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The Anonymous Miss Addams
Kasey Michaels
He was London's most eligible–and outrageous–bachelor. But though Pierre Standish didn't give a whit for polite society, he could not deny his father's latest request.To prove himself a true gentleman, Pierre had to perform a random good deed. The task proved unimaginatively easy when, en route to London, Pierre came upon a damsel lying in the road. Her clothes bespoke her an urchin, but although his anonymous Miss Addams had lost her memory, Pierre was certain she was a well-bred lady. A lady whose innocence and plight might just ensnare the ton's most unattainable rogue.



THE PLAN BEGINS TO FORM…
Caroline Addams, not knowing that she had been treated by Pierre to a greater degree of friendliness than almost every other female in England, was also without knowledge of Pierre’s reputation. She only knew that he was extremely handsome, curiously reticent and maddeningly intriguing.
Like many of her sex, she wished she could somehow peel away the world-weary facade Pierre wore and get to know something of the real man that lay beneath the polished exterior. She wanted to see him react—whether in anger or passion she did not know. He was so cool, so controlled, so very perfect. His perfection, she had found, was the most annoying thing about him, and she longed to see him ruffled, on edge.
“Human,” she said aloud, walking into the drawing room. “That’s what I want to see. Some sort of human emotion. I want to see him off his stride. And I want to be the one who causes his dishevelment.”
Kasey Michaels is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixty books. She has won the Romance Writers of America RITA Award and the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for her historical romances set in the Regency era, and also writes contemporary romances for Silhouette and Harlequin Books.

The Anonymous Miss Addams
Kasey Michaels


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
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, do sit down, Pierre,” a man’s voice requested wearily. “It’s most fatiguing watching you prowl about the place like some petulant caged panther. I say panther because they are black, you know. Must you always wear that funereal color? It’s really depressing. You remind me of an ink blot, marring the pristine perfection of my lovely blue and white copybook. It’s jarring; upon my soul, it is. Look at me, for instance. This new green coat of mine is subdued, yet it whispers of life, of hope, of the glorious promise of spring. You look like the dead of winter—a very long, depressingly hard winter.”
Pierre ceased pacing to look at his father, who was sitting at his ease, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, his long fingers spread wide apart and steepled as he gazed up at his son. “Ah,” André Standish said, his handsome face lighting as he smiled. “I do believe I have succeeded in gaining your attention. How wonderful. I shall have to find some small way in which to reward myself. Perhaps a new pony for my stables? But to get back to the point. You have been here for three days, my son, visiting your poor, widowed father in his loneliness—a full two days longer than any of your infrequent visits to me in the past five years, seven months, and six days. I think we can safely assume the formalities have been dutifully observed. Do you not believe it is time for you to get to the point?”
Pierre looked at his father and saw himself as he would appear in thirty years. The man had once been as dark as he, although now his hair was nearly all silver, but his black eyes still flashed brightly in his lean, deeply tanned face. His body was still firmly muscled, thanks to an active, sporting life, and he had not given one inch to his advancing years. Pierre smiled, for he could do a lot worse than follow in his father’s footsteps.
“What makes you think there is anything to discuss?” Pierre asked, lowering himself into the chair facing his father. “Perhaps you are entering into your dotage and are only imagining things. Have you entertained that possibility, Father?”
André regarded him levelly. “I would rather instead reflect on the grave injustice I have done you by not beating you more often during your youth,” he answered cheerfully. “You may be the scourge of London society, Pierre, if the papers and my correspondence are to be believed, but you are naught but a babe in arms when it comes to trying to fence with me, your sire and one time mentor. Now, if you have been unable to discover a way onto the subject, may I suggest that you begin by telling me all about the funeral of that dastardly fellow, Quennel Quinton? After all, he’s been below ground feeding the worms for more than three months.”
Only by the slight lifting of one finely sculpted eyebrow did Pierre Standish acknowledge that his father had surprised him by landing a flush hit. “Very good, Father,” he complimented smoothly. “My congratulations to your network of spies. Perhaps you’d like to elaborate and tell me what I’m about to say next?”
André sighed and allowed his fingers to intertwine, lightly laying his chin on his clasped hands. “Must I, Pierre? It’s all so mundane. Oh, very well. We could start with the box, I suppose.”
Now Pierre couldn’t contain his surprise. His eyes widened, and he leaned forward in his chair, gripping the armrests. “You know?” he questioned dumbly, as nothing more profound came to his lips.
André rose to go over to the drinks cabinet—an elegant piece containing several delicately carved shelves and holding a generous supply of assorted spirits—and took his time debating over just which crystal decanter held exactly the proper drink for the moment. “Yes,” he said consideringly, finally selecting a deep burgundy and pouring generous amounts into two glasses, “I rather think this will do.” Returning to his chair, he held out one glass to his son. “Here you go, Pierre. Red with meat—and confession. Rather apt, don’t you think? And close your mouth, if you please. It’s decidedly off-putting.”
Pierre took the glass, automatically raising it to his lips, then shook his head as he watched André gracefully lower his body once more into the chair. “Much as I know you abhor hearing someone tell you what you already know, Father, I must say this out loud so that I can believe it. You knew Quennel Quinton was blackmailing Anton Follet? You knew the box left to me in Quinton’s will was full of love letters Follet had written to—had written to—”
“My wife,” André finished neatly. “Dearest Eleanore, your mother, to mimic you and likewise point out the obvious. Yes, of course I knew. Quinton first tried to blackmail me with those silly letters, but I convinced him of the futility of that particular course and suggested he apply to Follet instead. Follet’s wife holds the purse strings, you understand. I imagine the poor fellow was put through hoops these past half-dozen years, sniffing about everywhere for the money to keep Quinton quiet. Why, the economies he must have been forced to endure! I do seem to remember hearing something about the man having to sell up most of his hunting stock at Tatt’s. But then, one must pay the piper if one is going to commit things to paper. You’ll remember, Pierre, that I always warned you against just that sort of foolishness.”
It was taking some time for his father’s words to sink in to Pierre’s brain, and even then he missed the significance of the words “silly letters.” “Quinton approached me within two months of arriving here after being invalided home from Spain, to learn that Mother had died. He waved the letters in front of me as he smiled—quite gleefully, I recall—and told me of Mother’s romantic indiscretion, then said I would have to pay for his silence.”
“Wasn’t very smart, this man Quinton, was he? I’m astounded that he stayed above ground as long as he did.”
Pierre laughed, a short, dissatisfied chuckle. “No, he was not very smart. I entertained the notion of ridding the world of the man, but rejected the idea as needlessly exertive. As you said, Father, I am your student, as well as adverse to being blackmailed. In the end, I, too, suggested he apply to Follet for funds, with the stipulation that he leave me the letters in his will so that I might continue the blackmail myself. After all, Mother was dead. I needed to take my revenge somewhere.” Pierre allowed his gaze to shift toward the carpet. “I didn’t go through with my intention, I must admit, but it seemed a reasonably workable idea at the time. I was rather overset.”
“Oh, Pierre, let’s not dress the matter up in fine linen. You were devastated! Otherwise, you would have repeatedly beaten Quinton about the head until he gave the damning letters over to you. You felt betrayed, by your mother and then by me, whom you felt must have been a dismal failure as a husband if my wife had been forced to seek love elsewhere. You stormed off to London in a childish snit and have returned here only sporadically ever since, duty calls to your aging father. Isn’t that right, Pierre?”
Suddenly Pierre was angry. Very angry. He jumped up from his chair and stalked over to the window, to look out over the perfectly manicured gardens. “What did you expect me to do? Confront you? I had left here to fight on the Continent believing that you and Mother were the perfect couple. It certainly was the impression you gave. Then, shortly after I returned home, injured and weary, I learned that my sainted mother had not only died, but left behind her a legacy of shame and disgrace. I couldn’t in good conscience intrude on your grief by telling you about it, yet at the same time I was angry with you for forcing her to indulge herself with someone like Follet. I had to get away before I exploded.”
It was quiet in the room for a few minutes, during which time the Standish butler entered and looked to his master for instructions concerning the serving of the evening meal, only to be waved closer so that he could hear a short, whispered instruction.
André Standish allowed his son time to compose himself, then walked over to place a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “Have you read Follet’s searing love missives, my son, now that they are at last in your possession?” he asked, his voice light. “Or have you thought to tell me about them at last and then burn them, unread, like some brainless ninny out of a very bad pennypress novel?”
