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with dismissal twice in one day!  The position of governess seemed a great deal less secure than one might have imagined, and Helène wondered if either Lord Quentin or Lady Sinclair would really take their complaints to the marquess. Surely if she was to be insulted on such a regular basis Helène would never survive, for her temper would break and she would tell these people just what she thought of them.
    Some dirty little nobody. She didn’t care what a man like that thought. She just didn’t care.
    * * * *
    Late in the afternoon of the next day Lord Quentin rode through the gates of Tavelstoke, and for the first time allowed himself a sigh of relief. It had been a long, cold ride, and he was very glad to be home. Alcibiades, who only minutes earlier had been showing signs of fatigue, was now almost prancing in anticipation of warm stables and a double measure of oats.
    “Hang on, old friend,” Charles told him. “Stevens will have you fixed up in a trice.”  The stallion nickered softly in reply.
    The house loomed in front of him, the brickwork and slate roof luminous in the rays of the setting sun. Tavelstoke Manor, large and formally laid out as it was, was a welcome refuge after the week at Luton Court. His spirits lifted, as always, at the sight of the tall, sash windows framed with a tracery of honeysuckle vine. Charles had spent almost nothing of his childhood here; still, it was home.
    Unfortunately, ’twas often a quiet home now, even with the three score servants needed to maintain the estate and its grounds. The old earl had ever disliked traveling, and, being fond of the London entertainments, these days rarely left town. Charles missed his father; despite having almost no interests whatsoever in common, they rubbed along together quite well. He was almost equally fond of his stepmother, knowing that Susannah had saved the earl from a lifetime of melancholy after the desertion, and later death, of his mother.
    It would be a lonely Christmas indeed without them.
    You needn’t stay here long, a niggling voice reminded Lord Quentin. The marquess expected him back shortly after Christmas, and this time for an extended stay. Charles sighed. Luton Court was acclaimed for its winter house parties, and they often lasted near to February. An entire month under the same roof as Celia Sinclair?  It was an alarming thought, but Lord Quentin decided he would worry about it later. The steps of Tavelstoke Manor now rose immediately before him, and he threw the reins to the waiting stable boy. Alcibiades was led off and Charles barely managed to find his own rooms, and remove his boots, before falling into bed, soundly asleep.
    There would be other, more restless nights in the weeks to come, nights when the image of Celia Sinclair would take up residence behind his eyelids. And he would find little relief when, on occasion, the marchioness faded from his mind, only to be replaced with the likeness of another woman, a slender chit with auburn hair and green eyes.
     

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    The morning light streaming into the bedroom windows assured Lady Pamela that she was now at Luton Court, and no longer in the sooty pall of London. The winter light in town never streams anywhere, Pam thought to herself. It limps along, if one is lucky. She pulled on a silk wrapper and opened the doors to her small balcony, feeling invigorated, as usual, by the country air. Even the contretemps with the coach yesterday–a trace had snapped and caused a horrible tangle that had taken ages to sort out–was fading quickly from memory. Luton Court at Christmas was warmth and security, one unchanging tradition in an occasionally tumultuous life.
    Why do I feel so lonely?   Pam asked herself, and then stopped, a frisson of shock traveling the length of her spine. Lonely?  I’m here at Luton, with family and friends–of course I don’t feel lonely. She looked out at the distant hills, covered in gleaming caps of snow. The holidays had