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  "I suppose I am late in offering your lordship my condolences," she said. She did not pause to allow Eastlyn to feign a lack of interest. "I have only this morning learned that Lady Sophia Colley is promised in marriage to one Mr. George Heath. I trust this will put an end to any residual speculation that she is your intended."

  "If it is true," East said carefully.

  "I had it from Dunsmore, who had it from his father. I believe the earl's correspondence can be trusted."

  Eastlyn wondered what a proper response would be. He was acutely aware that his audience was not limited to Annette and that her timing was deliberate. She knew he would not accuse her of anything untoward in front of his friends. "I was not aware you knew Dunsmore."

  "I know many people," she said simply. "It is good news, is it not? She can return to London on the arm of her intended and put a period to this gossip that she is gravid with your child. Unless, of course, she has become gravid with his. That will complicate things, I believe. How will the truth ever come to light?"

  Eastlyn was unaware of taking a step forward until he was pressed against Marchman's restraining arm. Mrs. Sawyer was already turning away, her exquisite smile firmly in place.

  "East?" Southerton moved to block his friend's view of the departing widow. "You do not want to look as if you mean to do murder. Not with so many witnesses present." He nodded in West's direction to encourage that worthy to lower his arm. "North, you will want to present some obstacle to your wife's arrival here until we can remove East from the premises. If nothing better occurs to you, you might ask her to dance. It has not gone unnoticed by us that you have yet to do so this evening, and we do not find it at all encouraging."

  "I have not danced with my wife," North said in arid accents, "because she has ever been at the call of my friends."

  "Well," West said, "we insist you take her now. Battenburn is escorting her directly toward us, and East does not yet have himself in hand. He is bound to thrash someone, and you know how badly that can go if you are in the way."

  North put two fingers to the slightly crooked bridge of his nose. "You broke this, not East."

  "Yes." West continued in reasonable tones, "But I did not break his nose, did I? When you recall how often I went after him, that is evidence enough that he is the better fighter."

  Eastlyn felt his mouth twitch. "Have off, all three of you. Your methods of diversion are unorthodox but effective. I am all of a piece and will find my own way out." He had to suffer their scrutiny for several long moments while Lady Northam approached ever closer. The proof that they were satisfied with his control came when Southerton stepped aside and let him pass. He heard North's wife inquire after him just as he was slipping through the squeeze at the hall entrance. He did not hear North's reply but depended upon it to be a convincing excuse for his hasty retreat.

  It was much later that Southerton found him at the club, but he was not yet so deep in his cups that he could not be counted on for lucid conversation. "I thought you would be for home at this hour," East said. "What are you doing here?"

  "You are here, aren't you? It seems to me you shouldn't be compelled to drink alone." South motioned to a steward and requested a whiskey. "You do not mind if I join you?"

  "No."

  South accepted the terse reply at face value, choosing not to dwell on the tone. "You will never credit it, but Helmsley was robbed this evening. It happened not long after you left. It was good you were gone, for the wait to give statements to the runners was interminable."

  "The Gentleman Thief?"

  "Yes. And North once more in the thick of it. He will come under suspicion again, and Elizabeth's defense of him will not be heard in the same light as before. It was all very noble when she sacrificed her reputation to prove his innocence, but now that she is actually married to him, her protests do not have the same weight. Something will have to be done."

  Eastlyn studied South over the rim of his glass. "I suspect North is already doing it."

  South took up the drink that was brought to him and sipped from it as he considered what East meant. "The colonel?"

  Eastlyn nodded. "I think it is North's assignment to catch the thief. I've thought so since the rout at Battenburn this summer past. You know how Blackwood despairs of us tripping over one another in the course of our work, so it's no good applying to him for information, but I suspect that he's set North on the trail of the thief. We are out of it, I'm afraid, until our services are requested."