“No, I hadn’t thought of burning them,” Pierre answered, slowly gaining control of himself. He felt off balance, a feeling to which he was unaccustomed, and he disliked the sensation immensely. In London he was respected, even feared. Here, he was once again his father’s son, standing in awe of the master. “Nor have I read them. I couldn’t bring myself that low. To be truthful, I don’t know what I plan to do with them. That’s why I’m here—prowling about your drawing room like a panther. What I don’t know is what you hope to gain by dragging this old scandal out for an airing.”
“Here you are, sir.”
André turned to take the wooden box from the butler. “Thank you, Hartley. You are obedience itself. You may retire now. See that we are not disturbed.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,” the butler agreed, backing from the room, closing the double doors behind him as he went.
Pierre turned his head to see the offending box, then once more directed his gaze toward the gardens. “Taken to burgling my rooms, have you, Father? I am discovering new, disturbing things about you with each passing moment. I don’t want to hear those letters read, if that’s what you have in mind. How could you read them and still retain any feeling for Mother?”
“Quite easily, I imagine,” André replied, opening the box and picking up at random one of the dozen or so letters. “I loved Eleanore very much, Pierre, and miss her more with each passing day. Oh, my, there seems to be the smell of old perfume about these letters. Follet was always the fop, as I remember. No wonder that servant I turned off for attempting to steal some of your dear mother’s possessions took them posthaste to Quinton. Let’s see, I think I can make out this dreadful chicken scrawl. Oh, the spelling! It’s ludicrous! I’m afraid I must deny your request and read this one aloud. Prepare yourself, my son.”
André made a short business of clearing his throat and then began to read. “‘My dearest dimpled darling, light of my deepest heart.’” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, that is dreadful, isn’t it? I can barely read on but, for your sake, Pierre, I shall persevere. ‘I sat awake till the wee morning hours just before dawn, my celestial love, thinking of you and our hasty, beatific meeting in the enchanted gardens last night. How I long to tell you all that is in my love-besieged heart, all the wonder and glory that I feel for you, but there seems no way we can escape for long your dastardly husband, André.’ Oh, that is good,” André stopped to comment. “He used my name—just in case it had slipped your mother’s mind, I suppose. No wonder Eleanore kept the letters; they’re better than a night at Covent Garden.”
“That is sufficient, thank you. You may stop there,” Pierre cut in, disgusted with his father’s levity. “Isn’t it enough that she had an affair with the man? Must you read his reminiscences of it?”
“An affair?” André repeated, his voice suddenly very cold, very hard. “You insolent pup! How dare you! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve read? The man was—is—an ass. A total ass! If his harridan of a wife hadn’t hauled him off to Ireland, you would have discovered that for yourself. Do you really mean to stand there and tell me you still believe someone as wonderful, as intelligent as your mother would have given the idiot who wrote this drivel so much as the time of day? Why do you think I didn’t kill Quinton when he first approached me? I laughed him out of the house!”
Pierre slowly turned away from the window to look piercingly at his father. “Are you telling me Follet’s love was all one-sided?”
André smiled. “Ah, and to think for a moment there I was beginning to believe you were slow. Yes, Pierre, Follet’s all-consuming passion for your mother was very much one-sided. To be perfectly frank, as I remember it, Eleanore considered him to be a toad. A particularly slimy toad.” He tipped his head to one side, as if reliving some private memory. “I readily recall one evening—Follet was skipping about our first-floor balcony at the London town house reciting some terrible love poem he had written to her pert nose, or some such nonsense, and causing no end of racket—until your mother cut him off by dousing him with a pitcher of cold water.”
Pierre smiled wanly, then returned to the drinks table to refill his glass. “All this time, wasted.” He turned to his father. “If you knew what I was thinking all these years—and how you knew I shall not be so silly as to ask, considering that you know everything—why didn’t you tell me? All these long years I’ve been warring with myself, trying to banish my love for my mother, trying to understand how human beings can be so fickle, so devious. And you knew—you knew!”
André put his arm around his son. “I must confess, I have known the whole truth for less than two years. It took me that long to figure out the reason for your defection, as I had taught you to hide your tracks very successfully. I had thought to tell you the truth then, but deep inside I was just the least bit put out that you could believe Quinton’s obvious lies, and I made up my mind to wait until you came to your senses. And, never fear, you never stopped loving your mother. I see the flowers you order placed on her grave every week, and I’ve watched you when you visit the cemetery.
“But I’ve also watched you grow and mature these past years, even more than you did during your years with me, or your time spent on the Peninsula. You have become a devoted student of human nature, my son, taking all that I’ve taught you and honing it to a fine edge. Of course, you have become a shade too arrogant, and even, dare I say it, a bit cold—but I think we can safely assume that your arrogance has now suffered a healing setback.”
“This has all been in the way of a lesson?” Pierre asked, incredulous. “I can’t believe it.”
“Oh, dear,” André remarked, looking at his son. “You’re angry, aren’t you? Good. You’re very gifted, Pierre, gifted with money, breeding, intelligence and a very pretty face. I taught you all I could about being a gentleman. The war has taught you about the perfidies and cruelties of mankind. Now, Quennel Quinton has taught you never to accept anything at face value, even if it is personally painful for you to delve into a subject. He has also taught you a measure of humility, hasn’t he, showing you that, for all your grand intelligence, you can still be duped. All round, I’d say the thing was a particularly satisfactory exercise.”
“I exist only to please you, Father,” Pierre drawled sarcastically.
“Of course you do,” André acknowledged in complete seriousness. “Never forget it. The only obstacle to becoming a complete gentleman left before you now is for you to accomplish some good, unselfish work—some compassionate assistance to one of the helpless wretches of mankind. You have made a good start by helping your friend Sherbourne secure the affections of Quinton’s supposed daughter, Victoria, but as you were trying to rid yourself of the title of murder suspect at the time, I cannot feel that your actions were completely altruistic. Yes, I would like to see you perform some good deed, with not a single thought of personal reward. Do you think you can handle that on your own, or shall I devise some scheme to set you on your way?”
Pierre stared at his father unblinkingly. “There are times when I actually believe I could hate you, Father,” he said, unable to hide a wry smile.
“Yes, of course,” André replied silkily. “Truthfully, I believe I should be disappointed in you if you were to fall on my neck, thanking me. Shall we go in to dinner?”

CHAPTER TWO
PIERRE LINGERED in the country with André for another two days, the two men rebuilding their former good relationship on a sounder, more solid base before the younger Standish reluctantly took his leave, his father’s admonition—to find himself a humanizing good deed as soon as may be for the sake of his immortal soul—following after him as his coachman sprung the horses.
“A good deed,” Pierre repeated, settling himself against the midnight-blue velvet squabs of the traveling coach that was the envy of London. “What do you think of that, Duvall, my friend?”
The manservant gave a Gallic shrug, shaking his head. “Il vous rit au nez.”
“Father doesn’t laugh in my nose, Duvall; he laughs in my face, and no, I don’t think so. Not this time,” Pierre corrected, smiling at the French interpretation of the old saying. “This time I think he is deadly serious, more’s the pity. My dearest, most loving father thinks I need to—”
“Tomber à plat ventre,” Duvall intoned gravely, folding his scrawny arms across his thin chest.
“Not really. You French may fall flat on your stomachs, Duvall. We English much prefer to land on our faces, if indeed we must take the fall at all. And how will you ever develop a workable knowledge of English if you insist upon lapsing into French the moment we are alone? Consider yourself forbidden the language from this moment, if you please.”
“Your father, he wishes for you to fall flat on your face,” Duvall recited obediently, then sighed deeply, so that his employer should be aware that he had injured him most gravely.
“Bless you, Duvall. Now, to get back to the point. I have been acting the fool these past years, a fact I will acknowledge only to you, and only this one time. There’s nothing else for it—I must seek out a good deed and perform it with humble dedication and no thought for my own interests. Do you suppose the opportunity for good deeds lies thick on the ground in Mayfair? No, I imagine not. Ah, well, one can only strive to do one’s best.”
“Humph!” was the manservant’s only reply before he turned his head to one side and ordered himself to go to sleep in the hope that the soft, well-sprung swaying of the traveling coach would not then turn his delicate Gallic stomach topsy-turvy.
