Wait Until Midnight

TWO

The mysterious gentleman wore an invisible cloak fashioned of intrigue and shadow. There was something quite thrilling, even a bit unnerving, about the sight of him looming there in the doorway of her small study, Caroline Fordyce thought. Anticipation, curiosity and a strange awareness sparkled through her.

It was barely nine o'clock in the morning and she had never met Adam Grove before in her life. A lady endowed with a proper respect for the proprieties would never have permitted him to be admitted into the house; certainly not at such an early hour, she thought. But a too-careful observance of the proprieties made for a very unexciting existence. She ought to know; she had been excruciatingly cautious about the proprieties for the past three years, and things had been wretchedly dull indeed here at Number 22 Corley Lane.

"Please sit down, Mr. Grove." Caroline rose from her desk and went to stand in front of the garden window, putting the warm light of the sunny morning behind her so that it illuminated her visitor more clearly. "My housekeeper informs me that you have called to discuss a matter that you seem to believe is of grave importance to both of us"

Indeed, it was the phrase grave importance that had quickened her interest and induced her to instruct Mrs. Plummer to show Grove into her study. Such deliciously ominous-sounding words, she thought happily. The phrase grave importance practically vibrated with the promise of a Startling Incident.

People never called here at 22 Corley Lane with news of grave importance, not unless one counted the fishmonger's young daughter, who had quietly advised Mrs. Plummer to take a good whiff of the salmon before purchasing it last week, as it had gone off. The girl had explained that her father had treated the fish with some substance de-signed to conceal the odor of decay. She had confided that she had not wanted to be responsible for poisoning the entire household. "As if I'd have been taken in by that sort of sharp practice," Mrs. Plummer had announced, disdain dripping from every word.

Such was the nature of gravely important news in this household.

In all probability, this morning's surprise visitor would soon discover that he had got the wrong address and would take his news of grave importance elsewhere, Caroline thought. But in the meantime, she intended to take full ad-vantage of the diverting interruption to her routine.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mrs. Fordyce," Adam Grove said from the doorway.

Oh, my goodness, she thought. His voice was wonderfully compelling, low and deep and charged with cool masculine assurance. Another whisper of awareness shot through her. But this time it induced a shiver of caution. She sensed that Grove was a man endowed with a formidable will; the sort who was accustomed to achieving his objectives, perhaps at any cost.

Inspiration struck with the force of summer lightning. Adam Grove was exactly what she had been searching for all morning. He was perfect.

She glanced at the paper and pen on her desk, wondering if she dared take notes. She did not want to alarm Grove or send him packing too quickly. He would discover his mistake soon enough and take himself off to the correct address. Meanwhile, this was a golden opportunity and she did not intend to waste it. Perhaps he would not notice if she merely jotted down a few observations now and again during their conversation.

"Naturally, I felt obliged to hear your news of grave importance, sir," she said, slipping as casually as possible back to the chair behind her desk.

"I would not have called at this hour had not the subject of my visit been of the utmost urgency," he assured her. She sat down, reached for her pen and gave him an encouraging smile. "Won't you please be seated, sir?" "Thank you"

She watched him cross the small room to take the chair she had indicated. When he moved into the light, she got a close look at his expensively cut coat and trousers. Her fingers clenched around the pen.

Be careful, she thought. This man was from the Other World; not the unseen realm that was the source of such interest among psychical researchers, but the far more dangerous sphere of Society. It was a place where the wealthy and the powerful made all the rules and roderoughshod over those they viewed as their social inferiors. Three years ago, she had had a disastrous experience with a man who moved in privileged circles. It had taught her a lesson she did not plan to forget, regardless of how mysterious and intriguing Mr. Adam Grove proved to be.

She studied him, trying not to be obvious about it. Grove was lean and well-made in a manly fashion. His movements were economical and restrained, yet endowed with a supple grace. One got the impression that he could react swiftly to a threat of danger but that both his strength and will were under complete control. He charged the atmosphere of the room with energy and a masculine vitality that was impossible to ignore.

No doubt about it; he was a perfect model for the character of Edmund Drake.

She quickly wrote Charges atmosphere with masc. vitality in what she hoped was an offhand manner, as though she were merely making a shopping list.

She decided that she should also make some notes regarding his style of dress. It was at once elegant and distinguished and yet quite apart from the current masculine fashion, which favored such eye-dazzling combinations as polka-dot shirts and plaid trousers.

Grove was attired from head to foot in tones of deepest, darkest gray. His shirt was the singular exception. It was a pristine white. The collar was turned back in the new "gates ajar" mode that appeared to be infinitely more comfortable than the usual high-standing styles. His tie was knotted in a precise four-in-hand.

No wonder she had been having so much trouble trying to decide how to dress Edmund Drake. She had been at-tempting to put him into the sort of boldly striped pants and brightly patterned shirts that she had observed on any number of fashionable gentlemen lately. Such glaringly bright attire was entirely wrong for Edmund. He needed to project menace and an aura of resolute determination. Polka dots, stripes and plaids did not suit him at all.

She wrote Dark gray jacket and trousers without glancing down at the paper.

Grove sat in the wingback chair in front of the hearth. "I see I have interrupted your morning correspondence. Again, my apologies."

"Think nothing of it, sir." She gave him her most reassuring smile. "I am merely making a few notes to remind myself of some small details that must be attended to later"

"I see"

Grove's hair was just right for Edmund Drake, too, she thought. It was of a hue that was very nearly black with the merest smattering of silver at the temples. It was cut short and brushed close to his head. He had not succumbed to the current rage for mustaches and short beards, but she could see the hint of a dark shadow on the hard planes and angles of his face. She realized that he had not shaved that morning. How odd.

Edmund Drake's clothing and hairstyle were not the only things that would have to be changed in order to make the character more ominous. She saw at once that she had erred when she had decided to portray him as handsome. It was quite clear to her now that his features should have the same chillingly ascetic lines that marked Adam Grove's face. Indeed, Drake must become a man who had been shaped by the hot, refining fires of a harsh and murky past.

She jotted down the words Fierce features.

From where he sat Adam Grove could not possibly see across the ornately carved back of the rococo-style desktop to discern what she had written but she sensed that he was observing her. She paused and looked up with a bright smile.

And immediately froze when she saw that impatience and cold intelligence had made dark green mirrors of his eyes.

Very carefully and again without looking down she scrawled the words Eyes like emeralds. Glow in dark?

"More notes to yourself, Mrs. Fordyce?" The slight twist of his mouth lacked all traces of politesse.

"Yes. My apologies." Hastily she put down the pen.

Now that he was sitting in stronger light, she could see the lines of a grim weariness that bracketed his mouth and etched the corners of his eyes. The day was still quite young. What could account for that subtle air of exhaustion?

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" she asked gently.

He looked somewhat surprised by the offer. "No, thank you. I do not intend to stay long"

"I see. Perhaps you should tell me precisely why you are here, sir."

"Very well." He paused, ensuring that he had her full attention. "I believe you were acquainted with a woman named Elizabeth Delmont?"

For an instant her mind went blank. Then the name registered.

"The medium in Hamsey Street?" she asked.

"Yes."