  It was a reasonable supposition in the light of the events at the Battenburn estate, South thought. Lady Elizabeth's startling announcement that North had been with her on the night he was alleged to have committed a theft had diverted suspicion from North and created the circumstances upon which a marriage of convenience was formed. "You could be right," South said slowly, letting the idea take shape in his mind. He ran one hand through his bright helmet of yellow hair and regarded Eastlyn with his light gray glance. "Well, that is something, is it not? And me with so little to do of late that I fear I shall expire of boredom."

  "It is infinitely preferable to you pushing the rest of us to that end."

  South chuckled. "Do you think I might avail myself of your box at the theatre, East? I am of a mind that a comedy at the Drury Lane will provide suitable distraction."

  "Of course. Is it the play that interests you or the talented Miss India Parr?"

  "I have seen neither so the answer must be both." He eased back in his leather chair and took another swallow of his whiskey. "Is she as talented as they say?"

  "I do not know what they say. I say she is gifted, but please, use my box and judge for yourself." Eastlyn suspected South had not come to the club to discuss the thief who had been bedeviling the ton or his own need for a diversion to boredom. "Why are you here, South? Did you pull the short broom-straw?"

  "Actually, we cut cards for the privilege. I showed the four of spades."

  "Rotten luck."

  "Yes." His grin removed all possible sting from his reply. "There is no gossip about Lady Sophia carrying your child, East. We would not have kept you in the dark if we had heard of it. Not only did it not come to our attention, but North's mother has been everywhere of late showing off Elizabeth, and she was unaware of any such gossip."

  That information pushed Eastlyn perfectly upright. "Bloody hell, South. You asked her?"

  "North's wife or his mother?"

  "Either. Both. It doesn't matter. Even repeating it in the form of a question will start tongues wagging."

  South slumped lower in his chair. "If it doesn't matter, then it was the dowager countess we asked. She will be perfectly discreet"

  "Hah! That means she will only make the same inquiry of her closest friends, your mother and mine chief among them. How is it possible that we can be depended upon to keep our counsel on the colonel's business and have so little regard for our own affairs?"

  "I suppose it is in the very nature of our friendship."

  "That is not a good answer. You would not brook this interference. You would not even ask for help."

  "You would force it on me anyway."

  Eastlyn sighed because it was no good being angry. South was right; they would force it on him. He finished his drink and set his glass aside. "Mrs. Sawyer divined what would happen if she spoke her nonsense aloud. That is what bothers me most. We were manipulated by her, South. Never think that she is not quick-witted or that we are too clever to be used in such a fashion. Standing toe-to-toe with the Society of Bishops did not ready us for dealing with the female sex. We are woefully ill-prepared. Woefully. And that is my considered opinion."

  South eyed Eastlyn's empty glass for a long moment then gave his friend equally careful study. Shaking his head, amusement edging his mouth upward, he asked quietly, "Precisely how many drinks did you have before I came to your rescue?"

  * * *

  Sophie leaned forward over her mount's neck, urging him with her posture, not her crop, and l
et him fly between the banks of the meandering stream. Apollo made the distance easily and never broke stride as he started across the open field. Sophie wished she might lie across his back and let him take her where he would, so much a part of him that he would not recognize her weight and form as something separate from his own being. She wondered if the sun-baked desert sands were in her Arabian's blood, whether his dam and sire had pounded across shifting dunes the way he did across this golden English field.

  The lowering sun was in her eyes, and for a moment she closed them and let Apollo run with his instincts. Would he take the stone wall? she wondered. Or head into the stand of trees where it was dark and cool? He might circle round to the stream again and balk this time at the breadth of the jump. That would send her sailing over the top of his head and put her squarely in the drink. Apollo was an intelligent animal, Sophie thought, with sense enough to laugh at her for blindly trusting him.

  Amused but not foolish, Sophie opened her eyes and regained her proper seat in time to assist Apollo's leap over the crumbling stone wall that marked the edge of the road. Sheep grazing on the hillock waited until the last possible moment to scatter, and then they bleated loudly as Apollo thundered past. Sophie laughed when she heard their intemperate cries. They did not sound so terribly different from Tremont of late.

