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Part 17

oss, you mustn't tug at your cravat so," Elise gently chided her cousin as their carriage neared Chevington House. "Or Jem will be quite put out that you ruined his handiwork. It took him weeks to learn the Mathematical."

Glancing at his cousin with a mixture of affection and humor, Ross told her, "Young ladies of your high caliber are not to know the names of cravat styles, my dear. Nor how many cravats Jem went through to perfect it."

"Not that you ever gave a fig for fashion," Elise remarked calmly, adjusting the warm lap robe. "I do not see why it has suddenly become all the rage for you to be so superbly attired. You are nearly as bad as the debutantes this night."

"Do not harass poor Ross," her mother told her lightly. "The poor man is kind enough to play escort to us tonight so I won't have you doing so, Elise."

"It is always an honor and a pleasure to have such two lovely women on my arms," Ross assured her, smiling at his aunt. "And I am certain that the combination of art and music will be incomparable."

But in his heart, Ross knew the truth. Music and art had little to do with his motives this night. He was escorting his cousin and aunt to the Chevington party because he had learnt that it was almost certain that Katrina would be attending with Lady Simmons and the Marquis.

Returning to Lyme to find Katrina gone had been something akin to a physical blow, Ross thought as mother and daughter talked. He had never imagined that Katrina might leave to visit Kellynch with her sister, Mrs. Croft. Believing that he would see her upon her return, Ross had traveled to Scotland to see to Castle McGrath in his mother's absence. It had been a true delight to see his brother Andrew again, and Angelica, and their little ones. And his agent had spent days with him going over the account ledgers and showing him about the grounds.

He had received a touching letter from his mother as well, for she had met Katrina before her departure. "She is a lovely, charming young woman, my son. She is all that you described her to be and more. I think that she was not quite as happy as she appeared about leaving Lyme for Somersetshire." Their meeting had been just as he had hoped.

But then a letter from Elise had changed everything. Katrina was no longer in Somersetshire but in London, studying art with some German master. And with Richard Shelton and his cousin, Drusilla Simmons as her sponsor! Nothing could have surprised and puzzled him more. None of it made any sense. Katrina hardly knew Richard, much less Lady Simmons. But according to Elise, Richard had made his way to Somersetshire quickly and had become a frequent guest at Kellynch. It made Ross angrier than he had been in his entire life.

As a result, he had made haste to Lyme to get any information he could from Elise, only to find that she and her mother were decamping to London themselves. The country had grown cold and rather dull for the ladies and they were hoping to enjoy some entertainment whilst there. Ross had promptly asked if he might escort the ladies and Lord Stenning had happily agreed. He preferred to stay in the country but would be joining his family in a few weeks.

The questions that had plagued Ross in Scotland had not abated. They haunted him at night until he could hardly bear it.

"I must find out from her myself what has happened," he thought as they neared Belgrave Square. "Why would she leave her family, her beloved sisters to come to London when I know she does not like it? Why would she leave Anne like that? And what are her feelings for Shelton? Even if she cares for him, I must have the answers in order to restore my sanity."

They arrived at Chevington House to find it well lit and bustling with activity. Apparently, it was to be quite a crush. They had arrived rather late due to a delay with the carriage so the party was already well underway.

"I shan't mind, really," Elise remarked as Ross helped her from the carriage. "For I don't have a taste for German music and it is usually sung first."

The huge drawing room was indeed filled with people, Ross could see. He caught sight of some old friends here and there. Many art enthusiasts were in attendance as the Chevingtons' were known for their patronage. But soon enough Ross found one of the people he had hoped to see this night and made his way to where the Marquis stood.

"Richard, it is good to see you again," Ross remarked, thrusting out his hand. "But I did not expect to find you such a keen appreciator of the arts."

Richard went pale as he shook Ross' hand. "Ross, I had no idea you were in town. I was told you were attending to family business in Scotland. Not playing the role of socialite amongst us."

"Why should I remain in the wilds of the country when there is apparently so much to attract the eye in the South?" Ross remarked dryly. He was not allowing Richard to slip from his grasp so easily.

Ross noticed that while his friend appeared calm and unflappable, something was amiss. His gray eyes darted away briefly as if looking for someone.

"I have always been an enthusiast for fine art," Richard answered calmly. "And this is the perfect opportunity to enjoy it. You know my cousin, Drusilla, of course. It is she who asked me to attend her here as the Admiral is likely to decamp for the Library to enjoy a smoke."

"No doubt your eye had also caught sight of something far more lovely," Ross said, his voice low and deadly calm. "Perhaps you might tell me how it is that your good cousin is sponsoring my good friend, Miss Katrina Wentworth. I am quite keen to know your motives behind this benevolent interest in her talent."

Richard had not expected this moment to occur so soon but he had known that such a thing was possible. He steadied himself inwardly and plunged forward. "Miss Wentworth is an artistic wonder, as you know, Ross. I merely suggested that Drusilla sponsor her on a trip to London, to enjoy some training in her talent and to see a little of our capitol. I think she had benefited from it greatly."

"I have no doubt that you do," Ross bit out, his anger flaring. "But I find it passing strange that you were the one to suggest it. Or that you have been spending time near Kellynch Hall to make such frequent visits."

"You may retract your claws, if you please, Ross," Richard murmured under his breath. "I mean Miss Wentworth no harm. She is a kind, sweet girl that I wished to assist and that is all I intended by it. Nothing more."

"Then would you be so kind as to tell me if she is present this evening?" Ross asked politely, his anger held in check. "For I should wish to tell her that Lady Stenning and Elise are present and would wish to see her before this room becomes even more crowded."

Richard was silent as the crowd buzzed around them. The flutist was about to begin and people were taking their seats. It would not do to cross Ross like this. He would find out where she was with or without his help. But what of Katrina? Did she not deserve some warning? The poor girl loved Ross so, although she had never said it. No, it was best to let Ross do his own wooing and not interfere.

"She is in the Gallery taking some fresh air alone," Richard told him in hushed tones. "I fear the heat and the crowd were a bit much for her this evening."

"Thank you," Ross said shortly, turning on his heel to leave the room. Elise and Lady Stenning had found some friends and no longer needed him. A servant directed him to the Chevington's famous gallery and he made his way up the stairs to the long landing.

She does not belong here, he thought impatiently. She belongs in Lyme, playing with Bess, collecting shells, painting pictures of those she loves. Not in this cold, dark, damp town where everyone wants something from someone else. It will break her gentle spirit, change her. Why did you come here, Katrina?

When he had been home in Scotland, he would often look out of his Library window to see the loch below. Katrina's eyes were so like the blue of the waters. To have her there with him would be the most supreme blessing of his life. He missed her more than he could think it possible to miss another person. He could not forget those dark blue eyes, so warm and gentle, looking up into his that night at Stenning Hall. As if her heart were in them...

As he came to the top step, Ross eyes hungrily sought her. The gallery was long and dimly lit, making it difficult to see. But there was no doubt that the tiny figure at the end of it was Katrina. His Katrina...

Moving silently on the carpeted floor, Ross slowly began to walk. Moonlight was flooding through a huge picture window and Katrina stood beneath it, her sweet profile looking up into it. The silver light bathed her, casting a glow about her, transforming her into the fairy he thought her to be. So magical, so ethereal.

