1

May, 1818

The day had been unseasonably chill for May, and late that evening fog began to swirl about the streets and squares and parks of London, muffling the sounds of the great city. In the hallowed portals of White’s lounge, however, all was jollity, for two friends had encountered each other after a long separation. Their reunion was boisterous and enthusiastic, and became more so when they were joined by a third gentleman. Many amused glances came their way, glances not untouched by admiration, for they presented an attractive picture. Jocelyn Vaughan, who had fought with Wellington’s peerless cavalry on the Peninsula, was very much the light-hearted, devil-may-care Corinthian; Valentine Montclair was of slighter frame, his rather drawn sensitive face lacking the glow of health that marked Vaughan’s, but they both were judged very good-looking young men, and were as dark of hair and eyes as the third member of their group was fair. Alain Devenish lacked a few of the inches of his friends, but was so handsome as to arouse immediate animosity in other men, and adoration in women, which—combined with a rather volatile disposition—had caused his life to be an eventful one.

Delighted by this unexpected meeting, and full of youthful high spirits, they momentarily forgot their surroundings, their voices rising until some of the members began to frown in their direction. Devenish, his blue eyes alight with mischief, suggested in a stage whisper that they adjourn to his rooms in Stratton Street.

“Your rooms!” exclaimed Vaughan, indignant. “They’re mine, you rogue!”

“Are they?” As they left the lounge, Montclair glanced curiously from one friend to the other. “Did you remove, Dev?”

“To Gloucestershire, old lad. Should’ve ridden up to see you long before this. Moved over a year ago.”

“Did you, by Jove! Then you married your fair Yolande and are now—” Montclair paused. Devenish’s handsome face had become very still, and Vaughan’s gaze held a warning.

“Might we perhaps be granted a little QUIET, gentlemen?” Admiral Peterson’s bushy eyebrows bristled over the top of The Times.

“Whoops!” muttered Vaughan, sotto voce. “Sorry, sir. We’re leaving.”

“Good,” said the Admiral testily.

Devenish bowed his curly head and whispered, “Discretion being the better part of valour…”

Grinning like mischievous schoolboys, the three friends tiptoed to the cloakroom. They were putting on long caped coats and taking up hats, canes, and gloves, when Devenish was hailed by another acquaintance. Making no bones about the fact that he considered this new arrival a good fellow but a regular windy wallets, Vaughan hurried Montclair into the street.

“Oh, Lord,” he grumbled, peering through the fog. “Only look at this beastly stuff.” And because he had noticed his old school friend was not in good point, he said airily, “I’ll call up a hackney-carriage.”

There was no such vehicle in sight, however, and the porter conveyed the information that they were scarcer than hens’ teeth tonight.

“Oh come on, Joss,” said Montclair impatiently. “Let’s walk.”

Having instructed the porter to tell Mr. Devenish to find a jervey and pick them up along the way, Vaughan hailed a hovering link boy, and they started off.

They had much to talk about, and despite the chill clammy air, the moments passed pleasantly enough, the link boy trotting ahead of them, his torch bobbing as he guided them unerringly along Piccadilly. Laughing at one of Vaughan’s questions, Montclair conveyed the information that he was most definitely not in the petticoat line; and Vaughan, when asked in turn, admitted he had not married the beauty he’d been so enamoured of the last time Montclair had seen him. “Felicity married Rich Saxon,” he said with a sigh.

“What—that wild man?” Montclair grinned. “Poor Joss. But you don’t seem about to put a pistol to your head. Another lady?”

“Oh, any number, old fellow. I was mad for Alicia Wyckham for a whole year. Really thought I’d found my once-and-forever. But—to say truth, I begin to think I’m just not inclined to become a Benedick.” He gave Montclair a sly nudge and said laughingly, “They’re all so deuced lovely, y’know.”

“I see. And—er, Dev? I collect I put my foot in my mouth just now.”

Vaughan sobered. “Yes, you did rather. I thought everyone knew Yolande had jilted him. But, of course, you will persist in rusticating out there in Gloucestershire all year round and likely hear nothing of what goes on.”

“Jilted Dev? You never mean it! He was always mad for her!”

“Astonishing, ain’t it? She married his cousin. Some Canadian fellow.”

