hristopher walked to Ramsay House the next afternoon. Not because he actually wanted to. However, he had no plans for the day, and unless he wanted to contend with his mother’s unforgiving stares, or worse, Audrey’s quiet stoicism, he had to go somewhere. The stillness of the rooms, the memories tucked in every nook and shadow, were more than he could face.

He had yet to ask Audrey what it had been like for John the last few days of his life... what his last words had been.

Beatrix Hathaway had been right when she’d guessed that John’s death hadn’t been real to him until he’d come home.

As they went through the forest, Albert bounded this way and that, foraging through the bracken. Christopher felt morose and restless as he anticipated his welcome—or lack thereof—when he arrived at Ramsay House. No doubt Beatrix had told her family about his ungentlemanly behavior. They would be angry with him, rightfully so. It was common knowledge that the Hathaway family was a close-knit, clannish group, fiercely protective of each other. And they had to be, with a pair of Romany brothers-in-law, not to mention their own lack of blood and breeding.

It was only the peerage title, held by Leo, Lord Ramsay, that afforded the family any social foothold whatsoever. Fortunately for them, they were received by Lord Westcliff, one of the most powerful and respected peers of the realm. That connection gave them entrée into circles that otherwise would have excluded them. However, what annoyed the local gentry was that the Hathaways didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

As he approached Ramsay House, Christopher wondered what the devil he was doing, calling on the Hathaways unannounced. It probably wasn’t a proper visiting day, and certainly not an appropriate time. But he rather doubted they would notice.

The Ramsay estate was small but productive, with three thousand acres of arable land and two hundred prosperous tenant farms. In addition, the estate possessed a large forest that yielded a lucrative annual timber yield. The charming and distinctive roofline of the manor home came into view, a central medieval dormer sided by rows of high peaked gables, Jacobean pierced crestings and strap work, and a tidy square Georgian addition to the left. The effect of mixed architectural features wasn’t all that unusual. Many older homes featured additions in a variety of styles. But since this was the Hathaway family, it only seemed to underscore their strangeness.

Christopher put Albert on a leash and proceeded to the entrance of the house with a little stab of dread.

If he were fortunate, no one would be available to receive him.

After tying Albert’s leash to a slender porch column, Christopher knocked at the door and waited tensely.

He reared back as the portal was flung open by a frantic-faced housekeeper.

“I beg your pardon, sir, we’re in the middle of—” She paused at the sound of porcelain crashing from somewhere inside the house. “Oh, merciful Lord,” she moaned, and gestured to the front parlor. “Wait there if you please, and—”

“I’ve got her,” a masculine voice called. And then, “Damn it, no I don’t. She’s heading for the stairs.”

“Do not let her come upstairs!” a woman screamed. A baby was crying in strident gusts. “Oh, that dratted creature has woken the baby. Where are the housemaids?”

“Hiding, I expect.”

Christopher hesitated in the entryway, blinking as he heard a bleating noise. He asked the housekeeper blankly, “Are they keeping farm animals in here?”

“No, of course not,” she said hastily, trying to push him into the parlor. “That’s... a baby crying. Yes. A baby.”

“It doesn’t sound like one,” he said.

Christopher heard Albert barking from the porch. A three-legged cat came streaking through the hallway, followed by a bristling hedgehog that scuttled a great deal faster than one might have expected. The housekeeper hastened after them.

“Pandora, come back here!” came a new voice—Beatrix Hathaway’s voice—and Christopher’s senses sparked in recognition. He twitched uneasily at the commotion, his reflexes urging him to take some kind of action, although he wasn’t yet certain what the bloody hell was going on.

A large white goat came leaping and capering and twisting through the hallway.

And then Beatrix Hathaway appeared, tearing around the corner. She skidded to a halt. “You might have tried to stop her,” she exclaimed. As she glanced up at Christopher, a scowl flitted across her face. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Miss Hathaway—” he began.

“Hold this.”

Something warm and wriggling was thrust into his grasp, and Beatrix dashed off to pursue the goat.

Dumbfounded, Christopher glanced at the creature in his hands. A baby goat, cream colored, with a brown head. He fumbled to keep from dropping the creature as he glanced at Beatrix’s retreating form and realized she was wearing breeches and boots.

Christopher had seen women in every imaginable state of dress or undress. But he had never seen one wearing the clothes of a stablehand.

“I must be having a dream,” he told the squirming kid absently. “A very odd dream about Beatrix Hathaway and goats...”