Ross stopped abruptly, amazed and humbled at the wonder of the sight before him. She was so beautifully gowned, her dark hair caught up in combs so that her elegant neck was exposed. But the expression on that lovely face held him spellbound. Her blue eyes, shining with unshed tears, beseeched God to help her, to free her from some silent agony. Ross was cut to the quick, bewitched by her.

It did not matter that she had left for London with Richard Shelton. He no longer cared. At that moment, Ross knew in the depth of his soul that his happiness, his future lay in this little woman's hands. There was nothing he wanted more than to erase that pain from her eyes, to protect and love her as no man had before. He would overcome any obstacle, any barrier to have that honor, that sheer joy.

"My Titania..." he breathed aloud.

"Miss Wentworth, may I tell you how lovely you look tonight? Almost as lovely as the painting itself," a light, mincing voice spoke.

Katrina turned to face Sir Paul Singleton, who had silently moved to stand behind her as she stood beneath the Joshua Reynolds painting. "Thank you, sir," she quietly acknowledged. "But I should never aspire to resembling the Duchess. Or to coming close to Reynold's inimitable style."

The baronet smiled knowingly and replied, "Ah, but you have a blooming talent equal to Reynolds. And having witnessed it at Gustav's studio, I can only say I am utterly charmed and captivated by the artist."

Inwardly groaning at his blatant flattery, Katrina pasted on a false smile. "But what a poor reflection on the man," she murmured. "When he is so very accomplished in blending the subject with their background. I have always admired his work."

Her eyes darted to the more populated side of the room, hoping the Marquis would return with her glass of punch. Sir Paul was one of the men she had come in contact with over the last month and she found his abject attention to her rather unsettling. He seemed to appear everywhere she went, be it at her art master's studio or one of the London galleries.

They had come to Lady Chevington's party because the Marquis had caught wind that Mr. Brian Whitby might be present. Whitby was believed to be the man that was stealing the famous antiquities and art works and he had been quietly making inroads into the fashionable London set to acquire purchasers for his stolen goods. And the Chevingtons were known patrons of the arts.

Katrina sighed as Singleton began to talk about how he had met Reynolds in Marseilles just a few weeks ago. Sir Paul loved to brag and sound more important than he was, like many of the artists she had met in London. It bored Katrina to tears. And made her long for the warm fire and cozy chats with Anne and Sophy.

Whitby, on the other hand, was an elusive man of mystery. She had caught sight of him for only a moment when he had paid a call on Gustav, the gentleman who was her art teacher. And she thought she had seen him yet again in Hyde Park a few days ago. She had made some preliminary sketches for the Marquis but they were not specific enough to send to France yet.

"He is a man of the shadows," Katrina thought wearily as Sir Paul went on, hardly stopping for breath. "And I do hope he emerges soon for I grow weary of London and of its self-important Beau Monde."

Katrina's blue eyes caught sight of Drusilla entering the room on the arm of her husband, the Admiral. She ought not to complain so, really. Drusilla had been very kind to her during her stay at their home in Grosvenor Square. And Gustav was teaching her many truly wonderful things that she would never have learned otherwise. But she longed to go home to Lyme to be with Anne and Sophy. To romp with Bess by the shore. To visit Elise. To be herself and not this person she was pretending to be.

"Your chaperone, Lady Simmons, she is an admirer of art as well?" Singleton was saying. "Do you share her tastes, little flower?"

Inwardly cringing at his use of the endearment, Katrina stiffly told him, "Yes, I do, sir. She has excellent taste and I find nothing to fault her with. The Admiral supports her in this."

"Do you think she might be interested in acquiring something of a rare and special quality?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low undertone.

Katrina was silent and still for a moment. Was Singlteon suggesting that he knew how Drusilla could purchase stolen art? She could hardly believe what she was hearing. She had never considered Singleton, the consummate flirt, any sort of a probably thief before. He was such a fop that it seemed beyond his realm. She also knew he was known to be quite wealthy so why did he have need to steal?

"Some people are willing to risk anything to obtain an object of beauty," he remarked, his voice taking on a distinctively silky, arch tone. "And I share that passion, Miss Katrina."

Her stomach knotted at his words. How she loathed such a suggestive way of talking. Struggling to maintain her composure, Katrina lightly remarked, "I think Lady Simmons might be interested, sir. But she is well acquainted with all of London's art dealers. Surely she would know if something of extraordinary value and worth were for sale."

"Ah," Singleton breathed with delight, moving closer to her. "But some dealers prefer to remain, shall I say, rather quiet about their possessions."

Katrina glance up at Singleton, taking in his light green eyes and rather pasty complexion. He was a short, plump man with a flair for dressing colorfully, his cravat tied intricately into the latest mode. Was Singleton perhaps Whitby's frontman, the person who went "fishing" for prospective buyers?

It made sense, she thought, as Singleton was greeted by Admiral Simmons. Who would suspect a flirtatious, witty, man about town like Sir Paul? The Marquis had dismissed him as a dabbler, a dandy who pretended to know more than he did and who spent time with artists because it allowed him to pretend he was important.

"Do not bother with that popinjay," Richard had told her. "His father, the Duke of Hedgemont, is tottering on the brink of his deathbed as we speak. He stands to inherit a huge fortune, with at least three estates. Singleton has no need to pilfer art for wealthy patrons."

Katrina, barely attending to the conversation, surmised that this was why she was currently the receiver of several haughty, jealous stares from many matchmaking mamas. Although he was a fop, Sir Paul was a prime catch for any debutante. Katrina would gladly give up his attentions for a moment of peace away from him.

"Miss Katrina," came the Marquis' voice from beside her. "Do forgive my delay with your glass of punch."

She took it from him gladly and drank it down in a few sips. The room was rather crowded and milling with activity. A tenor had sung a German lieder some moments ago and soon they were to return to their seats to hear from a well-known flutist. "Thank you, My Lord," she told him as she put her empty glass aside. "It has grown frightfully warm tonight, I am afraid."

"But Miss Katrina looks as fresh and lovely as a fragrant blossom," Singleton essayed, raising his eyeglass. "As one that flourished in a hot house."

Katrina nearly groaned at the compliment. Did the man ever stop? She found herself on the verge of screaming at him when the Marquis wisely asked, "Do join me, Miss Wentworth, and we shall take a turn in the Gallery. Lady Chevington has kindly agreed to lead us through it."

Singleton moved as if to join them but Lady Simmons was no fool. Taking his arm, she laughed gaily. "Do not abandon us now, Sir Paul, for I have so much to ask you. The Admiral and I are considering a voyage to Marseilles soon and I understand that you were just there."

Katrina gladly allowed the Marquis to escort her from the crowded room. The Gallery was cool and lit by candelabras, casting shadows against the expensive portraits of Chevingtons through the ages.

"Forgive me for creating that ruse but you looked as if you were about to do something rather violent to Sir Paul," the Marquis quietly told her. "And if you had not, I was prepared to do far worse to the idiot."

Laughing with a hint of weariness, Katrina sat down on a low bench. "Thank you, Richard. You have come to read my expressions all too well, for I fear I was about to give him the famous Clarabelle kick."

