"This way, sir… madam." She barely acknowledged Judith but smiled at Gracemere, who chucked her beneath the chin with a lazy forefinger.

They went upstairs to a small parlor, as ostentatiously decorated as the one downstairs. A fire burned in the grate, and a round table was set for two. A richly cushioned divan was the only other furniture, apart from a worked screen in the corner. It would conceal the commode, Judith knew. Rooms such as this were equipped to cater in total privacy for all needs.

"Goodness me, Bernard," she said with an amazed little titter. "What a strange place. It's almost more like a bedchamber than a dining parlor."

"It's a very private hotel," he said, pouring wine into two glasses. "A toast, my dear Judith."

She took the glass. "And what shall we toast, sir?"

"Adventure and the confounding of dictatorial husbands." He raised his glass, laughing at her as he drank.

Judith took a sip, smiling, then, carrying her glass, she strolled over to the window and drew aside the curtain to look down on the street. Under cover of the curtain, she took the packet from her reticule and shook the contents in her wineglass.

"Are there many such hotels on this street, Bernard?" she asked in tones of innocent curiosity, turning back to him, giving him a wide-eyed smile as she drained the contents of her glass. "May I have some more wine?"

"Of course, my dear." He brought the decanter over to her. If she became foxed again, it would only add spice to the affair this time. She probably wouldn't remember what had happened, and he'd deposit her at her doorstep for her husband in a distinctly shop-soiled condition.

Judith raised the refilled glass, then gasped, slamming it back on the table. Her hand went to her throat and, under Gracemere's astonished, horrified gaze, she turned a delicate shade of green. With a sudden gasp, she flew behind the screen to the commode from whence came the most unromantic and unladylike sounds.

Marcus made his wife's excuses to the Willoughbys, offering a polite white lie. He did what was required of him, making the rounds of his fellow guests, most of whom he'd known since boyhood, ate an indifferent dinner, enjoyed good burgundy, and followed his fellow guests to the drawing room for the recital.

"My Lord Carrington, this is an unexpected encounter." Agnes Barret materialized on the arm of her elderly husband just as the harpist took her place. "We are come so late," she whispered, sitting beside the marquis. "We had another dinner engagement, but we couldn't offend the Willoughbys. Such old friends of my husband's." She fanned herself vigorously and looked around the room, nodding and smiling as she met recognition.

Marcus murmured something suitable, thinking that she was a most attractive woman, with those fine eyes and high cheekbones and that curiously familiar wicked curve to her mouth.

"Lady Carrington isn't with you?" Agnes turned her smile upon him.

"No, she had a previous engagement," he said.

"Ah." Agnes frowned as if in thought. "Not in Jermyn Street, of course."

Premonition shot up Marcus's spine like flame on a tarred stick. "I hardly think so, ma'am."

Agnes shook her head. "No, of course not. Silly of me, I had the unmistakable impression I'd seen her alighting from a chaise… it must have been a trick of the light. The lantern over the door was throwing strange shadows."

Marcus sat still, a smile fixed on his face, his eyes on the harpist as she began to pluck her instrument. He felt enwrapped in tendrils of malice, the evil mischief emanating from the woman beside him seeming to weave around him. Judith had been right. Agnes Barret was not harmless. Agnes Barret was dangerous. And if Agnes Barret was Gracemere's lover, then Judith was in danger. How or why, he couldn't guess. But he was as certain of it as he was of his own name. Martha's battered little face rose vividly in his memory, the despairing whimpers filling his ears anew.

He rose without excuse from his chair and left the room, while the harpist's gentle music continued behind him.

Agnes, startled, watched him stalk from the room. She'd done no more than sow the first little seed. She hadn't mentioned Bernard. That would come tomorrow or the next day, a whispered word to set the gossip on its way. What could possibly have driven the marquis to leave so precipitately?

Marcus left the house without making farewells and walked fast to Jermyn Street.

Gracemere listened for a minute in horrified impotence to the sounds of violent retching behind the screen. Then he strode to the door, flung it open, and bellowed for help. Madame came up the stairs, two of her girls on her heels.

"Whatever is it, my lord?"

He gestured to the room behind him. "Her ladyship appears to be unwell. Do something."

Madame listened for a minute, gave the earl a most telling look, and hurried into the room, disappearing behind the screen.

Gracemere paced the corridor, unwilling to return to the scene of such a horribly intimate disintegration. He thumped a fist into the palm of his other hand, cursing all women. It couldn't have been the wine, she'd only had one glass and she'd been perfectly sober when they'd arrived.

Judith staggered out from behind the screen, supported by Madame and one of the women. She was waxen, a faint sheen of perspiration on her brow, her hair lackluster, her eyes watering.

"My lord, I don't know what…" She pressed her hand to her mouth. "Something I ate… so mortifying… I don't know how to apologize-"

"You must go home," he interrupted brusquely. "The chaise will take you."

She nodded feebly. "Yes, thank you. I have to lie down." Staggering, she fell onto the divan, lying back with her eyes closed.

Madame took her fan and began to ply it vigorously. "My lord, I can't have sick women in my house," she said, an edge to the refined accents. "It doesn't look good, and what my other guests would think, listening.."

"Yes, yes," Bernard interrupted. "Have her taken downstairs and put in the chaise. Tell the driver to take her back to Berkeley Square."

Somehow, a limp and groaning Judith was bundled down the stairs and into the waiting chaise. Bernard stood at the window, watching as the vehicle moved off down the street. Some devil was at work here, throwing all his carefully engineered schemes awry. He went to the table and flung himself into a chair, moodily refilling his glass. He might as well eat the dinner he'd ordered with such care.