Surprised, Montclair exclaimed, “Not Craig Winters? I’ll be dashed! Dev and Craig visited me at Longhills a couple of years ago. Winters is a fine fellow. Cannot touch Dev for looks, of course, but he was at Waterloo, you know. A major with the Scots Greys. Still … Miss Drummond and Dev had been betrothed forever. I fancy Dev called him out, no?”

“No, as a matter of fact. Took it very hard, poor fellow, but seems to be making a recover. Now—enough of all this chitchat. Tell me of yourself. I—” They had turned into a silent and deserted Stratton Street, and Vaughan grabbed Montclair’s arm as his friend staggered, and steadying him, peered at the pale face and said anxiously, “You all right, old lad?”

“Perfectly … fine…” said Montclair, sounding breathless. “Must have just … stumbled over … a paving stone or something.”

Vaughan frowned into the night, but said only, “Oh. Still at your music? I fancy you’re a famous composer by this time?”

“I’ve a few things completed. My uncle, of course, throws up his hands in horror at the thought of publication.” Montclair gave a contemptuous snort. “Bad ton, he says.”

“Good God, never say old Selby Trent still sponges off you? What became of Lord Geoffrey? Ain’t he come home yet?”

“No, my brother’s off in India. Hasn’t been in England since Waterloo. I wish to God he’d come back so I could kick Trent and his—” He bit off the words hurriedly.

“D’you mean to tell me,” said Vaughan, horrified, “that Geoff has abandoned you there with that nest of vipers while he cavorts off to hunt tigers or whatever?”

Montclair chuckled. “Oh, Barbara’s not a viper, Joss.”

“True. But—your uncle … and Lady Trent … and Junius!” Vaughan shuddered. “Get rid of ’em, Val. That’s my advice. Quick!”

His voice low-pitched and bitter now, Montclair said, “Do you fancy I wouldn’t have done so years ago, if it was possible? When my mama appointed Sir Selby to administer the estates, it was so worded that I can’t kick the—I can’t force him to leave Longhills without he does something criminal, or until Geoff comes back to take control.”

“But—my dear fellow! The man’s a wart. No, really Val, I’m sorry, but he is! And that aunt of yours scares me to death! Does Sir Selby interfere much in running the estates? I’ll lay odds he does, the old skinflint!”

“My revered uncle,” began Montclair grimly, “strives to—” He was never to finish the remark.

The link boy whistled shrilly, then took to his heels.

They came out of the blackness like flying wraiths. Four of them, with shabby caps drawn low over masked faces, dark coats with collars turned high, and the diminishing glow from the link boy’s torch reflecting on the blue gleam of steel. With not an instant’s hesitation the two friends leapt to meet the attack. They were unarmed, but both carried walking canes as was the fashion, and they wielded them as though they held sabres, meeting slash with parry and swipe with thrust, holding their own with the fierceness of desperation, until the clip-clop of hooves echoed through the dimness. “Dev!” shouted Vaughan. “À moi! À moi!”

A distant voice roared, “Spring ’em! Over there!”

The end of Montclair’s cane rammed into a large shape, drawing forth a wheezing profanity. A gleam was flying at his throat, and he whirled aside, feeling the razor-sharp steel brush his shoulder. His left connected hard with a nose. A dark form reeled back, howling, but another was there at once to take his place. Montclair ducked as a club whistled at his head. It would have brained him had it landed squarely. As it was, the night was scattered into a thousand crazily whirling fragments …

*   *   *

“I shall move!” Jocelyn Vaughan sat at the parlour table in the flat he had taken over when Devenish left it, clutching his wrist and watching Devenish bathe the gash over Montclair’s right ear. “A fine neighbourhood you chose for me, Dev!”

Devenish paused an instant. Montclair sat bowed forward, his crossed arms on the table. His eyes were closed, his brows and lashes startlingly dark against the deathly pallor of his face. Devenish touched his shoulder very gently, and the dark eyes blinked open. The amber flecks in them that were a fair reflection of his mood were dulled, but the pale lips curved to a grin. “Jolly good … turn-up,” he said faintly, then propped his chin on the palm of one hand and closed his eyes again.