“I have her!” the masculine voice called out. “Beatrix, I told you the pen needed to be made taller.”

“She didn’t leap over it,” came Beatrix’s protest, “she ate through it.”

“Who let her into the house?”

“No one. She butted one of the side doors open.”

An inaudible conversation followed.

As Christopher waited, a dark-haired boy of approximately four or five years of age made a breathless entrance through the front door. He was carrying a wooden sword and had tied a handkerchief around his head, which gave him the appearance of a miniature pirate. “Did they catch the goat?” he asked Christopher without preamble.

“I believe so.”

“Oh, thunderbolts. I missed all the fun.” The boy sighed. He looked up at Christopher. “Who are you?”

“Captain Phelan.”

The child’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Where’s your uniform?”

“I don’t wear it now that the war is over.”

“Did you come to see my father?”

“No, I... came to call on Miss Hathaway.”

“Are you one of her suitors?”

Christopher gave a decisive shake of his head.

“You might be one,” the boy said wisely, “and just not know it yet.”

Christopher felt a smile—his first genuine smile in a long time—pulling at his lips. “Does Miss Hathaway have many suitors?”

“Oh, yes. But none of them want to marry her.”

“Why is that, do you imagine?”

“They don’t want to get shot,” the child said, shrugging.

“Pardon?” Christopher’s brows lifted.

“Before you marry, you have to get shot by an arrow and fall in love,” the boy explained. He paused thoughtfully. “But I don’t think the rest of it hurts as much as the beginning.”

Christopher couldn’t prevent a grin. At that moment, Beatrix returned to the hallway, dragging the nanny goat on a rope lead.

Beatrix looked at Christopher with an arrested expression.

His smile faded, and he found himself staring into her blue-on-blue eyes. They were astonishingly direct and lucid... the eyes of a vagabond angel. One had the sense that no matter what she beheld of the sinful world, she would never be jaded. She reminded him that the things he had seen and done could not be polished away like tarnish from silver.

Gradually her gaze lowered from his. “Rye,” she said, handing the lead to the boy. “Take Pandora to the barn, will you? And the baby goat as well.” Reaching out, she took the kid from Christopher’s arms. The touch of her hands against his shirtfront elicited an unnerving response, a pleasurable heaviness in his groin.

“Yes, Auntie.” The boy left through the front door, somehow managing to retain possession of the goats and the wooden sword.

Christopher stood facing Beatrix, trying not to gape. And failing utterly. She might as well have been standing there in her undergarments. In fact, that would have been preferable, because at least it wouldn’t have seemed so singularly erotic. He could see the feminine outline of her hips and thighs clad in the masculine garments. And she didn’t seem at all self-conscious. Confound her, what kind of woman was she?

He struggled with his reaction to her, a mixture of annoyance, fascination, and arousal. With her hair threatening to tumble from its pins, and her cheeks flushed from exertion, she was the epitome of glowing female health.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I came to apologize,” he said. “I was... discourteous yesterday.”

“No, you were rude.”

“You’re right. I’m truly sorry.” At her lack of response, Christopher fumbled for words. He, who had once spoken to women so glibly. “I’ve been too long in rough company. Since I left the Crimea, I find myself reacting irritably without cause. I... words are too important for me to be so careless with them.”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought her face softened a little.

“You don’t have to be sorry for disliking me,” she said. “Only for being discourteous.”

“Rude,” Christopher corrected. “And I don’t.”

“You don’t what?” she asked with a frown.

“Dislike you. That is... I don’t know you well enough to either like or dislike you.”

“I’m fairly certain, Captain,” she said, “that the more you discover about me, the more you will dislike me. Therefore, let’s cut to the chase and acknowledge that we don’t like each other. Then we won’t have to bother with the in-between part.”

She was so bloody frank and practical about the whole thing that Christopher couldn’t help but be amused. “I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.”

“Why not?”

“Because when you said that just now, I found myself starting to like you.”

“You’ll recover,” she said.

Her decisive tone made him want to smile. “It’s getting worse, actually,” he told her. “Now I’m absolutely convinced that I like you.”

Beatrix gave him a patently skeptical stare. “What about my hedgehog? Do you like her, too?”

Christopher considered that. “Affection for rodents can’t be rushed.”

“Medusa isn’t a rodent. She’s an erinaceid.”

“Why did you bring her to the picnic?” Christopher couldn’t resist asking.

