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rear of the gardens. “My name is not Moulton,” she began.

      “I beg your pardon. I had thought, since your aunt’s name was Moulton—”

      “Of course. But she is the wife of my mother’s brother.”

      “I see. Then I am afraid you have the advantage of me. What is your name?”

      Her courage failed her at the last minute, and she said only, “Cassandra.”

      “Cassandra!” Amusement lit his eyes, and Cassandra noticed that in the sunlight they looked more gold than brown. “A rather gloomy name to put on a child, isn’t it?”

      “I don’t know. Perhaps Papa and Mama thought it would give me prophetic powers. Papa was in his Greek period then, so I suppose that I am lucky that they didn’t decide to name me Persephone or Electra.”

      “Mmm. Quite true.” He looked much struck by the thought.

      “Of course, my brothers and sister call me Cassie. That’s not so bad.”

      “Neither is bad. I assure you, I didn’t mean that. Cassandra is a lovely name. It is just not—”

      “I know. The sort of name most people would inflict on a baby.”

      He smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.”

      “Only because you are too polite.”

      “And was your father in his ‘Greek period’ when your brothers and sister were born?” he asked delicately.

      Laughter bubbled up out of Cassandra’s throat, a delicious sound that Sir Philip found sizzled along his nerves. “You mean, are they named Ajax, Agamemnon and Demeter?”

      “Precisely.” His eyes twinkled down at her.

      “My sister’s name is Olivia. That is close, I suppose. It comes from Latin, does it not? But I think he had left that phase by the time the twins were born. Their names are Crispin and Hart. Not exactly Ned or Tom, but at least they are not classical.”

      “No. Proper British names, both of them.”

      They were nearing the maze, and Cassandra nodded toward it. “Would you like to go in the maze? I explored it yesterday and worked it out. There is a lovely fountain in the center.”

      Philip thought of wandering through the high green walls of the maze with Cassandra, alone in its quiet seclusion, and his loins tightened. “Yes,” he replied a little huskily. He cleared his throat. “It sounds delightful.”

      “It is nice—though it’s not terribly difficult. The one we had at home was dreadfully complicated. It was easy to get lost in it, even for us. Once, when Hart and Crispin were little, they went in, and it took us hours to realize where they were. Papa threatened to close it off, but I persuaded him merely to block the entrance until they were older.”

      She did not add that in the past few years the maze had been let go; the once-trimmed shrubs had in many places grown together, with grass and even weeds cropping up everywhere. They had not had the money to continue to pay a gardener to keep it in proper form.

      “Where is your home?”

      “In the Cotswolds, near Fairbourne. Actually, we live with Aunt Ardis now, since Papa died. It’s not far away from our home, but we do miss it.” She smiled, her jaw setting in a determined way. “But our circumstances are about to change, and then we will be able to go home again.”

      They turned into the maze and began to follow its twistings and turnings. The air was still within its corridors, and hushed, with only the occasional twittering of a bird. Enclosed by the high, waxy green walls, it seemed almost as if they were in a different world from the rest of the estate. They walked silently for a time, both of them loath to disturb the hush.

      But when they were deep within the maze, Cassandra drew a deep breath and looked up at Sir Philip earnestly. “I did not tell you my last name.”

      “No, so you didn’t.” He had noticed the omission and wondered at it. Now his curiosity grew even stronger.

      “Well, as I said, I am not a Moulton. That was my mother’s name. My name is Verrere.”

      He stopped abruptly, startled, and looked at her. His eyes grew a little wary, and he said in a soft voice, “Ah...a faithless Verrere.”

      Cassandra planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “A ruthless Neville,” she responded.

      For a long moment they simply stood, looking at one another. Finally Sir Philip started forward again, saying only, “And what does a Verrere want with a Neville?”

      Cassandra cast about in her mind for exactly the right words to say. She had been waiting for this moment for months now. It was the only opportunity she was likely to have, and she had to get it right.

      “I know that our families have for some years now been, well...”

      “Enemies?” he suggested.

      “I would say that enemies is rather a strong word to use,” Cassandra demurred. “It has been over a hundred years since a Verrere or Neville tried to kill each other.”

      “Mmm. A remarkable achievement.”

      At one time the two families had, indeed, been constantly at the point of drawing swords. Any comment by a Neville about a Verrere was immediately interpreted to be a deadly slur and vice versa. Over the years the hard enmity between them had declined to a social one-upsmanship, with each striving to outdo the other in terms of parties, carriages and racehorses. During this century, even that degree of rancor had died down, so that hostesses became able to invite a Neville and a Verrere to the same function without fearing that neither would ever speak to her again.

      Cassandra suspected that the intense rivalry had diminished largely because the Verreres’ fortunes had declined, while the Nevilles’ had kept on growing, as always. The Verreres had simply been unable to compete any longer in any comparison of possessions or parties, leaving them with little to lord over the Nevilles except the Verrere title, Chesilworth. Indeed, during Cassandra’s father’s lifetime, the Verreres had retired from the lists, socially speaking. Cassandra’s grandfather had long ago had to sell the London house to pay debts, and the expense of clothes and rent for a London season was beyond them. Her father, Rupert, had been a bookish man, anyway, and he had been more pleased than not to give up the season in London each year. He had preferred to spend what money he had on his books and art.

      “I trust that you are not so narrow-minded as to hold my name against me,” Cassandra continued, looking up at Philip challengingly.

      His mouth quirked sardonically. “I was taught as a child that if I was bad, the Verreres would get me. However, I do trust that I will be able to hold my own against this particular Verrere.”

      “I have come for your help, not to fight.”

      His brows soared. “My help? A Verrere asking a Neville for help?”

      Cassandra frowned. “Do you plan to continue playing the fool in this fashion? I came to this house party specifically to talk to you, but I can see that I have wasted my time if you are unable to drop your petty prejudices long enough to listen.”

      He could not help but grin at her tart words and tone. “I beg your pardon, Miss Verrere.” He pulled his face back into somber lines. “I will endeavor to be serious, since my levity displeases you. However, I have to tell you I find it bizarre that a Verrere would even think of asking me for help, let alone believe that I would be willing to extend that help.”

      “Well, as for your helpfulness, I have no way of knowing that, of course. But I would hope that you are a reasonable enough man to see that it would be profitable for both of us.”

      “I am afraid you have lost me before we have even started. What would be profitable?”

      “That is what I am about to tell you. Ah, here is

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