Devenish exchanged a troubled glance with Vaughan. “I think you’d best send the porter for an apothecary, Joss. Val caught a proper leveller.”

“What, at this hour?” Montclair forced his head up. “Devil a bit of it. I’m—perfectly fine. If you’ve a—drop of cognac perhaps…”

“Not after being popped on the noggin, old lad,” said Vaughan. “I’ve got the kettle on the hob. Have a cup of tea for you in a trice.”

“Splendid…” Montclair realized they were both watching him uneasily. His head hurt so badly he was half blinded, but he said, “Look at you. A fine pair! Dev, you’ll have a black eye for sure. And—is your wrist broke, Joss?”

Devenish gave him a pad to hold against the cut and turned his attention to Vaughan’s damaged wrist. “They caught you properly,” he said, inspecting the vivid swelling that was already starting to purple.

“Dropped my cane,” grumbled Vaughan. “And it was brand new, and amber to boot!”

Devenish explored, and Vaughan cursed gaspingly. “Blasted damned Mohocks! I thought London was free of that scum.”

“I can’t tell if any bones are broke, Joss. You’d as well have an apothecary look at that in the morning. Did they get anything from you, Val?”

“Thanks to you—no,” said Montclair.

“Nor from me.” Vaughan rolled down his sleeve and muttered thoughtfully, “Funny thing. When I went down, I took one of the bastards with me. But the other fellow didn’t attempt to take my purse. He went straight to help his cronies. Odd behaviour for that breed.”

“Jove, but that’s right,” said Devenish, drying his hands. “When we drove up there were three of ’em having at you, Val.”

“I’m only grateful you came when you did,” sighed Montclair.

The kettle began to whistle and Vaughan came to his feet. “Come on, Val. You can rack up here for the night. Use my man’s room, since he’s off to Cardiff ’til Monday.”

Montclair offered little argument, and stumbled away, having said his good nights to the wavering shape he vaguely supposed was Devenish.

When Vaughan came back into the cozy parlour carrying a teapot, Devenish was stretched out in an armchair, his feet propped on an occasional table. He opened one eye and asked drowsily, “You give Val his tea?”

“He was asleep before I got him into bed.” Vaughan waved the teapot. “Want some?”

Devenish looked at him.

Vaughan grinned and went to fill two glasses at the sideboard. Carrying one to Devenish with his left hand, he returned to claim his own cognac, then sat on the littered sofa and stared at the fire. “How long must we wait for the Runner? I thought you sent the jervey off after him?”

“Did. And I don’t mean to wait all night, I can tell you.” After a minute he asked quietly, “What’s the matter with him, Joss?”

Vaughan shook his head. “Don’t know. Trent-itis, probably.”

“Good Lord! Is he still playing host to that unlovely crew? Where’s his noble lordship? Womanizing in France still?”

“Geoff’s in India, Val thinks. And he can’t kick his uncle out ’til Lord Geoffrey Montclair comes home and claims his rights. Poor old Val. Well—it’s a big house, that’s one thing.”

Devenish grimaced. Longhills Manor was very large indeed, and famed as being one of the loveliest of England’s many lovely great homes, but he said, “If it was Versailles it wouldn’t be big enough. I wonder he doesn’t just leave.”

“Can’t do that, dear boy. His charming uncle would have a free hand with the estate. Val may bury himself in his music and not know half the time whether it’s Monday or last Spring, but he loves Longhills. He’ll fight Selby Trent every step of the way before he’ll turn tail and run.”

“As Geoff has done,” said Devenish rather grimly. “Val’s stuck there with that loathsome crew, trying to protect estates he’ll never inherit, and damn near isolated into the bargain. No one in his right mind would set foot under a roof with the Trents in residence!”

“Pity,” nodded Vaughan. “Val should’ve been the heir.”

Devenish smiled faintly. “He’d give you an argument on that one. Don’t want it. Besides, he thinks the sun rises and sets on his big brother.”

Vaughan said, “Perhaps it’s just the strain of all the argumentations.”

“No, it’s more than that, Joss.” Devenish frowned. “He’s definitely down-pin. Looks awful. Didn’t you notice?”

“I noticed when he almost measured his length on the flagway. Said he tripped over a loose stone or some such thing. Wasn’t no loose stone.”

