Chapter One

G eorge's hired chaise lost a wheel some three miles from the next posting inn. Since the sky was already beginning to darken with both storm clouds and dusk, he chose not to shelter in the wrecked carriage, but to take his bag and walk on to the inn, from where he would send help back to the postilions and the horses.

Tired as he was, George enjoyed the walk. Since deciding to come home from his travels, he seemed to have spent far too much of his time cooped up in carriages, and his body appreciated the opportunity to stretch. However, he doubted he would appreciate the soaking once the storm clouds broke, so he strode on at a cracking pace.

Even so, he could hear thunder rumbling away in the distance, and the rain came on before he could have been more than halfway there.

The posting inn was on the edge of a village. It was not hard to find in the dark, since the racket of voices, music, and laughter penetrated the battering of the rain on his hat, and even the louder rumbles of thunder.

The inn was so packed that at first no one noticed his quiet entrance. The taproom seemed to have overflowed into the coffee room. A fiddler was scraping away in one corner. A few young women were screaming with laughter from the laps of young gentlemen. A cockfight appeared to be taking place in the middle of the room, surrounded by raucous gentlemen yelling encouragement to the birds and waving money around. In fact, for such a large crowd, it seemed to have a disproportionate number of gentlemen to more ordinary country folk and travelers of other classes.

George did not care for crowds, particularly of the unexpected and disorganized variety. The flying feathers and blood made him feel sick. He had to hold on to his purpose quite hard to force himself to stay. He took off his hat, gripping it far too hard. The sea of noise was overwhelming enough to drown him.

From the depths of the heaving masses, a harassed-looking man in an apron, a feather clinging to his hair, squeezed through to him.

"Evening, sir. Can I help you?"

"My post-chaise lost a wheel three miles back on the Dover Road. The postillions need help to get the horses and the vehicle to the inn. I require a room for the night and dinner."

If anything, the innkeeper looked even more harassed. "I'll send a couple of ostlers to do what they can. Your postillions can bed down in the stables with the grooms. But as for a private bedchamber, sir, I couldn't do it if my life depended on it." He flapped one hand around the chaos. "There's a prizefight in the neighborhood tomorrow, and it's brought all the quality down from London and God knows where else. To say nothing of the hordes of lesser men. I like business as much as the next innkeeper, but this is ridiculous! My wife will be after blood— more blood, and probably mine!—when she finds they're holding cockfights in here…"

It was a long time since anything had panicked George, but he could feel it rising up from his toes now.

"When will they go to bed?"

"Half of them ain't got beds," the innkeeper said. "They'll have to sleep here, which I admit I wouldn't care for myself."

"Neither would I," George said, desperation clamoring. "Can you offer me nothing else? Discomfort I will live with, but it has to be private."

"I got nothing like that, sir. Even my own servants are bunking in together, and my whole family's in one room. I can ask if anyone will give up their chamber for a gentleman, but I tell you now, I wouldn't hold my breath." Perhaps he read the panic in George's face, for he turned hastily to the nearest table. "Here, anyone like to give this poor, soaked gentleman their bed and sleep down here?"

"Not me, I'm going home to my Jenny," rumbled a countryman.

A traveler of indeterminate rank shook his head furiously. "Sorry, friend, not for the king himself! I was here first, and here I stay."

"Perhaps there is another hostelry in the area?" George said, trying to think through the noise.

"Not round here, no," the innkeeper said. "And to be honest, I doubt anyone in the village will open their doors to a stranger. But you're welcome to kip down here for nothing—dinner and breakfast half price."

"I'd rather sleep outside in the rain." It was truth, if vaguely insulting to the innkeeper, so George hoped he hadn't said it aloud.

"Oh, I don't know," the countryman said with a grin George didn't quite like. "There's Hazel House. Loads of space up there. I'm sure the widow'd be happy to look after a gentleman."

"Ain't no call for that, Jack," the innkeeper scolded, though George had no idea why.

"What?" Jack demanded innocently.

George didn't care. "A lodging house? Where do I find it?"

"Straight through the village and take the right fork," Jack said helpfully. A man on his other side grinned and nudged him. George saw it but was too upset to analyze the meaning.

"Good half-hour's walk or more, though," the innkeeper warned, glaring at Jack and his friend. "You'll get soaked in this weather. If the lightning doesn't get you. And she'll likely not let you stay, anyway."

But George, eager to be away from the inn, was already making for the door, calling over his shoulder, "You won't forget to send someone to help with the post-chaise and horses?"

"No, it's in hand, sir, but…"

George waited for no more. He almost crashed through the inn's front door in his haste to leave. For an instant, the pleasure of having the barrier of stone and wood between him and the noise and the sea of raucous strangers was intense. Rain pattered on his head. He put his hat back on, and water ran off the brim and down the back of his neck. He shivered and set off through the village.

The thunder rumbled closer. The rain was about to get heavier.

*

Thunder crashed just as Francesca parted the curtains to let Mark see out the window. The boy jumped with excitement and climbed on to the window seat to peer into the darkness.