She sat back in her chair. Of all the subjects he might have raised, this was the last one she would have expected. Although it seemed that the entire country was caught up in a tremendous fascination with séances, mediums and the study of psychical powers, she simply could not imagine a gentleman of Adam Grove's temperament taking a serious interest in such matters.

"I have met her, yes," she said slowly. "As it happens, I attended a séance at Mrs. Delmonts house last night together with my aunts" She hesitated. "Why do you ask?"

"Elizabeth Delmont is dead."

Stunned, she merely stared at him for a few seconds. "I beg your pardon?"

"Murdered sometime after the séance ended last night," he added, much too calmly.

"Murdered." She swallowed hard. "Are you quite certain?"

"I found the body myself shortly after two this morning"

"You found the body?" It took her an instant to recover from that unnerving announcement. "I don't understand"

"Someone used a poker to crush her skull"

Ice formed in her stomach. It occurred to her that the decision to entertain a mysterious gentleman who claimed to have discovered a murdered woman might not prove to be one of her sounder notions. She glanced at the bellpull that hung beside the desk. Perhaps she should summon Mrs. Plummer.

But even as she started to reach surreptitiously for the rope to alert the housekeeper, she found herself succumbing to her greatest vice, curiosity.

"May I ask why you went to Mrs. Delmont's house at such a late hour?" she said.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized that she had blundered badly. Heat rose in her cheeks. There was only one reason why a wealthy, obviously virile man such as Adam Grove might have called upon Elizabeth Delmont at two in the morning.

Mrs. Delmont had been a very beautiful woman possessed of an alluring figure and a sensual manner that had certainly captivated Mr. McDaniel, the elderly widower who had been one of the sitters at last night's séance. The medium had no doubt had a similar effect on a number of gentlemen.

"No, Mrs. Fordyce, Elizabeth Delmont was not my mistress," Adam said, as though he had read her mind. "In point of fact, I had never encountered her until last night. When I did find her it was much too late for an introduction."

"I see." She fought back the hot blush and tried to project a worldly air. She was supposed to be a widow, after all; a lady possessed of some experience of the world. `"Forgive me, Mr. Grove. This entire conversation has taken an extremely odd turn. I had no idea that Mrs. Delmont had died."

"Murdered was the word I used." Adam studied her thoughtfully. "You said this conversation was not proceeding along the lines that you had anticipated. Tell, me, why did you believe that I had come here today?"

"To be quite truthful, I assumed that you had mistaken the address," she admitted.

"If that was the case, why did you not instruct your housekeeper to verify that I had the correct number?" he asked with a depressing sort of logic.

"I confess, I was curious to know the nature of your news." She spread her hands wide. "We rarely receive callers who come upon business of grave importance here, you see. In fact, I cannot recall any such visitors in the whole of the three years we have lived here."

"We^?"

"My two aunts live with me. They are out at the moment, taking their morning exercise. Aunt Emma and Aunt Milly are great believers in the importance of brisk daily walks"

He frowned. "I did not see their names on the list of sitters. You say they accompanied you to the séance last night?"

She did not like the way this was going. It was beginning to feel as though he was interrogating her.

"Yes," she said, treading carefully now. "They did not want me to go out alone at night. Mrs. Delmont had no objection to their presence."

"Why did you attend the séance? Did you really believe that Elizabeth Delmont could communicate with spirits?" He did not bother to conceal his scathing opinion of such a notion.

His sarcasm annoyed her. She felt obliged to defend her actions.

"I would remind you, sir," she said very crisply, "that a great many eminent, educated, well-respected individuals take spiritualism and other psychical matters seriously."

"Fools, the lot of them."

"A number of societies and clubs have been formed to conduct research into psychical events and to investigate the claims of mediums. Several learned journals in the field are published regularly." She reached across her desk and snatched up the copy of New Dawn that had arrived yesterday. "This one, for instance. It is published by the Society for Psychical Investigations, and I assure you the articles are well documented."

"Documented nonsense." He moved one hand in a dismissive manner. "It is obvious to any logical person that those who claim to possess psychical powers are all charlatans and frauds"

"I daresay you are entitled to your opinion," she retorted. "But forgive me for pointing out that it does not imply _an open, inquiring mind."

He smiled humorlessly. "How open is your mind, Mrs. Fordyce? Do you really take the business of manifestations and spirit voices and table rappings seriously?"

She sat a little straighter in her chair. "As it happens, I have recently conducted some research of my own."

"And have you discovered any mediums you consider to be genuine? Mrs. Delmont, for instance?"

"No," she admitted, reluctant to concede him the ground. "As a matter of fact, I do not believe that it is possible to communicate with spirits"

"I am relieved to hear that. It renews my initial impression of your intelligence."

She glared at him. "May I remind you, sir, that the field of psychical research is expanding rapidly. Lately it has be-gun to encompass a wide variety of phenomena, not just the summoning of spirits. While I do not believe that mediums can communicate with ghosts and phantoms, I am not at all prepared to dismiss other types of psychical powers out of hand."

His green eyes tightened ever so slightly at the corners, sharpening his gaze in a dangerous manner. "If you do not believe that mediums can contact the spirit world, why did you attend the séance at Elizabeth Delmont's house last night?"

No doubt about it, he was most definitely conducting an interrogation. She glanced again at the bellpull.

"There is no need to call your housekeeper to rescue you," he said dryly. "I mean you no harm. But I do mean to get some answers"

She frowned. "You sound like a policeman, Mr. Grove." "Calm yourself, Mrs. Fordyce. I promise you that I have no connection to the police."

"Then why in heaven's name are you here, sir? What do you want?"

"Information," he said simply. "Why did you attend the séance?"

He was quite relentless, she thought.

"I told you, I have been conducting research into psychical phenomena," she said. "Your opinions to the contrary, it is considered a legitimate field of inquiry."

He shook his head in disgust. "Parlor tricks and games. Nothing more"

It was past time to ask a few questions of her own, she decided. She clasped her hands together on top of her desk and assumed what she hoped was a firm, authoritative manner.

"I am very sorry to learn that Mrs. Delmont was murdered," she said evenly. "But I'm afraid that I fail to comprehend why you are interested in the circumstances of her death. Indeed, if you and Mrs. Delmont were not, ah, intimately acquainted, why did you go to her house at two o'clock in the morning?"

"Suffice it to say that I had my reasons for calling on Elizabeth Delmont at that hour and that those reasons were extremely urgent. Now that she is dead, I am left with no choice but to discover the identity of her killer."

She was stunned. "You intend to hunt him down your-self?"

"Yes"

"Surely that is a job for the police, sir."

He shrugged. "They will make their inquiries, naturally, but I very much doubt that they will find the villain."

She unlocked her hands and seized her pen again. "This is very interesting, Mr. Grove. Indeed, it is riveting." She wrote Determined and relentless on the sheet of paper. "Let me see if I have got the facts in the correct order. You are conducting an inquiry into Mrs. Delmont's death, and you came here to ask me if I had any information concerning her murder."

He watched her swiftly moving pen. "That certainly sums up the situation."

Talk about a Startling Incident, she thought. Incidents did not come much more startling than this one.

"I shall be delighted to tell you everything I can remember, sir, if you will first explain your interest in the affair."

He studied her as though she were an unusual biological specimen that had turned up unexpectedly and was proving difficult to identify. The tall clock ticked in the silence.