“Because I thought her company would be preferable to that of the people I would meet there.” A faint smile played at the corners of her lips. “And I was right.” She paused. “We’re about to have tea,” she said. “Will you join us?”

Christopher began to shake his head before she had even finished. They would ask questions, and he would have to come up with careful answers, and the thought of a prolonged conversation was wearying and anxiety provoking. “Thank you, but no. I—”

“It’s a condition of my forgiveness,” Beatrix said. Those dark blue eyes, lit with a provocative glint, stared directly into his.

Surprised and diverted, Christopher wondered how an unworldly young woman in her early twenties had the gall to give him orders.

However, it was turning out to be a strangely entertaining afternoon. Why not stay? He wasn’t expected anywhere. And no matter how it turned out, it would be preferable to going back to those somber dark rooms at home. “In that case—” He broke off, startled, as Beatrix leaned toward him.

“Oh, bother.” She was looking closely at the lapels of his tweed sack coat. “You’re covered with goat hair.” She began to brush at his lapels vigorously.

It took Christopher a full five seconds to remember how to breathe. “Miss Hathaway—” In her efforts to whisk away the scattering of stray goat hairs, she was standing much too close. He wanted her even closer. What would it feel like to wrap his arms around her, and press his cheek into that mass of shiny dark hair?

“Don’t move,” Beatrix said, continuing to bat at the front of his coat. “I’ve almost brushed it off.”

“No, I don’t... that’s not...” Christopher’s control broke. He snatched her slender wrists with his hands, holding them suspended. God, the feel of her... the smooth skin... the exquisite throb of her veins against his fingertips. A subtle tremor ran through her. He wanted to follow it with his hands, smooth his palms over the supple curves of her. He wanted to wrap her around him, her legs, her arms, her hair.

But despite her undeniable attractions, he would never pursue a woman like Beatrix Hathaway, even if he weren’t already in love with Prudence. What he truly wanted, needed, was a return to normalcy. To the kind of life that would restore him to peace.

Slowly Beatrix pulled her arms free of his manacling fingers. She stared at him, her gaze wary and intent.

They both started at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Good afternoon,” came a pleasant feminine voice.

It was the oldest Hathaway sister, Amelia. She was shorter and more voluptuous than her younger sister. There was a warm maternal air about her, as if she were prepared to ladle out sympathy and comfort at a moment’s notice.

“Mrs. Rohan,” Christopher murmured, and bowed.

“Sir,” she replied with a questioning lilt. Although they had met before, she clearly didn’t recognize him.

“This is Captain Phelan, Amelia,” Beatrix said.

The blue eyes widened. “What a lovely surprise,” she exclaimed, giving Christopher her hand.

“Captain Phelan and I dislike each other,” Beatrix told her. “In fact, we’re sworn enemies.”

Christopher glanced at her quickly. “When did we become sworn enemies?”

Ignoring him, Beatrix said to her sister, “Regardless, he’s staying for tea.”

“Wonderful,” Amelia said equably. “Why are you enemies, dear?”

“I met him yesterday while I was out walking,” Beatrix explained. “And he called Medusa a ‘garden pest,’ and faulted me for bringing her to a picnic.”

Amelia smiled at Christopher. “Medusa has been called many worse things around here, including ‘diseased pincushion,’ and ‘perambulating cactus.’ ”

“I’ve never understood,” Beatrix said, “why people have such unreasonable dislike of hedgehogs.”

“They dig up the garden,” Amelia said, “and they’re not what one would call cuddlesome. Captain Phelan has a point, dear—you might have brought your cat to the picnic instead.”

“Don’t be silly. Cats don’t like picnics nearly as much as hedgehogs.”

The conversation proceeded at such quicksilver speed that there was little opportunity for Christopher to break in. Somehow he managed to find an opening. “I apologized to Miss Hathaway for my remarks,” he told Amelia uncomfortably.

This earned an approving glance. “Delightful. A man who’s not afraid to apologize. But really, apologies are wasted on our family—we’re usually pleased by the things we should be offended by, and vice versa. Come in, Captain, you’re among friends.”

Christopher found himself being ushered into a bright, cheery house, with abundant windows and piles of books everywhere.

“Beatrix,” Amelia said over her shoulder as they proceeded through the hallway. “Perhaps you should reconsider your attire. Poor Captain Phelan may find it somewhat shocking.”

“But he’s already seen me like this,” came Beatrix’s voice from behind Christopher, “and I’ve already shocked him. What is the point in changing clothes? Captain, would you feel more comfortable if I took my breeches off?”

