standing there in his silk dressing-gown, his feet bare. He was probably naked beneath that very
fashionable robe, just as he had been when she bathed him during the fever.
Beatrice felt her cheeks go warm. She should be ashamed of such thoughts!
'So you could not sleep either,' Harry said. 'May I join you?'
'Yes, of course.' The tray of brandy and glasses stood on the table with the remains of the nuts and
sweetmeats from dinner. 'Brandy is a help when one cannot sleep...and this is a very fine vintage.'
'I am glad you approve,' Harry said. God! Had she any idea of how very desirable she looked in
that wrapping-gown? The colour became her so well. She ought always to wear those jewel
colours. 'May I?' He poured himself a little brandy into a glass, warming it between his hands as
he continued to look at her. 'Do you suppose Olivia is serious about searching for Lady Sywell's
grave?'
'Yes, I think she is,' Beatrice said, wrinkling her brow. She was aware of some feeling flowing
between them. It had been there for a while now, but she had tried to ignore it. That was easier to
do in company than when they were alone, both wearing much less than they ought to be! 'I am not
certain that her supposition is correct...but I suppose it could do no harm to look.'
'And if by some remote chance we were to find this grave?'
'Then we should have to call in the militia, Lord Ravensden. It would be a very terrible crime, and
the perpetrator should be punished—do you not agree?'
'Your eyes are like emeralds in this light,' Harry said. 'I have never seen a woman with eyes the
colour of yours, Beatrice.'
There, he had said it again! Her first name.
'You should not, my lord.' Her cheeks took fire. 'It is not fitting that you should say such a thing to
me...'
'It is not fitting that we should be sitting here together,' Harry said, his smile taking her breath. 'But
I hope you do not mean to ask me to go away?' Beatrice shook her head. She ought to leave at once
herself, but she did not wish to. 'I think we have gone beyond the bounds of conventional
conversation, Beatrice. You are a beautiful woman, why do you pretend to be a dowd?'
'I am three-and-twenty, sir. I have no dowry, and I have driven away all the widowers who would
have taken me for my usefulness as a mother to their motherless children. What use have I for
pretty gowns?'
'It is a crime that you should wear grey and brown when you look best in green...or perhaps
midnight blue...' Harry considered. 'But you could wear most deep colours.'
'Please be serious for a moment, sir.'
'I am very serious,' Harry said, and pulled a face. 'Must you call me sir? I am Ravensden—or
Harry to those I love and trust.'
'To Merry and Lord Dawlish?' Beatrice asked, her eyes raised to his. She caught her breath at the
burning heat she saw there.
'And to a few others,' Harry said. 'Perhaps to you one day, Beatrice.'
'When you marry Olivia?' Her eyes challenged him. 'You do mean to ask her again, don't you?'
'I believe I must,' Harry replied and cursed softly. 'We are caught in a pretty coil, Beatrice, are we
not? I think I am not wrong in suggesting that you too feel something...'
This conversation should not be taking place! It would not do. She had no idea whether what he
had in mind was to offer her carte blanche or...but it could not be. He was promised to Olivia,
and she believed that her sister would eventually claim her right to be his bride.
'I must go...'
As Beatrice rose so did Harry. He reached out, catching her wrist, making her pause to look back
at him.
'I must leave now...'
She got no further, for she was in his arms, pressed close against him so that she could feel the
heat of his body. He looked down at her for a moment, then lowered his head, touching his mouth
to hers. For a moment his kiss was soft, hesitant, but then, feeling the response of hers, his kiss
deepened, becoming passionate, fierce and demanding.
Then, when she thought she would swoon for pleasure, his mouth released hers, and she was free
of his embrace. His face was twisted with pain and a hunger that shocked her. Did he want her so
'Forgive me,' he said, his breath ragged with desire. 'I had no right to do that, no right at all.'
'No,' Beatrice said quietly. 'Nor I to let you. We both know that your duty lies with Olivia, my
lord. You are fond of her, and she would make you a fitting wife. Your position demands that, and
I have never mixed in society. I am a plain, simple countrywoman, with none of the social arts...'
'As if that mattered...you cannot think it, Beatrice?'
'I do not know what to think,' she said. 'Please, my lord, let me go now. I must return to my sister.
To stay longer might prove dangerous for both of us.'
'Harry...' he said hoarsely. 'I beg you, let me hear my name on your lips this once...please.'
Beatrice swallowed hard. 'Harry...' she said, her heart twisting with sudden pain. 'Now, let me go,
my dear. You know this is wrong, don't you?'
'Yes.' He stood back, his features harsh, unreadable. 'Had you been any other than Olivia's sister, I
might still have found a way...but that is clearly impossible.'
Beatrice turned swiftly lest he should see the pain his words had given her. So he had thought to
make her his mistress and not his -wife. As well then that she loved Olivia too dearly to try and
take her fiancé from her!
Harry let her go, and she left quickly, before she betrayed herself. She ran upstairs, feeling the
pain too bitter to dwell on. She had brought this on herself, by allowing him too much freedom. He
knew that she had done things no respectable young woman would dream of doing, and it had led
him to think of her as a wanton.
