Chapter 4

O villainy! Ho! let the door be lock'd:

Treachery! seek it out.

—Shakespeare

The wind had been blowing since daybreak, scattering the leaves from the surrounding trees against the walls of the inn, then hurling them on to disappear towards the dark, distant hills, bleak in the fading light of evening. The drizzle that had started at noon had gradually become a heavy downpour.

To Tibbitts, the owner and proprietor of the inn, Wayfarer's Rest, it merely caused annoyance. Bad weather was no blessing for his business; just extra work for him. Too many neglected cracks and holes in the roof were made evident by the rain, finding its way through onto his floors, or God forbid, onto one of his customers. His inn was situated at the crossroads intersecting the northern and coastal roads to London, and received all the traffic from each direction, including the mail coaches that stopped regularly to let off passengers changing coaches, or to rest and change the tired horses before continuing on.

"Come back 'ere, brat!" roared Tibbitts, as a small, thin boy ran past him down the narrow hall. He stretched out a long hairy arm and grabbed the youth by the back of his neck. "What are ye up to, eh? Didn't Oi tells yer to clean up the gentleman's room?" Tibbitts yelled as he gave the boy a firm shake.

"Oi'd 'ave done it, but the gent, 'e tells me to be about me business, and 'e 'ad a mean look in his eye, that 'e did. So Oi tells meself to git movin' and so Oi did," the boy said sullenly, trying to squirm loose.

"Ye tellin' me the truth, brat? If yer playin' me false, Oi'll 'ave yer scruffy 'ead for it. Oi'll 'ave no double-tongued brat gettin' me in bad with the gentry. Oi've seen 'em when they gets in a rage an Oi'll not care to sees it agin. T'ain't a pretty sight whats they can do when they be worked up into a passion. Oi remembers the time when some ladyship, a guest o' mine, stood right where yer a-standing, gnashing 'er teeth she be so mad, an all because Oi wouldn't give me best cut o' beef to 'er ladyship's little dog. Kept 'im with 'er always—never saw it out of 'er sight. She even rapped me knuckles over that cursed yappin' piece o fur. Oi'll not ave ye, a no-account, good fer nothin' gettin' me in bad, ye 'ere?" Tibbitts growled at the cowering boy.

"Oi ain't tellin' no fibs!" he cried as Tibbitts's hold tightened painfully.

"All right, brat, get into the back, an' Oi'll not be hearin' a word from ye, or else…" he said pushing the boy on down the hall before turning to make his way into the main room of the inn.

He watched with a critical eye as the serving maid laid the table for the evening meal. It was set for several customers, his private dining-room being occupied presently by a dowager duchess of formidable appearance. The two rich-looking London gentlemen, who were already occupying two of his best rooms, would have to share each other's company over their dinner this evening, and perhaps with the arrival of the mail coach he would have more customers to serve, but in this weather it could be delayed hours behind schedule. He had already had several rooms prepared for any passengers who would have to change coaches and—of necessity—stay overnight before catching another. He smiled to himself, mentally rubbing his palms together in anticipation of the large tips he knew he would be receiving.

Not too bad a night's work, Tibbitts thought, as he added more wood to the fire burning brightly in the hearth. The flames shot up, lighting the shadows in the room, throwing into contrast the low, oak-beamed ceiling; the beams soot-blackened from the countless fires burned in the large fireplace. The assorted pewter flagons and tankards gleamed dully from shelves, and thick candles dripped grease that spit as it touched the cool metal of the brass candlesticks.

A broad toothy grin split Tibbitts's face again as he thought of more gold guineas filling his pockets; but now he would be satisfied with a hot meal to fill his belly.

* * *

Sir Jason Beckingham, to the contrary, was not smiling as he gazed moodily out of the rain-spattered windows of the room directly above Tibbitts.

He felt enraged. Here, under the same roof, in a room down the hall, was his most bitter and devastating enemy, Trevegne. How he hated the mere mention of that devil's name. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Trevegne ride into the yard of the inn a little while ago, his big black horse pawing the mud impatiently while Trevegne dismounted, then walked briskly out of the rain as the stableboys led his horse away.