“No,” he said hastily.

“Good, I’ll keep them on. Really, I don’t see why women shouldn’t dress like this all the time. One can walk freely and even leap. How is one to chase after a goat in skirts?”

“It’s something the dressmakers should consider,” Amelia said. “Although my concern is more in the direction of chasing after children, not goats.”

They entered a room lined with a semicircular row of tall windows overlooking a spring garden. It was a comfortable room, with overstuffed furniture and embroidered pillows. A housemaid was busy setting out china plates on a tea table. Christopher couldn’t help contrasting this cozy scene with yesterday’s stilted teatime in the Phelans’ immaculate formal parlor.

“Please set another place, Tillie,” Amelia said. “We have a guest.”

“Yes, mum.” The housemaid looked distinctly worried. “Is the goat gone?”

“Entirely gone,” came the soothing reply. “You may bring out the tea tray when it’s ready.” Amelia sent a mock frown to Christopher. “That goat has been nothing but trouble. And the dratted creature isn’t even picturesque. Goats resemble nothing so much as badly dressed sheep.”

“That’s quite unfair,” Beatrix said. “Goats have far more character and intelligence than sheep, who are nothing but followers. I’ve met far too many in London.”

“Sheep?” Christopher asked blankly.

“My sister is speaking figuratively, Captain Phelan,” Amelia said.

“Well, I have met some actual sheep in London,” Beatrix said. “But yes, I was mainly referring to people. They all tell you the same gossip, which is tedious. They adhere to the current fashions and the popular opinions, no matter how silly. And one never improves in their company. One starts falling in line and baaing.”

A quiet laugh came from the doorway as Cam Rohan entered the room. “Obviously Hathaways are not sheep. Because I’ve tried to herd the lot of you for years, without any success.”

From what Christopher remembered of Rohan, he had worked at a London gaming club for a time, and then had made a fortune in manufacturing investments. Although his devotion to his wife and family was well-known in Stony Cross, Rohan was hardly the image of a staid and respectable patriarch. With his longish dark hair, exotic amber eyes, and the diamond stud flashing in his ear, his Romany heritage was obvious.

Approaching Christopher, Rohan exchanged a bow and surveyed him with a friendly gaze. “Captain Phelan. It is good to see you. We were hoping for your safe return.”

“Thank you. I hope my presence is not an imposition.”

“Not in the least. With Lord Ramsay and his wife still in London, and my brother Merripen and his wife visiting Ireland, it’s been far too peaceful here of late.” Rohan paused, a glitter of amusement entering his eyes. “Fugitive goats notwithstanding.”

The ladies were seated, and finger bowls and napkins were brought out, followed by a sumptuously laden tea tray. As Amelia poured, Christopher noticed that she had added a few crushed green leaves to Beatrix’s cup.

Seeing his interest, Amelia said, “My sister prefers her tea flavored with mint. Would you like some as well, Captain?”

“No, thank you, I...” Christopher’s voice faded as he watched her stir a spoonful of honey into the cup.!!!“Every morning and afternoon I drink fresh mint tea sweetened with honey...”

The reminder of Prudence awakened the familiar yearning, and Christopher steeled himself against it. He forced himself to focus solely on this situation, these people.

In the ensuing pause, he heard the sound of Albert barking outside. With despairing impatience, Christopher wondered if the blasted dog was ever going to be quiet.

“He wants to protect you,” Beatrix said. “He’s wondering where I’ve taken you.”

Christopher let out a taut sigh. “Perhaps I shouldn’t stay. He’ll bark for hours.”

“Nonsense. Albert must learn to adapt to your plans. I’ll bring him inside.”

Her authoritative manner rankled Christopher, no matter that she was right. “He might damage something,” he said, rising to his feet.

“He can’t do any worse than the goat,” Beatrix replied, standing to face him.

Politely Rohan stood as well, watching the two of them.

“Miss Hathaway—” Christopher continued to object, but he fell silent, blinking, as she reached out and touched his chest. Her fingertips rested over his heart for the space of one heartbeat.

“Let me try,” she said gently.

Christopher fell back a step, his breath catching. His body responded to her touch with disconcerting swiftness. A lady never put her hand to any area of a man’s torso unless the circumstances were so extreme that... well, he couldn’t even imagine what would justify it. Perhaps if his waistcoat was on fire, and she was trying to put it out. Other than that, he couldn’t think of any defensible reason.

