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They had met at Lady Chandler’s rout two years ago, and been drawn to each other instantly. After she had stood up with him three times that first evening, all the matrons had nodded knowingly. His background was hazy, though, and this had been the cause of Lord Bromley’s disapproval. Many of Roberta’s acquaintances had tried to convince her that he was no more than a fortune hunter, but privately he had told her he had great expectations of inheriting his maternal uncle’s large estate in Scotland. He never pretended to be anything more than the youngest son of an impoverished earl, and she saw no reason to press him for additional information. Mrs. Ashley thought him evasive about the source of his income, but Roberta retorted that it was not her business to pry.

  When he proposed, she had accepted instantly, although at her urging they kept the engagement secret. She had hoped to persuade Lord Bromley to accept Stephen before any public announcement was made, for she was extremely fond of her uncle and wanted to avoid angering him.

  It was at this point that she succumbed to the ailment. At first she had refused to believe it was a serious condition, but by the time she had consulted four different specialists, she was convinced she was suffering from something worse than mere inflammation of the lungs. And immediately upon learning that her chances of making a full recovery were almost nonexistent, she decided to free Stephen from the engagement. She thought she understood him well enough to know he would, in the long run, resent being shackled to a semi-invalid.

  She used her uncle’s disapproval as the reason for sending him away. He refused to believe her at first, but when she insisted, and he could see she would not change her mind, he left her, vowing he would marry the first woman he met. And he did—Lady Anita Edwards, a widow of independent means.

  Unfortunately, this event only served to convince her uncle that his original summation of Stephen’s character had been correct, and his castigation of Stephen had been lengthy and virulent. However, as Roberta was convinced she had acted in Stephen’s best interests, she remained silent, even though she knew she was serving him a shabby trick by letting her uncle and Mrs. Ashley believe the worst of him. Her great fear that Stephen would insist on standing by her if he should ever discover the truth hadn’t diminished until he had married his widow. And by then, she reasoned, to reveal the truth wouldn’t serve any useful purpose.

  “If only I had heard of Dr. Steinway and his cure earlier, all this misery would have been averted!” She sighed unhappily, picked up her brush and idly began to brush her hair. “What good does it do me to dwell on what has passed?” she asked her image. “Am I to spend the rest of my life in regret?” She shook her head firmly. “No! Marriage without love is something I do not seek, but I am certainly of an age whereby I can enjoy myself.” Suddenly filled with determination to live to the full, she climbed into bed and blew out the candles. Within minutes she drifted off to sleep.

  When a noise interrupted her restless dreaming, she immediately thought it came from the taproom. She sat up in bed, annoyed that she had been awakened, and as she did so she heard a thud, this time near at hand. Peering into the darkness, she thought she saw something move by the windows, but then chided herself for letting her imagination run wild. She was sure she had closed the shutters.

  By now, she was fully awake, and she decided to investigate just in case one of the cats had found its way into her room. As she reached over to relight the candles, a barely audible moan broke the silence.

  “Who’s there?” she asked sharply. “Don’t come any nearer, for I’m holding a loaded pistol.”

  There was no answer.

  Alarmed now, she inched her way out of bed and grasped the brass candlestick firmly in her right hand. If anyone attacked her, she was certainly going to put up a fight.

  “If you want my jewels,” she continued in a steady voice, “I’m afraid I don’t have them with me, and—and my money is hidden in my coach.”

  Another moan greeted this piece of information. It sounded as though it came from near the dresser. Whoever was in her room had managed to crawl almost to the door.

  “If you think to harm me, it would be a mistake,” she said quickly, “for I only have to shout and my maid will be here in a trice.” She found the continuing silence unnerving, and her earlier bravado evaporated. She made her way slowly over to the dresser, feeling her way carefully in the darkness. She had almost reached it when she heard a noise to her left. She whirled around, but before she could move, a hand caught her right ankle in a viselike grip. She let out a strangled scream and tried to kick free.

  “My dear lady,” a man said, “what I would like to know is what you are doing in my room.”