"Clarabelle kick?" the Marquis echoed, a smile twitching at his firm mouth. "Do explain that technique to me for I am all astonishment."

"When I lived with Uncle Edgar in Devon, he had a small dairy nearby, since he had a penchant for fresh milk. Truly, it was only a few cows. But one of them, Clarabelle, was quite temperamental," she explained. "One day the milkmaid, Ruth, could not come so she sent her brother Horace in her stead. Poor Horace was not aware of Clarabelle's rather hostile nature. It was rather a cold morning and when the cow felt Horace's, er, rather unknown and untaught fingers on her teats, she kicked him nearly through the barn wall!"

Laughing out loud, Richard could easily visualize such a thing happening. He sat down beside her on the bench and told her, "That's the first time I've truly laughed since we came to London, my dear," he said truthfully. "Thank you for telling me that original tale of the pitfalls of dairy farming."

Leaning against the wall, Katrina replied, "It was only what I felt like doing to Sir Paul. He...he frightens me at times, Richard. And tonight he said some things that truly surprised me."

"That windbag lives for the pleasure of hearing himself talk," the Marquis told her. "Forget about him and his tall tales. He would win a contest for liars if there were such a thing. Now may I tell you how lovely you look tonight without incurring one of Clarabelle's famous blows?"

Smiling, Katrina nodded. "Thank you, Richard. Drusilla has been showering expensive gowns, hats, and shoes on me since we arrived in London. I fear I am becoming a fashionplate and my head will swell to mammoth proportions with such attentions."

Taking in the becoming picture she made in her gown of forest green, Richard admired her with sincerity. "I owe you everything, Katrina," he truthfully said, his voice low. "You have gotten us further in one month that we have in six. I....we....owe you a great deal."

Shaking her head, Katrina told him, "I have done so little, Richard, truly. And my lessons with Gustav had been so enjoyable as well as seeing all the latest artwork in the galleries in town. It is something few young women have the pleasure of experiencing."

He took her hand lightly in his and asked, "But you would rather be home with your sisters, would you not?"

Lowering her eyes, Katrina fought to hold back the tears that threatened to rise. "I...I miss them more than I can say," she murmured softly. "I cannot lie to you, Richard. I shall be glad when this is over."

Watching her carefully, the Marquis felt his own heart constrict. She was so selfless, so sweetly innocent. He would give his lands and fortune to wipe that wistful longing from her eyes, to give her comfort. But Richard knew that there was only one man Katrina would embrace with her heart and her arms...Ross McGrath.

"You are homesick, I am sure," he told her gently, releasing her hand slowly. "I will leave you here for a little time to catch your breath and collect your thoughts. And do not fear any intrusion from Sir Paul. Drusilla and I will keep him out of your way."

She smiled her appreciation as he left the Gallery. Looking up, she took in the sight of Rowena, the Dowager Duchess of Chevington. It was an exquisite portrait of her as a young wife, her daughter Jane held on her lap. The artist had captured the glow of a mother's love in Rowena's golden eyes and the innocent flush on the child's cheeks.

Standing, Katrina walked slowly down the corridor, feeling the weight of the shadows upon her. It felt so good to be still, to be silent. She had hardly had the opportunity since she had come to London. The city bustled with activity and she hardly had a free moment to herself.

As she stood at the huge picture window at the end of the Gallery, Katrina crossed her arms to warm herself. At times she was glad she was so active, so distracted. For it kept her from thinking too much of Ross. She felt cold inside as well as out as she considered the next weeks in London. She did not want to be here. She wanted to be home...with the people who loved her most.

Elise had written to tell her that Ross had come home from Spain and was greatly disappointed that she had left for Kellynch. He was now in Scotland seeing to Castle McGrath as his mother was now in London with his niece Sarah. Having been absent from his estate so long, Ross was working with his steward to assure that everything was in order. So like Ross, she had thought. Always thinking of what is best.

"He will have forgotten me quite," she ruefully thought.

She could imagine him in his agent's office, bent over a ledger as he worked. He would be restlessly tugging at the locks of hair at the back of his neck, an unconscious gesture he often performed when deep in thought. His coat would be cast on a nearby chair, his sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. How she wished she could enter that office, to come up behind him and rest her head on that strong shoulder. The image was so vivid, so real in her mind. She was so weary, so very weary of being alone.

"If only I could see him one final time," she thought painfully, a tremor going through her. "To see his face. To hear his voice. To feel his arms about me. Dear God, I cannot bear this torture any longer. Help me..."

A single tear rolled down her cheek as she looked up into the night sky, the moon bathing her in its silvery glow. Somewhere, perhaps through the windows of Castle McGrath, that same moon was shining on Ross. The only man she would ever love. The shadows and light mingled as more tears filled her eyes.

"My Titania..."

It was a whisper, a longing sigh that caught, hung on her heart like a silken ribbon. She could not move. She could not breathe. She could not think!

"Katrina...." the voice came again, stronger, more urgently, now closer.

"Dear God," she whispered aloud, the words torn from her mouth. "Am I dreaming?"

But the strong, sure hands that descended onto her shoulders were real. The warm breath against her hair was real. The unmistakable masculine scent of him was real. Ross...it had to be Ross!

Slowly, gently, those hands turned her round to face him. Her eyes hungrily flew to his beloved face, bathed in the shadow and light. Those blue eyes gleamed like fine jewels in the moon's glow as they intensely bore into hers. His auburn hair glowed, shone like tamed fire.

His hands cupped her face so gently, so tenderly, his thumb brushing away the stray tears he found there. "My fairy," he breathed in wonder. "I have found you at last. No more tears...I cannot bear to see them."

"Ross," she whispered longingly, painfully. "How....when..."

His finger brushed her open lips to silence her. "No more words, my Titania. For I believe we have had too many words. And what I have to tell you can best be said in another way."

In a sure, unhurried movement, Ross drew her into his arms and against his chest. Her dark head fell against his shoulder as she stared up at him, transfixed by the warmth, the glow of his eyes. His beautiful, vibrant eyes that seemed to tell her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

His head lowered abruptly and as a soft gasp left her lips, his mouth found hers, covering it, sealing it as his for all time. The blood in her veins sang with delight as he tenderly kissed her, treasuring the sweet, precious gift that he considered her to be.

She sighed with pleasure as he lifted his head to brush her nose, her eyes, her cheeks with kisses. This must be a dream, she decided. A lovely, wonderful dream that she hoped never to awaken from. But the strong, muscled arms that were drawing her even closer were no illusion.

Her gloved hand slowly lifted to touch his face, to stroke a stray lock of red hair that had fallen forward. That face, that beloved face. Ross groaned almost harshly as she did so, as if he were in pain. "Katrina," he sighed, "Yet still I must say it! I love you...sweet Heaven, how I love you!"

Then he was kissing her again, more thoroughly, more possessively than before. And Katrina gave herself up to the sweet, blessed agony that was hers in the embrace of this man, this man whose name was written on the very core of her heart.

Part 18

The faint sound of a solitary flute drifted through the Chevington Gallery, a sweet yet poignant coda that suited the moment perfectly. It was the lingering melody of Katrina's heart as she rested her cheek on Ross' shoulder.