Trevegne…the name was more ominous-sounding to him than the deafening thunder outside. Ever since that demon entered his life his luck had changed. Before that he congratulated himself upon having won quite a large sum in a streak of lucky wagers. Also, his winnings from numerous late-night card games enabled him, for the first time in a long while, to sit comfortably without the worry of his creditors banging on his doors, demanding payment.

He'd been out of pocket for far too long to be satisfied with his temporarily enrichened state of being. He knew only too well how quickly expenses ate a hole in one's purse and he had no intention of returning to his previous state of poverty and near-degradation. His somewhat straightened circumstances of the past had caused him a great many embarrassments, and had reduced him at times to a hanger-on, a toad-eating toff; not only despised by those basking in his insincere flatteries, but, worst of all, by himself. To lose one's own self-respect was the worst possible treachery to befall a gentleman .

After all, he only wanted what he felt he deserved, and was his hereditary right. He was born a gentleman and that, by God, was how he should live. Instead, he had to resort to chicanery; becoming an accomplished slyboots. He had become quite adept at maneuvering people, and evading any unpleasant issue at hand. He actually believed that he could talk himself out of any situation, so well-versed in the art had he become out of necessity and a need for self-preservation, he defended himself—it really was not because of any fault of his own that he had to resort to such practices.

His loving parents, between them, gambled away his inheritance; and he was left with their extravagant debts when they died.

He learned early that he would have to fight hard and rough if he intended to stay among the ton , the elite of London, and take his proper place in society. His parents were known as the "royal couple," the King and Queen of Diamonds. They were always found at a game of chance; challenging the cards, rather than their opponents, with their skill.

Sir Jason did not inherit his parents' fanatical obsession for gambling, merely their expertise to help him profit by other's misfortunes—and it was not beneath him, at times, to stack the deck in his favor. And he too acquired a nickname from the cards—the Joker.

One could always count upon Beckingham, the Joker, to liven up a party. No one ever knew quite what to expect from him, or when he would pop up in the most unexpected place, just when the going was dull and one needed to see a new face, with some juicy gossip to impart.

But the Joker's real, true face was hidden from all who looked at him, and they blindly went along accepting the face he chose to wear; jester, banterer, wit, snapper—a zany mad-cap that sent everyone into hilarity. The real Sir Jason wanted wealth and power at any cost. He never again would degrade himself by playing the flunky to some rich, past-her-prime duchess, or escorting some pock-marked, cow-faced chit, because of her rich dowry.

There was seldom an exception where his desires and necessity were not at odds, but Catherine Bellington was that exception. That beauty and wealth should come together so neatly in one package was too good to be true.

He should have remembered that one's luck would run out, that the odds ran against you, but he felt so sure that this time nothing on earth could stop him from achieving his goal, marriage to Catherine and acquiring her fortune. He didn't blame himself for the loss of his chance. All the gods of ancient Egypt could not have prevented his failure. The cards were stacked against him and not by the hand of a mortal. The Devil had interfered with his plans, the Devil, disguised as Catherine's guardian—Trevegne.

All that could have been his by marriage to Catherine was now beyond his reach. Still young, in her first Season in London, she had been so naive and easy to flatter.

He never loved Catherine, but he found her attractive, and she had amused him at times. They would have dealt quite well with each other, he thought, until a certain devil with his all-seeing amber eyes had appeared—almost magically—to whisk away Catherine, and her fortune, into the lap of another gentleman.

Catherine, his golden opportunity, was married to some suitable country gentleman. No doubt a florid, pompous windbag; bow-legged with a pot-belly and bulbous red nose from imbibing too freely with Sir John Barleycorn, he thought maliciously, turning to stare into the wall mirror at his own handsome and dapper figure. She would have been far better off with a Beckingham than with some country bumpkin, he thought conceitedly.

But that Trevegne stepped in to destroy everything, leaving him the laughingstock of London. He was warned that Catherine Bellington was Trevegne's ward, and that he had complete authority over her and her estates until she married—and then only with his approval. Other fortune-hunting friends of his ominously predicted that it would be to little or no purpose to waste precious funds on such a Herculean task; and the devil to pay if you angered Trevegne in the process.

They had good reason to fear; for Trevegne's reputation wasn't based on exaggeration or hearsay. Sir Jason had seen him tooling his black and gold high-perch phaeton, with its perfectly matched Arabian stallions, with unequalled skill; in fact, Trevegne was supposed to have some Arabian blood in him, which might explain why he had such an affinity with his horses—as if they were soul-mates.

