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      To Ellen Edwards, who patiently midwifed

       the longest labor in publishing history.

       Thanks, friend!

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      “AND I SAY she has to die! Damn it, can’t you see? Haven’t you been forever telling me that she has to go? It’s the only way out, for both of us!”

      “Not necessarily. You could always marry her,” a female voice suggested. “You’d make a wonderfully handsome groom. And, please, my dearest, don’t swear.”

      “Marry her? Marry her! Are you daft? Have you been sipping before noon again? How many times must I tell you? I’d druther shackle m’self to an ox—it would be easier to haul a dumb animal to the altar. Besides, the chit don’t like me, not even above half.”

      “Can’t hold that against the girl. You never were so popular as I’d like.”

      “That’s nothing to the point! We’re talking about her now. The only answer is to do away with her.”

      “All right, be bloodthirsty if you must. Boys will be boys. That leaves only the question—who and how do we handle disposing of the wretched girl?”

      “That’s two questions. I don’t know how to do it, but I do know who. I’ve thought this out most carefully. We both do the deed. That way neither of us is apt to cry rope on the other.”

      There was a short silence while his co-conspirator weighed his latest suggestion. “You really believe that I’d be so mean-spirited as to lay information against my own—oh, all right. Don’t pout, it makes nasty lines around your mouth. We both do it. Now—how do we do it?”

      “An accident. It should look like an accident. The best murders are always made to look like accidents.”

      “That does leave out poison, firearms and a rope, doesn’t it? Pity. I do so favor poison. It’s so neat and reliable. A fall, perhaps? From the top of the tower? No, on second thought, that would be too messy. Think of the time we’d have cleaning the cobblestones. I suppose we must find another way.”

      “A riding accident, perhaps.”

      “That’s brilliant! You were always so creative. A riding accident is perfect! She’s always out and about somewhere on that terrible brute she rides. I’m more than surprised she hasn’t snapped her neck a dozen times already, more’s the pity that she hasn’t. All right, a riding accident it is. Now, when do we do the deed?”

      “She reaches her majority the tenth of October. The ninth ought to do it.”

      “That’s cutting it a slice too fine, even for such a brilliant mind as yours. Something could go amiss and we wouldn’t have time for a second chance. I would rather do it the first of the month. That way we won’t have to waste any of her lovely money on birthday presents.”

      “Yes, why should we throw good money away on—I say! What was that?”

      “Where?”

      “Over there, behind the shrubbery. I saw something move. Blast it all, someone’s been listening! Look! She’s running away. Let me pass. I’ve got to catch her before she ruins everything!”

      “Be careful of your breeches!” his companion cried after him. “This is only the second time you’ve worn them.”

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS A ROOM into which sunlight drifted, light-footedly skimming across the elegant furnishings, its brightness filtered by the gossamer-thin ivory silk curtains that floated at the tall windows.

      The ceiling was also ivory, its stuccoed perimeter artfully molded into wreaths of flowers caught up by ram’s heads, with dainty arabesques and marching lines of husks terminating in ribbon knots, while the walls had been painted by Cipriani himself and boasted tastefully romping nymphs, liquid-eyed goddesses, and a few doting amorini.

      The furniture boasted the straight, clean lines of the brothers Adams—Robert and James—the dark, gilded mahogany vying with painted Wedgwood colors and the elegant blue and white satin striping of the upholstery.

      To the awestruck observer, the entire room was a soul-soothing showplace, an exemplary example of the degree of refined elegance possible in an extraordinarily beautiful English country estate.

      To Pierre Claghorn Standish, just then pacing the length of the Aubusson carpet, it was home.

      “Oh,

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