Standish marveled silently yet again at the endless effrontery of his employee. The man, unlike the remainder of Pierre’s acquaintances, had no fear of him—and precious little awe. It was refreshing, this lack of deference, which was why Pierre treasured the spritely little Frenchman, who had been displaced to Piccadilly during Napoleon’s rush to conquer all the known world. Reaching across to lay a light blanket over the man’s shoulders, for it was September and the morning was cool, Pierre sat back once more, determined to enjoy the passing scenery.
It was shortly after regaining the main roadway, following a leisurely lunch at the busy Rose and Cross Inn—Pierre being particularly fond of country-cured ham—that it happened. One of the two burly outriders accompanying the coach called out to the driver to stop at once, for there was something moving in the small mountain of baggage strapped in the boot of the coach.
“How wonderfully intriguing. Do you suppose it is an animal of some sort?” Pierre asked the two outriders, the coachman, and a slightly green-looking Duvall a minute later as the small group assembled behind the halted coach. He lightly prodded the canvas wrapping with the tip of his cane, just at the spot the outrider had indicated. “I do pray it is not a fox, for I will confess that I am not a devotee of blood sports. Oh, dear. It moved again just then, didn’t it? My curiosity knows no bounds, I must tell you.”
“It’s a blinkin’ stowaway, that’s wot it tis,” decided the second outrider, just home from an extended absence at sea, a trip prompted not by his desire to explore the world, but rather at the expressed insistence of a press gang that had tapped him on the noggin with a heavy club and tossed him aboard a merchantman bound for India. “Let’s yank ’im out an’ keelhaul ’im!”
Pierre turned to look at the man, a large, beefy fellow whose hamlike hands were already closed into tight fists. “So violent, my friend? Why don’t we just boil the poor soul in oil and have done with it?”
Raising his voice slightly, Pierre went on, “You there—in the boot—I suggest you join us out here on the road, if you please. You can’t be too comfortable in there, knowing the amount of baggage I deem necessary for travel through the wilds of Sussex. When did you decide to join us? Perhaps when my baggage was undone to unearth my personal linens and utensils back at the so lovely Rose and Whatever Inn? Come out now, we shan’t hurt you.”
“Oi can’t,” a high, whiny voice complained from beneath the canvas. “Yer gots me trussed up like a blinkin’ goose in ’ere!”
Pierre tipped his head to one side, inspecting the canvas-covered boot. “Our unexpected passenger has a point there, gentlemen. It really was too bad of you, wasn’t it, even as I applaud your obvious high regard for the welfare of my personal possessions. Perhaps one of you will be so good as to lend some assistance to our beleaguered stowaway before he causes himself an injury?”
Less than a minute later the canvas had been drawn away to reveal a very small, very dirty face. “Hello. What have we here?” Pierre asked, peering into the semidarkness of the boot.
“Yer gots Jeremy ’Olloway, that wot yer gots!” the young boy shot back defiantly, pushing out his lower lip to blow a long strand of greasy blond hair from his eyes. “Now, stands back whilst Oi boosts m’self outta this blinkin’ ’ellhole!”
“How lovely,” Pierre drawled. “Such elegant speech. And a good day to you too, Master Holloway. Obviously, my friends, we have discovered a runaway young peer, bent on a lark in the country. Gentlemen, let us make our bows to Master Holloway.”
“That’s no gentry mort,” the burly outrider corrected, narrowly eyeing the young boy as he climbed down from his hiding place and quickly clamping a heavy hand on Jeremy’s thin shoulder as the lad looked ready to bolt for the concealment of the trees on the side of the road. “This ’ere ain’t nothin’ but a bleedin’ sweep!”
“Oi’m not!” Jeremy shot back, sticking out his chin, as if his denial could erase the damning evidence of his torn, sooty shirt and the scraped, burned-covered arms and legs that stuck out awkwardly from beneath his equally ragged, too-small suit of clothes.
“Of course you’re not a sweep,” Pierre agreed silkily, suppressing the need to touch his scented lace handkerchief to his nostrils as he looked at Jeremy and saw a quick solution to his need to do a good deed. “But if you were a sweep, and running away from an evil master who abused you most abominably, I should think I could find it in my heart to take you up with us for a space, until, say, we reach London? Listening to your speech, and detecting a rightful disdain for those so troublesome ‘aitches’, I believe you might feel at home in Piccadilly?”
Jeremy, who had begun eyeing Pierre assessingly, positively blossomed at the mention of Piccadilly. Quickly suppressing his excitement, he scuffed one bare big toe in the dirt and remarked coolly: “If Oi wuz a sweep—which Oi’m not, o’course—Oi might wants ter take yer up on that, guv’nor. The Piccadilly thing, yer knows.”
Duvall immediately burst into a rapid stream of emotional French, wringing his hands as he alternately cursed and pleaded with his master to reconsider this folly. Better they should all bed down with une mouffette, a skunk! Oh, woe, oh, woe! Poor master, to have a cracked bell in his head. Poor Duvall, to be so overset that he could not even think which saint to pray to!
Jeremy stood stoically by, grimy paws jammed down hard on even grimier hips, waiting for the barrage of French to run itself down, then said, “Aw, dub yer mummer, froggie. Oi ain’t ’eared such a ruckus since ol’ ’awkins burnt ’isself wit ’is own poker!”
Duvall stopped in mid-exclamation to glare down at the boy, his lips pursed, his eyes bulging. “Mon Dieu!” he declared. “This insect, this crawling bug, he has called me a frog. I will not stand for such an insult!”
“Stand still,” Pierre corrected smoothly, at last succumbing to the need to filter his breathing air through the handkerchief. “Now, if the histrionics are behind us—and I most sincerely pray that they are—I suggest that Jeremy crawl back into the boot, sans the cover, and the rest of us also return to our proper places. I wish to make London before Father Christmas.”
Satisfied that he was doing his good deed just as his father had recommended—and rescuing Jeremy from an evil master certainly seemed to qualify—Pierre once more settled himself against the midnight-blue velvet squabs and began mentally preparing a missive to his father detailing his charitable wonderfulness. “And that will be the end of that,” he said aloud, eyeing Duvall levelly and daring the manservant to contradict him.
The coach had gone no more than a mile when it stopped once more, the coachman hauling on the reins so furiously that Pierre found himself clutching the handstrap for fear of tumbling onto the narrow width of flooring between the seats.
“I am a reasonably good man, a loving son,” he assured himself calmly as he reached to open the small door that would allow him to converse with the driver. “I have my faults, I suppose, but I have never been a purposely mean person. Why then, Duvall, do you suppose I feel this overwhelming desire to draw and quarter my coachman?”
“If there truly is a God, the dirty little person will have been flung to the road on his dripping nose,” Duvall grumbled by way of an answer, adjusting his jacket after picking himself up from the floor of the coach where, as his reflexes were not so swift as his employer’s, the driver’s abrupt stop had landed him.
“Driver?” Pierre inquired urbanely, holding open the small door. “May I assume you have an explanation, or have you merely decided it is time you took yourself into the bushes to answer nature’s call?”
“Sorry, sir,” the coachman mumbled apologetically, leaning down to peer into the darkened interior of the coach. “But you see, sir, there’s a lady in the road. At least, I think it’s a lady.”
Pierre’s left brow lifted fractionally. “A lady,” he repeated consideringly. “How prudent of you not to run her down. My compliments on both your driving and your charity, although I cannot but wonder at your difficulty in deciding the gender of our roadblock. Perhaps now you might take it upon yourself to ask this lady to move?”
“I can’t, sir,” the coachman responded, the slight quiver in his voice reflecting both his lingering shock at avoiding a calamity and his fearful respect of his employer. “Like I told yer—she’s in the road. It’s a lady for sure, ’cause I can see her feet. I think mayhap she’s dead, and can’t move.”
Pierre’s lips twitched as he remarked quietly, “Her feet? An odd way to determine gender, Duvall, wouldn’t you say?” His next communication to the coachman followed, both his words and his offhand tone announcing that he was decidedly unimpressed. “Dead, you say, coachman? That would be an impediment to movement, wouldn’t it?”
Duvall quickly blessed himself, muttering something in French that may have been “Blessed Mary protect us, and why couldn’t it have been the sweep?”