Raising her head proudly, Beatrice fought down her desire to weep. There was nowhere she could
be alone, and besides, she would not weep for such a cause. Had she not been taught a harsh
lesson when she was a naive girl?
It seemed that men were all the same. They used those who were foolish enough to allow them the
freedom of their hearts and bodies, and married innocent girls—especially if those girls were
heiresses.
She must watch herself in the future. She had let down her guard this evening, but she must keep it
firmly in place from now on.
Beatrice watched Olivia and Lord Ravensden laughing together as their relationship developed.
The transformation in her sister these past two days was nothing short of amazing. Olivia's
imagination had been captured by the disappearance of the Marchioness, and since Lord
Ravensden seemed determined to indulge her, she appeared to have lost her shyness with him. She
had begun to speak to him in a manner that, if not flirtatious, was certainly that of an intimate
friend.
Of course they must have been friends during the Season. Beatrice was beginning to know her
sister better, and she sensed that Olivia must have liked Harry Ravensden a great deal or she
would not even have considered accepting his proposal. Obviously she had been hurt and deeply
distressed by the spiteful tales related to her. However, now that she knew Harry was innocent of
the cruel things he was supposed to have said concerning his reasons for marrying her
, and that he
truly felt some regard for her, she had clearly forgiven him.
Beatrice spent some of her time with them, but she did not always join in their banter. She was
trying to keep her distance, and often excused herself on the grounds that she was busy. On Friday
and Saturday she attacked the linen cupboards and the pantry with such determination that both
Nan and Lily were startled, while poor Ida locked herself in the scullery and would not come out
until Beatrice begged her.
However, on Sunday morning she was persuaded to go to church with her sister and Lord
Ravensden, and, somehow, on the way home, she found herself walking with Harry. Olivia had
lingered to speak with Lady Sophia, who had detached herself from her father, the white-haired,
very dignified, distinguished Earl of Yardley, and had come up to them after the service and
introduced herself to Olivia.
Beatrice had been delighted that the young woman had shown so much kindness to her sister, and
deliberately walked on ahead so that Olivia could spend a few minutes alone with her. She
glanced at Lord Ravensden as he joined her.
'You have been very busy of late,' Harry remarked, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. 'I must tell
you that Olivia and I have worked out our plan of campaign in your absence.'
'Do you really mean to go through with this?' Beatrice raised her eyes to his, then looked away
quickly as she saw his expression. He seemed to be reproaching her.
'Why not?' Harry asked. 'What harm can it do? Olivia is determined. I dare say she would go
alone if we refused to go with her. Should there, by the merest chance, be any truth in this notion
of hers, that might prove dangerous for her.'
Beatrice felt a chill at the nape of her neck. 'Yes, you are very right, my lord. It does seem
improbable that the Marquis actually killed his wife, and buried her body...but people are
beginning to talk and wonder. I took some shortbread down to Ekins' farm yesterday, and it is true
that no one has seen the Marchioness for months.'
'So...' Harry's brow creased in thought. 'It is possible that she has been murdered. And I really do
not care for that idea, do you?'
'No,' Beatrice admitted. 'I must say that I should feel both disgust and anger if I thought that she had
died at her husband's hands.'
Harry nodded, his expression unusually grim. 'Yes, I imagine you would not wish the guilty man to
escape punishment.'
'No, I should not.' Beatrice was thoughtful. 'What have you and Olivia decided?'
'We thought we should take it in turns to walk about the grounds in daylight. Sometimes Olivia and
I, sometimes you and your sister, and...' He looked rueful. 'Do you think you could bear to
accompany me? I know you must be angry with me for my thoughtless behaviour the other night.'
'Angry...' Oh, if only he knew how much she longed for him to kiss her like, that again! No, she
must not think of such things. He was forbidden to her by all the laws of decency and truth. She
could not look at him as she replied stiffly, 'I am not angry, my lord.'
'Beatrice, you know that I...' Harry broke off with a muffled oath. 'Good grief! I do not believe it.
That is Percy's curricle. I would know it anywhere. What on earth is he doing here?'
Beatrice glanced towards her house and saw the smart carriage with huge yellow wheels parked
in the driveway. She paused as a man turned and began to wave excitedly at them. Goodness!
What on earth was he wearing? His coat was unexceptional, being a very fine blue cloth and cut
exquisitely so that it moulded to his slightly stout figure—but his waistcoat was striped in yellow
and black, and his neckcloth was so extravagantly high that he must surely have difficulty in
turning his head!
'Damn my eyes!' Lord Dawlish exclaimed, striding towards them, a smile that seemed as much
relief as pleasure in his dark eyes. 'So there you are, Harry, safe and well. I knew it must be so,
but Merry would have it you were ill...'
Harry clapped a hand to his forehead. 'I was engaged to her for Lady Melchit's ball. She will
never forgive me. It clean went out of my head.'
'She would have it you were nearly on your deathbed,' Percy said indignantly. 'Made me drive all
the way down here.'