He was here, she thought dazedly. Not off in Spain, or Africa, or Scotland. And he loved her...loved her! No matter what the future brought to her life, she would have this to hold onto forever. She would have the imprint of his arms around her, the masculine scent of is skin, his lingering kiss against her mouth to warm her heart when she was alone again.

They were sitting on the large window seat together, Ross' arms anchoring her close against him as if he feared his fairy might suddenly fade into the moonlight that covered them like a silver veil. Was she truly real now, he thought with a smile.

"Do you know how foolish I have been?" he murmured, resting his chin atop her sweet, silky hair. "You must think me an utter Bedlamite, my fairy, for not realizing that I loved you sooner. Forgive me, darling."

Katrina did not speak at once. She was savoring the delicious, sweet bliss of being held by this man, this strong, courageous man, who now reminded her of one of his Scottish forebears, protective of his lady love. She feared if she spoke that she would awaken to find it all an empty mockery.

"I never allowed myself to believe that you might," she told him softly, nestling herself still deeper into his arms. She wanted to burrow down until she disappeared, becoming a part of him so that no one could harm her. "I only knew that I loved you beyond thought...beyond dreams. For that is what they are, Ross."

He heard the note of painful resignation and unhappiness in her voice and noticed how she could not seem to get close enough to him. Her tears, her anxiety, touched off those concerns for her that had not yet subsided. Something had driven her to London besides art lessons, Ross knew. And it was silently holding her captive.

"My love for you is real, it is no dream" he told her urgently, his lips brushing her forehead. "And that shall never alter, regardless of the circumstances. But I cannot be blind to what has taken place, Katrina. I know you did not come to London with Richard Shelton's cousin merely to visit the capitol and learn from a German art master. I know you would not leave your sisters for that."

Ross paused, noticing how still she had become in his arms. He knew Katrina's sense of duty and honor were stronger than ever. It was one of the elements of her character that had endeared her to him from the first. Ross' fingers brushed a curl from her cheek, stroking those soft skin he found there. To touch her, to feel her soft breath on his coat was dazzling him, making it difficult for him to remember where he was.

"Can you not tell me, my dear?" he asked beguilingly, not wishing to frighten her.

To his surprise, she slowly drew back from him and rose from the window seat. Her back was to him, her small figure almost regal in the mixture of shadow and light. He had seen her do this before, pulling herself into her warrior stance as if to protect herself. She was throwing up barriers and Ross nearly groaned with frustration. Why must she shut him out when all he wanted to do was protect her, love her?

"Ross, you know I could never utter untruths to you," she quietly spoke, unable to face him. "And I shall not start this night. Not when you have given me something...I thought never to have. Sweet Lord, I thank you for the precious gift...of your love."

Her voice faded as she moved yet further from him, as if afraid his mere presence might draw the full truth onto her lips . "I cannot tell you why I am here. To do so...would be breaking a promise I have sworn to keep," she said, the words nearly town from her lips.

Ross watched her, nearly drowning in his love for her. She looked like a tiny Diana, her small hands clenched at her sides. He had grown so accustomed to knowing her gestures, her expressions that it bit him to the quick that she was quietly suffering so under the weight of this burden. He would give all that he had to carry it for her, to share that load. To ease her fears.

"Even if that secret is doing harm to you?" he asked, not wanting to make matters even worse for her. "Katrina, I love you. Surely we can face whatever is happening together? Does Richard Shelton hold some power over you?"

She did not turn or move but his eyes did not miss the tiny quiver that shook her petite frame. It tugged at his heart as nothing else could. How many years had she been forced to be so strong, to handle everything herself? To live with an uncle that barely acknowledged her presence? To face a sheltered, quiet world devoid of love and affection? Ross suddenly realized she was defending herself out of sheer habit, out of a survival instinct. To force her to confess would only drive her away from him forever and that he could not face.

"It is nothing like that," she told him at last, her voice low and pleading him to understand. "It is not...as you think."

A noise at the far end of the Gallery alerted them to the presence of visitors at the bottom of the steps. No doubt Lady Chevington was hoping to show her famous collection to some of her guests. She must not find them there, Katrina thought.

Katrina gave herself a small shake and turned to face Ross, who now stood, his eyes unable to leave her heart-shaped face. Boldly, surely, she moved to stand before him, her gloved hands rising to rest on his shoulders.

Her heart was in her eyes as it had been that night at Stenning Hall, Ross thought, as his own hands fell to her waist to draw her against him. It was so small beneath his grasp. The very feel of her small, soft form altered his senses, made them spin and drift out of control. Did she have any hint of how she affected him? Groaning roughly, Ross' mouth lowered to kiss the soft, delicate skin beneath her ear, murmuring his love for her in Gaelic, almost dizzy with the want of protecting her, of cherishing her.

For a heady, wonderful moment, Katrina allowed herself to bask in his love, his passion. But she knew it must not last. She did not want the gossips' tongues to wag the next morning about how she and Ross had been found alone together. His reputation must not be darkened by her in any way.

"Ross, my dearest Ross," she breathed painfully, the tears threatening to return yet again. "I love you, you brawny Scottish warrior. Love you with...the depth and fibre of my heart. I know what I ask of you is a great deal to demand. But when my actions, my words do not make sense, when you do not understand why I am doing what I must...please remember what I have told you here this night. Please, Ross, do no forget!"

The noise from the steps was growing louder as she drew back from him, her eyes bright with tears. Her plea nearly pushed Ross to the brink of his very sanity. What she was asking of him was nearly impossible to give. She was asking him to not seek the answers he begged for. But when it came to his sweet Katrina, Ross realized he could refuse her nothing.

"I promise, my fairy," Ross heard himself swear aloud, his voice hoarse and ragged.

Then she was moving behind a tapestry, her forest green skirts softly swishing as she found a door there that lead to a passage back to the Drawing Room where the party was assembled. Ross had not even noticed it before.

But still the sweet, haunting aroma of spring flowers lingered long after her like an invisible mist, mingling with the dying notes of the flute. Ross sighed and pressed his forehead against his palm in frustration. His Titania had indeed flown.

Part 19

A tree branch brushed against a bedroom window of the Wentworth house, the evening rain pouring down in angry torrents. A howling wind was moaning its lonely, sad complaint. Bess stirred at the foot of the large bed, resting her furry head on her mistress' feet. But Anne was oblivious to it all. A sweet smile played over her face as she slept, her shoulders swathed in a dark green shawl of warmest cashmere. For she was miles away from Lyme in her dreams in a secluded spot where rain or wind never intruded.

Taking off her bonnet, Anne sat on the stone bench in the cool, shady grove as the spring sunshine poured over her. The bluebirds were calling to each other in the trees. She could even hear Chester, the head groom, whistling down below in the stables as he groomed her father's prize hunter, Jupiter. Strange how she had always loved Kellynch best in the spring, in watching the grounds come to life somehow after a long, cold winter. A sweet breeze caressed her cheek as she heard footsteps approaching.

Turning, Anne's eyes lit up at what she saw.

"Mama," she breathed softly. "You've come to join me."

The elegant grace of Lady Elliot was unmistakable as she made her way down the sloping hill. Anne never tired of watching her walk, noticing how she was always a lady in all things she did. She was wearing her favorite gown of watered blue silk, her dark hair becomingly arranged as always.