  Her fears evaporated, for to her ear the voice was not only English but extremely cultured. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that a fellow countryman would cause her harm. She was about to inquire who he was, when he moaned again. His grip went slack, and suddenly her ankle was free.

  “Are you all right?” she asked in alarm, fearful lest he had suffered a fatal injury. No matter what his reasons for being in her room, she certainly didn’t wish that fate for him.

  She fumbled on the dresser until her fingers located the flint, and quickly lit the candles. Holding the light aloft, she looked down.

  “Good heavens above!” she gasped. The man, quite obviously of the first stare, lay at her feet. His dull copper hair was swept back off his face in a style Roberta didn’t recognize, and his harsh features were accentuated by his pallor. His mouth was firm, and his chin jutted out arrogantly. His age was difficult to determine in the flickering light, but if she had to hazard a guess, she would have said that he had seen his thirtieth birthday a few years back.

  She knelt down and looked at him more closely. He appeared to be in a dead faint, and blood was seeping from a wound in his arm, an ever-widening stain coating his pale-gold satin jacket. His breathing was shallow but regular.

  “I wonder what this is all about?” she murmured as she arose. “I had better fetch Henri immediately.”

  She placed the candlestick on the dresser and hurried over to her silken negligee. Pulling it on with trembling hands, she tied the ribbons with difficulty. Then, gathering up her cotton petticoats, she ran to the door, opened it and stepped into the corridor. She glanced up and down, hoping to see someone who could help. Nobody was about. Without hesitation, she rapped on Mrs. Ashley’s door and called out urgently.

  “Ashley, Ashley! Quickly! Come to my room immediately!”

  She flew back to her room and, seeing that the gentleman was still prone, knelt down beside him again and began to rip up her petticoats. She had just finished fashioning a tourniquet when Mrs. Ashley appeared. Without looking up, Roberta commanded her to fetch Henri.

  “And leave you alone with a man?” Mrs. Ashley asked in strangled tones. She was truly shocked by the sight that confronted her, yet all she could whisper was, “Have…have you killed him?”

  “Lordy me, no, Ashley! Please just do as I ask. Fetch Henri immediately, and for goodness’ sake don’t make a fuss.” She continued to apply the makeshift bandage to the gentleman’s arm as she spoke.

  “This—this is an absolute outrage,” Mrs. Ashley said, stubbornly refusing to leave. “Who is he? How did he get into your room? I’ll have a word with Williams in the morning and tell him exactly what I think of his cousin’s inn.”

  “Please, Ashley,” Roberta interrupted, knowing that if she allowed the woman to continue, there would be no stopping her. “There isn’t time for you to enact a full-length Cheltenham tragedy. Fetch Henri and tell him there is an injured man here.”

  Mrs. Ashley turned and left, only to reappear a few minutes later with Henri in tow. “I met him on the stairs,” she informed Roberta in frigid tones. “Now, Roberta, would you mind leaving the—the man and coming with me? I—I don’t know what your uncle would say if he should ever hear of this.”

  Roberta stood up, satisfied that she had stemmed the flow of blood, and ig
nored Mrs. Ashley. She turned to Henri.

  “I take it this is the English lord you were speaking of earlier?”

  “Roberta!” Mrs. Ashley interjected. “Come to my room immediately.”

  “Please, Ashley, don’t fuss. I want to get to the bottom of this. Am I correct, Henri?”

  Henri nodded, the embarrassment he felt obvious and acute.

  “Would you mind giving me an explanation?” Roberta asked in deceptively mild tones. “After all, I do think I’m owed one, don’t you?”

  “If you had only listened to me, mademoiselle, when you had first arrived, this—this wouldn’t have happened,” Henri protested as he edged his way over to the Englishman. He knelt down and felt for a pulse.

  “He’s all right, I think,” Roberta said, suddenly amused by the man’s rudeness. “But perhaps we should carry him to my bed and call for a doctor.”

  “Non, non. That will not be necessary. I will myself take a look at the wound. First, if you wouldn’t mind, I will fetch my son. He can help me.”

