NWILLING TO RELINQUISH her company, Jordan walked upstairs with her and into her bedchamber. "Did you enjoy your afternoon, princess?" he asked.

The endearment made her eyes glow like twin aquamarines. "Very much."

He kissed her and then, because he wanted some reason to linger, he walked slowly toward the adjoining door. As he passed her dressing table, he saw upon it her grandfather's watch in a velvet case and paused to study the heavy gold timepiece. "Do you have a likeness of your grandfather?" he asked idly, picking up the watch and turning it over in his hand.

"No. I keep his watch there as sort of a reminder of him."

"It's an exceptionally fine piece," he remarked.

"He was an exceptionally fine man," she replied in a polite tone that completely belied the secret smile in her eyes as she watched his profile.

Unaware of her smile or her scrutiny, Jordan looked at the watch. A year ago, he remembered, he had accepted this watch as if it were merely his due. Now he wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. He wanted Alexandra to give it to him again. He wanted her to look at him as she once had, with love and admiration shining in her eyes, and to give him the watch that she had intended for a man she deemed "worthy" of it.

"It was a gift from a Scottish earl who admired my grandfather's knowledge of philosophy," she said softly.

Putting the watch down, Jordan turned away. It would take a while longer to earn her trust, he decided, but someday she would surely find him worthy of it. On the other hand, she might give it to him for his birthday, he decided with an inward smile—allowing, of course, that she realized his birthday was only four days away. "It's a beautiful piece," he repeated, adding, "Time certainly has a way of passing. Before you know it, another year is gone. I'll join you in the drawing room before supper."

Jordan leaned nearer to the mirror, inspecting the closeness of his shave. In an exceptionally good humor because he was about to join Alexandra in the drawing room, he grinned at his valet in the mirror and said jokingly, "Well, Mathison, what do you think—will this face of mine spoil the lady's appetite?"

Behind him, Mathison, who was patiently holding up an impeccably tailored black evening coat for Jordan to put his arms into, was so startled to be addressed in this comradely fashion by his normally taciturn employer, that the poor valet had to clear his throat twice before answering in a stammering, blustering tone, "I daresay her grace, being of refined tastes herself, can only delight in your appearance this evening!"

Jordan's lips quirked with amusement at the memory of his "refined" young wife perched upon a tree limb with a fishing pole in her hand. "Tell me something, Mathison," Jordan asked as he shrugged into the black coat. "What color are the roses on the arch at the gardens?"

Startled by the abrupt change of topic and the question itself, Mathison replied blankly, "Roses, your grace? What roses?"

"You need a wife," Jordan replied, chuckling as he clapped the astonished manservant on the arm like a brother. "You're worse off than I was. At least I knew there were roses on—" He broke off abruptly as Higgins hammered on his door in an unprecedented frenzy, calling "Your grace—your grace!"

Waving Mathison aside, Jordan stalked to the door and yanked it open, angrily confronting the stately butler. "What the devil is the matter with you?" he demanded.

"It's Nordstrom—a footman, your grace," Higgins said, so distraught that he actually tugged on Jordan's sleeve, pulling him into the hallway and closing the door before he began to babble disjointedly, "I told Mr. Fawkes at once, just as you said to do should anything unusual happen. Mr. Fawkes needs to see you at once in your study. At once. He told me not to tell anyone, so only Jean in the kitchen and I are aware of the dire event which—"

"Calm yourself!" Jordan snapped, already heading for the red-carpeted staircase.

"What's this all about, Fawkes?" Jordan demanded as he sat down behind his desk and waited for the investigator to be seated across from him.

"Before I explain," Fawkes began cautiously, "I need to ask you a question, your grace. From the time you drove away from the front of the house in your carriage with the picnic baskets today, who handled the decanter of port that was packed into the picnic basket this afternoon?"

"The port?" Jordan repeated, caught off guard by a discussion of wine rather than a footman. "My wife handled it when she poured a glassful for me."

An odd, almost sad expression darkened the investigator's hazel eyes, then it vanished as he said, "Did you drink any of it?"

"No," Jordan said. "The glass tipped over in the grass."

"I see. And your wife, of course, had none of it either?"

"No," Jordan said shortly. "I seem to be the only one who can stomach the stuff."

"Did you stop anywhere and leave the baskets unattended before you arrived at your destination? The stables, perhaps? A cottage?"

"Nowhere," Jordan clipped, eager to see Alexandra and angry because this interview was delaying that. "What the hell is this all about? I thought you wanted to discuss a footman named Nordstrom."

"Nordstrom is dead," Fawkes said flatly. "Poisoned. I suspected the cause of his death when Higgins came to fetch me, and the local physician, Dr. Danvers, has just confirmed it."

