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streets.”
    Lord March roused sufficiently from his preoccupation with his wife, who’d flung herself into his arms, to recognize the force of Mab’s arguments. That young lady’s fine application of logic did not endear her to him. Marriot had scant liking for this hidden attic room. Though he did not verbalize this dissatisfaction, it was obvious in the choleric glance he awarded the meager furnishings of his chamber, the heavily carpeted floor, the painted cloths hung on the walls. Commented Lady Amabel acutely, “You would be much more uncomfortable in Newgate—or wherever it is they imprison thieves! Truly, I think it is very nice that the two of you dote on one another, and I wish very much that someone might feel similarly toward me— but I feel constrained to point out that if you might cease to dote for but a moment, we might discover a way out of this pickle.”
    Thus abjured, Lord March slowly released his wife, who with an equal lack of enthusiasm removed herself from his chest. Nell sat down on the bed. Marriot propped one foot up beside her. “Well?” he said.
    A realistic damsel, Amabel refrained from comment upon the fascination with which Lady March was prone to observe her husband’s shapely limb. “I have been thinking how we may most effectively go about solving this puzzle, and I think you must make a reappearance, Marriot.”
    “No!” wailed Nell, clutching convulsively at her husband’s calf. “I beg I may hear no such thing!”
    Lord March patted his wife’s chestnut locks pressed against his knee, “I fear you must, my love. Try and be my good, brave girl! You would not wish me to remain hidden away here forever, Nell.”
    On a deep breath, Lady March drew herself erect. “You are right. I am being unforgivably foolish,” she said.
    “Nonsense! You are a darling!” Marriot caressed Nell’s cheek, in return for which he was awarded her irresistibly uneven smile.
    Never had Mab seen a more affecting scene. “It is true that Nell and I have little chance of discovering anything of particular import,” she inserted, recalling her companions to her presence, and their purpose, before mutual adoration rendered them insensible. “But if you are to undertake your own inquiries, it must not be with the chance of landing in gaol. In short, before you make your reappearance among us, we must devise some unexceptionable tale of where you’ve been.”
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Though not habitually an early riser, Lady Amabel had adapted that custom whilst at Marcham Towers; by it she was free to pursue her own inclinations unmolested, while Henrietta remained abed. Inclination this morn had taken Mab to the secret attic room with a breakfast for his lordship and brisk words of encouragement. The breakfast his lordship had appreciated, if not the good advice, in response to which he irritably bade his visitor leave him to his reading, this day a translation of Antonio de Torquemada’s The Spanish Mandeula of Miracles, which recounted such wonders as the woman who was shipwrecked on an African shore and produced two sons sired by an ape.
    For his short temper, Lady Amabel bore Lord March no grudge. It was no easy thing, this concocting an unexceptionable explanation of a gentleman’s prolonged absence from his world. As Mab walked into the solar that matter also occupied her own mind.
    That Lady Amabel was rapt in thought was apparent to the young gentleman who awaited there; the better to observe her, he did not immediately speak. As always, Mab was a joy to look upon, this day clad in a pretty high-waisted cotton dress suitable for winter, and a fringed shawl—but did a cobweb adorn her dark hair? Was that dust upon her skirts? And why was she clutching a very sorry-looking fan? In search of enlightenment, Fergus cleared his throat.
    Made aware of the intruder, Mab shrieked and clasped her hands, consequently doing further damage to the ancient fan. Upon realizing the identity of the