  As Henri left, Mrs. Ashley rounded on Roberta. “Really, Roberta, I would never have believed you could behave in such a vulgar fashion. I—I—”

  “For goodness’ sake, Ashley, where’s your sense of adventure?” Roberta asked. “We have a real mystery to unravel, and all you can concern yourself with is proprieties. Where is your compassion for a fellow countryman? Do you propose we abandon him to his fate in a foreign country? Oh, Ashley! Don’t you see, he may need our help.”

  “It appears to me, Roberta, that Henri has everything well in hand. I do not see the necessity of involving ourselves in the affair.”

  “Dear Ashley,” Roberta cajoled, her eyes brimming with excitement, “please don’t overset yourself. Let me find out what this is all about, and then I’ll do as you wish. Don’t you see, when I return to England, I’ll have no choice but to conform to the dreadful rules Society dictates.”

  Before Mrs. Ashley could reply, Henri and his son, Jacques, returned. She watched in silence as the two men lifted the Englishman up and laid him gently on the bed.

  “Go to His Lordship’s room, Jacques, and bring back a nightshirt,” Henri commanded in a low voice. “Then we can undress him and make him comfortable. “

  “Who is he, Henri?” Roberta asked impatiently. “I think it time you explained what is happening.”

  “I don’t know that it is my business to tell you, mademoiselle,” Henri began. “It’s not the wish of His Lordship to have his name known, I think.”

  “Come, Henri,” Roberta responded in exasperation. “You may as well tell me, for I will refuse to leave until I have the answer.”

  “But mademoiselle…”

  The Englishman, forgotten for a moment by Roberta and Henri as they argued, shifted uncomfortably on the bed, and his eyes flickered open. Roberta, unaware that she was being observed, stared haughtily down at Henri and in lofty tones informed him that she did not intend to spend the rest of the night bandying words with an innkeeper.

  A roguish smile touched the edges of the Englishman’s firm mouth until he was overcome by a fit of coughing.

  Roberta spun around and went to his side, putting her hands on the bed as she bent over him. As she peered at him, she felt a slight movement, and before she could withdraw her hands, they were trapped beneath the Englishman’s.

  “How dare you take advantage of me so!” she whispered fiercely. “Let go of me.”

  “Am I in heaven? Are you an angel?” the man quizzed as he gently squeezed her fingers.

  “No,” responded Roberta roundly. “As you will soon discover if you continue in this fashion.”

  “Monsieur,” Henri said, as he, too, joined Roberta at the bedside. “Are you all right? What has happened? Are you in trouble?”

  With seeming reluctance, the Englishman relinquished his hold on Roberta and turned his attention to Henri. “The merest of scratches, my good friend,” he replied nonchalantly. “Nothing serious, although I’m afraid my presence here will be discovered by the comte shortly, for I carelessly left a blazing red trail for him to follow.”

  “He will get no answers from me, monsieur,” Henri answered stoutly. “I will send Jacques to hide your horse. You have nothing to fear.”

  “Except this angel, it would seem. Who are you, mademoiselle?”

  “Who—who am I?” Roberta spluttered. “It is the very question I want to ask of you. You—you have the unmitigated impudence to come bursting into my room, disturb my night’s rest, take over my bed, and now you want to know who I am? Really, sir, I think you have taken leave of your senses. I demand an immediate explanation of your intrusion; otherwise I shall have to report the entire incident to the proper authorities.”

  “My angel shows spirit,” the man said playfully. “Is she or is she not a vision of true beauty, Henri?”

  “Enough!” Roberta said. “I refuse to be drawn into any further discussion of my spirit or beauty. Who are you?”

  “Sir Nicholas Thomas, at your service,” the Englishman answered promptly. “Pray excuse my tawdry manners in not making the proper leg, but as you can see, I am handicapped.”

  Roberta nodded perfunctorily. The name was unfamiliar, and she saw no reason whatsoever to give it any further acknowledgement. “And how do you propose to explain away your intrusion into my bedroom at such a strange hour?”

  “I don’t, for I have no wish to embarrass you further, my dear young lady.”

  Roberta eyed him speculatively, totally unaware of what an alluring picture she made in her shimmering blue night attire. Her hair, still ruffled from sleep, resembled a halo, and her eyes, glinting in the flickering light, sparkled like diamonds.