“A dead lady in the middle of the road,” Pierre mused again out loud, already moving toward the coach door. “I imagine I should see this deceased lady for myself.” With one foot in the road, he paused to order quietly: “Arm yourself, coachman, and instruct the outriders to scan the trees for horsemen. This may be a trap. There are still robbers along this roadway.
“Although I would have thought it would be easier to throw a dead tree into the road, rather than a dead lady,” he added under his breath as he disengaged Duvall’s convulsive grip on his coattail. “Please, my good friend,” he admonished with a smile. “Consider the fabric, if not your long hours with the iron.”
Pierre stepped completely onto the roadway, nodding almost imperceptibly to the two outriders while noting with mingled comfort and amusement that the coachman was now brandishing a very mean-looking blunderbuss at the ready. A quick look to the rear of the coach assured him that his Good Deed was still firmly anchored in the boot, as the streetwise Jeremy Holloway’s dirt-streaked face was peeping around the edge of the coach, his eyes wide as saucers. “Oi’ve got yer back, guv’nor,” the boy whispered hoarsely. “Don’t yer go worryin’ ’bout dat.”
“Such loyalty deserves a reward,” Pierre whispered back at the boy. “If we get out of this with our skin intact, Master Holloway, I shall allow you to sit up top with the coachman.” As the coachman gave out with an audible groan, Pierre began strolling toward the standing horses, his demeanor decidedly casual, as if he were merely taking the air in the park.
Once he had come up beside the off-leader, he could see the woman, who was, just as the coachman had reported, lying facedown in the roadway and looking, for all intents and purposes, extremely dead. She was dressed in a man’s drab grey cloak, its hood having fallen forward to hide her face as well as whatever gown she wore beneath its voluminous expanse. Her stockinged, shoeless feet—small feet attached to rather shapely slim ankles, he noted automatically, for he was a man who appreciated female beauty—extended from beneath the hem of the cloak, but her hands were pinned beneath her, out of sight.
He walked to within two paces of her, then used the tip of his cane to lightly nudge her in the rib cage. There was no response, either from the woman or from the heavily wooded perimeters of the road. If the woman was only feigning injury and in league with highwaymen, her compatriots were taking their sweet time in making their presence known.
Gingerly lowering himself onto his haunches, and being most careful not to muddy the knees of his skintight fawn buckskin breeches, Pierre took hold of the woman in the area of her shoulder and gently turned her onto her back.
“Ohh.” The sound was soft, barely more than a faint expulsion of air, but it had come from the woman. Obviously she had not yet expired, not that her life expectancy could be numbered in more than a few minutes or hours if she were to continue to lie in the middle of the roadway.
“She toes-cocked, guv’nor, or wot?”
Jeremy’s voice, coming from somewhere behind Pierre’s left shoulder, made him realize that he had been paying attention to the woman when he should have been listening for highwaymen. “She’s not dead, if that’s what that colorful expression is meant to imply,” he supplied tonelessly, pushing the hood from the woman’s face so that he could get a better look at her.
What he saw made him inhale involuntarily, his left brow raising a fraction in surprise. The woman was little more than a girl, and she was exceedingly beautiful, in an ethereal way. Masses of softly waving hair the color of midnight tangled across her ashen, dirt-smeared face, trailing strands that lovingly clung to the small, finely sculpted features that carried the unmistakable stamp of good bloodlines.
Quickly seeking out her limp arm to feel for her pulse, Pierre mentally noted the fragile slimness of her wrist and the slender perfection of her hand and fingers. Her cold hand and frigid fingers.
“Master Holloway, be a good boy and go tell Duvall to bring me a blanket,” Pierre ordered without looking away from the young woman’s face, wrapping her once more in the worn grey cloak. “And have him bring my flask as well. This poor child is chilled through to the bone.”
Once Duvall had brought the blanket, Pierre draped it over the young woman and hefted her upper body onto his knees, intent on forcing her to drink some of the warming brandy. It was no use. The brandy ran into her mouth, only to dribble back onto her chin. Handing the flask back to his manservant—who immediately took a restorative dose of the fiery liquid for himself—Pierre lifted the young woman completely into his arms and returned to the coach.
“Yer takin’ ’er with us?” the seafaring outrider questioned worriedly. “Wimmen is bad luck aboard, that’s wot they are. Always wuz, always will be. Better yer toss ’er back. She’s a small one anyways.”
Pierre silenced the man with a look. “Turn this equipage about at once, if you please. I have a sudden desire to return to Standish Court. And don’t spare the horses,” he ordered the driver as he swept into the coach, the young woman lolling bonelessly in his arms.
Beneath his breath he added, “I do begin to believe my loving parent has put a fatherly curse on me. I am suddenly overrun with unlooked-for Good Deeds. But, being a loving son, and not a greedy man, I also believe that at least one of these humanizing projects rightfully belongs to him. Duvall,” he called out, “tell the coachman that Jeremy is to ride atop with him.”

CHAPTER THREE
“COO, GUV’NOR, would yer jist look at dat! Dat gentry mort looks jist like yer—wit a coffin o’ snow plopped on ’is ’ead!”
André Standish leveled a cool, assessing look at the untidy urchin perched on top of the traveling coach, then descended the few remaining steps to the gravel drive and addressed his son through the lowered coach window. “An acquaintance of yours, Pierre? He has an interesting way with description. Have you lost your way and must retrace your steps, or have you somehow learned that cook is preparing your favorite meal for tonight—a lovely brown ragôut of lamb with peas—and it is your stomach that brings you back to me?”
“My current favorite meal is rare roasted beef with horseradish sauce,” Pierre corrected, “although I know it is rude of me to point out this single lapse in your seemingly faultless store of information about me. And no,” he said, shifting the human weight in his arms in preparation for leaving the coach, “much as I love you, I have not lost my way. May I infringe upon your affection by prevailing upon you to open this door?”
André complied with a courtly bow, flinging open the door and personally letting down the steps. A moment later, Pierre was standing beside him in the drive, the young woman still lying limply in his arms.
The older Standish gently pushed back the hood of the grey cloak, revealing the young woman’s face. “I detect the smell of brandy. I foolishly thought I had raised you better than this. Surely you haven’t taken to drugging your females, Pierre?”
“Not lately, Father. My coachman nearly ran over her as she lay in the road.”
“Unconscious? A head injury?” André asked, not wasting time in useless questions as to how the female had come to be in the road in the first place.
“Most definitely unconscious.”
“Have you learned her name?” André asked as the two men hurriedly mounted the steps to the house, Jeremy Holloway at their heels until Duvall stuck out one foot and tripped him so that he landed facedown in the drive.
“I like to think of her as Miss Penance,” Pierre replied immediately. “Whether she is mine or yours remains to be seen. Duvall,” he called over his shoulder, “I saw that. For shame. I would not have believed it of you. Now wash it and feed it and put it to bed.”
Duvall, having no trouble in understanding who “it” was, tottered over to lean against the side of the traveling coach and buried his head in his hands.

“SHE’S STILL SLEEPING?” André asked the question three hours later as Pierre entered the drawing room, having excused himself after dinner to check on their patient.
“Hartley assures me that she’ll sleep through to the morning,” he told his father. “It may only be a butler’s opinion, but as the doctor said much the same thing before he left, I believe we can safely assume it’s true. She’s got a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg on the side of her head.”
“Poor Miss Penance,” André commented, accepting the snifter of brandy his son offered him. “She’ll have a bruiser of a headache when she wakes, I fear. Now, do you think it’s possible for you to tell me about the urchin? We somehow neglected to speak of him over dinner, perhaps hoping to preserve our appetites, for he was most unappealing when last I saw him. Duvall appears to dislike him, a lack of affection that seems to be mutual. I happened to pass by the bedroom as your man was giving the boy a bath, you see. The language spewing forth from the pair of them was enough to put me to the blush.”
Pierre took a sip of brandy. “Duvall likes everyone very little, save me, of course, for whom he would gladly die if asked. A man could become quite full of himself, knowing that. But to answer your question, young Master Jeremy Holloway is a runaway—having escaped the life of a chimney sweep, if my powers of deduction are correct. He chose my coach as his route to freedom when we stopped for luncheon.”
