"I was – er – that is, I had hopes of meeting you," the young man confessed, with a betraying blush.

The blush made the freckles that starred the bridge of his nose stand out vividly, and his blue eyes studied her with anxious interest. Marianne had never seen a visage that spoke so unmistakably of its owner's origin, and in her good spirits she could not resist teasing him.

"Ah, begorra, had you indeed?"

M. Victor's prominent jaw dropped. For a moment he looked as if he would protest. Then he let out a long sigh.

"Ah, faith, and it's found me out you have. And surely ye won't be betraying me to the Duchess, angel of kindness that you must be, with a heavenly face like the one you have on you?"

"I am sure Her Grace already knows," Marianne said, laughing. "She is the angel of kindness; if she has not objected to your masquerade so far, I don't see why she should now. But why pretend? Are you ashamed of being Irish?"

"Indeed it's proud I am to be a son of Erin! But… the world is a foolish place, bedad, and there's no denying that an Irish tutor does not have the prestige of a Frenchie."

"That may be true, monsieur… What am I to call you then?"

"Victor is me name; indeed, me lie is only a wee bit of a half-lie, for me dear mither was French. Call me Victor, without the monsieur, and you'll honor me for life."

"Thank you. But why were you hoping to meet me?"

"I wished to offer me services as a guide. I know this crumbling old bin like the back o' me hand. Bedad, there's little enough to do here but read the old histories of the place. So, if you would enjoy a tour of the premises, consider me your man."

"But aren't you supposed to be teaching?" Marianne asked innocently. "I would not want to take you from your duties."

Victor's eyes twinkled slyly. "All work and no play makes Henry a dull boy. It's a dull boy he is altogether, hardly worth me talents as a teacher."

"It is kind of you," Marianne said. "But not today. I have – uh – duties to perform."

She left the young man looking downcast. Even if she had not had other things on her mind, she would not have been eager to go wandering off with him. His comment about his pupil's dullness had struck a sour note. He had no right to feel himself on such confidential terms with her.

As the day wore on, however, she almost regretted she had not accepted the tutor's offer, for the hours had to be filled somehow, and the Duchess was busy with household matters. There were always details of this nature to settle when she came north, since neither of the other ladies had the interest or the ability to deal with them. So Marianne read a little, walked a little, and looked at her pretty enameled lapel watch – the Duchess's latest gift – every fifteen minutes.

The day was unusually mild, so she finally settled down under the rose arbor with a piece of needlework. In that sheltered spot, situated to the south of the castle and shielded by plantings of firs, a few late roses lingered. Marianne passed an hour there. She had just decided that she could now go in and begin dressing for dinner when the sound of footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. For a moment she could hardly believe her eyes. What was Roger Carlton doing here?

So thoroughly had her new idol filled her thoughts that she studied the lawyer with a cool dispassionate eye and wondered how she could have found him handsome. Not that he was actually ugly. His height, his form, and the vigor of his walk were attractive enough. But dark-brown hair was so dull, compared to golden locks.

He came to a stop before her. "The servants told me I would find you here."

"Did they?" Marianne's voice was cool. "But I shan't be here for long. In fact, I was just about to go in."

"That would be a pity. You make such a charming picture – a golden-haired lady in a white gown, framed in clusters of roses. The roses are almost gone, of course, but a romantic imagination like mine can easily supply them."

"You are making fun of me," Marianne said, plunging her needle vigorously into the linen fabric and gathering her silks together.

"Not at all. I have as keen an eye for beauty as any man."

"What are you doing here? Business, I suppose."

"Your business." Carlton adjusted the crease in his fawn trousers and took a seat.

"Mine? But I have none."

"Perhaps business is not quite the right word. Your affairs, I should say."

"Well?"

Carlton reached out his hand and plucked a rose. He let out a little exclamation as the flower came into his hand. "A pity such beautiful flowers have thorns," he said, looking with mock dismay at a tiny bead of blood on his thumb.

"I am in a hurry," Marianne said. "What do you want to tell me?"

"But it can't be told in a sentence. I want to talk with you at length."

"Then it will have to wait. We are having a guest for dinner, and I must go and dress."

"Quite a royal 'we,' I must say. Who is this guest?"

"The… the clergyman," Marianne said. She would have given anything she owned not to blush, but she felt the warm, betraying tide of blood move across her cheeks.

"St. John?" To her annoyance Carlton threw his head back and let out a loud hearty laugh. "Where did you… Ah, but of course; yesterday was Sunday, and you -"

"And you," Marianne interrupted, "must have left London yesterday. Sunday travel, Mr. Carlton? How shocking!"

"Duty called," Carlton said solemnly.

"You are impossible! Please excuse me."

"Don't you even want to know what business I meant to discuss with you?"

"No. Unless…" Marianne had risen to her feet and started forward. Now she stopped. Quite without warning a terrible picture had flashed into her mind. She seemed to see Mrs. Jay lying on her bed, her hands crossed over her breast, and her eyes closed. The mental apparition was so vivid that she spun around, her curls flashing in the sunlight, her skirts billowing out. "Has something happened? Have you bad news?"

For once she was unaware of the lovely picture she presented, with emotion darkening her eyes and the sunlight caressing the graceful lines of her body and arms. The young lawyer took a long, shaken breath before replying.

"No, no. Not the sort of news you are dreading. It can wait."

"Well." In her relief Marianne smiled. Dimples, fluttering lashes, curving lips came into full play. "We will talk later, then. Tomorrow, perhaps."

Carlton nodded dumbly. With another gracious smile Marianne left him.

He sat under the rose arbor for some time, his brow furrowed, meticulously stripping the petals from the rose, careless of its thorns. When he finally returned to the house the ground beside his chair was strewn with the soft pink petals of the murdered flower.

It need not be said that Marianne dressed for dinner with unusual care. By the time she left her room she had tried on all the dresses she owned and reduced Annie to a state of quivering nerves. The results, however, were magnificent. Perhaps those few days in the theater had taught her something about creating an effect, or perhaps the basic instincts of a woman had warned her that the pastor would be more struck with virginal modesty than with ostentation. Her gown was the same one she had worn that fateful night at the opera, but with the trailing flowers and coquettish blue ribbons removed. It was now stark unadorned white, and Marianne's only ornament was a black velvet ribbon that supported the locket with the pictures of her parents.

Her lateness was not a matter of calculation, but the inevitable result of prolonged primping. Most of the others were assembled in the drawing room when she made her entrance.

The room was extravagantly lighted by lamps and candles and by two great fires. Such light is flattering; Marianne knew she was the cynosure of all eyes as she stood in the doorway. Her own eyes went straight to his face, ignoring all the others.