  Suddenly she recalled the conversation she had had earlier with Jacques. “The comte’s sister!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Of course! How obtuse I have been.”

  Henri looked at Sir Nicholas in dismay. “I swear, monsieur, I have not said anything.”

  “I know that, Henri,” Sir Nicholas replied curtly. “But as the fair lady seems to know of the compromising position I now find myself in, the need for secrecy appears to be over. Who told you of my affair, mademoiselle?” As he posed the question, there was a steely ring to his voice that caused Roberta to draw back.

  “That is none of your business, Sir Nicholas,” she replied, determined not to be intimidated by his manner. “Although, if you wish to indulge yourself in such cloak-and-dagger activities, I would suggest you be more discreet.”

  “It must have been Jacques, monsieur,” Henri interrupted. “Although why he should see fit to prattle on about things that are of no concern to him is beyond my comprehension.”

  “No matter, Henri,” Sir Nicholas said, brushing his brow wearily with his left hand. “The most pressing problem I have at the moment is escaping from the comte and getting back to England. He is bound to have blocked off all routes to Calais, and I’m afraid the wound I have sustained is going to make it impossible for me to travel in any effective disguise. My right arm is useless, and he will have instructed his men to watch for anyone on the move so incapacitated.” He lay back in thoughtful silence, watching Roberta from half-closed eyes. “Unless, mademoiselle, you will agree to help me,” he added. He spoke so softly that Roberta was certain she had misheard.

  “Help you?” she queried in outraged tones, forgetting for a minute that she had suggested this possibility to Mrs. Ashley just a little while earlier. “And why would I want to do that?”

  “To save my life. As worthless as most people consider it, I happen to hold it in great esteem.”

  Roberta looked about her. There was a tenseness to the two men as they waited for her response, and Mrs. Ashley was shaking her head vehemently. Perhaps it was this that decided Roberta, or the encouraging smile that suddenly lit Sir Nicholas’s rugged features. Without further consideration, she nodded her head.

  “Worthless life or not, Sir Nicholas,” she said, “I cannot be party to abetting
a Frenchman in dousing it. I suggest we all get a good night’s rest and discuss how I may be of assistance on the morrow.” Without a backward glance, she joined Mrs. Ashley, who was speechless with horror, and quietly bid the two men good night.

  “One moment,” Sir Nicholas said, halting her at the doorway. “Does my angel have a name?”

  “Miss Rushforth. Roberta Rushforth,” she responded. She left with quiet dignity, taking Mrs. Ashley with her.

  “Well, I never, Henri,” Sir Nicholas exclaimed. “I wonder what her uncle would say if he knew she had agreed to help me.”

  “Je ne saispas, monsieur,” Henri replied as he quickly stripped Sir Nicholas of his outer garments. “But I’m certain you will have found a way out of your dilemma by the time you reach England. Yon have the papers, non? Is that how you received this—this cut?”

  Sir Nicholas nodded.

  “Perhaps you should tell mademoiselle the truth, then?”

  “Never,” Sir Nicholas rejoined, “for that would jeopardize the lives of too many people. ’Tis best, methinks, that she believes what Jacques told her. Ignorance is the best defense, should anything go wrong.”

  Chapter 3

  By the time the morning sun was casting its pale-yellow light through the thin muslin curtains of the parlor, Roberta was already enjoying a substantial breakfast. Marie, attending her, didn’t hesitate to express her admiration for Roberta’s appetite, in view of suffering such a disturbed night.

  “That is the very thing that makes me hungry,” Roberta responded. “How is the patient? I trust he is recovering?”

  Marie shrugged her plump shoulders. “Henri says he is in some pain and unable to move his arm easily. I say he is lucky to be alive. It is not sensible to—to entice a woman like the comte’s sister. She is not well liked in these parts,” she added as she saw Roberta’s inquisitive expression. “And the comte is very possessive of her.”

  “She must have certain attractions,” Roberta said, “else Sir Nicholas wouldn’t have taken the risk of incurring the comte’s wrath.”