“An enterprising young lad,” André remarked, watching the burnished liquid swirl and gleam as he rubbed the brandy snifter lightly back and forth between his palms. “Oh, by the by—young Master Holloway would like to have a hot poker inserted in an area of Duvall’s anatomy that is not usually spoken of in more polite circles. Duvall, in his turn, would like the boy deposited in a dirty sack posthaste and drowned in the goldfish pond—as I am convinced my understanding of gutter French is still reasonably accurate. My goodness, I begin to feel like a spy reporting to his superior.”
“Duvall likes to think of himself as bloodthirsty,” Pierre remarked calmly. “Even taking Duvall’s sensibilities into account, however,” he went on silkily, “I do believe I shall take Jeremy as my Good Deed, and leave the disposition of Miss Penance to you.”
André blinked once. “Indeed,” he drawled, setting the snifter down very carefully. “And might I ask why I’m to be gifted with an unknown female with a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg on her pate?”
“Of course.” Pierre lifted his own snifter and tipped it slightly in André’s direction. “I won’t even remind you of how you maneuvered me so meanly once you learned about Quinton. Shall we drink to poetic justice, Father?”

THE MORNING ARRIVED very early, very abruptly and in full voice.
“How dare you! Get your hands off me! At once! Do you hear me?”
Obviously the injured young lady had come to her senses with a vengeance. Mere seconds after her screams had stopped, Pierre—who had been sleeping most peacefully in the adjoining chamber—skidded to a halt just inside the bedroom that had been assigned to Miss Penance, still tying the sash of his maroon banyan around his trim waist.
“I imagine you can be heard in Bond Street, brat,” he commented, running his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair and ruefully looking down at his bare legs and feet. Raising his head, he addressed the butler, whom he espied backing toward the door to the hall, a china cup and saucer nervously chattering against the silver tray he was clutching with two hands, his face white with shock. “Ah, Hartley, dear fellow, what seems to be the matter?”
Hartley’s lips moved, quivered actually, but no words came forth.
“What seems to be the problem?” the woman asked. “What seems to be the problem! I awoke to see this man leaning over my bed! That’s the problem! And why are you asking him? And who are you? You’re not even dressed, for pity’s sake. What has the world come to when a lady can’t get some sleep without all the world creeping into her bedchamber, with only the good Lord knows what on their minds, that’s what I want to know. Well, don’t just stand there with your mouths at half cock. You both have some explaining to do!”
“Hartley, you may retire now,” Pierre offered kindly as the elderly butler looked about to expire from mingled shock and indignation. “And please accept my congratulations. I didn’t know you were still considered to be such a danger to the ladies.”
Leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, his arms folded against his chest, one bare leg crossed negligently over the other at the ankles, Pierre then allowed his gaze to take a slow, leisurely assessment of the young woman occupying the bed.
She was still as beautiful as his initial impression of her had indicated, with her small features lovingly framed by a heavy mass of coal-black hair, her pale skin made creamy where her slim throat rose above the fine white lawn of Eleanore Standish’s nightgown. His first sight of her long-lashed, blue-violet eyes only reconfirmed his opinion. However, she might not be quite as young as he had first thought, for the light of intelligence burned brightly in her eyes. “Unless it’s fever,” he hedged aloud, knowing his wits weren’t usually at their sharpest this early in the day. His early morning wits or the lack of them to one side for the moment, Miss Penance was still a most remarkably beautiful young woman.
“Well?” she asked, pushing her hands straight out in front of her, palms upward and gesturing toward him. “Have you somehow been turned to marble, sir? Perhaps I should remind you of your current situation? You’re in a lady’s bedchamber without invitation. I suggest you retire before I’m forced to do you an injury.”
Pierre smiled. “Oh, Father’s going to adore you,” he said silkily. “What’s your name, little Amazon? We can’t go on calling you Miss Penance, although my spur of the moment christening now seems to border on the inspired. Please, madam, give me a name.”
“My name?” she croaked, wincing.
“Your name,” Pierre repeated. “As you’re sleeping in my father’s house, I don’t believe it is an out-of-the-way demand.”
Miss Penance slumped against the pillows, suddenly appearing to be even smaller than she had before, her chin on her chest. “So you don’t know who I am, either,” she said in a small voice, all her bravado deserting her. “I had hoped—”
She sniffed, a portion of her spunk reasserting itself. “I should have known I’d be looking for mare’s nests, asking for some spark of intelligence from a man who has that much hair on his legs and is vain enough to consider showing it off to strangers.”
“Eight to five you’re a parson’s eldest,” Pierre was stung into replying. “And a Methodist parson to boot. Only the worse sort of strumpet or a holier-than-thou old maid would even dare utter the word ‘leg’ in front of a gentleman. Somehow, I can’t quite picture you in the role of strumpet. You dislike men entirely too much. Which leaves us with only the other alternative. Now, are you really trying to tell me that you have no recollection of your own name?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I know my own name! Everyone knows his own name,” she shot back at him. “I just—” Her voice began to lose some of its confidence. “I just seem to have, um, momentarily misplaced the memory. It’ll come to me any time now. I’m sure of it.”
“How reassuring,” Pierre soothed, slowly advancing into the room. “And, of course, once you succeed in locating this truant name, you’ll doubtless inform me as to why you were lying unconscious in the middle of the roadway just north of here, obstructing traffic and upsetting my coachman no end. It’s the merest bagatelle—no more than a trifling inconvenience—this temporary lapse.”
The violet eyes shot blue-purple flame. “Oh, do be quiet, Mr.—”
“Standish,” Pierre supplied immediately, lowering himself into a seated position on the bottom of the bed. “Pierre Standish. See how easy that was. Now you try it. How utterly charmed I am to meet you, Miss—”
She nodded her head three times, as if the movement would jog her memory. “Miss…Miss…oh, drat! I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“Quietly, my dear Miss Forgetful, quietly,” Pierre scolded absently. “We shall abandon this exercise momentarily, as it seems only to annoy you, and speak of other things. How is your head? You sustained a rather nasty bump on it, one way or another.”
She reached up to gingerly inspect the lump she had discovered earlier upon awakening. “It’s still there, if that’s any answer,” she told him. “Your guess is as good as mine as to how I came to have it. And, even though I am sure it matters little to you, it hurts like the very devil.”
Pierre frowned at her use of the word “devil.” Tipping his head to one side, he commented, “I believe we can dispense with the notion that you are a parson’s daughter. Your language is too broad.”
“Then I am to be the worst sort of strumpet?” she asked, narrowing her eyes belligerently. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Pierre shook his head, “No, not a strumpet, either. You’re much too insulting. You’d have starved by now.”
“Perhaps I am a thief,” she suggested, pulling the blankets more firmly under her chin. “Perhaps you should be locking up your family silver at this very moment, for fear I shall lope off with it the instant I find my clothes. I may assume that I have some clothing somewhere? Not that I’m likely to recognize it any more than I recognize this nightgown I have on now.”
“There’s no reason for you to recognize it. It was my mother’s,” Pierre told her. “She died several years ago.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Surprised that my mother is deceased?” Pierre questioned, looking at her oddly.
“Surprised that she lived so long, with you for a son,” she answered meanly, for even a fool could see that she was feeling very mean.
“Touché, madam. I believe that evens up our insults quite nicely.” Pierre rose from the bed and turned from her before he spoke again. “I’ll send a maid with some breakfast,” he said just as he reached the doorway to his own bedchamber. “That is, if I recover from the wounds your tongue has inflicted. Later, when you are more rested, my father will doubtless wish to interview you. Pray don’t repeat your latest attempt at nastiness to him, for he loved my mother very much.”
“I’m sorry,” she called after him. “Really, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just…it’s just that I’m really very upset. I mean, I don’t even know where I am, let alone who I am. Please—forgive me.”
Pierre turned to look at the young woman now sitting up in the bed, her violet eyes drenched with tears. “Neither of us has been very nice, have we?” he said. “It happens that way with some people, I’ve heard. We have already decided not to like each other, no matter how little Dame Reason is involved in the decision. Let us agree to forgive each other, madam, and have done with it.”
“Agreed!” she said smiling for the first time, the unexpected beauty of it making a direct hit on Pierre’s senses, so that he blinked twice, said nothing, and left the room, suddenly uncomfortable at being dressed in nothing more than his banyan.

A HOT BATH HELPED to ease the soreness she had felt over every inch of her body from the moment she had first awakened in the beautiful, sunlit bedchamber.
