She drew in her breath, pulling back almost as if in fear. “I will not become—”

But he laid a finger against her lips and then quickly straightened away again. He could hear voices on the path they’d just come from. A moment more and another couple rounded the corner.

“Pardon,” the gentleman said, and at the same time Jasper realized it was Matthew Horn. “Vale. I had not thought to meet you here.”

Jasper bowed with irony. “I have always found it instructive to walk my mother’s gardens. Just this afternoon, I have been able to teach my wife the difference between a peony plant and an iris.”

A sound that might have been a muffled snort came from behind him.

Matthew’s eyes widened. “Is this your wife, then?”

“Indeed.” Jasper turned and met Melisande’s secretive brown eyes. “My heart, may I present Mr. Matthew Horn, a former officer in the 28th Regiment like myself. Horn, my wife, Lady Vale.”

Melisande held out her hand, and Matthew took it and bent over it. All quite proper, of course, but Jasper still felt an instinctive need to lay his hand on Melisande’s shoulder as if to claim ownership.

Matthew stepped back. “May I present Miss Beatrice Corning. Miss Corning, Lord and Lady Vale.”

Jasper bent over the pretty chit’s hand, suppressing a smile. Matthew’s presence at the salon was explained, and his motives were similar to Jasper’s. He was in pursuit of the lady.

“Do you make your home in London, Miss Corning?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” the girl said. “I usually live in the country with my uncle. I think you must know him, for we are neighbors of yours, I believe. He is the Earl of Blanchard.”

The girl said something else, but Jasper lost it. Blanchard had been Reynaud’s title, the one he should’ve inherited on his father’s death. Except Reynaud had been dead by then. Captured and killed by the Indians after Spinner’s Falls.

Jasper focused on the girl’s face, really looking at her for the first time. She was chatting with Melisande, her countenance open and frank. She had a fresh, country appearance, her hair the color of ripened wheat, her eyes a contented gray. Tiny sandy freckles dotted her upper cheeks. She had no title herself, but Matthew was still reaching high if he thought to court the niece of an earl. The Horns were an old family but not titled. Whereas the Blanchard name went back centuries, and the earldom’s seat was a sprawling feudal mansion. The girl had said she lived in that mansion.

In Reynaud’s home.

Jasper felt his chest tighten, and he looked away from Miss Corning’s expressive face. No use to blame this girl. She would’ve been in the schoolroom six years ago when Reynaud died on a fiery cross. It wasn’t her fault that her uncle had inherited the title. Or that she now lived on the estate that had been Reynaud’s birthright. Still, he could not bear to look her in the face.

He held out his arm to Melisande and interrupted the conversation. “Come. We have an afternoon engagement, I believe.”

He bowed to Matthew and Miss Corning as they made their farewells. He didn’t look at Melisande, but he was aware that she watched him curiously, even as she laid her hand on his arm. She knew there was no afternoon engagement. It occurred to him—finally, belatedly—that in searching out her secrets, he ran the risk of revealing his own, far darker ones. That, simply, must never happen.

Jasper covered her hand with his. It was a gesture that appeared husbandly, when in reality it was instinctive. An urge to capture and keep her from fleeing. He couldn’t tell her about Reynaud and what had happened in the dark woods of America, couldn’t tell her how his soul had been fractured there, couldn’t tell her of his greatest failure and his greatest grief. But he could hold her and keep her.

And he would.

“. . . AND DIDN’T HE look right gormless, his arse hangin’ out for all to see?” Mrs. Moore, Lord Vale’s housekeeper, finished her tale by slapping the kitchen table with a loud thump.

The three upstairs maids collapsed together in a heap of giggles, the two footmen at the end of the table nudged each other, Mr. Oaks gave a deep bass chuckle, and even Cook, whose face normally wore a pinched expression, let a smile show.

Sally Suchlike grinned. Lord Vale’s household was a real change from Mr. Fleming’s. There were more than twice as many servants, but under the guidance of Mr. Oaks and Mrs. Moore, they were more friendly, almost like a family. Within a couple of days of starting here, Sally had made friends with both Mrs. Moore and Cook—who was a shy woman under that stern demeanor—and her fears of not being liked, not being accepted, were put to rest.

Sally leaned over her cooling tea. Lord and Lady Vale had already taken their dinner, and it was the servants’ dinnertime now. “An’ what happened then, Mrs. Moore, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well,” that lady began, obviously quite pleased to be asked to continue her ribald tale.

But she was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Pynch. Immediately, Mr. Oaks sobered, the footmen straightened in their seats, one of the upstairs maids giggled nervously—a sound shushed by her neighbor—and Mrs. Moore blushed. Sally let out a sigh of frustration. Mr. Pynch was like a bucket of muddy Thames river water thrown over everyone: cold and unpleasant.

“May I help you, Mr. Pynch?” the butler asked.

“Thank you, no,” Mr. Pynch said. “I’ve come for Miss Suchlike. She’s wanted by the mistress.”

His wooden tones produced another giggle from the upstairs maid. Her name was Gussy, and she was the sort to giggle at nearly anything. Her little giggle stopped on a gasp, though, when Mr. Pynch turned his cold green gaze on her.

Bully, Sally thought. She pushed back from the long kitchen table and rose. “Well, I thank you, Mrs. Moore, for a most delightful story.”