After a long moment, he appeared to come to a conclusion.

"Very well," he said, "I will answer some of your questions. But in return I must insist that you keep what I am about to tell you in strictest confidence."

"Yes, of course" She jotted the word Secretive down on the paper.

He was out of the chair before she realized he had even moved.

"What on earth?" Startled by the suddenness of his actions, she gasped and dropped her pen.

He crossed the space between them in two strides, reached out and plucked the sheet of paper off the desk.

So much for his apparent weariness, she thought. And to think she had been feeling rather sorry for him.

"Sir." She tried to snatch the paper out of his hand. "Kindly give me that at once. What do you think you are doing?"

"I am curious about your list of errands, madam." He scanned the page quickly, his expression turning colder by the second. "Dark gray jacket and trousers? Fierce features? What the devil is going on here?"

"I do not see that my notes are of any importance to you, sir.^"

"I just told you that I insist that this matter be held in confidence. There is a potential for scandal here. I have a strict rule about that sort of thing."

She frowned. "You have a rule regarding scandals? What is it?"

"I prefer to avoid them."

"Doesn't everyone?" Unable to get hold of the paper, she took refuge in an air of haughty aplomb. "Trust me, sir, I, too, have no wish to become embroiled in a scandal. I certainly have no intention of discussing your investigation outside this house."

"Then why did you find it necessary to write down these comments?"

Righteous indignation welled up inside her. "I was merely organizing my thoughts"

He surveyed what she had written. "Am I correct in assuming that some of these scribblings relate to my attire and the color of my eyes, Mrs. Fordyce?"

"Well—"

"I demand to know why you put your observations on paper. Damnation, woman, if you think to make me a subject of your private journal—"

"I assure you, I have no intention of putting you into my personal journal." She was able to make the statement with perfect sincerity because it was nothing less than the exact truth.

"Then I must conclude that you are indeed deeply involved in this affair of the murdered medium," he drawled in tones of silky menace.

She was horrified. "That is not true."

"There is no other logical reason for you to be taking such personal notes. If you are not making a record of our conversation for your journal, then I can only conclude that you are doing so in order to prepare a report for your accomplice."

"Accomplice." She shot to her feet, disoriented and badly frightened now. "That is outrageous, sir. How dare you insinuate that I might be involved in a matter of murder?"

He snapped the paper in front of her face. "How else can you explain the need to record this interview?"

She fought to pull herself together and to think clearly. "I owe you no explanations, Mr. Grove. Quite the reverse. I would remind you that you are the one who barged into this house today."

That accusation clearly irritated him. "You make it sound as though I forced my way inside. That was not the case. You instructed your housekeeper to admit me."

"Only because you told her that you had come upon business that was of grave importance to both of us" She drew herself up. "But the truth is that Mrs. Delmont's untimely death appears to be gravely important only to you, Mr. Grove"

"You are wrong on that account, Mrs. Fordyce." "Nonsense," she declared in ringing accents, confident

of her position. "I have no interest whatsoever in the circumstances surrounding the murder of Elizabeth Delmont." Adam raised his brows. He said nothing.

Two or three seconds of tense silence gripped the room.

"Other than a perfectly natural curiosity and the quite normal concern that are only to be expected from a person who has just learned of a ghastly crime, of course," she amended smoothly.

"On the contrary, Mrs. Fordyce, I am convinced that your interest in this affair goes a good deal deeper than mere curiosity and casual concern"

"How is that possible?" she demanded. "I met the woman

only last night. I had no intention of ever seeing her again. I would also remind you that I and my aunts were not the only people who attended Delmont's last séance. There were two other sitters present. I believe their names were Mrs. Howell and Mr. McDaniel."

He went to stand by the window, looking out into the gar-den. In spite of the veil of fatigue that drifted about him, his strong, sleek shoulders were set in stem, unrelenting lines.

"Both of whom are quite elderly and frail," he said flatly. "I do not believe that either of them possesses the strength or determination necessary to crush the skull of a younger, stronger person with a poker, let alone overturn a heavy table and a number of chairs."

She hesitated. "You spoke with them?"

"There was no need to interview them personally. I made some discreet observations and inquiries in the streets where they live. I am convinced that neither of them is involved in this business."

"Well, I suppose it is rather unlikely," she admitted. "Tell me what occurred in the course of the séance," he said quietly.

"There is not much to tell." She widened her hands. "Just the usual sort of rappings and tappings. One or two manifestations. Some financial advice from the spirit world"

"Financial advice?" he asked with unexpected sharpness.

"Yes, Mr. McDaniel was told that he would soon be offered an excellent investment opportunity. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Sitters are often informed by the spirits that they may be in line for an unexpected inheritance or that they will receive money from some unanticipated source."

"I see." He turned around slowly and looked at her with an expression that would not have been out of place on the face of the devil himself. "So the subject of money arose, did it?^"

She clenched the chair back so tightly that the blood \v as squeezed out of her knuckles. She could scarcely breathe. Was he going to go to the police to lodge a charge of murder against her and her aunts?

She knew now that the three of them were in grave danger. They were all innocent, but she did not doubt for a moment that if a gentleman of Adam Grove's obvious power And position accused them of murder, they would be in desperate straits.

They had no choice but to flee London immediately, she decided, thinking quickly. Their only hope was to disappear again, just as they had three years ago. She tried to re-call how much money was on hand in the house. As soon as Adam Grove departed, she would send Mrs. Plummer out to obtain a train schedule. How quickly could they pack?

Adam's black brows came together in a heavy line. "Are you all right, Mrs. Fordyce? You look as if you are going to faint^"

Rage spiked through her, briefly suppressing her panic. "You have threatened my life, sir, and the lives of my aunts. How did you expect me to react?"

He frowned. "What are you talking about? I have made no threats, madam"

"You have as much as accused one or all of us of murder. If you take your suspicions to the police, we will be arrested and thrown into prison. We will hang."

"Mrs. Fordyce, you are allowing your imagination to run away with your powers of reason and logic. I may harbor some suspicions but there remains the little matter of evidence."

"Bah. None of the three of us can prove that she did not

return after the séance to murder the medium. It would be our word against yours, sir, and we are both well aware that three ladies in our modest circumstances who lack social connections would not stand a chance if a man of your rank and wealth chose to point the finger of blame at us."

"Get hold of yourself, woman. I am in no mood to deal with a case of hysteria."

Her fury gave her strength. "How dare you tell me not to succumb to hysteria? My aunts and I are facing the gallows because of you, sir."

"Not quite," he growled.

"Yes, quite."

"Hell and damnation. I have had enough of these theatrics." He took a step toward her.

"Stop." She gripped the back of the chair with both hands and swung it around so that it formed a barrier between them. "Do not come any closer. I will scream bloody murder if you take one more step. Mrs. Plummer and the neighbors will hear me, I promise you."

He halted, exhaling heavily. "Kindly calm yourself, Mrs. Fordyce. This is all very wearying, not to mention a waste of everyone's time."

"It is impossible for me to be calm in the face of such dire threats"

He gave her a considering look. "Did you, by any chance, ever pursue a career on the stage, Mrs. Fordyce? You seem to have a distinct flair for melodrama."