Trevegne's close friends called him Lucifer to his face, and he would only laugh and agree. Sir Jason heard others say that Trevegne wasn't human, and was called the Prince of the Devil because he had beaten unbelievable odds. Few men Sir Jason knew would gamble or wager against him because he never lost. Onlookers to a game would swear that his lordship had mesmerized the cards, that the strange twisted gold ring on his little finger was a magic ring investing him with mystical powers.

He believed that Trevegne had caused his luck to fall under an evil star; and how fitting the name Trevegne rhymed with pain. He felt the ground crumbling under his feet, and nothing he could do seemed to change his luck. Things were not supposed to have gone this way. He even went to see a gypsy when his luck was running in his favor, just to confirm his ascending star. The gypsy caravan was camped outside the city when he rode out to have his fortune told by some foul-smelling, toothless old hag. The thieving gypsy had cost enough, but she told him his future looked bright; that Lady Luck was riding with him. She had predicted a woman like the reflection of fire before his triumph, and then some gibberish about a looming, black cloud and some dire disaster. He didn't believe that shadowy business about death and disaster because he'd been on a winning streak, and he had yet to meet the woman who was a reflection of fire. But there was no triumph either, only misfortunes, and certainly nothing approaching the magnitude of death, although he had to admit that at times like these, he almost welcomed it.

Trevegne. Always having the upper hand, always triumphant. Sir Jason could not recall a time that Trevegne had not succeeded, and won, whether at cards, or with a woman. He had caused many women to lose their hearts in vain to him. Sir Jason knew many ladies of high quality who would have leapt at the chance to share a bed with him, given the opportunity.

He captivated the most sought after young women of London and Europe, but once he knew they would capitulate, he lost interest, and soon became bored with their protestations of love. He remained a bachelor, turning his broad-shouldered back on them all only to leave them wanting him more than ever. Why Trevegne didn't succumb to the beauty and wealth of some of those women, he could not comprehend. If he had been in Trevegne's place he would now have a fortune in his keeping; along with maybe a castle or chateau from marriage with one of those foreign princesses or baronesses.

By God, Trevegne wasn't human to turn his back on that. If only there were some way of defeating Trevegne—without doing an injury to himself, of course, for he had no intention of being challenged by Trevegne, who was a deadly shot with pistols. No, he did not want him to know that he had a mortal enemy in Sir Jason Beckingham; better to let the noble marquis think that the Joker held nothing against him. Ah, revenge would taste as sweet as honey in his mouth should he contrive some punishment for the almighty Trevegne.

A knock at the door broke into Sir Jason's thoughts as he stood gazing blindly out of the window.

"Yes, yes, do enter," Sir Jason commanded, turning around at the interruption.

"If Sir Jason would be so kind as to come downstairs, 'is dinner be prepared and awaitin' 'im," Tibbitts announced heartily.

"Very well. I shall be down shortly, and by the way, has Trevegne dined yet?" he asked Tibbitts in a casually bored tone.

"No, his lordship just went down," Tibbitts replied. Tibbitts gladly made his way down the narrow, rickety stairs, thinking that the brat was right, that buck had a mean look in his eye, all right. Bet he would be a nasty customer to cross. He shivered as he remembered the cold look in Sir Jason's eyes. His eyes roved over the big, rough plank table set for their dinner, and rested on his other guest standing meditatively before the big roaring fire, availing himself of its heat.

Now there was another gentleman that he would hate to displease, Trevegne, who often stopped at his inn when traveling the long distance to his estates in Cornwall. Aye, he had heard some things about his lordship all right, and it boded nothing good to anyone who annoyed him. But then what could you expect from one of those foreigners from that inhospitable Cornish coast—a real no-man's-land from what he had heard.

"Damned drafts," grumbled Tibbitts, as he tried to secure the windows more snugly, unsuccessfully cutting off the cool drafts blowing in to disturb his guests.

"'Ere ye are, Sir Jason." Tibbitts quickly pulled out a chair for Sir Jason, who had just entered the room, resplendent in a pink velvet coat and yellow breeches, orange and yellow striped vest, and white lacy cravat, stiffly starched to stand high, and intricately tied in rows and rows of ruffles.