'As it happens, she was right,' Harry said, smiling affectionately at him. Percy would not have
taken much persuading if he believed his friend was in trouble. 'If it were not for Miss Roade, I
might very well have died.'
'You don't say so! You mean Merry was right?' Percy gaped at him. 'Well, I never. I made sure it
was all nonsense—but now you come to mention it, you don't look all that clever. Merry would
give me no peace until I came to look for you. Your man said you were out of town but refused to
say where, and you must know there has been some gossip. That fellow Quindon has been in town,
and looking mighty pleased with himself. I dare say he would be glad to step into your shoes.
People wondered when you went off without a word, talk of suicide and such nonsense. Never
believed a word of it meself...it was Merry who came up with the notion that you might be here.'
'How sensible of you to dismiss such gossip, and how clever your beautiful lady is,' Harry said
and grinned wickedly. 'But you have not met Miss Roade...Beatrice, this is my very dear friend
Percy Dawlish. I may have mentioned him before, and his wife Merry? Percy, I want you to meet
the lady who saved my life.'
'It was no such thing,' Beatrice said with a frown at him. 'My aunt nursed Lord Ravensden, of
course. I merely sent for the doctor.'
'Ah yes, of course. I forgot for the moment. It was Mrs Willow who nursed me.' Harry's eyes
gleamed. 'It would have been most improper for you to have done so, Beatrice.'
'Yes, I should say...' Percy looked uncertainly from one to the other. Miss Roade did not look quite
like the young women Harry usually set up as his flirts, but there was definitely something
between them. One only had to look at their eyes, and the sparks were most definitely flying.
'Pleased to meet you, Miss Roade. I must thank you—or Mrs Willow—Merry would be
devastated if anything had happened to this rogue here. Very fond of him, though as Merry says, he
can be the most tiresome creature.'
Beatrice laughed. She liked this man, who was clearly very fond of Lord Ravensden. For some
reason the shadow that had hung over her these past few days seemed to have melted away.
'I am always pleased to meet a good friend of Lord Ravensden,' she said. 'And one who clearly
knows him so well.'
'Now, Beatrice,' Harry said, the promise of retribution in his eyes. He was about to say more but
his words were lost as Olivia came up to them. 'Percy, you know Olivia, of course.'
'Of course, delighted to see you looking so well, Miss Roade Burton.'
'Miss Olivia, if you please, sir,' Olivia said. 'I do not care to use the name of my adopted family
now.'
'Just so...' Percy looked uncomfortable. 'Deuced awkward affair. Can't think what Burton was
about to do such a thing.'
'Not awkward at all,' Harry said before she could reply. 'It is all a misunderstanding, Percy. We
shall come about, given time.'
Olivia seemed as if she wanted to speak, but changed her mind as Beatrice shook her head at her.
'You will dine with
us, Lord Dawlish?' Beatrice said, going forward to smile at him. 'We dine at
five and thirty on Sunday. Early I know, but we keep country hours here.'
'I should be delighted to dine with you,' Percy said. 'I noticed a decent inn on the Northampton
road. Do you imagine they would put me up for a few nights?'
'A few nights, Percy?' Harry's deep blue eyes quizzed him mercilessly. 'Really? Can you bear it?
Northampton, my dear fellow! Will Merry not worry about you?'
'I shall send word that all is right and tight,' Percy replied airily. 'But I think I shall break my
journey for a day or two—just to satisfy myself that you are really recovered.'
'Can you be in doubt when I have good friends to watch over me?' Harry grinned at him. 'You
always did have a nose for a mystery, Percy. Your curiosity will lead you astray one day, my
friend—but if you are to stay, you may make yourself useful. Four of us will discover the grave
more quickly—if it is to be found, of course.'
'Grave...' Percy's mouth dropped open. 'No, I say, Harry. Steady on, old fellow. What have you
been up to now? Help you all I can, risk life and limb if you needed me—but don't like any of this
havey cavey stuff, you know.'
'We are trying to discover if there have been some unpleasant goings on at the Abbey,' Harry said,
as they all followed Beatrice into the house. 'Nothing unlawful, Percy...well, only a bit of
trespassing.'
'We think Lady Sywell may have been murdered,' Olivia said. 'Pray do tell him, Harry!'
'Yes, I shall do so...' Harry smiled at her. 'It's like this, Percy...a young woman has disappeared in
mysterious circumstances. There is a possibility that she may have been murdered...'
'And her body buried in the grounds of the Abbey,' Olivia supplied impatiently. 'All we are going
to do is look for signs of her grave.'
'Disappeared...' Percy looked bewildered. 'Don't quite follow you.'
'Do have a glass of sherry and warm yourself by the fire,' Beatrice said, ushering them all into the
parlour. 'The Marquis of Sywell is an unpleasant man, you see, and he married a girl out of his
class a year ago...and no one has seen her for months.'
'Lady Sophia was telling me that the Marchioness of Sywell did not go into company at all,' Olivia
put in. 'Lady Sophia too had heard that the Marchioness has been missing for several months.'