"Oddly enough, I find a dramatic reaction entirely appropriate in this situation," she said through her teeth.

He studied her for a long moment. She got the impression that he was recalculating some secret scheme.

"Breathe deeply, madam, and compose yourself," he said finally. "I have no intention of having you or your aunts taken up on a charge of murder."

"Why should I believe you?"

He rubbed his temples. "You must trust me when I tell you that justice is not my chief concern here. I am content to leave that problem for the police, although I doubt that they will be successful. They are reasonably efficient when it comes to catching ordinary murderers, but this was not an ordinary killing."

She sensed that he was telling the truth. Nevertheless, she did not release her grip on the chair. "If you did not come here seeking justice for Elizabeth Delmont, what do you want, Mr. Grove?"

He watched her with cool speculation. "My only goal in this affair is to recover the diary."

She did not try to hide her confusion. "What diary?" "The one that was stolen from Elizabeth Delmont's house last night"

She puzzled that out as best she could. "You seek Mrs. Delmont's diary? Well, I assure you, I know nothing of it and neither do my aunts. Furthermore, I can tell you with absolute certainty that I did not notice any diary in the room at the séance last night."

He contemplated her for another moment and then shook his head, as though he had reluctantly accepted defeat.

"Do you know, I believe you may be telling me the truth, Mrs. Fordyce. Indeed, it appears that I was wrong about you.^,

She allowed herself to relax ever so slightly. "Wrong, sir?"

"I came here this morning in hopes of surprising you into admitting that you had taken the damned diary. At the very least I thought you might be able to give me some notion of what had happened to it."

"Why is this particular diary so important to you?"

His smile was as sharp and deadly as a knife. "Suffice it to say that Mrs. Delmont presumed to think that she could use it to blackmail me»

Mrs. Delmont had evidently allowed greed to overwhelm caution and good sense, Caroline thought. No sane, sensible person would take the risk of trying to extort money from this man.

"What made you think that I might know something concerning its whereabouts?" she demanded.

He widened his stance and clasped his hands behind his back. "You and the other sitters at the séance were the last people to see Elizabeth Delmont alive, aside from the killer, of course. I learned from one of Delmont's neighbors that the housekeeper was given the night off."

"Yes, that's true. Mrs. Delmont herself opened the door to us. She said she always gave her housekeeper the night off on séance evenings because she could not go into a proper trance if there was anyone other than the sitters present. Indeed, the comment made me wonder if perhaps—"

"Yes?" he prompted. "What did it cause you to wonder about, Mrs. Fordyce?"

"Well, if you must know, it occurred to me that perhaps Mrs. Delmont did not like to have her housekeeper present while she conducted a séance because she was afraid that the woman would become wise to her tricks and perhaps expose her in exchange for a bribe. Psychical investigators have been known to pay the servants who work for mediums to spy on their employers, you see."

"A clever notion, Mrs. Fordyce" Adam looked approving of her logic. "I suspect that you are right. Mediums are notoriously secretive."

"How did you learn my name and address?"

"When I discovered the body, I also found a list of the sitters who had attended the final séance. The addresses had been put down alongside the names."

"I see"

Her imagination conjured up a disturbing image of Adam Grove methodically searching Mrs. Delmont's parlor while the body of the murdered woman lay crumpled on the floor. It was a chilling vision, one that said a great deal about Grove's nerve. She swallowed hard.

"I spent the remainder of the night and the early hours of this morning talking to servants, carriage drivers and…" He hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully."….thers who make their living on the streets near Delmont's house. Among other things I was able to verify Mrs. Delmont's housekeeper was busy attending her daughter, who was in the process of giving birth last night. Her alibi is unshakable. That left me with your name, Mrs. Fordyce."

"No wonder you look so weary," she said quietly. "You have been up all night."

He absently rubbed his stubbled jaw and grimaced. "My apologies for my appearance."

"It is hardly a matter of importance, given the circumstances." She hesitated. "So you came here today with the intention of confronting me in this alarming manner. Your goal was to frighten me and thereby trick me into revealing some dreadful conspiracy, wasn't it?"

He shoved a hand through his short, dark hair, showing no sign of remorse. "That was more or less my plan, yes" Uneasily aware that he might not have abandoned the

notion entirely, she searched her brain for other possible suspects.

"Perhaps Mrs. Delmont was the victim of a burglar who attacked her after he broke into the house," she suggested.

"I searched the place from top to bottom. There was no evidence that the doors or windows had been forced. It appeared that she had let the killer in»

The offhand manner in which he delivered that information deepened her sense of unease. "You certainly made a number of close observations last night, Mr. Grove. One would have thought that the proximity of a savagely murdered woman would have made it difficult to think and act so methodically and logically."

"Unfortunately, it appears that I did not make any especially useful observations," he said. He went toward the door with a purposeful stride. "I have wasted your time and my own. I would take it as a great favor if you would refrain from discussing this conversation with anyone else."

She did not respond to that.

He stopped, one hand on the doorknob, and looked at her. "Well, Mrs. Fordyce? Can I depend upon you to keep our discussion confidential?"

She braced herself. "That depends, sir."

He was cynically amused. "Of course. You no doubt wish to be compensated for your silence. Name your price, Mrs. Fordyce."

Another flash of anger crackled through her. "You can-not buy my silence, Mr. Grove. I do not want your money. What concerns me is the safety and security of my aunts and myself. If any one of us is placed in danger of arrest be-cause of your actions, I shall not hesitate to give the police your name and tell them every detail of this discussion."

"I doubt very much that the police will give you any trouble. As you suggested, they will likely conclude that Mrs. Delmont was murdered by a burglar and that will be the end of it"

"How can you be sure of that?"

"Because that is the simplest answer, and the officers of the law are known to prefer that sort of explanation."

"What if they find the list of sitters and proceed to make them all suspects, as you did, sir?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "They won't find the list."

She stared at the paper. "You took it?"

"I am quite certain that none of the names on this list would be of any practical use to the police."

"I see." She did not know what to say.

"Speaking of names," he said rather casually. "I should tell you that it would not do you any good to give mine to the police."

"Why?" she asked coldly. "Because a gentleman of your obvious wealth and position does not need to worry overmuch about answering questions from the police?"

"No one is above the law. But that is not the reason why f advised you not to give them my name." His mouth curved in a cryptic smile. "The problem is that Mr. Grove does not exist. I invented him for this interview. When I walk out your front door today, he will vanish just like one of those ghostly manifestations that are so popular at séances"

She sat down quite suddenly, head whirling. "Good heavens. You gave me a false name?"

"Yes. Will you be so good as to indulge me with an answer to one last question?"

She blinked, still struggling to collect herself and her scattered thoughts. "What is it?"

He held up the paper that he had taken from her desk.

"Why the devil were you making all these notes?"

"Oh, those." Glumly she surveyed the page he held. "I am an author, sir. My novels are serialized in the Flying Intelligencer." She paused. "Perhaps you read that paper?"

"No, I do not. As I recall, it is one of those extremely irritating newspapers that thrives on sensation."

"Well—"

"The sort of paper that resorts to printing news of illicit scandals and lurid crimes in order to attract readers." She sighed. "I expect you prefer the Times."

"Yes"

"No surprise there, I suppose," she muttered. "Tell me, don't you find it rather dull reading?"