"Poisoned," Jordan repeated, unable to entirely absorb such a macabre event taking place in his own house. "How in God's name could such an accident happen here?"

"The only accidental thing about it was the victim. That poison was intended for you. I blame myself for never having believed your assassin would actually try to accomplish your death from inside your own home. In a way," the investigator said in a harsh voice, "I'm to blame for your footman's death."

Oddly enough, Jordan's first fleeting thought was that he'd been wrong about Fawkes. In contrast to his earlier impression of the investigator, he was now inclined to believe that Fawkes was deeply committed to protecting the lives of those he served, rather than to turning a profit. Then it hit him that someone in his own house was apparently trying to poison him, and the thought was so repugnant that he could scarcely believe it. "What in God's name makes you think what could be an explainable accident was actually a miscarried attempt on my life?" he demanded angrily.

"To explain as succinctly as possible, the poison was placed in the decanter of your special port, which was included among the items provided for your picnic. The picnic baskets were unpacked here, after your return, by a kitchen servant by the name of Jean. Higgins was present at the time, and he noticed a few blades of grass clinging to the outside of the decanter. Higgins inspected the decanter, felt that some grass or other minute debris might have gotten into it, and accordingly judged it unfit for your consumption. I gather," Fawkes added, digressing slightly, "that at Hawthorne you adhere to the prevailing custom amongst Society which dictates that any untouched wine poured at meals goes to the butler for his own use, or to be given out as he chooses?"

"We do," Jordan confirmed, his expression composed, watchful, as he waited for the investigator to continue.

Fawkes nodded. "That is what I was told, but I wanted to confirm it with you. In accordance with that custom, the undrunk port was Higgins'. Since he doesn't care for your special port, he gave it to Nordstrom, the footman, to celebrate becoming a grandfather yesterday. Nordstrom took it to his room at four o'clock this afternoon. At seven o'clock he was found dead, the body still warm, the port beside him.

"The scullery maid told me that Nordstrom himself opened the bottle of port this morning, sampled it to be certain it hadn't gone bad, then he filled the decanter and placed it in the basket. Nordstrom is the one who carried the basket with the port out to your coach this afternoon. Higgins tells me you were in a hurry to be off and followed Nordstrom out to the carriage a minute or two later. Is that right?"

"There was a groom holding my horses. I didn't see a footman."

"The groom didn't put the poison in the port," Fawkes said with absolute certainty. "He's my man. I considered Higgins as a possibility, but—"

"Higgins!" Jordan uttered, the idea so farfetched it almost made him laugh.

"Yes, but Higgins didn't do it," Fawkes reassured, mistaking Jordan's incredulity for suspicion. "Higgins has no motive. Besides, he hasn't the constitution to commit murder. The man was hysterical over Nordstrom—wringing his hands and carrying on worse than the scullery maid. We had to wave hartshorn under his nose."

Under other circumstances, Jordan would have been amused at the image of his stern, unflappable butler having hysterics, but there was no amusement in his chilly grey eyes at the moment. "Go on."

"It was also Nordstrom who unloaded your carriage and brought the baskets back down to the kitchens. Therefore Nordstrom was the only one to handle the decanter and the wine both before and after the picnic. Obviously, he didn't poison it. Jean, the scullery maid, assured me no one else touched the decanter."

"Then when was the poison put in the decanter?" Jordan demanded, without the slightest premonition that his entire world was about to be brought crashing down around his feet.

"Since we've ruled out the possibility that it was put into it before or after the picnic," Fawkes said quietly, "the obvious answer is that it was dropped into the port during the picnic."

"That's absurd!" Jordan clipped. "There were only two people there—my wife and myself."

Fawkes delicately shifted his gaze away from the duke's face as he said, "Exactly. And since you didn't do it, that only leaves… your wife."

Jordan's reaction was instaneous and volatile. His hand crashed down on his desk like a thunderclap, at the same instant he surged to his feet, his entire powerful body vibrating with rage. "Get out!" he warned in a low, savage breath, "and take along the fools who work for you. If you aren't off my property within fifteen minutes, I'll throw you off myself. And if I ever hear you've breathed a word of this groundless slander against my wife, I'll murder you with my own two hands, so help me God!"

Fawkes stood up slowly, but he wasn't finished. On the other hand, he wasn't fool enough to remain within arm's reach of his infuriated employer. Backing away a long step, he said sadly, "I regret to say it isn't 'groundless slander.' "

A feeling of inexpressible dread roared through Jordan's body, pounding in his brain, screaming in his heart as he recalled seeing Alexandra holding the decanter of port when he returned from the bank of the stream. "Would you like some wine? It's the special kind you drink."