Trevegne slowly turned from his contemplation of the fire to look at the other guest as he entered, arching a dark brow as he recognized him.

"Evening, Beckingham," Trevegne drawled as he took the seat across from Sir Jason at the table. "Am I to have the…pleasure of your company for this hearty repast we are about to indulge in?"

"Trevegne," Sir Jason acknowledged smoothly, conquering the panic he had felt as he had walked through the door, knowing he would come face to face with the marquis. "It will be my pleasure to share your companionship, m'lord," he said ingratiatingly, while wishing to plunge his dinner knife through Trevegne's black heart.

He gave Trevegne a curious look and asked conversationally, "You're a hell of a way from London on such a beastly night." He neatly speared a small boiled potato into his mouth, and began to cut a piece of the thick beef, rare and juicy, that filled his plate.

"As it happens, I'm on my way to St. Fleur. But you happen to be out in it also."

St. Fleur, the Sainted Flower. Now that was a misnomer for the homeplace of Trevegne, Sir Jason thought in amusement. Why not name it St. Demon in honor of its master? "I'm here for the cockfights at Brown's Mill. Supposed to be some tough ones fighting—heard Rawsley had a real killer sent down from York," he explained, watching Trevegne take a thick slice of ham from the platter put down by the serving maid. Her low cut blouse revealed plump shoulders and breasts as she gave Trevegne an inviting look from her dimpled face, before collecting his empty tankard of ale to be refilled.

"Leaving London? I didn't notice your coach out in the yard," Sir Jason inquired. "Surely you aren't traveling all the way to the coast on horseback in this weather?' he demanded, his face mirroring disbelief.

Sir Jason shifted uncomfortably, wondering what he had said to cause the flicker of amusement on the marquis's face.

"I rode on ahead from London, and my coach and valet will follow at a more leisurely pace. They should be here at the inn tomorrow morning," Trevegne answered uncommunicatively as he finished his meal off with a dish of creamy custard sprinkled with cinnamon.

They continued to talk as the evening passed. Tibbitts poured out two big snifters of his best smuggled-in brandy, and presented them to the two men sitting in the big chairs before the fire, and added another log before leaving the room.

They talked trivialities for a good part of an hour, discussing the merits of cockfighting, and who was the best pugilist in London and whether Napoleon would invade the sacred shores of England, until Sir Jason said suddenly, tired of the banalities: "I would have imagined that you would go up North with your ward, Catherine Bellington." Sir Jason paused for a moment as if in thought "…No, it is not Bellington anymore, is it? I do believe I heard somewhere that she had recently married, but I'm afraid I didn't quite catch the name of the fortunate bridegroom."

"Yes, Catherine is now married, and I am not with her because I rather doubt whether the fortunate bridegroom would enjoy having me along on their honeymoon."

"I had no idea that she was betrothed when she was in London. She is quite young, after all. We had an engagement to attend a theatre party when I was suddenly informed that she would be unable to attend because she had left London. No explanation, or reasons given. Leaving rather abruptly, almost spirited away, one might say," Sir Jason continued persistently, some demon driving him to say something he knew he would regret.

"She was in some danger, not from the spirit world, but rather, from the fortune-grabbing outsiders who latch onto society," Trevegne said bluntly, taking a sip of brandy, his golden eyes narrowed and watchful as he stared at Sir Jason. "I merely removed a temptation from their reach. In reality it was quite unnecessary, because whoever might marry Catherine without my consent, would never set eyes upon her fortune—and that would have defeated his purpose—also he would have had to deal with me—a guardian who takes his title quite seriously."

"And what of Catherine, shouldn't she have been allowed to choose her own husband? What if she had loved some man in London, and he had loved her? It would not be only her fortune that a man would be attracted to. She happens to be a very lovely young woman."

"And what makes you think that Catherine did not choose the man she wanted to marry?" Trevegne asked, surprising a stunned look on Sir Jason's face. "She has been in love with her husband since they were both in the school-room, and both were very anxious to wed. Catherine merely wanted a taste of London life before settling down in the country, and ‘becoming a staid matron,' to quote her own words. Undeniably she is attractive, but I think we all know the names of those who would profit from such an alliance, and of their past records and reputations for trying to latch onto any heiress available. However, I fail to see what the conversation is about, since Catherine was never available, and certainly is not now that she has a husband."