There was a brief silence. Devenish broke it. “They weren’t Mohocks, of course. They were after Val.”

“Plain as the nose on your face. But—why?”

“Has he any enemies?”

“The man that don’t has to be a clod. And old Val’s temper ain’t always—er— But—murder…? No, I doubt that.”

Another pause. Then Devenish said reluctantly, “If Lord Geoffrey should die—Val would come into the title and fortune, I fancy.”

Vaughan nodded. “But the Trents ain’t next in line, if that’s what you’re thinking. Four or five before them, as I recall. To pop off that many would be stretching credibility more than a little, eh my tulip?”

“Hmm…” muttered Devenish. There was a long silence broken only by the tick of the clock on the mantel.

“The devil with this! That rascally jervey likely never went after the Runner at all!” Devenish stood, touching his lurid eye with an investigative hand. “My poor orb is complaining, and I’m for my cozy bed at the Clarendon. I shall leave you, my pippin, to the joys of my former home!”

“Wait up a bit.” Vaughan went into the kitchen and began to rummage in the small pantry. “I’ll see if I’ve a beefsteak for that eye.”

Devenish trailed after him. His eye felt twice its size and a few minutes’ delay would be worthwhile.

Vaughan turned, peering dubiously at the small package he was unwrapping. “Don’t have any steak, I’m afraid. D’you suppose this trout would fit the bill? It ain’t too ancient, and we could cut it open and clap it on—” Blasphemously interrupted, he listened until Devenish ran out of breath. “Trouble with you, Dev,” he pointed out, “is that you want for a proper sense of gratitude.”

*   *   *

The Bow Street Runner arrived late next morning, just after Devenish had joined his friends, and was bedevilling them with the details of the excellent breakfast he had enjoyed at the Clarendon.

The Runner, a ponderous gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. W. Wilkins, adopted a no-nonsense air, and demanded the details of the previous evening’s mayhem. His manner underwent an immediate thaw when Devenish asked if he was acquainted with Major Paisley, and if he knew how the major went on.

“He is quite recovered, sir,” said Mr. W., sketching a bow. “Very busy, in fact, sir. Account of this here Masterpiece Gang. Hot after ’em, he is, by what I hear.”

“Masterpiece Gang?” echoed Montclair.

The Runner stared at him.

Vaughan said excusingly, “Mr. Montclair lives in the country.”

“Oh. The country.” The Runner nodded his understanding of such desolations, and explained ponderously, “Well, they’re a gang of very clever thieves, sir, what specializes in, as you might say, masterpieces. National treasures, some of ’em. Items of rare and partic’ler value took from the homes of peers and such like, or from museums and galleries. Paintings, sir. Works o’ art in gold, silver, crystal; what, as you might say, have you. They won’t take nothing but the best. Pass over shelves of silver and gold, and take only the cream, as you might say, of the crop. So the Powers that Be are, if you’ll forgive the expression, a’burning of their crumpets! And when there’s crumpets burning at the top, down comes the smoke to Bow Street. And poor Major Paisley, he gets proper smoked out, as you might say. What with all this here vicious smuggling getting worse day by day, and the Masterpiece Gang, upsetting of His Royal Highness, and the Quality. To say nothing of attacks on fine gentlemen like yourselves, sir, on London’s very own thoroughfares! Terrible the crime is nowadays! Fair terrible!”

Fascinated by this flow of eloquence, Montclair asked, “Has this Major Paisley been successful in recovering the stolen goods?”

“Not so much as a speck of oil paint, nor a chip of porcelain china, sir. Once something of great value gets stole, we—Bow Street as you might say—usually gets word of it popping up somewhere in this here globe, sir. But—not with this lot! Two years they been at it. Musta stole a king’s ransom, they must. But if they been and gone and sold it, no one knows where. It’s like it had disappeared off the face of the earth with not a trace, sir! Not a whiff. Not, as you might say, a whisper!”

“Or a suspicion,” put in Devenish solemnly.

Mr. W. drew himself up. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir. We—meaning Bow Street—have plenty of suspicions. Proof—well, that’s another mug of mice.”

“Or tray of trout,” said Vaughan agreeably.