Marcus turned onto Jermyn Street from St. James's. He was amazed at his own calm as he looked down the street. Three houses had lanterns outside their doors. Behind one of those doors he was certain he would find his wife in the company of Bernard Melville, Earl of Grace-mere. He had no idea why she was there, why she would have allowed herself to be trapped by Gracemere, but the reasons didn't interest him at the moment. There would be time for that later. He had but one thought, to reach her before she was hurt.

The first door had no knowledge of the Earl of Gracemere. The butler in the powdered wig behind the second door bowed him within immediately. Madame emerged from the salon, all smiles, ready to greet a new customer.

"Where is Gracemere?"

The clipped question, the burning black eyes, the almost mask-like impassivity of expression impressed Madame as nothing else could have done. "I believe his lordship is abovestairs, sir. Is he expecting you?"

"If he's not, he should be," Marcus said. "Direct me to him, if you please."

Madame made a shrewd guess as to the business the new arrival might have with the earl. She gestured to Bernice. It was none of her business if Gracemere chose to invoke outraged husbands, and she wasn't prepared to have a scene in her hall. "Show this gentleman to Lord Gracemere's parlor."

Marcus strode up the stairs after the girl. At the door, he waved her away. He stood for a second listening. There was complete silence. After lifting the latch gently, he pushed the door open. The room had a single occupant.

Gracemere was sprawled in a chair at the table, a glass of claret in his hand, his eyes on the offensively cheerful glow in the grate. His head swiveled at the sound of the door opening.

"Ah, Gracemere," Marcus observed, deceptively pleasant. "There you are."

"I'm flattered you should seek me out, Carrington." Bernard sipped his wine. "To what do I owe this unlooked-for attention?"

"Oh, a simple matter." Marcus tossed his cane onto the divan and took the chair opposite the earl. He examined the place settings for a minute before returning his attention to the earl. "A simple matter," he repeated. "Where is my wife, Bernard?"

Gracemere gestured expansively around the room. "Why ask me, Marcus? I dine alone."

"It would appear so," Marcus agreed. "But you are clearly expecting a guest." He picked up the fork at his place, examining the tines with careful interest, before reaching for the second wineglass on the table. It was half full. "Has your guest made a temporary departure?"

The earl gave a crack of sardonic laughter. "I trust not temporary."

"Oh? You interest me greatly, Gracemere. Please explain." He turned the stem of the wineglass between finger and thumb, regarding the earl intently across the table.

"Your wife is not here," the earl said. "She has been here, but she is by now, I trust, safely tucked up in her own bed."

"I see." Marcus rose. "And the circumstances of her departure…?"

Gracemere shuddered. "Quite innocent, I assure you. Your wife's virtue remains untainted, Marcus. Now, perhaps you'd leave me to my dinner."

"By all means. But allow me to give you a piece of advice. If you should have any further plans involving the health and welfare of my wife, I suggest you drop them forthwith." He picked up his cane and tapped it thoughtfully into his palm. "I would hate to use a horsewhip on you again, but if it did become necessary, I can safely promise you that this time it will be no secret. It will be the most talked of on-dit of this or any other Season."

He bowed, mockery in every line of his body, but there was no concealing the menace in his eyes as they rested for a second on Gracemere's flushed face. "Don't underestimate me again, Bernard. And just remember that another time I'll not let pride conceal the truth. I'll face whatever I have to to expose you. That is all I have to say."

He walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

27

Marcus walked back to Berkeley Square. Whatever reasons Judith had had for involving herself with Gracemere initially, she'd been perfectly capable of extricating herself from trouble. Judging by the half-full wineglass, she'd left in haste, and she must have made some considerable scene if her putative host hoped she wasn't going to return.

But why the hell had she been with Gracemere in the first place? Had she been defying her husband for principle's sake? But that didn't make sense-they'd resolved the issue amicably as far as he remembered. She'd agreed to do as he wished if he moderated his dictatorial manner. So why would she persist in cultivating such an acquaintanceship. No, it was much more than that. Acquaintances didn't dine tete-a-tete. So why?

The old serpents of mistrust began to wreathe and writhe in his gut, and he felt cold and sick. Did he know her at all? Had he ever known her? Had she colluded with Gracemere to wound him? But if that was so, why had she left her dinner companion against his will? Perhaps she hadn't expected seduction. His ingenuous wife had believed an invitation to a clandestine dinner to be completely innocent? Impossible. There was nothing ingenuous about Judith; she was far too worldly to fall for such a fabrication. But perhaps Gracemere had led her to believe the invitation was different-not a private party but one in company she knew. And when she'd discovered the truth… This explanation was more plausible, and he began to feel a little comforted. And then he remembered how she'd lied to him that morning-a party with her women friends. The serpents hissed and acid betrayal soured his mouth.

Judith was standing at her window, looking down on the square, when he came in sight of the house. She had been waiting for him, knowing what she had to do. She had known that Gracemere was capable of ruining a man with cheating and lies. She knew he was capable of running off with another man's fiancee. But this evening she had glimpsed the depths of maleficence that outdid anything that she already knew. A clandestine rendezvous was one thing, but to pick such a place for the kind of woman he believed Judith to be was evil beyond anything. Somehow Marcus was to have been injured by Gracemere's plotting and Marcus's wife had been just a tool. Judith was now convinced of it. Was Marcus to be somehow confronted with the information of his wife's rendezvous? Confronted and humiliated? Was it to be made public perhaps?