"I find it accurate and reliable reading, Mrs. Fordyce. Just the sort of newspaper reading that I prefer."

"Of course it is. As I was saying, the Flying Intelligencer prints my novels. I am required by the terms of my contract to supply my publisher, Mr. Spraggett, with a new chapter every week. I have been having some trouble with one of the characters, Edmund Drake. He is very important to the story but I have been having difficulty getting him down properly on paper. There has been something rather vague about him, I'm afraid. He requires sharpening up"

He looked reluctantly fascinated and, perhaps, be-mused. "You took notes about my appearance and attire so that you could apply them to the hero of your story?"

"Heavens, no," she assured him with an airy wave of her hand. "Whatever gave you that idea? Edmund Drake is not the hero of my tale. He is the villain of the piece." THREE

For some wholly irrational reason, it annoyed him that she had cast him in the role of the villain.

Adam Hardesty brooded on the disastrous encounter that he had just concluded with the very unexpected, very intriguing Mrs. Caroline Fordyce while he made his way home to the mansion in Laxton Square. He was well aware that the lady's opinion of him should have been at the bottom of his long list of problems, especially given the rapidly rising tide of disasters that he was attempting to hold at bay.

Nevertheless, knowing that Caroline Fordyce considered him an excellent model for a villain rankled. His intuit ion told him that it was not his fierce features alone that had given her such a low opinion of him. He had the distinct impression that Mrs. Fordyce did not hold men from his world in high esteem.

She, on the other hand, had commanded his immediate and cautious respect. One look into her intelligent, curious, exceedingly lovely hazel eyes had told him that he was dealing with a potentially formidable adversary. He had warned himself to take great care in his dealings with the lady.

Unfortunately, respect was not the only reaction Caroline Fordyce had elicited in him. She had aroused all of his senses at first sight. Exhausted as he had been after the long night of fruitless inquiries, he had nevertheless responded to her in a very physical, extremely disturbing way.

Damn. He did not need this sort of complication. What the devil was the matter with him? Even as a youth he had rarely allowed himself to be controlled by his passions. He had learned long ago that self-discipline was the key to survival and success both on the streets and in the equally perilous world of Society. He had established a set of rules for himself and he lived by them. They governed his intimate liaisons just as they did everything else in his life.

His rules had served him well. He had no intention of abandoning them now.

Nevertheless, he could not stop thinking about that first glimpse of Caroline Fordyce and wondering at the compelling sensations that had gripped him. The image of her sitting at her dainty little desk, illuminated by the bright glow of the morning sunlight, seemed to have become fixed in his brain.

She had worn a simple, unadorned housedress of a warm, coppery color. The gown had been designed for ladies to wear in the home and therefore lacked the ruffled petticoats and elaborately tied-back skirts of more formal feminine attire. The lines of the prim, snug-fitting bodice had emphasized the feminine curves of her high breasts and slender waist.

Caroline's glossy golden-brown hair had been drawn up and back into a neat coil that accented the graceful line of the nape of her neck and the quiet pride with which she carried herself. He calculated her age to be somewhere in he mid-twenties.

Her voice had touched him with the impact of an inviting caress. From another woman it would have seemed deliberately provocative, but he sensed that the effect was not premeditated in this case. He was quite certain that Caroline's manner of speaking was an innate part of who she was. It hinted at deep passions.

What had become of the late Mr. Fordyce? he wondered. Dead of old age? Carried off by a fever? An accident? Whatever the case, he was relieved that the widow did not feel compelled to follow what, in his opinion, was the extremely unfortunate style for elaborate mourning that had been set by the queen after the loss of her beloved Albert. Sometimes it seemed to him that half the ladies in England were attired in crepe and weeping veils. It never ceased to amaze him that the fair sex had managed to elevate the somber attire and accessories indicative of deep sorrow to the very pinnacle of fashion.

Regardless, he had not noticed so much as a single item of jet or black enameled jewelry on Caroline's person. Perhaps the mysterious Mrs. Fordyce did not deeply regret the loss of Mr. Fordyce. Perhaps she was, in fact, in the market for a new attachment of an intimate nature.

This is no time to be drawn into those deep waters, he thought. There was far too much at stake here. He could not take the risk of allowing himself to be distracted by the lady, no matter how attractive or intriguing.

He crossed a street, pausing briefly to allow a crowded omnibus to lumber past, the horses straining to pull the heavy vehicle. The driver of a quick-moving hansom cab spotted him and offered his services. Adam waved him off. He could make better time on foot.

When he reached the pavement on the far side, he turned down a narrow stone walk and cut through a small, neglected park. His old life on the streets had left him with a knowledge of the city's maze of hidden lanes and uncharted alleys that few coachmen could equal.

When he emerged from the brick walk he saw a news-boy hawking the latest edition of the Flying Intelligencer.

Some idiotic impulse made him stop in front of the scruffy-looking vendor.

"I'll have a copy, if you please." He took a coin out of his pocket.

"Aye, sir." The lad grinned and reached into his sack to remove a paper. "You're in luck. I've got one left. Expect you're eager to read the next episode of Mrs. Fordyce's story, like all the rest of my customers."

"I will admit I am somewhat curious about it."

"You'll be pleased enough with this installment of The Mysterious Gentleman, sir," the boy assured him. "It be-gins with a very startling incident and ends with a fine cliff-hanger."

"Indeed?" Adam glanced at the front page of the cheap paper and saw that The Mysterious Gentleman by Mrs. C. J. Fordyce occupied three full columns. "What of the character of Edmund Drake? Does he come to a bad end?"

"Not yet, sir. Much too soon for that. Drake's still acting very mysterious, though, and it's obvious he's up to no good." The newsboy's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "He's hatching a nasty plot against the heroine, Miss Lydia Hope"

"I see. Well, that is what villains do, is it not? Hatch nasty plots against innocent ladies?"

"Aye, and that's a fact, but there's no need to worry," the boy said cheerfully. "Edmund Drake will meet a right dreadful fate. All of Mrs. Fordyce's villains come to terrible ends in the final episodes."

Adam folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. "Something to look forward to, no doubt."

A short time later he went up the steps of the big house in Laxton Square. Morton, bald head gleaming in the morning sun, had the door open before Adam could retrieve his key.

"Welcome home, sir," Morton said.

If he had not been so weary, Adam thought, he would have been amused by Morton's studied lack of curiosity. It was, after all, half past ten. He had left the house shortly before nine last night to go to his club and had not returned until this moment. One would assume that the butler must have a few questions. But Morton was far too well schooled or, more likely, too well inured to the eccentric ways of the household to remark upon the hour.

"Mr. Grendon has just sat down to a late breakfast, sir." Morton took Adam's coat and hat. "Perhaps you would care to join him?"

"An excellent notion, Morton. I believe I will do that."

He needed food as much as he needed sleep, Adam thought. And sooner or later, he would have to face Wilson and convey the bad news. Might as well get the business behind him.

When he walked into the paneled and polished breakfast room a short time later, Wilson Grendon looked up from the depths of his morning paper. He studied Adam for a few brief seconds and then removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and set them aside.

"You had no luck, I take it?" he asked without preamble.

"The medium was dead when I found her. Murdered."

