got to venture out sometime. Can't stay there forever. People to see, errands to run, shopping to do.”

“Unless St. Simon keeps her naked in the house,” David suggested with a lewd chuckle. For a minute they contemplated the exciting prospect of a woman kept naked to await their pleasure.

“Not St. Simon's style, though,” Charles said finally on an almost regretful note. “Household would be bound to know. Be all round the county in no time.”

“She'll have to leave the house at some point. So we'll ask her nicely when we come up with her,” David pronounced: “If we ask her nicely enough, she'll tell us what the governor wants to know.”

“Best she doesn't know who we are, though,” Charles said wisely. “Governor wouldn't like it… not after the other one.”

“Loo masks,” David said. “Loo masks and maybe even dominoes… that'll do it.”

“Not dominoes,” his brother said earnestly. “Can't carry a domino in your pocket, not like a loo mask. Carry that everywhere and no one knows you've got it. “

“True,” his brother agreed, seeing the wisdom of this practicality. “We'll carry 'em with us everywhere, and when we see her, we pop 'em on and ask some questions.”

Well satisfied, the brothers turned their attention more seriously to the port.

“The mail carrier brought you a letter.” Tamsyn entered the library the next morning flourishing a wafer-sealed paper. “It's from a woman, judging by the handwriting. Do all society ladies write with these flowery curls? Should I learn to do it too?” She examined the missive with a critical air. “Very fancy… and on pale-blue paper too. Is she your mistress?”

Wordlessly, Julian extended his hand for the letter.

Tamsyn passed it over and perched on the edge of his desk. “Do you have another mistress? But, then, I don't think 'mistress' is the right word to describe me, do you?”

“I don't believe the language contains a suitable description for you,” he observed dryly. “You beggar description. Get off the desk. It's most unladylike.”

“Why, certainly, milord colonel.” She slipped off her perch and essayed a demure curtsy, sweeping her muslin skirts to one side, one foot delicately pointed, her rear sinking onto her other heel. “Is this deep enough for the king, or will it only do for the queen?”

Julian regarded her with a gleam, certain she hadn't realized the dangers of her exaggerated position. “Now try to get up.”

Tamsyn realized immediately that it was impossible.

She overbalanced in a heap on the carpet and sat there with such an expression of aggrieved mortification he couldn't help laughing as he returned his attention to the letter.