The young maid who had introduced herself as Susan had carefully washed her hair, massaging away some of her tension and banishing the headache that had been pounding against her temples.
The meal of poached eggs, country bacon, toast, and tea had erased the gnawing hunger that had made her believe her stomach must have been worrying that her throat had somehow been cut.
But nothing could ease the terrible, blood-chilling panic that shivered through her body each time she attempted to remember who she was, or where she lived, or how she had come to be lying unconscious in the middle of a roadway.
“I just don’t remember!” she said out loud as she sat at the dressing table in the nightgown and robe Susan had brought her after her bath, glaring at her unfamiliar reflection, her chin in her hands. “I don’t remember anything; nothing before waking up here this morning.”
“There are many who would not curse such a lapse, but rather rejoice in it. Good afternoon, Miss Penance. I’m André Standish, your host. Forgive me, but I did knock.”
“You—you look just like him,” she was stung into saying as she stared into the mirror, where André’s reflection smiled back at her. “If it weren’t for the color of your hair, I’d swear—”
“Ah, you’d swear,” André interrupted. “I see my son has not exaggerated. You are an enigma, aren’t you, Miss Penance? You have the look and accent of a lady, but your conversation is sprinkled with words most well-brought-up young females have been taught to shun. Of course, there was a time, more years ago than I care to recall, when all the best ladies were shockingly frank in their speech, but that time has since passed, more’s the pity. Perhaps you were raised solely by your father, or a doting uncle. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?”
She sat quite still, listening to the sound of his voice more than his actual words. His tone was so gentle, so reassuring. “No,” she answered, suddenly sleepy, and wondering why she felt she could lean her head against his arm and doze, secure in the knowledge that he’d never hurt her. “No, I don’t think so. Men seem to frighten me—except you, that is. I was very afraid of your son this morning. I don’t think I’ve been around men very much.”
“Pierre can be most formidable, even in his banyan. Especially in his banyan, I imagine.” André laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re frightened, and with every right. Forgive me for trying to prod you into memory. There’s no rush, you know. We shall take this thing one day at a time. Now, come lie down on the bed for a while. You must be exhausted. I’ve already sent for the doctor, but he is busy with someone who is really ill and not merely confused by a bump on the head. He sent along a note assuring me that you’ll remember everything in time. He will be here tomorrow to answer any questions you might have.”
She allowed herself to be helped into bed. Looking up at André, she said, “You’re not at all like your son after all. You’re very nice.”
“Pierre’s a beast, I’m ashamed to say. Quite uncivilized,” André confessed with a smile and a slight shake of his silver head. “Were I you, I should stay as far removed from him as possible. Now, get some rest while I go downstairs and cudgel my brain into coming up with a female companion for you. It isn’t correct for you to be the lone young woman in a masculine household.”
She was very sleepy, but she didn’t miss the meaning of his words. “Then—then you think I’m a young lady?”
“Was there ever any doubt?” André replied, winking at her as he closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER FOUR
THE YOUNG LADY Pierre had dubbed Miss Penance walked aimlessly along the twisting gravel paths of the substantial Standish Court ornamental gardens, idly swinging a yellow chip straw bonnet by its pink satin ribbons, her feet dragging only a little in the soft, too-large kid slippers that had once belonged to Eleanore Standish.
The gardens were glorious, a fairyland of flowers and evergreens and whimsical statuary, all bathed in the warmth of a sunny late summer’s afternoon. It was a perfect place to spend a few quiet moments, which was the reason André Standish had suggested it to her earlier, after she had risen from her nap.
So far, neither her nap, the walk, nor the peacefulness of her surroundings had jogged her memory. She had been without it for only a few hours, but she measured its loss minute by minute, and the gravity and scope of that loss were gnawing at her, causing the still tender bump on her head to throb most painfully.
She could be anybody—or nobody. It would be awful to be a Nobody. No one would send out an alarm for a Nobody. A Nobody could disappear from the face of the earth without a trace and no one would care, no one would feel the loss. A Somebody would be missed, and an immediate search would be instituted. Besides, she didn’t feel like a Nobody; she felt like a Somebody.
“That’s no great help,” she told herself out loud. “Everybody wants to be a Somebody. Now, how do you suppose I know that?”
Her seemingly selective memory was what really upset and confused her. How could she know so much and still not know who she was? She knew the name of that flower climbing the trellis over there—it was a morning glory, a purple one.
She knew she was in Sussex, for Susan had told her. She knew Sussex was in England, and that Susan had not told her. She knew where Austria was, and could name at least three principal crops of France. She knew the Italian word for head was capo, but did not know how she knew it.
She was sure she had always particularly favored chicken as it had been presented to her for luncheon in her room, and could name the ingredients used in its preparation. She had counted to three thousand as she had sat in her bath, and probably could have continued to count for the remainder of the day without problem.
So why couldn’t she remember her name?
She could be married, for pity’s sake! That thought stopped her short, and she bit her lip in trepidation. She could have a husband somewhere. Children. Crying for her, missing her. No, she didn’t feel married. Could a person feel married? How did being unmarried feel?
She could be a bad person. Why, she could be a thief, as she had suggested to Pierre Standish. Perhaps she had been discovered with her hand in some good wife’s silver drawer, and had been running from the constable when she had fallen, hitting her head on a stone.
She could be a murderess! She could have murdered a man—her husband, perhaps?—and been fleeing the scene of that dastardly crime in the dead man’s cloak when she had somehow come to grief in the middle of the roadway.
Pierre Standish had certainly been unflattering when he pointed out that her speech, although cultured in accent, contained a few expressions that were not normally considered to be ladylike. Ladies did not rob or murder.
The thought of Pierre Standish had her moving again, as if she could distance herself from thinking of the man. How dare he enter her bedchamber in such a state of indecent undress! And once he had realized what he had done, why hadn’t he excused himself and retired, as any reasonable man would have done, rather than plunk himself down on the bottom of her bed so familiarly and immediately commence insulting her? He hadn’t had an ounce of pity for her plight. As a matter of fact, he seemed to find the entire situation vaguely amusing. No wonder her language had not been the best.
No, she didn’t know much, but she knew she didn’t like Pierre Standish.
She did like André Standish, however. The older Standish was kindness itself, fatherly, and certainly sympathetic to her plight. After all, hadn’t he told her not to worry, that his hospitality was hers until she rediscovered her identity, and even beyond, if that discovery proved to present new problems for her? Hadn’t he assigned Susan as her personal maid, and even promised to provide a female chaperone as soon as may be? Hadn’t he even gifted her with the use of his late wife’s entire wardrobe?
The gown she was wearing now was six years out of fashion and marred by the helpful but vaguely inept alterations Susan had performed on the bodice, waist and hem as her new mistress napped, but it was still a most beautiful creation of sprigged muslin and cotton lace.
She smoothed the skirt of the gown with her hands, grateful once again for being able to wear it, and then purposely made her mind go blank, concentrating on nothing as she continued to walk, not knowing that her appearance was more than passably pleasing, it was beautiful.
Her hair, that unbelievably thick and lengthy mane of softly waving ebony, was tucked into a huge topknot, with several errant curling tendrils clinging to her forehead, cheeks and nape.
Her face was flawless, except for a lingering paleness and a vaguely cloudy look to her unusual violet eyes. Her mouth, generous and wide, drooped imperceptibly at the corners as she stopped in front of a rose bush, picked a large red bloom, and began methodically stripping away its petals, tossing them over the bush.
She looked young, innocent, vulnerable, and just a little sad.
“’Ey! Gets yourself somewheres else, fer criminy’s sake! Yer wants ter blow m’lay?”
She turned her head this way and that, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from.
“Oi says, take yerself off, yer ninny. Find yerself yer own ’idey-’ole.”
“Hidey-hole?” she repeated, leaning forward a little, as she was sure that voice had come from behind the rose bush. “Who or what are you hiding from?”
“The froggie, o’course. Who else do yer think? Now, take yerself off!”
She wasn’t afraid, for the voice sounded very young and more than a little frightened. Her smooth brow furrowed in confusion at his words, though, and she asked, “Hiding from a frog, are you? Well, if that isn’t above everything silly! I would imagine you’d be more likely to come upon a frog in the gardens, wouldn’t you? If you don’t wish to come face-to-face with one, don’t you think it would be preferable to hide where frogs don’t go?”