"Your wife paid another secret visit to your cousin this morning."

Jordan shook his head as if to deny what his intellect was already beginning to suspect, while pain and shock and fury tore through every fiber of his being.

Correctly interpreting the signs of acceptance, Fawkes said quietly, "Your wife and your cousin were betrothed when you returned. Did it not seem odd to you that your cousin relinquished her to you so easily?"

The duke slowly turned his head and looked at Fawkes, his grey eyes iced with rage and pain. He said nothing. Wordlessly, he strode to the table where a decanter of brandy reposed on a silver tray, jerked the stopper from the decanter, and filled a glass to the brim. He tossed down two swallows.

Behind him, Fawkes said gently, "Will you permit me to tell you what I believe and why?"

Jordan inclined his head slightly, but did not turn.

"There is always a motive for premeditated murder, and in this instance personal gain is the most likely one. Since your cousin, Lord Townsende, has the most to gain by your death, he would naturally be the most likely suspect, even without the added evidence that points to him."

"What 'evidence'?"

"I'll get to that in a moment. But first, let me say that I believe the bandits who waylaid you near Morsham a year ago were not after your purse, nor did they pick you at random as a victim. That was the first attempt on your life. The second attempt was, of course, made shortly afterward when you were abducted from the docks. Until then, Lord Townsende's reason for trying to do away with you would have been to seize your title and holdings. Now, however, he has an additional reason."

Fawkes paused, waiting, but the duke remained silent, standing with his back to him, his broad shoulders rigid. "The additional reason is, of course, a desire to have your wife whom he tried to wed and whom he now continues to see in secret. Since she goes to him, I think it's safe to assume she also wishes to wed him, something she cannot do so long as you are alive. Which means Lord Townsende now has an accomplice—her."

Drawing a long breath, Fawkes said, "I must be blunt from now on, if I'm to have your cooperation and protect your life…"

When the tall man across the room said nothing, the investigator correctly interpreted his silence as reluctance and said briskly: "Very well. According to the gossip my men have overheard among your servants, on the night an attempt was made on your life in London, your wife gave everyone a fright by not returning home until the following morning. Do you know where she was?"

Jordan swallowed more of his brandy, his back still turned to the investigator. "She said she slept in a spare room on the servant's floor."

"Your grace, is it possible the horseman who shot at you that night might have been a woman, rather than a man?"

"My wife is an excellent shot," the duke clipped sarcastically. "If she'd tried to shoot me, she'd not have missed."

"It was dark and she was mounted," Fawkes murmured, more to himself than to Jordan. "Perhaps her horse moved slightly as she fired. Still, I'm inclined to doubt she actually tried to do it herself—it's too risky. In the past, outsiders have been hired to do you in, but now they're trying it on their own, which puts you in far greater peril and makes my job ten times as difficult. Which is why I'm going to ask you to pretend we haven't any idea Nordstrom the footman was poisoned. Let your wife and your cousin think you're ignorant of any scheme of theirs. I've instructed Dr. Danvers to say he thinks Nordstrom's heart simply stopped, and I was cautious when I questioned the kitchen servants about Nordstrom's activities that day, not to put any excessive emphasis on the decanter of wine. They've no reason to think we suspect foul play. If we can carry on that ruse and tighten the surveillance on your wife and Lord Townsende, we ought to have some forewarning of the next attempt on your life, and be able to catch them in the act," Fawkes concluded. "I think they'll try the poison again, since they think we're unaware of it, but perhaps not. If they do, they'll not risk poisoning anything which others might also ingest, because more than a single death would definitely awaken suspicion. For example, that brandy you're drinking is probably safe enough because it's served to guests, but I caution you against eating or drinking anything your wife gives you, which she could have touched without your seeing her. Beyond that, all we can do is watch and wait."

Finished, Fawkes fell silent, waiting for some reaction, but the duke remained as rigid as steel. He hesitated, then he bowed to the duke's stiff back. Softly, and with genuine regret, he said, "I'm very sorry, your grace."

Fawkes had just closed the study door when the deathly silence of the hallway was suddenly shattered by an explosive crash and the sound of breaking glass within the study. Thinking someone had fired through the windows, Fawkes flung the door open and then stopped short: A magnificent gold and crystal brandy decanter, which had once belonged to a French king, was now lying on the polished wood floor a few feet away from the wall against which the duke had hurled it. The duke, who had betrayed no trace of emotion throughout the interview, was standing with his hands braced wide against the mantel of the fireplace, gripping it for support; his broad shoulders were shaking with silent anguish.