  A sennight had passed since the earl had seen the Gazette announcement that the Honorable George Heath, youngest son of Viscount Dryden, had married Miss Rebecca Sayers, politely referred to by Tremont as a Nobody. For her part, Sophie was glad for Miss Sayers and only a little sorry for herself.

  Mr. Heath impressed as a man with a kind disposition and even temperament. He was steady and reliable, of moderate intelligence, and given to short discourse in the plainest of speech. He knew a modest amount about many things and almost nothing substantive on any subject, but at least he seemed to be cognizant that this was so and was not given to prattle on in ignorance. Mr. Heath confessed to possessing few talents, and this admission was not prompted by his innate humbleness, but rather because he was agreeably truthful. He did not paint or compose or read novels, and he had not many interests outside of hunting and breeding livestock.

  In short, he was wholly unimaginative.

  It did much to recommend him to Sophie, rather than the opposite. When she pledged to marry him it was because she meant to embrace the mediocrity of his character. There was no wildness in Mr. George Heath to cause her even a moment's inconvenience. He would not drink to excess, play at cards until dawn, or arrange for his seconds to meet him in some lonely field. There would be no passion between them, only duty, and to Sophie's way of thinking it was an agreeable arrangement. What she might have with her husband would be sufficient for an unremarkable life.

  There was also eight thousand pounds per annum.

  The money was what had made Tremont in support of the match, and the loss of it was what had sustained his black mood. Though she knew she was quite innocent in how events had taken a turn, Sophie was in favor of staying out of the earl's line of sight. She refrained from stating the obvious: Mr. George Heath was not so easily led to water as he had appeared to either Tremont or his own family. The viscount's youngest son was not willing to settle for a marriage of obligation, even if Sophie was. It made him more courageous in her eyes, though of necessity this was another view she kept to herself. Sophie admired Mr. Heath for seizing his opportunity for happiness with Miss Sayers. The man had had a passion after all, and he had only needed the proper circumstances to provoke its expression.

  Sophie had nothing but kind words for Mr. Heath, and she would have told him so if there had been opportunity to correspond. Tremont would permit her to post only what he had approved, and there was little chance that he would sanction the admiration she was wont to convey.

  It was not that Mr. Heath's defection was of no consequence to Sophie. Rather the opposite was true. She was certain Tremont would again cast his net in aid of finding her a proper partner, and she doubted she would be as largely fortunate as she had been with his last choice. Tremont had but one measure of suitability for her intended—the depth of his pockets—while Sophie's yardstick gauged a man's character. Her cousin might have chosen someone much less fitting than George Heath, and still could. Worse, he might return to the place of his earlier failure and set himself the task of bringing the Marquess of Eastlyn around. Sophie was not at all certain he had put that idea firmly behind him.

  Apollo veered toward the woods, and this time Sophie did not give him license to do as he pleased. She guided him with the reins and the pressure of her thighs and heels to skirt the perimeter of the trees. He flawlessly executed her commands, just as if he had intended to go in that direction all along, and she praised him for it. He would prance and preen later, quite full of himself for having given her such a good run, and she would tease and admonish him by turns, promising him treats when he was fit to have them.

  There was probably an application here, Sophie thought, for how all males might be managed, but since Apollo was a gelding she could not believe it would win wide acceptance.

  Sophie slowed the Arabian as they approached the stream again, and this time she let him pick his way down the bank and splash through the brisk run of water. Droplets sprayed her face, and she did not bother to wipe them away, choosing instead to tilt her head so that she might catch one on her lips.