"As you wish, but hypothetically speaking, what if she did not want to marry this man; if she were in love with someone else? Would you have forced her into marriage, even if the man were repugnant to her?"

"Had Catherine not wished to marry, then I would not have forced her to. However, the young man, Beardsley, was acceptable to me and to her, and lives on the neighboring estate, bringing the two estates together nicely into one property. It happens to be fortunate that they are in love, for eventually I would have selected some suitable young man for her future husband, had she not engaged her attentions elsewhere, and with my approval. But why your insistence upon love in the marriage? Few people of my acquaintance—and I imagine yours—have ever married for it; in fact, I seriously doubt if they even consider it, or know what it means," Trevegne remarked.

"You mean that you would never marry for love?" Sir Jason accused the marquis.

"What I mean is that I doubt whether such a thing as love exists. When I marry it will be to acquire an heir; not because I am in love with the woman."

"Then you would marry a woman for what she could provide for you," Beckingham said triumphantly, defending his own reasons for marriage.

"No, not in the sense that I'm quite sure you are implying, Beckingham. I would marry a woman for the one thing she could provide me with that I, by myself, would be incapable of having—an heir to my name and estates. I would be able to provide all else. She could, in fact, come to me as naked as the day she was born. But I should not delude her into thinking that I was in love with her—that is where we differ, I believe. Deception is not my forte."

The marquis raised his glass in a silent toast to the red-faced Sir Jason, who sat uncomfortably across from him, and then turned his attention to the fire, a scowl settling upon his hawk-like features.

Sir Jason continued to stare at the marquis's profile, hatred burning in his pale eyes. He's in a foul mood, Sir Jason speculated, tapping his ringed fingers nervously as he searched his mind for some suitable end for Trevegne. There was always murder…

* * *

Elysia could feel the rush of cold air through her woolen cloak as she pushed open the heavy oak door of the posting inn. Rain poured through the small space the opened door made, as if seeking shelter from the malevolence of the storm outside.

"Pull shut that damned door, or is it your intention to drown us all?" came a threatening voice from a high-backed chair in front of a large, brightly burning fire.

Elysia hastily struggled to close the heavy door against the gale-like wind, but her efforts were to no avail against the tempest raging outside the inn. The door broke from her grasp and swung freely against the wall, allowing another sheet of icy rain to enter the room.

"Hell and damnation! Are you just a fool, or are you trying to freeze us for your own sadistic pleasure? And where is that innkeeper?" the voice threatened again.

A tall form rose from the depths of one of the chairs before the fire, and came menacingly towards Elysia as she stood struggling with the door. She could feel her strength ebbing away. She had been riding on the mail coach since catching it earlier that morning, and she was exhausted.

It had seemed an endless ride across the bleak countryside in the swaying coach; their progress slowed by the muddy roads and torrential rains. She was wedged in between a fat farmer's wife with the odor of the barnyard clinging to her clothing, and a very merry vicar who made his sacraments at the shrine of Bacchus. Between his constant belching, followed by sly apologetic giggles, and the snores of the farmer's wife, she felt she had neared the end of her endurance, but now was confronted by an angry gentleman.

"My dear young woman, would you be so kind as to remove yourself from the doorway so I can secure the door, or would you prefer to stand here in this hellish draft until we both perish from exposure?"

Elysia felt two strong hands grip her elbows as she was propelled aside, and the offending door was swung shut with a slam.

Without awaiting his further displeasure, Elysia moved on into the room toward the area from whence the disagreeable figure had emerged, and stood in front of the crackling fire, stretching out her cold, slender hands to the warmth. The hood of her cape concealed her face from the view of the garishly clad gentleman in the other chair she had observed as she'd entered. A London dandy, no doubt, she thought disparagingly. She heard the other gentleman return to his chair, and without turning her head to acknowledge him, she continued to warm herself gratefully by the fire.

Tibbitts came bustling in, having been detained in the cellars searching for his best rum, when the coach had arrived. He saw the lone figure, cloaked in a dark blue cape, standing before the fire, the steam rising up from the wet material as it dried, and hurried towards her.

"Welcome to Wayfarer's Rest," he beamed as the cloaked figure turned. "May Oi be of service to ye, miss?" he asked in his best innkeeper's voice, thinking her cloak looked a little threadbare, and he wouldn't be getting much of a tip from her.