"My dear child, of course I came," Lady Elliot replied with a teasing warmth in her tone, as if daring Anne to contradict her. "Do I not always come when you need me, my poppet?"

Anne made room on the bench for her mother and took her hand when she had taken her place. "Mama, I miss you so very much," she softly told her, hazel eyes dark and liquid. "Has it truly been fifteen years since you went away?"

Nodding, Lady Elliot squeezed her daughter's hand. "Yes, my dear. But you are handling matters excellently without my assistance, as I knew you would. I wish I could say the same for your father and Elizabeth. They are sad cases, you know. You must continue to help them when you can."

"Kellynch was never the same without you," Anne admitted. "Your love kept Papa from being totally without sense or reason. And Elizabeth...I cannot even begin..."

"We shall leave them be for now," Lady Elliot gently agreed. "For it is you I wish to talk to. How are you feeling, Anne? Is the little one making her presence known? Is the nursery prepared?"

Flooded with surprise, Anne's eyes flew to her mother's face. "A girl? Is it a girl?"

"Oh, there I have gone and done it," Lady Elliot murmured, chuckling softly behind her hand as she lost some of her usual elegant ease. "I have let the secret out. They shall be quite put out with me. But it is so. Frederick will be over the moon, I'm sure. Are you?"

Anne considered her mother's words. Raising children was no easy task, even for the most capable parent. Did she have the strength, the intelligence, nay, the heart to give what was required of her? "It frightens me at times, Mama," she remarked plainly. "I did not think I should ever become a mother. Children require so much time, patience, understanding..."

"And love," Lady Elliot added wisely. "And that you have in great abundance, Anne. Do not forget that, for it is the most important gift you have to give your child. To love and to teach her how to share that love with others whenever possible. To be generous with one's time. To be honest and trustworthy.

"Anne, I did not always picture myself as a mother either," Lady Elliot confessed freely. "Not when I was young, that is. Such things seemed so removed from my world. Then I met your father and everything changed. And then my girls came. I soon found that motherhood was not nearly as frightening as it had once seemed."

"Truly?" Anne asked, her eyes troubled. Talking to Mama had always soothed any fears she had had as a child. She needed that reassurance now more than ever. With Frederick so far away, she often became lost in her thoughts.

"You have become a wonderful, loving wife to your husband," Lady Elliot told her, her soft hazel eyes so like her daughter's. "Do not think I have not noticed. And I know that you long despaired of having Frederick's love. So do not be afraid, darling. You will have the courage when you need it most when the little treasure arrives."

Anne smiled and placed her head on her mother's shoulder, feeling the keen pleasure of being so near to her mother. "You were so good to me, Mama. You always were there for me...until you took ill."

Lady Elliot's arm went round her daughter's shoulders lovingly. "You were quite easy to love, Anne. So eager to please. And with such an open, giving heart. How I wish your sisters might have benefited from your example. But we all have our own lives to lead and I am so glad that you have found yours. Your Frederick is a good man, Anne. I always knew it."

"He is a wonderful man, Mama," Anne murmured, noticing how the sun was glinting off the far off stream through the pines. "How I wish you might have met him. He takes such good care of me. Having him in London has been a sore trial for me. I miss him more than ever."

"He will be home soon," Lady Elliot assured her. "And he will be a good father as well. I know you have lonely moments, darling. But you do know I am always looking after you, do you not?"

Looking up into her mother's face, Anne nodded. "Yes, Mama, I know..."

Then something bumped into her knee and Anne looked down. Suddenly the grounds, the bench, her mother...they were all vanished. Sitting up in the darkness of her bedroom, Anne felt Bess nudging her knee, wriggling her small body closer as she was wont to do in her sleep. The rain was continuing to pound on the roof fiercely. But Anne barely heard it.

"Oh Bess," Anne murmured to herself with a rueful smile. "How I would have loved for her to stay...just a few minutes more!"

Part 20

Katrina carefully folded yet another item to go into her large trunk. For a brief thing such as a house party, it seemed to require a great deal of packing. She only hoped she had included everything that was appropriate. If only Sophy were there to tell her what to do...

A knock at the door brought her head up. Drusilla was standing in the doorway, a quizzical expression on her beautiful face. "Dear girl, Bridget will do all of that for you. Simply tell her what you require and she will prepare your trunk. There is no need to go to such trouble."

Flushing, Katrina explained, "I am simply not accustomed to having someone to do such things for me, Drusilla. Forgive me."

Smiling, Drusilla replied, "You have spoiled my servants ever since you arrived so there are no complaints from below stairs. I simply don't want you to overtax yourself. I know you have been quite busy with Richard in preparing the sketches for dispatch to France."

Katrina nodded with a glance at her sketch pad lying on a nearby table. She had been working on sketches of Whitby since she had caught sight of him at the Chevington party last week. It had occupied nearly all of her time and she was weary of it. "I only hope..Richard finds what he is seeking."

With a rather uncomfortable glance, Drusilla averted her eyes. It grew more and more difficult to keep the truth from Katrina, that Whitby was actually Ross' brother Lawrence. She had grown to like Katrina since she had arrived last month. To see her hurt was something she was hoping sincerely to avoid.

"He could not have done it without your help," Drusilla murmured thoughtfully. "And when this house party is over, we shall have more proof than ever against him. So take a moment to relax, dear. We travel directly to Kent tomorrow, you know."

Drusilla shut the door behind her and Katrina took her advice to heart. Crossing the floor of her spacious bed chamber, she sank down into a comfortable chair beside the large window that overlooked the square. It was cold and wet out as always, a sight Katrina grew weary of seeing every day. The grays meshed into black into brown into blues and rusts. It was a palette of colors that gave her little hope. She longed for the greens, yellows, and pinks of Lyme.

At least they were making progress of some sort now. After leaving Ross in the Gallery, Katrina had been making her way back to the Drawing Room when she had discovered Whitby leaving Chevington's library. Evidently Chevington was arranging for a select group of his friends to be shown some of Whitby's latest finds at a house party on his Kent estate.

Hiding behind a huge potted palm, Katrina had gotten a good look at the enigmatic Whitby, who disdained meeting with his clients personally unless he absolutely had to. That she knew all too well, having seen little of him in the past weeks.

"I appreciate your meeting with me yourself, Whitby," Lord Chevington had remarked as he had shaken hands with the tall, fair-haired man. "I know you like to keep matters quiet but I'm of the Old School. Like to see who I'm dealing with face to face, y'know."

Whitby, his perfect, white teeth gleaming in the shadowy hall, had offered a smile in return. "Perfectly understood, sir. For you are doing me a great honor in hosting this party. Sir Paul will be handling most of the details so do not hesitate to get in contact with me through his kind offices."

So Katrina had been right after all. Sir Paul was Whitby's front man to select who were the best customers to sell his stolen works from. Obviously he had been "casing" the Chevingtons for some time. Richard had been livid when Katrina had told him of her discovery.

"Damned puppy!" he had exclaimed. "And right under my nose all this time, I might add. You make me look a true amateur, Katrina, and rightly so. Perhaps I am becoming too old for this line of business."

"I should never say that," Katrina had told him. "For I never suspected the Chevingtons of being willing clients that were open to purchasing art from someone of Whitby's rather shadowy reputation. But you did."