Mrs. Moore blinked and a pleased flush lit her cheeks.

Sally smiled at the people around the table before hurrying in Mr. Pynch’s footsteps. He, of course, hadn’t waited for her leave-taking.

She caught up with him on a turn on the back stairs. “Why do you have to be so nasty?”

He didn’t even pause in his climb. “I don’t know what you refer to, Miss Suchlike.”

She rolled her eyes as she panted in his wake. “You hardly ever eat with the rest of the servants, and when you do make an appearance, you flatten the talk like a horse sitting on a cat.”

They’d reached a landing, and he stopped so suddenly that she ran into his back and nearly lost her balance on the stairs.

He turned and grasped her arm without any sign of confusion. “You h Cfusghtave a colorful turn of phrase, Miss Suchlike, but I believe it is you who are overly familiar with the other servants.”

He let go of her arm and continued his climb.

Sally had to suppress an urge to stick out her tongue at his broad back. Sadly, Mr. Pynch was correct. As a lady’s maid, she should be placing herself above all the other servants save Mr. Oaks and Mrs. Moore. Probably she, too, should disdain their jolly meals and turn up her nose at their laughter. Except that would leave her with hardly anyone to talk to below stairs. Mr. Pynch might be content to lead the life of a hermit, but she wasn’t.

“Wouldn’t hurt you to be friendly at least,” she muttered as they reached the hallway outside the master bedrooms.

He sighed. “Miss Suchlike, a young girl like yourself can hardly—”

“I’m not so young as all that,” she said.

He stopped again, and she saw amusement on his face. Considering how wooden he usually looked, he might as well be laughing at her.

She set her hands on her hips. “I’ll have you know I’ll be twenty next birthday.”

His lips twitched.

She scowled. “And how old are you, Grandfather?”

He arched an eyebrow, which was a very irritating thing to do. “Two and thirty.”

She staggered back, pretending shock. “Oh, my goodness! It’s a wonder you’re still standing, a man your age.”

He merely shook his head at her antics. “See to your mistress, little girl.”

She gave up suppressing the urge and stuck out her tongue before fleeing into Lady Vale’s bedroom.

MELISANDE HID HER trembling hands in the fullness of her skirts as she entered Lady Graham’s masked ball that night. It had taken all her courage to come. As it was, the decision to attend had been last minute—if she’d thought of it longer, she would’ve talked herself out of it. She loathed these types of entertainments. They were filled with tight knots of people, gossiping and staring, and always seeming to exclude her. But this was Vale’s own ground. She needed to confront him in just such a venue as this if she was to show him that she could be a fitting replacement for his parade of paramours.

She rubbed her skirt between nervous fingers and tried to steady her breathing. She was a little helped by the fact that it was a masquerade ball. She wore a velvet demimask that was so purple it was nearly black. It didn’t hide her identity—that wasn’t its purpose, after all—but it still gave her a small measure of confidence. Melisande took a fortifying breath and looked about. Around her, masked ladies and gentlemen laughed and shouted, all of them confident in the knowledge that they were here to see and be seen. Some wore dominoes, but many ladies had decided to wear colorful ball gowns and rely only on a demimask for their disguise.

She was enveloped in a domino of purple silk, and she drew the folds around herself as she moved through the crowds, looking for Vale. She hadn’t see CSheinon him since the garden party that afternoon. They’d parted ways when they’d left the party—he on his horse, she in the carriage. From subtle questioning of Mr. Pynch, she knew her husband was wearing a black domino, but then so were half the men in the room. A lady moved past her, jostling her shoulder. The other woman glanced back at her dismissively.

For a moment, Melisande fought down an urge to flee. To abandon the room and this night’s purpose and seek the shelter of her waiting carriage. But if Vale could brave a crowd of elderly ladies to stalk her at a garden party in the afternoon, then by God she could brave the terrors of a ballroom to hunt him by night.

She heard his laugh then. Turning, she saw him. Vale stood nearly a head taller than those around him. He was surrounded by smiling men and one or two giggling ladies. They were all beautiful, all entirely sure of themselves and their place in the world. Who was she to try inserting herself in this group? Would they not take one look at her and laugh?

She was on the point of turning away and seeking the sanctuary of the waiting carriage when the lady to Vale’s left, a beautiful yellow-haired woman with rouged cheeks and a large bosom, laid a hand on his sleeve. It was Mrs. Redd, Jasper’s onetime mistress.

This was her husband, her love. Melisande folded her fingers into a fist and sailed toward the group.

When she was still several yards away, Vale looked in her direction and stilled. She met his eyes, gleaming blue behind a black satin demimask, and held his gaze as she walked toward him. The people around them seemed to step back, parting as she approached, until she stood directly in front of him.

“Is this not your dance?” she asked, her voice husky from nervousness.

“My lady wife.” He bowed. “Your pardon for my unforgivable forgetfulness.”

She took the arm he offered her, triumphant that he’d left the other woman so easily. He led her silently through the throng. She felt his muscles shift beneath the fabric of coat and domino, and her breath came short. Then they were on the dance floor and taking their respective places. He bowed. She curtsied. They paced toward each other and then apart, his eyes never leaving her face.

When the movement next brought them close, he murmured, “I had not hoped to see you here.”

“No?” She raised her eyebrows behind her mask.