^"Damnation." Wilson 's thick gray brows bunched over his formidable nose. "Delmont is dead? Are you certain?"

"Hard to be mistaken about that sort of thing." Adam tossed the folded newspaper onto the table and crossed to the sideboard to survey the array of dishes. "There was no sign of the diary, so I am forced to conclude that the killer stole it. I spent half the night and most of the morning making inquiries into the affair."

Wilson absorbed that information with a troubled expression. "The murder is certainly a strange twist"

"Not necessarily. The average villain would likely see a great potential for extortion in this matter." Adam picked up a silver serving fork and helped himself to a large heap of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. "The prospect of money can make any number of people con-template murder."

Wilson turned thoughtful. "Are you certain that the medium was murdered for the diary?"

"No" Adam carried his plate back to the table and sat down. "But it would appear to be the most logical explanation, given the timing and circumstances."

"Well, then, if you are right, whoever now possesses the diary will no doubt soon be in touch."

"I prefer not to sit and wait for the killer to send a message inviting me to pay blackmail." Adam dug into his eggs. "I intend to find him first."

Wilson drank some coffee and lowered the cup. "Did you learn anything useful in the course of your inquiries last night and this morning?"

"No. The only halfway promising suspect proved to be an exceedingly difficult and unpredictable female who thinks t hat 1 am an ideal model for a villain in a sensation novel." "How odd." Wilson's pale gray eyes lit with interest. "Tell me about her."

Trust Wilson to seize upon the one aspect of the business that he least wished to discuss, Adam thought. He buttered some toast while he considered his response.

"There isn't much to tell," he said. "I am convinced that the lady in question is not involved in this affair."

Wilson leaned back in his chair. "This is not the first time that you and I have had occasion to discuss murder and potentially dangerous documents at breakfast."

"What we have done in the past along those lines were matters of business," Adam said shortly.

"Nevertheless, this is the first time in the long history of our association that you have mentioned a conversation with an exceedingly difficult and unpredictable female who found you to be a perfect model for a villain in a novel. Forgive me, but I find that quite intriguing"

Adam munched on his toast. "I told you, I do not think that the lady has any connection to this affair of the diary."

"She obviously made an impression on you."

"She would make an impression on anyone."

"You know what the French say: cherchez la femme."

"This is England, not France." Adam put down the corner of toast and went back to the eggs. "Things are different here."

"Not always. I cannot help but notice that the lady appears to have had a very striking effect upon your mood, most notably your temper."

Wilson knew him far too well, Adam reflected.

"I would remind you that I have not slept in the past

twenty-four hours," he said evenly. "It is little wonder that

f am not in the best of tempers."

"On the contrary," Wilson said. "In my experience, the more there is at risk, the more cold-blooded and unemotional you become. Quite chilling, actually."

Adam gave him a look.

Wilson ignored him. "In fact, if one did not know you well, one might assume that you did not possess any of the warmer passions."

A tingle of alarm went through Adam. The fork in his hand paused in midair. "With all due respect, sir, the very last subject I wish to discuss this morning is what you are pleased to call the warmer passions."

"Now, Adam, I am well aware that you do possess those sorts of passions. All the more reason why you should get married and employ them to produce heirs for the Grendon-Hardesty fortunes."

"You have no shortage of heirs, sir. Julia has already married and provided you with two of them. Jessica will be making her debut into Society next spring. She will no doubt attract dozens of offers within a fortnight. When she marries, she will supply you with still more heirs. And do not forget Nathan. Sooner or later he will lose interest in his philosophy and mathematics long enough to fall in love, marry and produce even more heirs."

^—That still leaves you unaccounted for," Wilson pointed out. "You are the eldest of the lot. You should have been the first one to marry"

"It is absurd to sit here and discuss yet again my failure to find a wife when we should be occupied with a far more pressing problem," Adam said, hanging on to his temper with an effort. "I suggest we return to the matter of the diary."

'Wilson grimaced. "Very well, but I must tell you that I am not nearly as concerned about it as you are"

"Yes, I can see that. Would you mind explaining why in blazes you are not worried about it?"

"The diary's sole value lies in the fact that it can be used as an instrument of blackmail. Sooner or later, whoever stole it from Elizabeth Delmont will make contact and at-tempt to extort money from you, just as Delmont did. When t hat occurs, you will track down the new blackmailer, just as you did Delmont" Wilson raised one narrow shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "It is simply a matter of time."

Wilson 's logic was impeccable, as always, Adam thought. But he was unable to take a similarly sanguine approach to the problem.

"It is not in my nature to wait upon the convenience of a blackmailer who is also very likely a killer," he said quietly.

Wilson sighed. "No, of course not. Very well, find your blackmailer and deal with him. Then you can get back to more important matters"

There was only one really important matter in Wilson's opinion these days. He was determined to see Adam wed. Having made his decision, he had become relentless.

Adam felt the sort of affection, respect and loyalty for his mentor that he imagined other men felt toward their fathers. Nevertheless, he had no intention of marrying merely to satisfy Wilson Grendons demands.

Wilson Grendon was in the latter half of his sixth decade. He was the last direct descendent of a once-powerful aristocratic family whose properties and finances had been sadly depleted by a long line of wastrels and rakehells. Endowed with a steely will and a great talent for business, Wilson had devoted himself to rebuilding the family for-tunes. He had succeeded beyond anyone's wildest expectations only to lose the very reasons that had inspired him: his beloved wife and two children.

Brokenhearted, Wilson had devoted himself to building an even larger empire. He had lost himself in the arcane machinations of his far-flung enterprises in England and on the Continent. On several occasions over the years, the long-reaching tentacles of the Grendon empire had proved useful to Her Majesty's government.

Wilson's agents and employees abroad often picked up rumors and information concerning clandestine intrigues and foreign plots. That sort of thing was passed along to the Crown, which, in turn, sometimes took advantage of the Grendon connections to send secret diplomatic messages.

The informal arrangement had continued after Adam had become involved in Wilson's business affairs, hence the occasional breakfast conversation concerning murder and mischief. For Adam, it all came under the heading of business; a natural extension of the career he had pursued while making his living on the streets. Information was a commodity, just like everything else. It could be bought, stolen, traded or sold.

Much in his world had changed fourteen years ago when he and Julia and Jessica and Nathan had moved into Wilson's big, lonely mansion in Laxton Square, but the way he made his living was not one of them, he reflected.

Society was under the impression that he and the other three were long-lost relatives of Wilson's. According to the story Grendon had put about, the family connection had been fortuitously discovered by his solicitor while going through some old papers. Wilson had immediately located the four young people, taken them into his household and made them his heirs.

Some portions of the tale were certainly true, Adam mused. He and Julia and Jessica and Nathan were, indeed, Wilson's heirs. But the relationship between the five of them was a good deal more murky and convoluted than anyone in the Polite World imagined.

While he had turned over much of the day-to-day operations of his financial empire to Adam in the past few ^years, Wilson was still as astute and cunning as he had always been. Because he was no longer required to apply his considerable abilities to his business affairs, he had a great deal of free time to work on other projects, such as maneuvering Adam into marriage.

"I can see that you are determined to press on with your search for the diary," Wilson said. "How do you intend to proceed?"