"Well, I've already learnt that Drusilla and the Admiral are to be members of that house party so you are also invited," Richard had reported, sitting back in the dark carriage. "Do you think you are up to the challenge, my dear? I should think it the best opportunity for us to truly see what kind of artifacts Whitby has been pilfering and fencing."

"Surely Drusilla knows as much about art as I," Katrina had weakly protested. She had no wish to travel to Kent and stay with people she hardly knew. London and its endless Society whirl was bad enough in itself but a house party was out of her depth. "Must I truly go? I had wished to be back in Lyme shortly, now that I have seen Whitby close enough to draw him properly."

Leaning across the carriage, Richard had squeezed her hand in gratitude. "And I shall never forget that. We must have you do that as soon as we are back in London. But I need you at that party, Katrina, in case Drusilla cannot recognize what she has seen. Your knowledge is vital to our success. I understand that only she and the Admiral and two others will be allowed to see the items. So it must be of great importance."

She did not want to go to Kent. Frederick had called on her only yesterday to urge her to return with him to Lyme as Christmas neared. Anne was missing her dreadfully and was concerned about her being in London so long. It had nearly torn her to pieces to lie to Frederick, to tell him that she would rather attend the house party with Lady Simmons. The look of disbelief and confusion in her brother's eyes had nearly broken her.

The steady clop of horses hooves in the street below lulled and soothed her ragged nerves as Katrina's eyes drifted shut. She did not want to think of stolen art or Brian Whitby. Her thoughts wandered slowly, deliciously to a moonlit gallery far away from space or time.

Whenever she grew tired or sad, Katrina treasured those stolen moments in the Chevington gallery. Because it was there that Ross had told her he loved her. For a few minutes, Katrina had felt utterly safe and protected from the nightmare she now lived. Such memories comforted her as nothing else could.

She would never forget the tender gleam in those blue eyes, the feel of his fingers against her cheek, the warmth of his mouth on hers. Often she would awake from sleeping in the middle of the night, remembering it. And then weeping because she knew it would never happen again.

"Oh Ross," she breathed softly, her vision blurring from the tears forming there. "How I love you..."

Thankfully, Elise had called on her a few times. She was a breath of fresh air in the stale Beau Monde, Katrina thought. Her lively talk and warm smile had refreshed her as nothing else could. It had been difficult lying to her about why she was staying in London for such a long period. And her talk of her art lessons did not altogether convince her friend.

"Ross and I are worried about you, Katrina," Elise had told her yesterday over a cup of tea. "You're thinner, paler, than I remember. Does London truly make you happy? Do you not miss Lyme? Your sisters?"

Katrina had nearly wept in response to her friend's gentle questions. Instead she had rapped out a brief reply about Herr Hoffman's wonderful lessons and the excellent museums and exhibits she had been able to visit. But Katrina knew that Elise most likely suspected what Ross already knew. There was more to her visit than art lessons. Much more. If only she could tell him the truth...

A knock at the door alerted her to someone's presence. Bridget's curly head popped from behind it and she eagerly asked, "Is ye needin' my help, ma'am?"

No doubt Drusilla had made a "discreet suggestion" to her staff. Chuckling, Katrina rose from her chair and told the young maid, "Yes, I do need you, Bridget. This is my first house party and I hardly know what to pack. Have you assisted Lady Simmons in such matters?"

"Oh yes, miss, 'undreds o' times" she breathed with delight. "Now let's look round and see what'll make ye look right pretty!"

Part 21

Standing beside the sitting room window, Anne's hazel eyes worriedly watched the heavy, gray clouds overhead. Martha had been right that morning when she had said the sky smelled of snow.

While Anne did not usually dislike snow, she knew Frederick and the Admiral were to arrive the next day and she did not want his progress further impeded. She wanted her husband safe and at home. She was also disappointed that Katrina would not be accompanying them. Anne found her patience with waiting to have worn rather thin in the last few days.

Feeling somewhat restless, Anne drew her green shawl more closely about her shoulders. Poor Sophy, she thought wryly. It is little wonder her sister-in-law had taken the gig into town in order to visit Margaret Harville. Anne had felt out of sorts all day, her back aching and her heart sore from missing her husband. Now into her eighth month, she was feeling very much a woman close to giving birth.

She had enjoyed the last month with Sophy, although Frederick and the Admiral had been unable to free themselves until now. Her health was good and Dr. Mills was pleased with her progress. She did find herself feeling a bit achy the last few days but she imagined that was due to the added weight of the babe causing a strain on her back.

It had been rather amusing at times, getting accustomed to the changes in her body and her habits. Only a few weeks ago she had found it impossible to rise from her chair without Sophy's help. They had laughed about her predicament for long moments as if they were two schoolgirls.

"Just promise me you shan't sit down if Martha, Agatha, or I are out of shouting distance," Sophy had insisted with a grin. "I do not like to think of you struggling valiantly to rise with no success, my dear. Most exasperating for you!"

Smiling to herself, Anne reached into her pocket to retrieve the letter she had received from Mary that morning. Her younger sister's letters were often a source of amusement for her, although Anne was certain that Mary was not aware of it.

Dear Anne:

Do forgive the tardiness of this letter, sister. I intended to write to you much sooner to give you all the latest news of Uppercross, as I know you must be interested in what is happening hereabouts since Frederick is away. Surprisingly, I have felt quite well during the last few days, save for a wearying headache last week. You know how the winter months often render me quite low in spirits.

Charles and the boys are doing quite well although I am rather put out with my husband. He has been spending a great deal of his time assisting Henry Hayter with repairs to his parsonage. Ever since Henry's marriage to Henrietta, Charles has been summoned more times than I can count to help that man. Henrietta does not make it any easier when she talks to Charles about how much needs doing. I suspect that the dear girl never imagined what she was letting herself in for when she married Henry. Her life of leisure and ease at the Great House is likely a fond memory now, although she does not seem to mind it. She actually enjoys visiting the sick and aged of the parish with Henry! The very idea makes me rather cross as she never showed such an interest in visiting me when I was ill.

Louisa and Captain Benwick have come to stay at the Great House for Christmas so we have had a lively time of it. All this excitement will quite wear me out, I tell you. Their little boy, Randall, is a quiet child. Most unlike my own rather unruly children, as you know! I do hope he is not taking after his poetical father, who is still prone to falling into quiet reveries and quoting verse at the most inopportune moments. Louisa bears it well and confided to me that she was quite relieved that Randall's first word was "doggy" and not something from Lord Byron.

Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove are, of course, all in a stir about preparing the Great House for Christmas. The absence of your talent at the piano is lamented by them as always, although I do not know why. I can play quite as well as you ever did.

I must go now and see if Jemima has given the boys the custard Cook made this morning. Sometimes she quite forgets herself. Anne, I do hope you do not suffer from the "servant problem" that I have. But I am sure you are quite a sad case and let your staff run you ragged fetching and carrying for yourself.

Do enclose my best wishes to Frederick in your next letter to him and also my compliments to the Admiral and Mrs. Croft. I hope you are in good health and not too anxious as your confinement nears. You will likely stand it much better than I! You always were much more level headed and sensible than I.