Alexandra whirled around in a swirl of bright green silk as Jordan stalked into the drawing room, a dazzling smile on her face that faded slightly as she beheld the hardness of her husband's taut jaw and the cold glitter in his eyes, "Is—is something wrong, Jordan?"

At her gentle use of his name, the muscles of his face clenched so tight a nerve in his cheek began to pulse. "Wrong?" he repeated cynically while his gaze wandered over her body with insulting thoroughness, inspecting her breasts, her waist, then her hips, before lifting to her face. "Not that I can see," he replied with scathing indifference.

Alexandra's mouth went dry and her heart began to beat in heavy, terrifying dread as she sensed that Jordan had seemingly withdrawn from her, as if the closeness, the tenderness and laughter they'd shared had never existed. Panic drove her to try to recover what they had found by reaching for a decanter of sherry on the table. Jordan had said he liked having her do wifely things for him, and so she did the only thing she could think of. Filling a small stemmed glass with sherry, she turned and held it out to him, a wobbly smile on her face. "Would you like some sherry?"

His eyes turned to blazing daggers as they shifted to the glass she held, and the nerve in his cheek began to pulsate wildly. When he raised his gaze to her face, Alexandra stepped back in alarm from the unexplainable violence glittering in his eyes. With his gaze riveted to hers, he took the glass from her hand. "Thank you," he said a split second before the fragile stem snapped in his hand.

Alexandra uttered an alarmed little cry and whirled around, looking for something to use to blot the sherry from the magnificent Aubusson carpet before it stained.

"Don't bother," Jordan snapped, catching her elbow and jerking her roughly around. "It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" Alexandra uttered in confusion. "But—"

Softly, and without any emotion, he said, "Nothing matters."

"But—"

"Shall we dine, my sweet?"

Swallowing her rising panic, Alexandra nodded. He had made "my sweet" sound almost like an epithet. "No, wait!" she burst out nervously, and then shyly she added: "I have something I want to give you."

Poison? Jordan thought sarcastically, watching her.

"This," she said and held out her hand to him.

Lying across her open palm was her grandfather's treasured gold watch.

Raising her glowing eyes to his, Alexandra said unsteadily, "I—I want you to have it." For one horrible, incredible moment, she actually thought Jordan was going to refuse it. Instead, he took it from her and dropped it carelessly into his coat pocket. "Thank you," he said with curt indifference. "Assuming it keeps accurate time, it's a half hour past time to dine."

If he had slapped her, Alexandra could not have been more hurt or more bewildered. Like a puppet, she placed her hand upon his proffered arm and let him escort her to the dining room.

Throughout the meal, she tried vainly to convince herself she was merely imagining his complete change in attitude.

When he did not take her to his bed and make love to her that night, she lay awake, trying to understand what she had done to make him regard her with aversion.

When he ceased speaking to her altogether the next day, except when absolutely necessary at meals, she endured it for an entire day before she finally swallowed her pride and meekly asked him what she had done wrong.

He looked up from the work on his desk, furious at her interruption, his eyes raking over her as she stood before him like a nervous supplicant, her shaking hands clasped behind her back. "Wrong?" he repeated in the cool, voice of a complete stranger. "There is nothing wrong, Alexandra, except in your timing. Adams and I are working, as you can see."

Alexandra whirled around, embarrassed to the depths of her soul by the heretofore unnoticed presence of Adams, who was seated at a small desk near the windows. "I—I'm sorry, my lord."

"In that case," he nodded meaningfully toward the door, "if you don't mind—"

Alexandra took his rude hint to leave and did not attempt to speak to him until that night, when she heard him enter his bedchamber. Summoning all her courage, she put on a dressing robe, opened the adjoining door, and stepped inside.

Jordan was removing his shirt when he saw her reflection in the mirror and his head jerked toward her. "Yes, what is it?" he snapped.

"Jordan, please," Alexandra burst out, walking toward him, an innocent temptress with her hair tumbling over her shoulders, sliding to and fro against the rich pink satin of her gown as she moved near him. "Tell me what I've done to anger you."

Jordan gazed down into her blue eyes and his hands clenched at his sides as he fought the simultaneous impulse to strangle her for her treachery and the stronger urge to take her to his bed and pretend for just one hour longer that she was still his enchanting, alluring, barefoot duchess. He wanted to hold her and kiss her, to wrap her around him like a blanket and lose himself in her, to blot out the last days of hell. Just for an hour. But he couldn't, because he couldn't blot out the tormenting picture of her and Tony embracing and planning his murder. Not even for an hour. Or a minute.

"I'm not angry, Alexandra," he said frigidly. "Now get out of here. When I want your company, I'll let you know."

"I see," Alexandra whispered, and turned away.

But all she "saw" was the tears that blinded her as she walked with painful dignity back to her own bed.