Jeremy Holloway was so overcome by this blatant idiocy that he forgot himself and stood up, just to get a good look at the woman who could spout anything so ridiculous. “Yer dicked in the nob, lady?” he exclaimed in consternation, then quickly ducked again, whining, “Yer seen me now. Yer gonna cry beef on me?”
She leaned forward some more and was able to see a boy as he crouched on all fours, ready to scurry off to find a new hidey-hole. “If you mean, am I going to turn you in, no, I don’t think I am. After all, who would I turn you in to in the first place?”
“Dat froggie, dat’s who! And all because Oi gots a few active citizens. Oi asks yer—is dat fair? Show me a lily white wot’s ain’t gots some, dat’s wot Oi says.”
Her head was reeling. “Are you speaking English?” she questioned, careful not to move for fear the boy would run off before she could get a good look at him.
All was quiet for a few moments, but at last, his decision made, Jeremy poked his head above the rose bush, looked furtively right and left, and then abandoned his hiding place. “Yer the one m’ gingerbread man found in the road yesterdee,” he told her unnecessarily. “Yer cleaned up right well, Oi suppose. But not this cove. Not Jeremy ’Olloway. Nobody’s gonna dunk this cove in Adam’s ale agin.”
“Thank you, I think,” she answered, beating down the urge to step back a pace or two, for, in truth, Jeremy didn’t smell too fresh. The boy was filthy, his clothing ragged and three sizes too small. “You might too. I imagine Adam’s ale is water? What’s a lily white, Jeremy, and whose citizens are active? And a gingerbread man?”
With an expression on his thin face that suggested she must be the most ignorant person ever to walk the earth, Jeremy supplied impatiently, “A lily white’s a sweep, o’ course. Everyun knows dat. Oi’m really a ’prentice, or Oi wuz, till yesterdee. My mum sold me ter ol’ ’Awkins fer ’alf a crown, which is more than m’ brother went fer. Wot else? Oh, yer. A gingerbread man is a rich gentry cove, like Mr. Standish. ’Appy now? Yer asks more questions than a parson.”
“Lily white because they’re so very dirty? Oh, that’s very good,” she commented, smiling at Jeremy, her heart wrung by his offhanded reference to what must have been a terrible experience. “But what’s an active citizen?”
Jeremy put his head down, scuffing one bare foot against the gravel path. “Lice,” he mumbled, then raised his head to fairly shout: “An’ ’e ain’t stickin’ Jeremy ’Olloway’s ’air in no tar an’ shavin’ it! Oi’ll skewer ’im first—an’ so Oi telled ’im, jist afore Oi kicked ’im an’ loped off! ’E didn’t foller me, ’cause ’e ’ates the ground Oi dirties an’ wants me gone. ’E telled me so ’imself.”
“Mon Dieu! There you are, you vilain moineau, you nasty sparrow! Please to grab his ear, mademoiselle, so that I might cage him! I have the water hot, and the scissors is at the ready!”
More rapidly than she could react, the scene exploded before her eyes. A thin, harried-looking Frenchman appeared in front of her, a stout rope in one hand, a large empty sack in the other, and Jeremy Holloway disappeared, faster than a gold piece vanishes into a beggar’s pocket.
“You have let for him to escape me again!” the Frenchman accused, his watery eyes narrowed as he glared at her.
“You frightened him, the poor boy,” she accused, feeling protective.
“Please not to put in your grain of salt, mademoiselle,” he returned nastily, drawing himself up to his full height. “I have been run to the rags searching for the small monster. I have been made sore with trying.”
She understood. In that moment she understood something else as well—Jeremy’s words coming back to her—and the light of battle entered her eyes. “Oh, do be quiet, froggie,” she ordered, privately pleased with herself.
“Froggie!” The servant’s head snapped back with the insult, as if he had been slapped.
They stood there, the pair of them frozen in their aggressive stances for several seconds, then Duvall opened his mouth to speak. Fortunately for his opponent, something else took his attention just as he was about to begin, for his response to her name-calling was sure to be terrible, if unintelligible to anyone not familiar with gutter French.
“I say, Duvall, must I do everything for you?” asked a weary voice from somewhere behind them, and both of them turned to see Pierre Standish coming down the pathway, Jeremy Holloway’s left earlobe firmly inched between his thumb and forefinger. “I set you a simple chore, and now, more than four and twenty hours later, the evidence of your failure has barreled into me as I attempted to take the afternoon air. I cannot adequately express my disappointment, Duvall, truly I cannot. Ah, good afternoon, Miss Penance. You’re looking well. My congratulations on your rapid recovery since this morning. One can only hope your disposition is now as sunny as your appearance.”
She placed her fists on her hips. “You let go of that poor, innocent boy this instant, you monster!”
Pierre’s social smile remained intact. “Oh dear, I deduce that I have once again raised myself up only to open myself to a fall. Obviously you are to be perpetually tiresome, Miss Penance. But it is of no matter if you are quite set on such a course, as you are not my problem. This urchin, however, is my concern. Be still, Master Holloway, if you please,” he asked of the squirming Jeremy, “as it would pain me to box your ears. Duvall, are you going to allow me to be thwarted in my zeal to accomplish a good deed? If nothing else, please consider the fate of my immortal soul.”
Duvall began to wring his hands, his entire posture one of pitiable subservience. “Ask of me to cut off my two hands, good sir, and I will gladly make them a gift to you. Have my tongue to be ripped out with the pincers and served up to the dogs for dinner—order hot spikes to be driven under my fingernails. Anything, dear sir! Anything but, but”—he gestured toward Jeremy—“but this!”
“Come, come, Duvall,” Pierre scolded, advancing another step. “Don’t be so bashful. How often have I begged you to consider yourself free to express your innermost thoughts? Tell me how you really feel. Help him, Miss Penance. Explain to my dear Duvall that he shouldn’t keep such a tight rein on his emotions.”
Miss Penance, as even she had begun to think of herself, narrowed her eyes as she ran her gaze assessingly up and down the elegantly clad Pierre Standish. “You look better dressed,” she said at last, although the tone of her voice did not hint at any great improvement over his banyan and bare, hairy legs. “The only thing remaining to be done to make you passably bearable would be to put a gag in your mouth. You are, Mr. Standish, by and large, the most insufferable, arrogant, nasty creature it has ever been my misfortune to encounter! How dare you maul that poor child that way? How dare you insult this man, who is obviously your slave?”
Ignoring her insults, Pierre honed in on one thing she had said. “Of all the creatures you have met, Miss Penance? May I deduce from this that you have regained your memory? Shall I have Duvall order a celebratory feast?”
Quick tears sprang to her eyes. “How I loathe you, Mr. Standish,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth. “No, I have not yet regained my memory, sir. But I have met your father, your beleaguered servant, and this poor underfed, persecuted boy—and each of them is twice the man you are. You—you idiotic, conceited fop!”
“God’s beard! She makes of you a mockery, good sir! It is of the most deplorable!” Duvall exclaimed, taking three steps away from her in order to distance himself from her disparaging words.
Jeremy halted in his struggle to free himself from Pierre’s painful grip, his mouth hanging wide as he gasped at Miss Penance. “Dicked in the nob, dat’s wot she is,” he said at last. “Dat’s thanks, ain’t it, guv’nor—and atter all yer done fer ’er! Does yer wants me ter level ’er? She’s jist m’ size, so’s it’d be a fair fight.”
Pierre looked down on the recently liberated chimney sweep. “I’d rather you allowed Duvall to make you presentable, Master Holloway, if you are cudgeling your brain for a way to express your thanks to me. Duvall? You agree?”
“Ask of me to cut off my two hands, good sir, and I will gladly make them a gift to you. Have my tongue to be ripped out with the pincers and—” Duvall stopped himself, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. “Yes, sir,” he ended fatalistically. “Very good, sir.”
“You both are so kind, you threaten to unman me,” Pierre drawled, a smile lurking in his dark eyes as he looked over to see Miss Penance holding back her fury with an effort. “Please leave us now, before I embarrass myself by falling on your necks in gratitude for your loyalty.”
Jeremy and Duvall reached the end of the path before Miss Penance said, her voice measured, “You…make…me…ill! I suppose you think I’m supposed to be feeling three kinds of a fool for berating you when you are so obviously deserving of my thanks for not allowing me to lie in the road when you discovered me? That is the point of this exercise, is it not? Well, please do not hold your breath waiting for my thanks, for you will only succeed in turning that insufferably arrogant face of yours a hideous purple!”