"Yes, I should like lodging for the night, as I am taking the London coach in the morning," Elysia answered as she lowered her hood from about her head, and the concealing cloak from her shoulders.

Both Sir Jason and Trevegne had been sitting staring into the flames, ignoring the cloaked figure, until the low and husky notes of a very feminine voice startled them from their thoughts. She spoke in a cultured manner that had an unconscious seductiveness about it. They both looked up as she removed her cloak to reveal a perfect profile with a straight nose and a well-proportioned mouth. But their eyes were attracted, like a moth to flame, by her bright red-gold curls glowing richly from the light of the fire.

Sir Jason quickly stood up, bowing slightly as he said in his most charming voice, "If you could possibly forgive my rudeness in allowing you to stand, I would gladly offer you my chair, and introduce myself. Sir Jason Beckingham, at your service."

"Thank you," Elysia replied coolly, taking his chair in front of the fire, "I am quite fatigued and chilled to the bone." She shivered slightly, giving Sir Jason an inquiring look from brilliant green eyes as he continued to stand by her chair, staring down at her in a bemused fashion.

"Tibbitts," Sir Jason commanded, "fetch this young lady something warm to drink, and then dinner. Hurry up, man!" He waved away Tibbitts, who had stood silent, his assessment of his latest guest changing rapidly as he saw her face. She might not be too rich in the pocket from the look of her clothes, but she was gentry, that was for sure, and would be expecting better than he'd planned originally. Especially if the gentleman was paying for it. Besides, she just might be one of those eccentric aristocrats who dressed up like a servant just for the fun of it. Hadn't a pack of young bucks, dressed up as coachmen and driving a mail coach come through his inn just last week? They drank all night long, and then nearly overturned the coach with its passengers the following morning before it had even gone halfway down the road. No, he was taking no chances with this one. He'd treat her proper.

Sir Jason had pulled up another chair for himself, and was about to sit down when he stopped, apparently aghast. "How remiss of me," he groaned as if filled with remorse, "what will you think of my manners? Allow me to introduce," he apologized as he indicated the man who had acted so abominably to Elysia, and who had been sitting quietly watching throughout their exchange, "Alexander Trevegne, Marquis of St. Fleur, and you are Miss…?"

"Miss Elysia Demarice," she extended her hand with its long tapering fingers to Sir Jason, and then to Trevegne, who had risen lazily to his feet at the introduction.

"Miss Demarice," he drawled, taking her hand and bowing elegantly over it. Elysia suddenly pulled her hand free, feeling a shock run through her at the touch of his strong fingers. They could be cruel hands, she thought, as she gazed hypnotically at the strange gold ring on his little finger that reflected the gold of his eyes—odd eyes under heavy lids, that seemed to penetrate her mind, reading her innermost thoughts.

"'Ere you are Miss, a nice 'ot toddy to warm ye up nicely," Tibbitts interrupted, breaking the spell that seemed to hold Elysia. He put the steaming mug into Elysia's hands and looked around, a frown on his florid face. "'Aven't ye any baggage, Miss?" he asked disapprovingly. "No maid?"

"No, I have not, with the exception of that straw bag," Elysia said indicating it sitting forlornly by itself near the door. "I'm traveling light," she added, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she thought of all her earthly possessions tucked neatly away in that bag. Tibbitts shrugged, and went out carrying her bag with him.

"You are traveling so lightly, Miss Demarice, and in such foul weather," the marquis said softly, "that one is tempted to wonder why? You aren't by any chance, one of these tiresome females running away from home to elope, a pack of hysterical relations in hot pursuit? I shudder at the thought of being confronted here in the inn and accused of being an accomplice—or even the prospective groom, heaven forbid," he said derisively, taking a pinch of snuff.

"That, m'lord, happens to be my private business, and of concern only to myself," Elysia answered shortly, "but, if it will set you at rest, then I will reassure you that I am not fleeing my home to elope. I should indeed hate to cause you any nervousness on that account, nor could I imagine a more unlikely candidate as the prospective groom," Elysia added. She felt dismayed at how close he had come to the truth, as two spots of bright color stained her high cheekbones.