Devenish snorted, and Montclair put a hand over his lips.

Mr. W. directed a hard stare at the culprits and took out his notebook. “Now as to this here assault, gentlemen…”

He left half an hour later, having told the three friends, at great length, nothing they did not already know. The apothecary, entering shortly afterwards, came upon such hilarity that he thought at first he had come to the wrong house and was only reassured by the assorted cuts and bruises offered for his inspection. He was as meek and unassuming as the Runner had been self-important, and having told Devenish that his eye was undamaged, and expressed the opinion that Vaughan’s wrist harboured no broken bones, proceeded to examine Montclair’s damaged head and pronounce it a “nasty cut but likely no more than a mild concussion.” He eyed the young man thoughtfully, and added, “Are you feeling quite up to par otherwise, sir?”

“Perfectly, thank you.” Montclair stood, turning to his friends with a bright smile. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. I’ve some business waiting at home that has already waited much too long.”

They paid off the apothecary and said their farewells, promising to meet soon at Devencourt near Stroud, or Greenwings in Sussex, or at Longhills Manor near Tewkesbury, and Montclair took his leave.

Glancing out of the front windows, Vaughan said idly, “That apothecary fellow waited for Val.”

Devenish wandered to join him, and they watched Montclair converse briefly with the little man, then walk briskly towards Piccadilly. The apothecary looked after him, shook his head, and went off in the opposite direction.

It was a warm morning. It was, in fact, now midday. The remaining occupants of the parlour discussed sustenance, decided on the merits of ale, and having filled two tankards, carried them to the sofa and sat down in a companionable but vaguely troubled silence.

“Devencourt ain’t too far from Longhills,” observed Vaughan at last.

They looked at each other.

Devenish raised his glass in a mute acknowledgement.

*   *   *

“If I might have your card, sir,” said Deemer, clinging to his dignity even as he was pushed back across the sunny entrance hall of Highperch Cottage.

The large man in the very tight green coat gave the frail elderly man another shove and turned a broad, red, and amused face to his companion. “Is it a butler, Junius? Don’t dress like a butler. Don’t look like a butler. Looks more like a greengrocer!” His friend emitting a howl of mirth, he went on aggrievedly, “Wants my card, old boy. D’you have a card we can give the poor clod?”

“Damme if I ain’t left m’cardcase at home!” The younger of the two intruders, tall and well built, with a pair of powerful shoulders, administered a third shove that sent the grey-haired man staggering. “Getting absentminded, Pollinger,” he said laughingly. “You should watch me more carefully. As for you, fellow, do not be annoying your betters. We want to see your mistress. The naughty widow. She is here, so don’t give us no argumentation.”

Looking at once shaken and outraged, Deemer, who was butler/groom/major domo at Highperch Cottage, said, “Since you have no cards, gentlemen—”

“Didn’t say we don’t have cards,” said the man called Pollinger.

“Said we wasn’t giving you one,” grinned his friend. “You may tell the, er—lady, that Lord Montclair’s representatives have come to see her.” His unusually large blue eyes flickered around the shabby hall. “Think we’d best not sit down whilst we wait, Poll. Looks damned dirty. Furthermore”—he aimed a glossy topboot at a dusty but graceful Hepplewhite chair, sending it crashing across the hall—“dashed rickety. Look at that! Damned leg fell off!”

Both the young men laughed uproariously. Halfway up the winding staircase, Deemer paused and glanced back, the lines in his thin face deepening. Mrs. Susan should not have to deal with those two boorish Bucks. They meant trouble, if ever men did. “If only Mr. Andrew was here,” he whispered to himself, hurrying along the dusty upstairs hall. But taking advantage of the lovely June weather, Mr. Andrew Lyddford and the Bo’sun were off on the barge; Señor Angelo had left just after luncheon to drive Mrs. Starr, the housekeeper, and little Miss Priscilla into Tewkesbury, so Mrs. Susan Henley was just at the moment protected only by himself and Martha, their solitary abigail-cum-parlour-maid, who was simple, poor girl, and would likely fall into hysterics did those two downstairs raise their voices again.