Adam reached for the silver coffeepot. "On my way home this morning I recalled that one of your old friends Prittlewell was fascinated by psychical research for a time recently."

Wilson snorted. "Prittlewell and everyone else in Society. I tell you, it is nothing less than astounding to see so many seemingly reasonable, educated people toss aside all common sense and natural skepticism when a medium levitates a table. I blame it on the Americans, of course. Whole thing started on the Other Side."

"The Other Side?"

"Of the Atlantic." Wilson snorted. "The Fox sisters with their rappings and tappings, the Davenports with their cabinet séances, D. D. Home—"

Adam frowned. "I thought Home was born in Scotland." "He may have been born there but he was raised in America."

"I see," Adam said dryly. "I suppose that explains it." "Indeed. As I was saying, this isn't the first nonsense imported from America and it likely won't be the last" "Yes, sir. But my point is that your friend Prittlewell no doubt picked up some gossip and rumors concerning the community of mediums while he was attending séances and lectures on psychical research."

"Very likely. What of it?"

"I wondered if you might make some casual inquiries in that direction. Find out what he knows about Elizabeth Delmont and those who moved in her circle."

Enthusiasm lit Wilson's face. There was nothing he liked more than a bit of intrigue. "Very well. That might prove interesting."

And with any luck, it will keep you too distracted to concentrate on your schemes to marry me off, Adam thought.

He was about to continue with his attempt at distraction when he heard the distant, muffled sound of the front door opening and closing. There was only one person who was likely to call at this unfashionable hour.

"Julia is here," Adam said. ^"Remember, not a word of this to her. I do not want her to be concerned with this matter. There is no need for her to worry about it."

"I agree. Trust me, I will say nothing."

Light, brisk footsteps echoed in the hall. A moment later Julia appeared in the doorway. Both men rose to their feet.

"Good day to you both." She swept into the room with a glowing smile. "I hope you are prepared to endure another invasion of workmen and decorators this afternoon"

"Of course," Wilson said. "We are proud to do our small part in connection with what will be the social event of the Season. Is that not so, Adam?"

"So long as you keep your horde of laborers and decorators out of the library," Adam agreed, pulling out a chair. She made a face at him as she sat down. "Never fear, everyone understands that your library is sacrosanct. But I fear that it will be very busy around here for the next few days. I'm having fountains and mirrors installed in the ballroom. I think the effect will be quite riveting.^"

"I'm sure it will be." Adam lowered himself back into his chair and reached for another slice of toast. "Your plans are going well, I assume?^"

"Yes, but I was forced to confess to Robert this morning that I may have overreached myself with the Roman villa theme this year."

"Nonsense, my dear." Wilson sat down, beaming with fatherly reassurance. "If anyone can turn that old ballroom into a Roman villa, it is you. I have no doubt but that you'll be successful. You will amaze and astonish Society once again, just as you did last year."

"I appreciate your confidence.^" Julia helped herself to some tea. "But if the affair does come off as planned, it is you, Uncle Wilson, who must take most of the credit. I could not possibly orchestrate such a major event without the use of the old ballroom. There simply is not enough space in the town house to stage anything more elaborate than a dinner party or a small soirée.^"

"Your husband is very wise not to invest his money in a large house here in town," Wilson said. "It would be a complete waste of money. He's got enough properties to maintain as it is, and your family is never in London long enough to justify the expense"

Julia nodded and set down the teapot. "I cannot argue with that. By the way, Robert said to tell you that he plans to take the children to the fair in the park tomorrow. He wondered if you would like to accompany them.^"

Wilson looked vastly pleased. "I shall check my appointment calendar to see if I am free."

His appointment calendar would no doubt grant him ample time to accompany the children and their father, the Earl of Southwood, on the outing, Adam thought. Wilson would have cheerfully rescheduled an audience with the queen to make room for an afternoon with the two youngsters.

Julia gave Wilson a knowing look. "Going to the fair will also provide you with an excuse to leave the house again while the decorators and the workmen swarm about the place. I must warn you that I can promise nothing but noise and commotion for the remainder of the week."

"A Roman villa is not constructed in a day," Wilson observed.

Julia drank some tea. "By the way, I had a letter from Jessica this morning. She is having a glorious time in Dorset. I gather that life on her friend's family estate is one grand round of picnics and games."

"We had a note from Nathan telling us that he will be coming down to see all of us on the occasion of my birth-day next month," Wilson said.

"He is well?" Julia asked, a bit anxious. "I do worry about him devoting so much time to his books."

"Do not concern yourself," Wilson said easily. "He is perfectly content. I think he may have been born for the scholarly life."

Julia smiled. "Who would have believed it?"

The breakfast table chatter ebbed and flowed around Adam but he made little effort to contribute to the conversation. Not only were his thoughts focused on darker subjects; the long night was beginning to catch up with him. He wanted his bed.

"Is something wrong, Adam?" Julia asked abruptly.

You appear to be a million miles away. Am I boring you with my plans for the ball?"

"No. I was just thinking about some business that must be attended to this morning." He tossed his napkin on the table. "If you will excuse me—"

But it was too late. Julia was giving him a close, sisterly scrutiny. "What's this? Your shirt is rather crumpled and I do believe you have failed to shave this morning. That is quite unlike you."

"Julia, if you don't mind, I must be off.^" He got to his feet. "Enjoy your breakfast. I will see you all later."

Wilson inclined his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Get some rest"

Julia's eyes widened. "Why do you need rest? Are you ill?"

"I am feeling quite fit, thank you." Adam grabbed the folded copy of the Flying Intelligencer and made his escape from the breakfast room.

He heard crisp footsteps in the hall behind him and stifled a groan. He should have known it wasn't going to be that easy.

"Adam," Julia called firmly. "A word, if you please? "What is it?" He walked into the library and sat down behind his desk. "As I said, I'm rather busy.^"

"You did not happen to dress carelessly this morning." Julia sailed into the library behind him and crossed the oriental carpet to stand in front of the desk. "I do believe that you have just returned after having been out all night."

"Julia, there are some things that a gentleman does not discuss, not even with his sister?

"Hah! I knew it. You were gone all night." Curiosity sparked in her eyes. "Is it serious this time or merely an-other one of your boring little affairs?"

"I had not realized that you considered my personal life boring. Not that your opinion matters, given that it is my personal life, not your own."

She frowned in surprise at his tone. "I meant no offense."

Guilt sank its claws into him. He had not meant to snap at her like that. "I know. I apologize for my short temper. Wilson is right. I need some sleep."

"I suppose I find your affairs dull for the most part be-cause you seem to find them dull," she said, thoughtful now.

"Forgive me, Julia, but I believe I have lost the thread of the conversation. Nor do I wish to rediscover it."

She nodded, as though confirming a private opinion. "That is it, of course. I should have reasoned it out sooner. I have always found your liaisons singularly uninspiring primarily because you never appear to be particularly inspired by them."

"I do not look to that sort of thing as a source of inspiration."

^"Obviously. You treat your romantic associations with ladies the same way you do your business affairs. They are always well-planned and deftly handled according to your rules. You never exhibit any degree of strong sentiment or emotion. When a connection ends you seem almost relieved, as though some routine task had been completed, allowing you to move on to another project"

"I cannot fathom what you are talking about."