Trevegne looked at her with narrowed eyes that had a gleam in them as Elysia stared back defiantly. Finally, a crooked smile appeared on his harsh face.

"Demarice? That name sounds familiar." Sir Jason was looking at Elysia as if trying to recognize something about her face which alluded him, when a look of revelation cleared it. "Charles Demarice. That's it," he recalled. "He's your father, isn't he? But of course, he would have to be with those eyes of yours. You know he's nicknamed Cat Demarice because his eyes slant upwards just like a cat's—and by God, so do yours. It's like looking at a cat."

Elysia blushed with embarrassment as both men stared openly at her face, and then she felt the marquis's eyes slowly appraising the rest of her appearance, making her feel plain and dowdy in comparison to his elegant coat of satin and velvet, and his spotlessly clean linen. She could see the puzzlement in their eyes; they must be wondering what Charles Demarice's daughter was doing dressed in rags.

"Where is he? I haven't seen him in London in years. Almost forgotten all about him, been so long," Sir Jason asked curiously.

"My father died over two years ago, as did my mother. They were both killed when their phaeton overturned," Elysia said quietly, a shadow of grief entering her eyes, darkening them as she remembered her agony when given the news.

"I say, I'm awfully sorry," Sir Jason apologized contritely. "I hadn't the faintest idea of your loss. Please accept my condolences on so great a misfortune."

"I sometimes think that it was kinder that they died together, as they did, for I doubt whether they could have survived without each other, so much in love were they."

"How extraordinary. One seldom finds such devotion between man and wife; in fact, Trevegne here, doesn't even believe in love—especially in marriage. Am I not correct, my lord?" Sir Jason asked the bored-looking marquis pointedly.

"Quite correct. Love exists only in the minds of impoverished poets catering to the fantasies of adolescents and old maids," Trevegne answered sarcastically.

"You show your ignorance of the finer things with a statement like that, m'lord—but then I would expect little else from a London gentleman," Elysia refuted angrily.

"Really, and I suppose you have experienced this state of bliss to be envied by mortals and gods alike?" he taunted.

"No, I have not, but—"

"Then you know nothing about it, or if I am not mistaken—passion either. You know only what you have seen, or read about. I find most women fit into two categories; either they are romantic sentimentalists, with tears for every occasion, or mercenary opportunists, out to get what they can," Trevegne looked at Elysia questioningly. "Now which are you, I wonder." His lips curled slightly as he added to the insult. "But with your looks, you shouldn't have any trouble having your every little wish granted by some poor besotted fool."

"I am neither, my lord," Elysia replied clearly and coldly, looking directly into the marquis's golden eyes. "I am a realist. One who knows that most men are intent on their own selfish desires, without a thought as to the feelings of others around them—especially, if one is unfortunate enough to be the wife of one of those overgrown schoolboys," Elysia said contemptuously, warming to her subject as she continued, her small, rounded chin thrust forward arrogantly. "I indeed pity your wife, my lord, if that is the opinion you hold of the female sex. But then, as I stated once before, I would expect little else from one of your set. The London gentleman indeed. Your knavery is only exceeded by your narcissism, and I for one think women far better off without your egotistical presence and should hold your whole sex in contempt."

Elysia stopped breathlessly, scandalized by her own behavior, and a trifle confused by her diatribe to the rather astonished-looking marquis. He almost looked disconcerted, something she doubted he ever was. But she refused to apologize for only defending herself from his insults.

"Touché," Sir Jason said amusedly, having enjoyed the exchange immensely. He clapped his hands in appreciation, causing a blush to appear on Elysia's cheeks in mortification. "Well, well, you certainly gave the marquis a dressing down, which is something that no one has ever done I'll wager, eh, my lord?" Sir Jason smiled. "You will forgive me, Miss Demarice, for being one of that odious sex you so despise, and allow me to continue to enjoy your delightful company," Sir Jason pleaded, a twinkle softening his blue eyes. "Did you ever meet Miss Demarice's parents, Trevegne?" he asked conversationally, turning to the marquis as the tension died down.

"I had the pleasure of meeting your parents once or twice, if memory serves me correctly. They very seldom came to London, I believe." Trevegne paused. "But I can remember your mother vividly. You have the same color hair she had."