He proceeded worriedly along a musty-smelling corridor, treading on faded threadbare carpet, the daylight coming dimly through the dirty windows at each end. The door he approached swung open even as he reached it. Mrs. Susan Henley stepped out and the dingy hall seemed brightened.

A tall willowy young woman, she wore a dark mulberry riding habit, the train caught up over one arm. A jaunty little matching hat with a pink feather was perched on very thick near-black hair that was worn long and perfectly straight, being tied back from her face with a mulberry ribbon. Gloves and riding crop in hand she smiled at Deemer, but the smile faded at once from the generous, ruddy-lipped mouth, the dark low-arched brows drew together, and a frown came into the clear grey eyes. “What is it?” she asked, in a quiet, musical voice.

“Two—men, Mrs. Sue,” said the butler, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

“And they have upset you, I see.” The firm chin set, and the dark head swung up a little. “No cards, Deemer?”

“No, ma’am. I—I think it were best if you did not come down. They’re ugly customers, if ever I—”

“No names, either?” she interpolated coolly.

“They said they were from his lordship, ma’am. One is named Pollinger, I think.”

“Is he indeed?” Mrs. Henley drew on one black kid glove, her lip curling. “If it is Sir Dennis Pollinger, his reputation precedes him. And—the other?”

“Mr. Pollinger—or Sir Dennis perhaps—called him ‘Junius.’ Mrs. Sue, please do not go down there. I’ll run down to the river and see if The Dainty Dancer’s in sight yet. Perhaps I can signal Mr. Andrew and—”

“And we’ll have a small war on our hands, I fancy. If his lordship has sent these men to intimidate us it will be as well they learn at the outset where we stand.” She flashed a sudden smile that banished the worry from her oval face, and walked past him.

“A moment, ma’am, I beg.” The butler hurried into another room and emerged carrying a long-barrelled duelling pistol. “I’m coming with you,” he declared bravely.

Mrs. Henley chuckled. “Not carrying my brother’s horrid great cannon! Give it me.”

He protested, but she appropriated the pistol and slipped it into the deep pocket of her skirt. “Never worry so,” she murmured. “Gentlemen are always alarmed to see firearms in the hands of a woman, and besides, Lieutenant Henley taught me how to repel boarders!” She thought, ‘If nothing else!’ and went to the stairs.

Deemer looked after her worriedly, wishing he was younger, and stronger than his last illness had left him. Then he ran quickly to the rear staircase.

Mrs. Henley heard the loud voices from the landing and as she followed the curve of the stairs, her eyes took in the two young men who strolled about inspecting the hall with arrogant criticism. ‘A fine pair of blackguards,’ she thought. ‘Likely typical of Montclair’s cronies!’

The younger of the two was somewhere in the neighbourhood of thirty, and quite handsome, but she was not drawn to the big, beefy type, and she thought his eyes too large, his lips too thick and voluptuous, and his fair hair was arranged in a dandified style that she could not like. She had seen him somewhere … In Town, unless she was mistaken. She wrinkled her brow. Deemer had said his name was ‘Junius.’ Junius … Trent! Mr. Junius Trent! In that case, her opinion of the gentleman was not shared by the majority, for he was widely admired by London’s ladies, his sarcasm put down as cleverness, and his impudence as wit. He was a reckless gambler whose luck at the tables was legendary. He commanded a large circle of friends and hangers-on, by whom he was described as a bruising rider to hounds, a fine man with the fives, an excellent shot, a general all-round sportsman. His friends chose to overlook the fact that he had been denied admission to White’s Club, and that his popularity in certain quarters appeared to have dimmed of late. This might perhaps have been ascribed to odd little rumours that were beginning to be whispered, and also to the fact that his way with a team and carriage left a great deal to be desired, his quick-tempered impatience having cost a groom his life when he was thrown from a curricle Trent had contrived to overturn.

Mrs. Henley slowed her steps and appraised the second man narrowly. Despite his fine build and the fact that he looked to be no older than five and thirty, he already showed marked signs of dissipation. The flush on his broad face proclaimed the heavy drinker and the beginnings of a paunch curved his green and white striped waistcoat. His lank hair was straight and of an indeterminate brown. His features were regular but undistinguished and the loose mouth and rather neighing voice caused her to marvel that any woman could be swept off her feet by such a one.