And yet if he were to point out the breach of etiquette, the act of correcting a lady was just as graceless. Troubled and aroused, Christopher gave her a single nod.

The men resumed their seats after Beatrix had left the room.

“Forgive us, Captain Phelan,” Amelia murmured. “I can see that my sister startled you. Really, we’ve tried to learn better manners, but we’re Philistines, all of us. And while Beatrix is out of hearing, I would like to assure you that she doesn’t usually dress so outlandishly. However, every now and then she goes on an undertaking that makes long skirts inadvisable. Replacing a bird in a nest, for example, or training a horse, and so forth.”

“A more conventional solution,” Christopher said carefully, “would be to forbid the activity that necessitated the wearing of men’s garments.”

Rohan grinned. “One of my private rules for dealing with Hathaways,” he said, “is never to forbid them anything. Because that guarantees they’ll keep doing it.”

“Heavens, we’re not as bad as all that,” Amelia protested.

Rohan gave his wife a speaking glance, his smile lingering. “Hathaways require freedom,” he told Christopher, “Beatrix in particular. An ordinary life—being contained in parlors and drawing rooms—would be a prison for her. She relates to the world in a far more vital and natural way than any gadji I’ve ever known.” Seeing Christopher’s incomprehension, he added, “That’s the word the Rom uses for females of your kind.”

“And because of Beatrix,” Amelia said, “we possess a menagerie of creatures no one else wants: a goat with an undershot jaw, a three-legged cat, a portly hedgehog, a mule with an unbalanced build, and so forth.”

“A mule?” Christopher stared at her intently, but before he could ask about it, Beatrix returned with Albert on the leash.

Christopher stood and moved to take the dog, but Beatrix shook her head. “Thank you, Captain, but I have him in hand.”

Albert wagged his tail wildly at the sight of Christopher and lunged toward him with a bark.

“No,” Beatrix scolded, pulling him back and putting her hand briefly to his muzzle. “Your master is safe. No need to make a fuss. Come.” Reaching for a pillow from a low-backed settee, she placed it in the corner.

Christopher watched as she led the dog to the pillow and removed the leash. Albert whimpered and refused to lie down, but he remained obediently in the corner. “Stay,” she told him.

To Christopher’s amazement, Albert didn’t move. A dog who thought nothing of running through gunfire was completely cowed by Beatrix Hathaway.

“I think he’ll behave,” Beatrix said, returning to the table. “But it would be best if we paid him no attention.” She sat, placed a napkin in her lap, and reached for her teacup. She smiled as she saw Christopher’s expression. “Be at ease, Captain,” she said gently. “The more relaxed you are, the calmer he will be.”

In the hour that followed, Christopher drank cups of hot sugared tea and let the gently animated conversation flow around him. Slowly, a string of tight, cold knots inside his chest began to loosen. A plate filled with sandwiches and tarts was set before him. Occasionally he glanced at Albert, who had settled in the corner, his chin on his paws.

The Hathaways were new in Christopher’s experience. They were intelligent, amusing, their conversation veering and dashing in unexpected directions. And it was clear to him that the sisters were too clever for polite society. The one subject they didn’t tread upon was the Crimea, for which Christopher was grateful. They seemed to understand that the topic of war was the last thing he wanted to discuss. For that reason among others, he liked them.

But Beatrix was a problem.

Christopher didn’t know what to make of her. He was mystified and annoyed by the familiar way she spoke to him. And the sight of her in those breeches, her legs crossed like a man’s, was unsettling. She was strange. Subversive and half tame.

When the tea was concluded, Christopher thanked them for the agreeable afternoon.

“You will call again soon, I hope,” Amelia said.

“Yes,” Christopher said, not meaning it. He was fairly certain that the Hathaways, although enjoyable, were best taken in small, infrequent doses.

“I’ll walk with you to the edge of the forest,” Beatrix announced, going to collect Albert.

Christopher suppressed a twinge of exasperation. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Hathaway.”

“Oh, I know it’s not,” she said. “But I want to.”

Christopher’s jaw tightened. He reached for Albert’s leash.

“I have him,” Beatrix said, retaining the leash.

Conscious of Rohan’s amused regard, Christopher bit back a retort, and followed Beatrix from the house.

Amelia went to the parlor windows and watched the two distant figures proceed through the orchard toward the forest. The apple trees, frosted with light green buds and white blossoms, soon conspired to hide the pair from view.

She puzzled over the way Beatrix had behaved with the stern-faced soldier, pecking and chirping at him, almost as if she were trying to remind him of something he’d forgotten.