"I can't see anything!" he said, disappointed, while the thunderclap rumbled away into silence. "Just rain on the glass."

"In a few moments, you'll probably see some lightning in the sky, like a flash, and then you have to count until the thunder sounds to tell how far away the storm is." Francesca tried to keep her voice calm, since she didn't want to communicate her own foolish fear of thunderstorms to her son. What she really wanted to do was hide them both under a thick blanket and stick her fingers in her ears.

But she forced herself to sit on the window seat while Mark stood beside her, avidly waiting. It wasn't long. Lightning flashed, sudden and ominous, illuminating the figure of a man near the window.

Francesca gasped and leapt up, whisking Mark off the seat.

"Did you see the man?" he asked, wriggling excitedly. "Was it Papa?"

The clatter of thunder prevented her having to answer. Of course it was not Papa. Papa has been dead for more than two years, half of your life . She never wanted him to forget his father, but nor did she want him to imagine him in every shadow or stranger lurking in the garden…

Why was a stranger in the garden in the midst of a storm? On foot, shoulders hunched against the battering rain, moving quickly and purposefully…

The thunder quietened again into a much closer, insistent knocking.

Her breath caught. Mark realized it at the same time.

"Someone's at the door!" He broke free of her, rushing across the room. "It is Papa!"

"Marco, it isn't." The words stuck in her throat as she started after him.

Lightning flashed again, followed by an almost immediate bang of thunder that made her jump almost out of her skin. By the time she could move, Mark was out of the room. She hurried after him into the hall, snatching up the nearest candlestick on her way.

At once, a blast of cold air hit her, along with the too-loud pelting of the rain on the ground outside. The candles flickered crazily.

In front of Mark's tiny figure, the front door stood open and the dark, threatening figure of a man stepped into the house. He slammed the door behind him.

Francesca flew forward to grasp Mark by the shoulder. Just touching him felt like a massive relief, but she still had the stranger to deal with. He turned, dripping, to face her. She raised the candle higher to glare at him.

He was a stranger, too tall, too masculine, and far too much in her house. He stood still, a large, wet bag and beaver hat grasped in one hand, gazing from Mark to her. Rain streamed off the capes of his greatcoat like a small waterfall. In the candlelight, the hair at his temples glinted silver. His face was unreadable but did not appear immediately threatening.

"You're not Papa," Mark said.

"No, I'm not anyone's papa," the man agreed. His voice was a little hoarse, perhaps from the weather, or from surprise, and yet gave an impression of vagueness. But his eyes, lifting to Francesca's once more, were remarkably clear and direct.

"You have no business here," Francesca said icily. Where the devil was Martin? Not that he would strike fear into anyone's heart.

"No. Forgive me," the stranger said. At least he sounded like a gentleman. "The boy let me in, and I'm afraid I was so wet I didn't wait for further invitation."

Words stuck in her throat. Should she betray vulnerability by saying, My son and I are alone, apart from two ancient servants, so you have to go ? Or simply, rudely, command him to leave?

One should not send a dog out in such weather. And the stranger was already soaked to the skin.

"You cannot stay here," she said, more annoyed with the situation than with him.

Besides, even as she said the words, she realized how powerless she was to enforce them. He was bigger, stronger, and all of her haughtiness could not compensate for the fact that behind her stood only a doddery elderly couple. And even they must be asleep.

An expression of resignation crossed the man's face. He inclined his head, picked up his sodden bag from the floor where he had dropped it, and turned to the front door, reaching for the latch. Water spilled off his hair, down his neck, over his gloves. He was shivering with cold.

"He could be Papa," Mark said doubtfully.

He could not, of course, and he wasn't. But Percival had been a traveler in his time, too, caught in many a storm. And this man clearly was about to go as she bade him.

"Wait," she said, before she could think, let alone talk herself out of it. "Why did you come here ?"

"They said in the village you might have room. The inn is packed to the gunnels, and I could not face spending the night in the coffee room with hordes of strange drunks."

She swallowed, keeping her gaze on his face and hoping she wasn't about to make the worst mistake of her life. "Mark, go and fetch Martin. He won't have heard the door for the noise of the thunder."

Mark grinned and ran off. He was too starved of company not to welcome a stranger. There was guilt in that, but mostly she was concerned with the traveler.

She glanced at his sodden bag. At least it appeared to be made of leather. "Have you dry clothes in there?"

"I hope so."

"If they are damp, Martin will bring you something of my husband's. He will show you to a room to change, and then you had better come to the drawing room. There is at least a fire there. Martin will show you the way," she added, to make sure he understood he would not be left alone to wander the house.

"Thank you." He slid his hand off the latch with unmistakable relief.

"Give me your hat and your coat," she commanded.

Obediently, he peeled them off, but hung them on the empty hooks on the coat stand instead.

Mark bounced back through the baize door with Martin wheezing behind him. They had come so quickly that she knew Martin must already have been halfway up the stairs when Mark found him.

"Martin, be so good as to show this gentleman to the spare room. Lend him anything of Mr. Hazel's that he might need. Then bring him to the drawing room."