Sincerely and &,
Mary

The letter made her chuckle even now. While her own life had altered so greatly, Mary's had remained very much the same. Life at Uppercross was so insulated, so warm and intimate. Despite the fact she had sometimes felt lonely there, Anne had pleasant memories of the place. The Musgroves had always been dear to her heart. Mrs. Musgrove had been overjoyed at the news of the baby and sent along a beautifully stitched blanket for the crib. It was so like her, Anne thought, a tear of gratitude welling up in her eyes.

"I am becoming an emotional watering pot," she thought ruefully. "Frederick would be quite amused to know I am exhibiting all the proper signs for a mother-to-be."

Just then she caught sight of Bess dashing across the small back lawn of the house. It was much too cold for her to be outside, Anne thought. Agatha must have forgotten to fetch her in after her walk.

Anne pocketed her letter and headed out of the sitting room to fetch her warm cloak. While it was only a short walk around the house, she did not want to catch cold. She was grateful that Martha was in the kitchen seeing to supper and would not be there to scold her for going out of doors.

The cold wind hit her square in the face and Anne braced herself for it. Against her cheek, the movement of it felt refreshing and brisk. The house was kept so warm for her these days that a few moments in the fresh air was quite invigorating.

"Bess!" Anne called in her clear, soft voice. "Bess, girl, come home!" But the dog did not come. Anne could only guess that once loose, the springer spaniel had made a bee line for the shore.

Sighing wearily, Anne made her way to the descending walkway to the beach. With her newly increased girth, negotiating her way to the beach was not as easy as it once was. But it would not do to have a cold, wet, sandy Bess to muck up her clean floors. She did not want Frederick coming home to an untidy house tomorrow. Or have to explain to Martha why they must remop the hallway.

The sea was churning, crashing against the beach today, she noticed. Its waters would certainly be bone-chillingly cold. Anne found herself pitying the fishermen who had to haul in their nets from the choppy froth. It was a hard existence but those who loved it, the cold was a price they were willing to pay.

Looking down the beach, Anne spied the dog romping and barking. She whistled loudly, just as Crispin had taught her, and the dog's head rose at once. Anne smiled to herself. It was difficult to believe Bess was a mother twice over now. She still acted very much like a puppy herself at times.

Moving carefully down the shore, Anne watched as the dog began trotting back toward her. She did not look the least bit sorry for her little adventure, Anne thought fondly.

Then quite suddenly, quietly, a shower of fluffy white flakes began drifting from the sky. While Anne had dreaded the snow before, the silent beauty of the moment filled her heart with wonder. She had never seen snow on the beach before and it humbled her. So still, so elegant against the rough beauty of the turbulent, lapping waves, the snow glided, swirled gently onto the sand.

The sight of it reminded Anne of when she was a child, of how she and her mother would frolic in the snow together, making snow angels. While always very much a lady, Mama had not shied away from a good snowball fight. Mary had taken part in those memorable moments, Anne recalled. Elizabeth and Sir Walter, of course, thought such activities to be beneath them. Mary had been different then, much more ready to romp and have fun. When they were chilled and tired, Lady Elliot would heard the girls inside the house where hot cider and gingerbread awaited them. Such memories warmed Anne's heart.

Looking up into the sky, Anne smiled as she remembered. If only Mama could be with her now, sharing this moment of peace and serenity. If only Frederick were there, his arms pulling her back against his chest, his chin resting on her hair. The yearning, the desire to be with him slammed into her almost physically and she sighed with longing. How she missed him so!

Bess, who had come to her, barked joyfully, her tongue lolling. Anne's reverie was over and reality was making its presence known. It was time to return to the house before Martha discovered she was gone. The chill of the air had become more intense and the thought of curling up before the fire to await Sophy's return appealed to her.

A noise behind her caught her attention and Anne slowly turned.

Her hazel eyes grew large as she realized who was standing so near and the breath left her lungs. Her hands flew to her cheeks in complete surprise and joy.

"Frederick!" she whispered, her eyes lit like candles.

"Little one," he murmured, a measure of awe apparent in his own deep voice. He looked travel weary but beneath the fatigue there lay quiet joy.

Those dark, loving eyes roved over her now very pregnant form. They glowed and grew large, finally coming to rest on her beloved face. He was wearing his naval uniform, his white gloved hand raising to remove his hat as he moved forward. The white, thick flakes caught, clung to his dark hair.

Something broke inside of her then. Anne was moving, flying like a bird to its nest, into the arms of her husband. To be caught up close, to be gently anchored against his strong chest, to feel his strong mouth against hers. The rush of warmth, of peace, of complete joy flooded her entire body in a rich, overpowering wave.

Frederick was home...at last.

Part 22

he smell of cigars and aged cognac pervaded the elegant, dark rooms of White's, one of London's finest men's clubs. Only those of the peerage that were deemed "top o' the trees" were members of White's and it had been the stage for many fascinating moments over the years. Fortunes had been won and lost inside its walls. It was a haven, a stronghold of masculine power set apart from wives, mistresses, and other female encumbrances that tried a man's soul.

Off to a side, in an esteemed place, lay the famous book. The pages of White's renowned volume were filled with private bets that ranged from the obvious to the absurd. Wagers varied from when the confirmed bachelor Sir Neville Hawthorne would become "leg shackled" to guessing how many cucumber sandwiches Lady Mary Simpson could consume at one tea party.

Ensconced in a comfortable leather armchair, Ross was reading the London Times with a rather distracted eye. White's was a place he rarely frequented when in London. The cigar smoke alone made him long for the fresh air of the Highlands. But he knew that Richard Shelton occasionally showed his face at the exclusive club and Ross had a great desire to ask the Marquis some pointed questions. To call at his fashionable townhouse would upset Katrina and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.

He glanced out the window into the street below. Christmas was only a number of weeks away. The shops were all brightly decorated with red ribbons and greenery, a festive atmosphere beginning to liven up the grayness of winter. Ross had little experience with London at Christmastime. He much preferred the crackling fires that filled the rooms of Castle McGrath...the sound of the village children singing carols in the church...the joy of being with his family around the Christmas tree. These were the moments that made the season truly real to him.

But Christmas or no, Ross had no intention of leaving London until he got to the bottom of the mystery that Katrina was entrenched in.

It had been more than difficult to keep away from the Simmons' elegant townhouse in Grosvenor Square. Katrina's anxious face haunted him at every turn. That night in the gallery she had looked as if the words she wished to speak were hovering on her lips. The silent agony he had seen in her eyes still struck him. To watch her walk away from him that evening at the Chevington's party had been the most difficult act he had ever performed.

Ross could remember the day he had come upon her on the beach, her hair streaming down her back as she frolicked on the beach with Bess. She had been so young and carefree, her laughter like music on the seabreeze. Now she was a quiet, elegant young woman caught up in the social whirl of the Beau Monde, stifled and confined by convention and propriety. His heart ached to see her in such a setting, as beautiful as she was in it. He knew in his soul that she was unhappy and that is what bit deepest.

He had squired Elise and Lady Stenning about town in hopes of seeing her. It was a task he took little pleasure in, for Lady Lavinia Haliford was also in town. She seemed to attend every party he did and she made it quite clear what she wished. At times, Ross felt as if he were being pursued like a fox chased a deer. Fortunately, Elise had made a concerted effort to protect him from her unwanted attentions.