The marquis stared rudely at her, making Elysia feel that it was a crime to have her color hair. She fingered a bright curl lovingly, and thought that she couldn't care less if that odious man approved of her or not.

She thankfully excused herself as Tibbitts brought in her dinner and placed it down on the large table. Elysia sat down and hungrily began to eat the plump pigeon pie, and slice of beef and fresh green peas, sweet and tasty, set before her. It seemed a feast to her, so used was she to the plain unappetizing meals at Aunt Agatha's.

Aunt Agatha. She wondered what she was doing right now. Probably cursing her with every breath in her thin, bony body, Elysia thought wryly. But her amusement faded as she remembered the strength of those thin fingers as they had shaken her shoulder in a merciless grip, and of the punishment Agatha would enjoy giving her should she ever find her.

She stared down at the piping hot pigeon pie, nervously biting her lip as she wondered if she had done the right thing. If she could possibly succeed in finding a job in London, if…

"Isn't it good?" an amused voice asked, and Elysia glanced up into the smiling face of Sir Jason. She supposed he really was quite nice, in spite of his airs and brightly colored clothes. As much as she detested the arrogant marquis, she had to admit that he was dressed more to her liking in a fawn-colored riding coat, and pale buckskins that accentuated his muscular thighs above his highly-polished black Hessian boots. No one could mistake him for a dandy she thought. His clothes and his rude manner belied that.

"Mmmm, it's quite delicious," Elysia said breathing deeply, "and I know I'm not being very ladylike eating all of it, but I'm just famished."

Sir Jason sat staring at Elysia as if seeing a ghost, or vision of something extraordinary, a meditative look in his light-blue eyes.

"Surely you are not alone in the world, now that your parents are dead?" Sir Jason asked. "You must have other relatives with whom you've been staying and who would be upset to have you traveling alone?"

"Yes, I have relatives," Elysia answered noncommittally as she finished off the pie, beginning to wish Sir Jason was not quite so friendly and inquisitive, for the less said about Aunt Agatha the better. But Sir Jason seemed satisfied by her answers, and stood up excusing himself.

"My dear Miss Demarice, tonight a certain prophesy told to me by a gypsy has come true, and I am extremely grateful to you."

Elysia smiled at his somewhat cryptic remark, not understanding him at all, but too tired to question him. She rose quietly from the table after finishing her dinner, and left the room, not disturbing the two gentlemen as they sat at a smaller table absorbed in their game of cards. As Elysia climbed up the rough wooden stairs, she heard the door at the entrance of the inn open. Glancing back over her shoulder she saw a rotund gentleman enter, throwing his rain-splattered coat down upon a narrow bench set against the wall as he yelled for the innkeeper, then made his way over to where the other two gentlemen were sitting.

Elysia went on down the dark hall, past several doors to her own, where Tibbitts had told her he had put her bag, and entered, closing the door softly behind her. She felt so tired, so drained of all emotion as she removed her dress, pulled on her nightdress, and sank gratefully down on the bed.

She hadn't planned to stay overnight at an inn, thinking the mail coach would travel straight to London. She took out her precious horde of money, which was quickly diminishing in size. She'd had to pay close to five pence a mile, plus tips to the coachman and guard who rode along to guard the mail from highwaymen. She would have to pay for her meal and room, and the rest of the journey tomorrow. She had hoped her money would last until she reached London, but doubted now that she would even have enough to rent a room until acquiring a position. Well, she would have to worry about that when she got there.

Elysia was about to climb into bed when there was a knock on the door, and opening it a crack she saw Tibbitts standing there with a small mug of some steaming liquid in his hands.

"Compliments of the gentleman, Sir Jason, miss," he said handing it to her. "To 'elp ye keep warm and get a good night's sleep, 'e says to tell ye. "

"Thank you," Elysia murmured accepting the hot drink gratefully, "and will you please extend my warmest ‘thank you' to Sir Jason."

She closed the door and, warming her hands on the mug, thought that maybe she had been hasty. Maybe all London gentlemen were not rogues to be feared. Elysia drank down all of the delicious rum-flavored brew, feeling it spread throughout her chilled body. She felt a little fuzzy as she got into bed and slipped under the covers. It must be the rum, she thought foggily. She just wasn't used to spirits; but she did feel so warm and nice now. Elysia snuggled down further into the bed, and drifted off into a deep sleep.