"Yes, ma'am," Martin replied, scowling at her, though whether because of the effort required or her admission of a strange man to the house, she could not tell.

The stranger meekly followed the old man upstairs, carrying his own bag. Thunder rumbled into the distance.

Francesca took the dripping beaver hat from its hook and passed it to Mark before lifting the overcoat, heavy with moisture. "We'll take these to the kitchen to dry," she said, and Mark happily followed her back down again.

There, she asked Ada to make tea while she hung the overcoat close to the kitchen stove. Hastily, she made a few sandwiches under Ada Martin's glower and carried the tray up to the drawing room herself.

She was only just in time. She heard Martin's slow tread on the stairs, and then a murmur of voices before quick, sure footsteps across the hall floor. A knock sounded on the drawing room door.

"Come in!" Mark called cheerfully.

The stranger entered with a somehow endearing lack of certainty. Too much arrogance, or even self-confidence, would have appalled her just then and probably sent her from the room, dragging Mark in her wake. But despite the man's gentlemanly posture and clearly excellent clothing, his expression was apologetic and wary.

In fact, it came to her that he was anxious.

"Forgive me. I was mistaken," he said.

His hasty speech calmed her further. "Sit down and tell me how, over tea. Take the chair nearest the fire—you must be chilled to the bone. Do you like your tea with cream and sugar?"

"Just sugar, thank you." He took the cup from her with a nod that was almost a bow and took himself off to the opposite chair. Mark gazed at him with an interest that did not appear to disconcert him—at least not any further.

The stranger said, "I thought from the way the men spoke at the inn that this was some kind of rooming house. It is clearly no such thing. I can only beg your pardon for disturbing you. Is it improper for me to stay here?"

Francesca sighed. "I think you were misled rather than mistaken, sir."

His eyebrows flew up. "Deliberately? Why?"

"I am foreign. I have no husband to protect me, and they choose to think the worst. I believe you were not meant to believe me the landlady of a rooming house, but rather a merry widow who welcomes the company of single gentlemen."

The stranger blushed, which enchanted her.

"I am glad the possibility did not cross your mind," she said frankly. "Or I really would throw you out in the storm."

"Perhaps you should anyway. It is already lessening, and if you are alone here apart from servants…"

Mark laughed. "Don't be silly. She has me!"

"That must be a great comfort to her," the stranger said gravely.

"What's your name?" Mark asked him. "I'm Mark, though Mama calls me Marco sometimes."

"George." The stranger set his cup and saucer on the table beside him and delved into his pocket. Holding a visiting card between his fingers, he leaned over to offer it to Francesca. "I meant to give you this when I came in."

Sir Arthur Astley, she read. Denholm Hall, St. Bride's, Lincolnshire .

Slowly, she lifted her gaze from the card to his face. "You just told my son your name is George."

"George is my middle name. My friends use it. But I am officially Sir Arthur."

This time it was she who blushed, at being over suspicious. "Francesca Hazel," she murmured, and inhaled too quickly as a clap of thunder sounded closer once more. At least she did not jump or spill her tea. Sir Arthur's brows twitched as though he had noticed her reaction, but he said nothing.

"My papa is Percival Hazel," Mark informed him proudly. "He was a great violinist and composer, but he died."

"I'm very sorry," Sir Arthur said sincerely, although in truth, Mark hadn't sounded remotely sad. He didn't, as a rule. "I have heard of him, of course."

"Perhaps you heard him play?" Francesca said.

"Sadly not." He seemed to feel something more was called for, because he added, "I have been away a good deal."

"Abroad?" Francesca asked, hoping he had been to Italy.

"Some of the time."

"Of course it was difficult for him to play in Europe during the war, but with the peace of 1814, he played in Paris and Vienna, and all over Italy. But he felt obliged to take us home when Bonaparte escaped."

"I did not go abroad until 1815," Sir Arthur said. "Just before Waterloo."

Curious timing. She did not say so aloud.

"I am returning home from Africa," he offered.

Her eyes widened. "What took you there?"

"Curiosity. I went to Egypt, originally, to see the tombs. I would have stayed longer, but I have responsibilities at home."

"Of course. Have a sandwich. Tell me about Egypt."

He began a little hesitantly, as if unsure what, if anything, she actually wanted to hear, but after she asked a couple of questions, and Mark expressed amazement, his natural enthusiasm seemed to carry him away. He spoke well, with considerable knowledge, a deep understanding, and occasional subtle humor that she almost missed. She found herself transported under the burning sun, among people of wildly different customs and beliefs, swept back into a past that was both fascinating and frightening.

Because she was so spellbound, it was some time before she noticed that Mark had apparently lost interest. He had wandered off to the sofa nearer the window and was sitting smiling, as though at something or someone she could not see.

Her stomach gave one of its uneasy twinges.

Mark laughed. "No, I like him. He's funny."

Sir Arthur stopped talking and glanced at Marco, then back to Francesca, who smiled faintly.

"He's playing," she said, hoping it was true.

Mark slid off the sofa and ran up to Sir Arthur. Taking him by the hand, he tugged. "Come and meet my papa!"