"That woman summons in me a violent wish to shake her," Elise had commented dryly the night before upon returning from a musicale. "There is something insidious about her very actions, Ross. It gives me a great pleasure to deflect her ill-disguised maneuvers from you."

His own mother was occupied with Sarah's social calendar and they occasionally saw each other. He suspected that Katrina was usually at Hoffman's studio. Elise had made little comment about her visits to her. He sensed that she did not with to upset him and silently blessed her for it.

"I must keep away from her until I know more," Ross thought to himself, glancing out the window. "Else she shall never speak to me again. And that I could not bear."

In loving Katrina, Ross found that his entire basis of living, of thinking, had shifted. In the past, his life had revolved around his work and his estate. Each month brought a new assignment from London, a new challenge. Now he found his life had taken a complete turn. Nothing was as it had been before, as if the world had spun off its axis and had left him grasping for sanity.

Now his thoughts turned hourly to a small, lonely young woman with eyes the color of sapphires and hair that shone in the moonlight. A woman whose happiness and safety were his first concern in life, regardless of the cost to himself. In loving her, he found a part of himself that wanted to give, not take, that he had never understood before.

"My Titania," he thought with an audible sigh. "I cannot rest until I know you are safe...only then will there be peace."

Ross could hear the growing sound of a nearby conversation behind him. The new Earl of Caringford was talking intimately with his friend, Raymond Saxton. Caringford had already lost a packet that evening at the gaming tables and was drowning his sorrows in a bottle of claret. From the sound of it, his level of intoxication was coaxing him to speak unguardedly. Stupid cub, Ross thought distantly.

"Dashed business, cards," Caringford chuffed, pouring himself yet another glass. "I've had enough for one night. Why is it you never lose, Saxton? I should like to know your secret."

Chuckling, the older man stated, "Because I know when a friendly game has become an all-out war, my boy. You have yet to learn that simple lesson. Brixton was out for blood this night...your blood!"

Groaning in derision, the young earl groused, "The man's a fool if there ever was one. As if my life weren't difficult enough. The Corp's got me working night and day following that bloody art thief. My life is hardly my own! No wonder I cannot keep my cards straight!""

Ross went utterly still in his wing-backed chair. Caringford was fairly much an unknown to him but then again, the diplomatic service had recently hired a handful of young bucks like him. An action Ross had thought rather foolish. Now the man was spilling his knowledge to Saxton, who Ross knew was an old veteran of the Corps. They had worked together a number of times.

"A thief? Thought you were helping out Shelton these days, John," Saxton dryly said, lighting a cigar. "You are rather new to the job. He could teach you a few things. He's been on some difficult missions."

"I am with Shelton," the earl insisted, watching the liquid in the glass swirl. "But it's all hush hush due to the fact we're trailing Lord McGrath's brother...they think he's an art thief. Isn't that famous?"

A chill hand caught at Ross' heart and gripped it tight. He had to bite his lip from shouting. Good Lord, he thought. It was Lawrence they were talking about! His ne'er-do-well of a brother was being investigated by his own colleagues. And he had not known anything about it.

"Ross' brother Lawrence?" Saxton echoed with disbelief. "Can't be. Thought he was on the continent wooing a Spanish Contessa. The boy's always got his hand out but he's harmless. Does Ross know about the investigation? He'll be in a fine state. Lawrence has done little but cause his family grief."

"McGrath's out of the loop entirely," the earl replied with a sardonic grin that made Ross' stomach churn. "Shelton can be an old softie, you know. Doesn't want his old friend to catch wind of it. Might tarnish the family crest, if you catch my meaning. And can you believe they're using a woman this time?"

"A woman? What would they need a woman for? To seduce the brother?" Saxton queried, his attention all focused on the younger man. "Not the usual style, I must say. Rather dangerous and tasteless."

"No, no," the younger man waved his hand in the air drunkenly. "Nothing like that. She paints...draws. This thief goes by another name, rarely sees the light of day. I call him the Vampire. This girl, she's here to learn art. But she's old Edgar Wentworth's niece...the one who writes those boring books about antiquities...she knows more about art and history than most Oxford dons. Shelton's gettin' her to sketch the Vampire so as to send the pictures to Paris to pin the robberies on him."

The words lingered, festered in Ross' mind until he nearly shook with anger. Suddenly all the pieces were fitting together. Richard's fascination with Katrina's sketching ability. His pursuit of her to Kellynch. And now her presence in London to study art with a famous German master. He had lured her into helping him with his investigation of Lawrence!

How dare Richard do such a thing? To use Katrina as a pawn in his work! His blood began to boil, his fingers clenching the newspaper tightly. No doubt he had spoken of "national importance" and how invaluable her help would be.

It made perfect sense. He knew their best artist, Richard Hollings, had died not so long ago. A decent replacement had yet to be found. No doubt Richard had thought Katrina the perfect choice. Now he knew why she could not tell him about her presence in London. She was afraid he would come after Richard and thrash him for using her so. And rightly so!

The agony, the fear had been lividly real in her huge blue eyes, he remembered painfully. To think what she must have been living under these last weeks! To hold such secrets silent, unable to speak. It nearly tore him in half thinking about it.

"And it gets even sweeter," the earl went on dryly, finishing his glass. "The chit knows McGrath! Knows his family! And Shelton hasn't even told her yet that its McGrath's brother they're after! Isn't that famous? Old Shelton knows how to play both sides of the fence, doesn't he? Must give him credit for knowing his game so well. A true master."

Having reached his limit, Ross stood up suddenly and tossed the newspaper aside, making his presence known. The earl looked up in startled surprise and Saxton began to sputter, cigar falling from his lips. "Ross, good Heavens, I did not know you were there! Thought you were in Scotland!"

"Obviously not," Ross ground out as he strode over to where the two gentlemen sat. With a sure movement, Ross lifted the drunken earl out of his chair and held him nearly aloft by the lapels of his elegant red coat. He wanted to tear that sarcastic leer from the young buck's face more than anything.

"Learn to keep your professional affairs private, young man," he told the frightened peer, who was too terrified to speak or move. "Or you will eventually pay with your life. I suggest you give up imbibing so freely in clubs if you wish to remain in His Majesty's employ."

"Ross, he had no way of knowing," Saxton protested, his face flushed. "I am sorry that you had to hear of it like this. I had no idea, I swear it!"

"Nor did I!" Ross shouted, shoving the speechless young man back into his chair with great force and turned to Saxton with a look so savage that Saxton drew back in fear. A footman quietly stepped into the room from the doorway looking anxious. Fisticuffs at White's were an occasional hazard the staff hoped to prevent. But even the Quality were known to have their scuffles.

"I have no patience for you or this young, ignorant ass," Ross spoke to Caringford with calm, cool authority. "So I will leave you both to your pursuits. But make sure he keeps away from the bottle again or none of us are safe."

With that, Ross was striding out of the room, moving with speed and agility to obtain his hat, coat, and gloves. The time for keeping quiet and lying in wait had abruptly come to an end. He had a very pressing appointment with Richard Shelton that could no longer wait.

Continued in Section V