he house was ablaze with lights when Jason’s coach pulled to a stop in the drive. Eager to see Victoria, he bounded up the shallow terraced front steps. “Good evening, Northrup!” he grinned, slapping the stalwart butler on the back and handing over his cape. “Where is my wife? Has everyone already eaten? I was delayed by a damnable broken wheel.”

Northrup’s face was a frozen mask, his voice a raw whisper. “Captain Farrell is waiting for you in the salon, my lord.”

“What’s wrong with your voice?” Jason asked good-naturedly. “If your throat’s bothering you, mention it to Lady Victoria. She’s wonderful with things like that.”

Northrup swallowed convulsively and said nothing.

Tossing him a mildly curious look, Jason turned and strode briskly down the hall toward the salon. He threw open the doors, an eager smile on his face. “Hello, Mike, where is my wife?” He glanced around at the cheerful room with the little fire burning in the grate to ward off the chill, expecting her to materialize from a shadowy corner, but all he saw was Victoria’s cloak lying limply across the back of a chair, water dripping from its hem. “Forgive my poor manners, my friend,” he said to Mike Farrell, “but I haven’t seen Victoria in days. Let me go and find her, then we’ll all sit down and have a nice talk. She must be up—”

“Jason,” Mike Farrell said tightly. “There’s been an accident—”

The memory of. another night like this one ripped agonizingly across Jason’s brain—a night when he had come home expecting to find his son, and Northrup had acted oddly; a night when Mike Farrell had been waiting for him in this very room. As if to banish the terror and pain already screaming through his body, he shook his head, backing away. “No!” he whispered, and then his voice rose to a tormented shout. “No, damn you! Don’t tell me that—!”

“Jason—”

“Don’t you dare tell me that!” he shouted in agony.

Mike Farrell spoke, but he turned his head away from the unbearable torment on the other man’s ravaged face. “Her horse threw her off the ridge into the river, about four miles from here. O’Malley went in after her, but he couldn’t find her. He—”

“Get out,” Jason whispered.

“I’m sorry, Jason. Sorrier than I can say.”

“Get out!”

When Mike Farrell left, Jason stretched his hand toward Victoria’s cloak, his fingers slowly closing on the wet wool, pulling it toward him. The muscles at the base of his throat worked convulsively as he brought the sodden cloak to his chest, stroking it lovingly with his hand, and then he buried his face in it, rubbing it against his cheek. Waves of agonizing pain exploded through his entire being, and the tears he had thought he was incapable of shedding fell from his eyes. “No,” he sobbed in demented anguish. And then he screamed it.