Her eyes fell on the overturned chair then, and she frowned.

“… no business here,” Trent was saying loudly. “Besides, who cares what he says? The fact remains it ain’t legal, and by God, I mean to—”

“You wished to see me?” said Mrs. Henley, her cold voice cutting through his words.

Both men jerked around and stared up at her.

She stood on the stair, one hand lightly resting on the handrail, her head high, her thick brows a little arched, her mouth haughtily drooping, and the sunlight which slanted through the grubby window of the half-landing awakening a sheen on her luxuriant raven locks.

“Now … by heaven … Juno is come among us!” breathed Trent, staring.

His friend pursed his lips, eyeing Mrs. Henley’s tall aloofness without marked approval. “No, d’you think so?” he said dubiously.

“A veritable Venus!” Trent paced forward, lifting a jewelled quizzing glass and scanning her from head to toe with bold admiration.

A glint came into Mrs. Henley’s candid grey eyes. “I expect,” she said in her calm way, “when you have finished with your impertinence, you will tell me why you are here—gentlemen.”

Trent chuckled. “A spirited Venus, you’ll note, Poll,” he remarked. “Just how I like ’em.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Henley turned her gaze to Pollinger, “you can be more lucid, Mr. Poll.”

Pollinger’s shifty brown eyes fell away before her cool stare. “Do but mark the hauteur of it, dear boy,” he sneered, with a giggle that did not equate with a man of his size and years.

“And—the shape,” murmured Trent, the quizzing glass busy again.

“Good day—gentlemen,” said Mrs. Henley, contempt in her voice.

“No, no! You cannot throw us out, m’dear,” drawled Trent, sauntering nearer. “Ain’t polite. ’Sides, we ain’t been so much as introduced as yet. Allow me, ma’am, to present my friend, Sir Dennis Pollinger.”

Sir Dennis offered a great flourishing bow.

“Silly fellow,” murmured Trent, amused.

“I expect you know best,” said Mrs. Henley tranquilly.

“Be dashed!” protested Sir Dennis.

Trent laughed. “And I am Junius Trent,” he said, bowing also. “May I assume we address Mrs. Burke Henley? I was—acquainted with your late husband, ma’am.”

She met his mocking gaze levelly. “Yes. I had heard you shared his weakness for gaming.”

“Hah!” roared Pollinger, vastly diverted. “That gave you back your own, Junius!”

Trent pointed out, “It is only a weakness does one lose, dear ma’am. And your husband, regrettably, did so often—lose. Save, ’twould appear, in one respect.”

The famous blue eyes were slithering over her again. Mrs. Henley began to feel soiled. “You will forgive me if I cut short this fascinating conversation. Friends are waiting for me, and—”

“They must be waiting a long way off,” said Trent, drifting ever closer, “for we saw no sign of ’em as we rode up. And why anyone should wish to be any distance from your lovely self…”

Mrs. Henley stepped back. “You oblige me to be blunt, sir. Say what it is your master sent you to say, and then be so good as to leave.”

“Your master,” hooted Pollinger, slapping his thigh delightedly. “There’s a rib tickler, by Jove!”

“I was given to understand,” said Mrs. Henley, her pulse quickening as she saw the sudden glint in Trent’s eyes, “that you are come in behalf of Lord Montclair, who seems to labour under the delusion that I live here illegally.”

“What sauce, and for such a pretty mouth,” said Trent. With a sudden pounce he was facing the widow at the foot of the stairs. He put his right hand on the baluster beside her, and said smilingly, “Lord Montclair is perfectly right, m’dear. This house is part of the Longhills estate.”

Mrs. Henley slipped one hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the reassuring butt of the pistol. “My father-in-law purchased this property long ago, and—”

“Ah, but he cancelled the sale, and sold Highperch back to Lady Digby Montclair. Had you—ah, forgot that trifle?”

“To the contrary, sir. My man of business in London has a copy of the Deed, and it—”

“Was found to be in error, ma’am.”

“Which is why,” pointed out Pollinger, grinning, “her la’ship returned Henley’s funds and voided the sale.”