  * * *

  From his vantage on the road above her, Eastlyn watched Sophie's antics with something akin to wonder arresting his features. He had first caught sight of her when she and the Arabian had taken flight over the stream. It had occurred to him that she might not control the landing, but the thought was fleeting when he saw her form and the animal's response to it. It was the same when she urged her mount over the stone wall. She had lied to him, he realized. She had said she was on no account a bruising rider. There had been truth, though, in her assertion that she could hold her own but that her form was considered by some to be unconventional.

  It was a proper understatement, for Lady Sophia's seat on her Arabian defined unconventional. She was riding astride.

  He had followed her progress across the field and up a verdant slope where she had permitted her mount to bedevil the grazing sheep. Eastlyn had lost sight of her then as she took the far side of the hill. He did not urge his own horse forward on the road, but remained where he was, waiting for her return. He glimpsed the crown of her bare head first and the flutter of her windswept hair. She was skirting the edge of the wood, darting in and out of the shadows made by the towering oaks and slimmer beeches.

  She shared nothing in common with the young lady he had first met at the Stafford's musicale. He could not have imagined that the quiet, reserved innocent of that short acquaintance would ever conceive of riding hell for leather across the countryside, much less execute that conception. Nor could he have fathomed that she would take to the course with such abandon and defy the strictures of society by riding astride. This woman had a passing similarity to the one he'd met in the garden at No. 14. There had been some spirit there, though it was constrained by her common sense. What had been suggested to him on that occasion was that Sophia was possessed of a certain confidence and resolve that was not unattractive.

  He had glimpsed a version of the reckless passion he witnessed now when he had stolen his way into her room. It was what had prompted that first brief kiss and made certain there would be a second, but even then he had not understood the totality of her restraint, only the sum of his own.

  Eastlyn lifted his hands from their at-rest position on the leather pommel and snapped the reins lightly. He did not look away from where Sophie splashed in the stream. Tempest, his Irish thoroughbred whose name was indicative of his customary humor, carried him along the steadily rising road. East knew the moment he was spied by Sophie because she went still as stone. He supposed that her immobility was not merely in response to the arrival of a guest, but that she had immediately ide
ntified him. It confirmed his thinking that he would not be entirely welcomed at Tremont Park in spite of the earl's assurances to the contrary.

  There also seemed to be a distinct possibility that Tremont had said nothing at all to Sophie about their correspondence.

  Eastlyn's carriage followed some distance behind him, bringing his valet and belongings enough for a month, though he anticipated his visit would be much shorter than that. He wondered at the wisdom of speaking to Sophie before announcing himself formally at the house. It seemed likely that his arrival could have been noted miles earlier, as far back as when he and Tempest crested the hill rising out of the village of Loveridge, and that now the earl might be expecting him. Positioning himself in Tremont's good graces was a consideration, given the fact there was the colonel's work to be done, but it was not of sufficient importance to Eastlyn that he would decide to pass on this opportunity.

  "Bloody hell," he whispered, for it seemed that a curse was in order as he turned Tempest off the road. He could not recall the last time he had taken so precipitous an action. His friends would not recognize him, and Blackwood would despair of his judgment. "Bloody, bloody hell." And then he committed his mount to taking the steep downward path to the stream.

  Sophie urged Apollo up to the near bank and held him fast as Eastlyn approached. She was uncertain that remaining here was a good choice, yet running from him seemed a ridiculous response when she had no hope of avoiding him forever. Apollo shook out his damp black mane and pawed the ground. He was in anticipation of a race, and Sophie's control was tested to keep him in place, especially when Eastlyn brought his mount abreast of her.

  It was unfair, she thought, that he could have traveled from London and looked no worse for the wear. His polished hat remained at the angle approved for rakish charm, and his short frock coat showed only a fine layering of dust from the road. He was much as she had seen him upon his first visit to Bowden Street, from the polished brass buttons on his coat to the turned-down tops of his boots. He had been unbearably handsome then, and Sophie noticed that he had not seen fit to alter his appearance. It was left to her, therefore, to steel her spine for yet another assault on her senses. She was not inclined to thank him for it.