Cam joined her at the window, standing behind her. She leaned back against him, taking comfort in her husband’s steady, strong presence. One of his hands glided along her front. She shivered in pleasure at the casual sensuality of his touch.

“Poor man,” Amelia murmured, thinking of Phelan’s haunting eyes. “I didn’t recognize him at first. I wonder if he knows how much he has changed?”

Cam’s lips played lightly at her temple as he replied. “I suspect he is realizing it now that he’s home.”

“He was very charming before. Now he seems so austere. And the way he stares sometimes, as if he’s looking right through one...”

“He’s spent two years burying his friends,” Cam replied quietly. “And he’s taken part in the kind of close combat that makes a man as hard as nails.” He paused reflectively. “Some of it you can’t leave behind. The faces of the men you kill stay with you forever.”

Knowing that he was remembering a particular episode of his own past, Amelia turned and hugged herself close to him.

“The Rom don’t believe in war,” Cam said against her hair. “Conflict, arguing, fighting, yes. But not in taking the life of a man with whom one has no personal grievance. Which is one of many reasons why I would not make a good soldier.”

“But for those same reasons, you make a very good husband.”

Cam’s arms tightened around her, and he whispered something in Romany. Although she didn’t understand the words, the rough-soft sound of them caused her nerves to tingle.

Amelia nestled closer. With her cheek against his chest, she reflected aloud, “It’s obvious that Beatrix is fascinated by Captain Phelan.”

“She’s always been drawn to wounded creatures.”

“The wounded ones are often the most dangerous.”

His hand moved in a soothing stroke along her spine. “We’ll keep a close watch on her, monisha.”

Beatrix kept pace easily with Christopher as they headed toward the forest. It nagged at him to have someone else holding Albert’s leash. Beatrix’s assertiveness was like a pebble lodged in the toe of his shoe. And yet when she was near, it was impossible to feel detached from his surroundings. She had a knack of keeping him anchored in the present.

He couldn’t stop watching how her legs and hips moved in those breeches. What was her family thinking, to allow her to dress this way? Even in private it was unacceptable. A humorless smile curved his lips as he reflected that he had at least one thing in common with Beatrix Hathaway—neither of them was in step with the rest of the world.

The difference was that he wanted to be.

It had been so easy for him, before the war. He had always known the right thing to do or say. Now the prospect of reentering polite society seemed rather like playing a game in which he had forgotten the rules.

“Will you sell your army commission soon?” Beatrix asked.

Christopher nodded. “I’m leaving for London in a few days to make the arrangements.”

“Oh.” Beatrix’s tone was noticeably subdued as she said, “I suppose you’ll call on Prudence.”

Christopher made a noncommittal sound. Inside his coat pocket rested the small, tattered note he carried with him always.!!!I’m not who you think I am...!!!Come back, please come home and find me.

Yes. He would find her, and discover why she had written those haunting words. And then he would marry her.

“Now that your brother is gone,” Beatrix said, “you’ll have to learn how to manage the Riverton estate.”

“Among other things,” he said curtly.

“Riverton encompasses a large part of the forest of Arden.”

“I was aware of that,” Christopher said gently.

She didn’t seem to notice the touch of sarcasm. “Some estate owners are overcutting, to supply the local manufacturing businesses. I hope you won’t do that.”

Christopher remained silent, hoping that would quell further conversation.

“Do you want to inherit Riverton?” Beatrix surprised him by asking.

“It doesn’t matter whether I want it or not. I’m next in line, and I’ll do what is required.”

“But it does matter,” Beatrix said. “That’s why I asked.”

Losing his patience, Christopher said, “The answer is no, I don’t want it. It was always supposed to be for John. I feel like a bloody impostor trying to assume his place.”

With anyone else, the burst of vehemence would have put an end to the questioning. But Beatrix persisted. “What would you have done if he was still alive? You would still sell your commission, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve had enough of the army.”

“And then? What would you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are your aptitudes? Your talents?”

Their footsteps slowed as they reached the woods. His talents... he could hold his liquor, beat a man at billiards or cards, seduce a woman. He was a crack shot and an excellent rider.

Then Christopher thought of the thing in his life he had most been lauded for, and showered with praise and medals.

“I have one talent,” he said, taking Albert’s leash from Beatrix’s hand. He looked down into her round eyes. “I’m good at killing.”

Without another word, he left her standing at the edge of the forest.