Pierre walked over to a nearby bench and motioned for her to sit down. “You’re right, of course,” he agreed, settling himself beside her. “I was the most horrid of selfish creatures to have spirited you away from your so comfortable resting place. How could I have been such a cad? How will you ever forgive me for my callous disregard for your privacy? Shall I order the horses put to immediately, so that I can return you there before bedtime?”
“Don’t be any more foolish than you can help. That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” she countered, longing to punch him squarely in his aristocratically perfect nose. “Obviously you have somehow rescued Jeremy as well, and probably done something for that poor, nervous Duvall so that he looks upon you as a near god. But if you have some twisted desire to surround yourself with fawning admirers, I’m afraid that in this case you have badly missed the mark. I may have been born, figuratively speaking, only this morning, but I do possess some basic common sense. You could not care less what happens to me. You’re only using me in some twisted, obscure way that benefits you, and I have to tell you, I resent it. I resent it most thoroughly! The moment I have recovered my memory I will be more than pleased to wave you a fond farewell as I go out of your life forever!”
“Such a passionate—dare I also mention, lengthy?—speech. You see me prostrate before you, devastated by your eloquent, long-winded vehemence,” Pierre drawled, stifling a yawn.
“Oh!” she exploded, jumping to her feet. “I can only hope I discover that I am a murderess, so I can kill you with a clear conscience!”
Watching as she ran back toward the house, leaving one too-large shoe behind on the gravel path in her haste, Pierre raised his hand to absently stroke the small crescent-shaped scar that seemed to caress his left cheekbone. “Such a darling girl,” he mused aloud. “I believe I have been more than justly revenged on my loving father.”

CHAPTER FIVE
“SHE’S WHERE! I don’t believe it! I refuse to believe it!” cried a female voice. “Quickly, fetch me my harts-horn. I feel faint!”
“Rubbish. You never faint, for all your moaning. You’re strong as an ox,” replied her male companion.
“Oxen, always oxen! Have you no other animal to use as a comparison? To think that your last tutor told me you showed an active imagination. It’s a good thing I turned him off when I caught him winking at the upstairs maid, or I’d show him an active imagination! And have some pity on your elders. My poor heart could give out at any moment.”
“It would be a better job to stop worrying about your heart and begin worrying about your neck! About both our necks.”
“Why? We haven’t done anything, have we? They can’t hang a person for merely talking about murder. Besides, it’s only her word against ours. Oh, why did she have to end up there? Anywhere but Standish Court. André Standish! He’s completely, utterly ruthless. My blood runs cold at the very thought of him. He’s so smooth, so mysterious. He seems to know everything.”
“It’s not the father who worries me. It’s the son. I heard all about Pierre Standish when I was in London for the Season. He’s like the father, but meaner. Killed his groom, you know—just for saddling the wrong horse. I do wish, though, that my man had his way with a cravat.”
“But it has been five days since you went chasing off after her, and nothing has happened. I have been worried to death, waiting for you to return, waiting for the constable to come carry me away to some terrible, smelly gaol. Now you come back here, telling me she’s not twenty miles from this wretched hovel you’ve rented, and with André Standish of all people. How could you have hidden in the bushes, watching the son cart her away like that? What are we going to do when they confront us?”
“Why, we’re going to deny everything, of course. It’s her word against ours, after all, and besides, no one has been murdered—yet. Of course, there’s always the possibility she’ll die, for she was unconscious when Standish lifted her into his coach. God, to think that I had finally run her to ground, just to have her bolt away from me into the roadway as we heard a carriage approach. You cannot know how prodigiously I hated hiding in the hedgerow while Standish all but plucked her out of my hands. Yes, it would serve her right to die from the tumble she took. That would solve the problem quite nicely.”
“Then we’d be free of her forever! Oh, that’s above everything wonderful. But what if she lives? No, you have to go back to Standish Court. You have to go back, and silence her once and for all.”
“With Pierre Standish there to guard her? And you said you loved me. But you’re right. She has to die now, or everything is ruined.”
“Yes, yes, it does present a problem. But we have no choice. Besides, you don’t have to leave straight away. It can wait until tomorrow. Sit down, my dear, you look weary. Other than the fact that you couldn’t apprehend that dreadful girl, was it a nice trip? The countryside is so pleasing this time of year.”

JEREMY HOLLOWAY RAN halfway down the length of the shiny black and white tiled foyer in his stockinged feet, an oversized knitted cap pulled down over his ears, then skidded the rest of the way on the slippery floor, whistling through the gap between his front teeth as he held his arms wide to maintain his balance. He quickly held his hands out in front of him before he cannoned into the closed doors to the drawing room.
Grinning from ear to ear in enjoyment of this new amusement, he turned himself about, ready to attack the slippery floor from the other direction, only to feel his shoulders firmly grasped by a pair of strong hands. Looking up—looking a long way up—he saw his new master staring down at him, his left eyebrow arched inquisitively.
“Good morning, Master Holloway,” Pierre said quietly. “May I be so bold as to assume you are prepared to explain what you’re doing?”
“’Allo there, guv’nor!” Jeremy chirped brightly, his quick mind working feverishly for an explanation. “Givin’ a bit o’ polish ter the floor, Oi am. ’Artley, yer pantler, asked me ter, yer see, an’ Oi’m jist obligin’ ’im—doin’ ’im a bit of a favor, like. ’E’s been ever so kind ter me, yer understands.”
“Ah, yes, dearest Hartley. Wasn’t that kind of him—and kind of you. Kind and thoughtful—and utter rubbish. Tell me, Master Holloway. Was it enjoyable?”
Jeremy swallowed hard on the enormous lump in his throat and rolled his eyes as if attempting to discover the nearest exit. “Jist cuff me good an’ gets it over, guv’nor,” he said at last, as Pierre’s hands still held him firmly in place. “Oi can takes it.”
“He will do nothing of the sort!” Miss Penance exclaimed militantly from behind Pierre. “Mr. Standish, you will please release that poor child at once. Or have you rescued him from his terrible former life only to beat him yourself?”
Recognizing opportunity when it appeared, Jeremy immediately burst into noisy tears, wrenching himself free of Pierre and immediately burying his head against his latest savior’s waist. “Oi didn’t mean nothin’ by it, ’onest, miss. The floor wuz jist there—yer knows. So pretty, so shiny. Don’t let ’im beat me, miss, pleez! Ol’ man ’Awkins, ’e beat me all the time.”
“Don’t you worry, Jeremy. I won’t let him so much as lay a finger on you,” Miss Penance assured him, her arms wrapped tightly around Jeremy’s thin shoulders, her violet eyes glaring at the man she considered to be the bully of the piece. “You’re terrible with children, you know,” she told Pierre condescendingly.
Pierre, who was always appreciative of outstanding theatrical performances, showed his appreciation now, clapping most politely as he commended softly, “Bravo! Bravo! I tell you both, I am most deeply affected. I don’t know whether to toss roses at your feet or go off into the woods and fall on my sword. What a cad I am, what a cold, unfeeling monster! I should be horsewhipped.”
“I agree. I might only pray that I can be the one to wield the whip, sirrah!”
“My word, really? Such a Trojan you are, Miss Penance. Is that blood I see in your eyes?”
Jeremy pulled his face free from Miss Penance’s smothering embrace to see that the two adults had all but forgotten him as they stared at each other, his female protector with some heat, his male protector with barely suppressed amusement. Clearly his presence was no longer required, and he carefully disengaged his hands from Miss Penance’s waist and ran for the safety of the servant’s quarters, careful both to pick up his still new shoes and to refrain from sliding as he neared the door that led to the kitchens.
“Now here’s a dilemma,” Pierre said after a space, his gaze never leaving the shining violet glare that still bore into him. “It would appear, Miss Penance, that the object of our latest contretemps has succeeded in eluding both my cruel, animalistic wrath and your fierce, motherly protection. Do we continue to stand here, staring at each other until one of us crumbles under the strain, or do we agree to a cessation of hostilities—only until the next time, of course—so that I might continue toward the breakfast room without fear of feeling a shaft of cold steel plunge between my shoulder blades?”

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