“So … much as I regret it,” said Trent softly, “you must go away, pretty one. Montclair might be willing to—”

She stepped back once more but even as he spoke, like a striking snake, his left arm shot out and trapped her against the stair railing. He smiled down at her seductively. “You are not exactly beautiful. At least, not in the accepted sense. You are too tall, but most generously formed. And although your hair should be curled it is exceeding silky, and I like the way it comes to that charming peak in the centre of your brow. Let’s have your hat off,” he reached up, “so I can better admire it.”

“Let’s have your hands off,” said Mrs. Henley, drawing and levelling the pistol under his ribs, “before I decide to fire it.”

“Hey!” cried Pollinger, starting forward, alarmed.

Trent looked down at the pistol, then looked up into the young lady’s steady grey eyes. His hands still raised and his own eyes very wide, he muttered, “By God, but I believe you would.”

“Have you ever wondered how many people would attend your obsequies?” she asked chattily. “Were I you, sir, I would lower my hands very slowly. This is cocked and my brother tells me it has a hair-trigger—whatever that may mean.”

Pollinger gave a little yelp and retreated.

Trent’s eyes narrowed. “Why, you little trollop,” he breathed. “With your reputation, you dare—”

“Have a care, Junius!” cried Pollinger nervously. “Woman. Pistol. Looks like a Boutet. Very touchy, y’know. Very.”

“Your friend is perfectly right,” said Mrs. Henley. “I am sure I do not know how long I can hold this thing, so—”

“What the devil—”

A tall young man exploded through the rear door and came down the hall on the run. He wore work clothes and heavy hip boots, and a Belcher neckerchief was tied carelessly about his throat. Very dark, with thick curly hair and a fine physique, he was yet of much slighter build than the pair who confronted Mrs. Henley. “Get away from my sister, you filthy swine!” he roared, his grey eyes narrowed and murderous.

Mrs. Henley’s gaze flashed to him. Junius Trent’s hand flailed downward and smacked the pistol to the side. It went off with a roar that purely astounded the widow, who had really thought it to be unloaded.

Pollinger grabbed the newcomer’s arm, swung him around, and collected a tightly clenched fist in one eye. Staggering, he howled curses.

Trent wrenched the pistol from Mrs. Henley’s grasp, whirled, and brought the butt down hard on the back of the newcomer’s dark head.

Mrs. Henley whispered, “Andy!” as her brother crumpled to the floor. Starting for him, she was caught by the wrist. “Coward!” she flung at Trent.

He laughed rather breathlessly. “I do not care to be shot at when I come calling,” he said, and jerking her to him, kissed her ruthlessly.

She made not the slightest attempt to struggle, but stayed passively until he released her. Very white, she stared at him, a blaze in her eyes that brought his slow smile back. “Gad, but you’re a fiery chit, well worth the taming,” he murmured. “How the hell did you come to marry a drunken sot like Henley?”

“My husband,” she said, her voice trembling with fury, “was a disgraced and dishonoured man. But compared to you, sir, he was a paragon of virtue!”

Clutching his eye, Pollinger had bent over the fallen man and now suggested, “Think we’d best be on our way, Junius.”

Trent bowed. “My compliments, Mrs. Henley. You will remember why we came, I trust.”

“Certainly I shall not forget two brave men who forced their way into this house, abused a lone woman, and struck down her brother from behind. I hope you may be proud of what you have to report to your master!”

“You’ve a wicked tongue, lovely one,” said Trent, frowningly. “No man is my master. But be warned. Montclair wants you out of this house and off his land. And it does not do to oppose him. As for this young fool,” he glanced contemptuously at his motionless victim. “Had you not tried to murder me I might not have struck so hard. Blame yourself, Mrs. Henley. Au revoir. I do not say goodbye, you’ll note. We will meet again.”

He sauntered from the house, shouldering Deemer aside as the butler came panting up the front steps.

The reaction making her shake violently, Mrs. Henley sank to her knees beside her brother. “Andy,” she sobbed, seeking a pulse.

Deemer ran in. “Oh, my God! Please say he’s not dead, Mrs. Sue!”

She looked up through a blur of tears. “No, thank G-God! But—oh, Deemer, if he is badly hurt I will take a rifle to my lord Montclair! That filthy, conniving lecher will rue the day he sent his ugly cronies after us. I swear it!”