"I am talking about the fact that you never allow your-self to fall in love, Adam." She paused for emphasis. "Uncle Wilson and I believe that it is past time that you did."

He set his teeth. "Julia, I will give you fair warning. I have just endured one lecture from Wilson on the subject of finding a wife. I am not in the mood for another."

She ignored that, whisked her skirts aside and sat down in me of the leather chairs. "So, you have established a new liaison. Who is she, Adam? I cannot wait to learn her name."

It occurred to him that the simplest way to deflect Julia's attention while he continued his search for the diary was to encourage her in the belief that he was involved in a new love affair. If she thought that to be true, she would be less likely to question any unusual or secretive behavior on f t s part during the next few days.

He shuffled the papers while he mentally assembled his plan.

"You cannot expect me to divulge her name," he said. "I am aware that you have a rule against that sort of thing, but it does not apply in this case."

"The rules apply in all cases."

"Rubbish. You have always taken your own rules far too seriously. Now then, were you with Lillian Tait last night, by any chance? I knew that she had her eye on you. Did you finally succumb to her wiles?"

"What makes you think that I would waste an entire night and a good portion of the morning on Lillian Tait?" He stacked the papers he had just finished shuffling. "I can barely tolerate the lady's conversation for the length of a dance."

"I can imagine a number of reasons why you might find her quite entertaining in other circumstances. Mrs. Tait is a very attractive, very rich widow, and she makes no secret of the fact that she has no plans to marry again. She quite enjoys her freedom. All in all, she would appear to meet most of your basic requirements in a paramour."

"Do you think so?" He kept his tone deliberately uninterested.

"I know you better than anyone else in the entire world, with the possible exception of Uncle Wilson. I have been aware for some time now that you have very specific rules when it comes to your intimate liaisons." She paused meaningfully. "Do you know, I believe that is your chief problem, Adam."

He went quite blank. ^"What?"

"Your insistence upon living your entire life by rules. For heaven's sake, you've got them for everything, even your romantic connections"

He cocked a brow. "You stun me, madam. I was under the impression that properly behaved ladies did not discuss a gentleman's romantic connections."

She smiled serenely. "I assure you, every lady I know finds the topic of who is dallying with whom fascinating. Indeed, it is usually the first subject discussed at any tea or social gathering."

`Another illusion of feminine behavior shattered." He reached for a pen. "And here I thought that the only subjects you discussed with your friends were fashions and the latest sensation novels."

She clicked her tongue. "It is a mystery to me how so many seemingly intelligent gentlemen manage to convince themselves that women are shockingly ignorant of the realities of life."

The comment made him go very still. "We both know that the one thing you are not is shockingly ignorant of the realities of life, Julia," he said quietly. "I only wish that I had been able to do a better job of sheltering you and the others"

^"Nonsense" The teasing light vanished from her face in a heartbeat. "Do not say such things, Adam. You protected us very well indeed when we were young. I suspect Jessica,

Nathan and I would not have survived without you. But surely you did not think that I believed that you lived the life of a monk?"

He winced. "I had not realized that you gave so much thought to my private life."

"I'm your sister in every way but blood," she reminded him gently. "Of course I give the matter of your private affairs my closest personal attention." Her delicate brows rose. "As I recall, you gave mine even more intense scrutiny when I told you that I was madly in love with Robert."

"You were an heiress. It was my duty to make certain that you were not married for your fortune."

"Yes, I know, and you did not rest until you had assured yourself that Robert and I had indeed contracted a love match. Robert still shudders whenever he mentions the various inquisitions that he was obliged to endure in order to gain your trust and respect."

"I did not consider those meetings to be inquisitions. I preferred to think of them as opportunities for Southwood and I to get to know each other and establish a bond of friendship"

She laughed. "He told me that he came close to trying to drown you during that fishing trip to Scotland. He said the only thing that stopped him from pushing you into the loch was the knowledge that you were an expert swimmer."

"We caught some very fine fish on that trip."

"And then there was the time that you invited him aboard Wilson's yacht for a three-day sail along the coast. He dared not refuse for fear you would think him a weakling."

"The weather was excellent for sailing."

"He was violently ill throughout the entire trip. He says he still does not understand how you discovered before the journey that he is prone to mal de mer."

He nodded sagely. "I have my sources."

"My point is that you have always paid very close attention to my personal affairs, and I feel it is only fair to return the favor. Unfortunately, you have never given me much of interest to observe"

"I regret that you find me so exquisitely dull but there is little that I can do about the situation. Now then, I hate to interrupt this fascinating conversation but I have plans for this afternoon. I would like to get some rest before I go out."

She made a face. "You are not going to tell me her name, are you?"

"No."

"Why so secretive? Sooner or later I am bound to learn her identity. You know how gossip flows in Society." She paused, tilting her head slightly to one side in a quizzical fashion. "Unless, of course, your new friend does not move in Society."

He stood, reaching for the newspaper. "If you will excuse me, I am going to go upstairs and rest for a while."

"Very well, I give up, at least for now." She rose. "It is clear that you are not going to indulge my curiosity. But sooner or later—" She broke off, glancing at the paper in his hand. "I did not know that you read the Flying Intelligencer, Adam. It is not your sort of paper at all. It thrives on the most exciting sort of sensation and gossip."

"I assure you, this is the first and only copy I have ever purchased"

"You were lucky to get it." She started toward the door. "Mrs. Fordyce's latest novel is being serialized in it. She is very popular. I expect the copies will be sold out quickly. In fact, I made certain to send Willoughby off to find a newsboy first thing this morning. I couldn't bear to risk missing the next chapter of The Mysterious Gentleman."

A sense of impending doom struck him. "I did not realize that you read Mrs. Fordyce's work."

"Yes, indeed. Her new story is the best one to date, as far as I am concerned. The villain is a man named Edmund Drake. We do not know what he is about yet, but it is obvious that he has wicked intentions toward the heroine, Lydia Hope."

He felt his jaw tighten. "So I have been told."

She paused at the door. "Rest assured, he will meet a dreadful end. Mrs. Fordyce's last villain was taken off to spend his remaining days confined in an insane asylum. I expect she has something equally dire planned for Edmund Drake."

A short time later in the privacy of his bedchamber, he freed himself of his tie, waistcoat and shirt and settled down on the bed to get some badly needed rest. He tried to focus his thoughts on the next step in his plans to locate the diary, but for some bizarre reason he kept returning to the matter of Caroline Fordyce.

She was certainly not his usual type. But in other ways she fit what Julia was pleased to call his rules quite well. She was not an innocent young lady like Jessica, who had to be guarded as closely as a chest of gold until she was married off to a suitable husband. Nor was she the wife of a friend or a business associate, another category of female he was careful to avoid.

She was a widow and likely a rather worldly one at that. Surely only a woman of considerable experience could write the sort of lurid, melodramatic plots that made sensation novels all the rage.

Judging by her house and gown, Caroline certainly did not control a fortune but she did appear to be making a comfortable living with her writing. True, she did not move in elevated social circles, but that was an excellent thing, he decided. There would be less likelihood of gossip.

He groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm. He had enough problems at the moment. The last thing he should be considering was the possibility of having an affair with Caroline Fordyce.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be able to think of very little else.