"Just how bad was the Unfortunate Incident?" Simon asked carefully. It was time to get all the sordid details, he thought.

"Bad enough, according to her father. Poor chit."

"It happened five years ago?" Simon probed.

"About that, I believe. Miss Faringdon was nineteen at the time. She'd lost her mama a year or so before. That damn father o' hers and those rakehell brothers were always gone, leavin' her alone in that big house. Can't pry a Faringdon away from the gaming hells for long, y'know. In any event, Miss Faringdon was more or less left to her own devices with only the servants for company. Lonely, no doubt. No one to advise her. Poor thing was ripe for disaster."

Simon reached for the bottle of port and topped off his host's glass. "And it struck?"

"Disaster? It struck right enough. In the form of a young rake, naturally. Always the way, ain't it?"

"Yes." Simon sipped his own port and wondered why he suddenly felt like halting the conversation then and there. He could guess how the tale was going to end now and already he did not look forward to hearing any more. But he had long ago learned that information of any kind was a vital commodity, especially when one was plotting vengeance. "This young man. Is he still in the neighborhood?"

"Ashbrook? Hell and damnation, no. Never saw him again after the Incident. Heard he came into his title a couple years ago. He's a baron now. And a poet. Hang around London drawing rooms long enough and y'er bound to run into him and his admirers. You've probably caught a glimpse of him at some crush. All the rage just now."

Simon's fingers tightened of their own accord around his glass. Carefully he loosened them, not wanting to crack the fragile crystal.

At the mention of Lord Ashbrook's name he had a sudden, clear recollection of five pairs of accusing eyes turned on him that afternoon when he had casually mentioned the poet's latest epic. The extent of his faux pas earlier in the day made him wince.

"So it was Ashbrook who ruined Em… I mean, Miss Faringdon?"

"Talked her into running off with him. Very sad."

"An elopement?"

"Poor Miss Faringdon believed she was eloping. But personally I doubt Ashbrook ever had any intention o' marrying her. Faringdon caught up with 'em the next day and word has it Ashbrook did not hang around to confront the outraged father. But by then the damage was done, o' course. The pair had spent the night together at an inn, Faringdon told me privately."

"I see."

"Damn sad. Emily's a sweet little thing. No one around here talks about the Incident. Don't like to see the gel hurt. 'Preciate it if you'd keep quiet about it, sir."

"Of course." Simon had a sudden image of Emily's face as she had tried to explain that it was quite impossible for him to ask for her hand in marriage. She was obviously as convinced as everyone else that she was socially ruined. The most she could hope for in the way of romance these days was a pure, noble, high-minded connection maintained through the post. No wonder she had been dismayed to see him turn up in person.

Simon recalled that he had encountered Ashbrook once or twice in a couple of London ballrooms. The man put a great deal of effort into projecting an image of smoldering sensuality and jaded, cynical tastes. The ladies who clustered around him obviously found him fascinating. It was no secret that they saw him as the epitome of the new romantic style made popular by Byron.

"Why didn't Faringdon insist Ashbrook marry his daughter?" Simon asked.

"Probably tried. Ashbrook obviously refused. Can't exactly force a man, y'know. Matter of honor and all that. And 't'weren't like Faringdon was important in the social world. No real position, of course. Broderick Faringdon has some distant family connection to an impoverished baron up in Northumberland, but that's all."

"So Faringdon let the matter drop?"

"Afraid so. Our little Miss Faringdon lacked the looks and, at that time, fortune enough to engage Ashbrook's interest for a permanent commitment. I fear the young man was merely toying with her affections and the lady paid the price of her indiscretion, as young ladies frequently must."

Simon studied his port. "I am surprised that neither Broderick Faringdon nor one of twins attempted to call Ashbrook out."

"Faringdons take their risks at the gaming tables, not with their necks."

"I see."

"A pity, all in all," Gillingham concluded, reaching for the port. "Thank God for the ladies of the local literary society."

Simon looked up. "Why do you say that?"

"A dull but thoroughly respectable lot, the bunch of 'em. They banded together and took Miss Faringdon into their group. Made it clear they were not going to cut her even if she was ruined in the eyes of the world. If you ask me, there's not a one of the lit'ry society ladies who don't secretly envy the gel. She brought a little excitement into their humdrum lives."

Simon thought that was a surprisingly perceptive comment on the part of his host. He wondered if Gillingham knew that Emily was repaying her benefactresses by ensuring them all comfortable pensions for their old age. "So Miss Faringdon has never married because of the scandal. Do you know, I find it difficult to believe that someone around here was not prepared to overlook it long enough to ask for her hand. She's an intriguing little thing."

"Well, there's always Prendergast," Gillingham said thoughtfully.

Simon frowned. "Who is Prendergast?"

"Country gentry. Owns a fair amount o' land in the area. His wife died a year ago and he's made it clear he's willing to overlook the Incident in Miss Faringdon's past. Ain't precisely a young girl's dream, but Miss Faringdon ain't precisely a young girl anymore. And it ain't as if she's got a lot of choice."

Several hours later Simon gave up his attempt to get to sleep. He pushed back the heavy covers, got out of bed, and dressed in his breeches, boots, and a shirt. Then he picked up his greatcoat and let himself out into the hall.

The restlessness had been gnawing at him since he had retired. Perhaps a walk would help.

The house was chilled and dark. Simon thought about lighting a candle and decided against it. He had always been able to see quite well at night.

He went silently down the carpeted stairs and then along the hall that led to the kitchens. A moment later he stepped out into the clear, frosty night.

It was easy enough to find his way through the moonlit woods to St. Clair Hall. It had been years since he had walked this land at night but he had not forgotten the way.

Ten minutes later Simon strode up the long, elegant drive of the hall, his boots crunching on the icy ground. He paused at the foot of the elegant staircase, turned, and went through the gardens to the side of the house. He was startled to see lights still blazing in the library window.

His stomach clenched. The lights had been shining just as brilliantly on that night twenty-three years ago when he had burst into the library to find his father sprawled facedown on the desk in a pool of blood.

Simon knew now what had drawn him to the library window tonight. He had come here to see if his father's ghost still hovered near the mahogany desk.

Some distant part of Simon's mind half expected to see the pistol still clutched in the earl's dead hand, still expected to see blood and torn flesh and gray matter spattered on the wall behind the chair. He had lived with the grisly image for years.

But instead of the ghost of a man who had lost everything and taken the coward's way out, leaving a twelve-year-old son to cope as best he could, Simon saw Emily.

She was perched on the edge of the big chair, looking very small and ethereal as she bent industriously over the huge mahogany desk. In the candlelight her red hair gleamed as richly as Lap Seng's coat did in sunlight.