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It had taken a half hour to calm Geoffrey down after her father's petition had been unveiled. Cassia wondered that he’d likely expected to move in that day for it had taken another hour or more to get him to leave Seagrave House.

Only after two glasses of her father's finest brandy and repeated assurances from Cassia that she'd had no knowledge of her father’s plans before Mr. Finchley had revealed them did he finally agree to go.

Cassia worried over his state of mind, knowing how badly she would feel if she had just learned she'd been left with nearly nothing after expecting virtually everything.

Mr. Finchley assured her Geoffrey would be all right, once he had time to digest it all.

Sitting in the quiet of her bedchamber now, Cassia's thoughts were no longer occupied with Geoffrey, Mr. Finchley, or her father's most unexpected petition.

She was staring at the still-sealed letter Mr. Finchley had been instructed to give her from her father.

It was just where it had been since she'd finished that upsetting meeting, lying atop the scrivania in her bedchamber, yet unopened.

His scratchy, distinctive handwriting stood out on the paper where he'd written her name, with his unmistakable seal—the letter S surrounded by a thorny wreath—holding the letter closed on his last words to her.

Cassia wasn't certain she even wanted to read it.

After the afternoon's events, she wondered what more he could have done, what unexpected pitfalls might await inside that ominous missive.

What else could her father have to say to her now, at his death, that he hadn't said to her while alive?

Was it an apology for his treatment of her, his remorse for abusing her the way he had? Would he beg for her forgiveness?

That, if meant sincerely, could never be conveyed in writing, and somehow, Cassia knew that had never been her father's intent in writing the letter to her.

It took another quarter of an hour for Cassia to finally work up the courage to open the letter. She could sit there speculating on it all night and the next morning, too, and she would still never know what had been his intent. So finally, she decided she would just open it and be done with it.

Cassia took up the letter and slid her finger beneath the edge to break the red wax seal.

To my dearest daughter, Cassia, if you are reading this letter, then you have undoubtedly been informed of my petition to the king and of your inheritance by Finchley.

Please know that I did this only for your protection.

I have not always treated you as a father should a daughter, and as I write this letter, I cannot find any reasonable explanation for my actions before now.

I will simply say that sometimes circumstances cause a man to do things he should not do, things in the light of the day, he later regrets.

Someday I hope you will understand. But that is not the purpose of this letter.

Cassia, I feel I must warn you. There are things of which you have no knowledge, individuals who would seek to use you or take what you have been given.

Your mother did not raise you to be a fool, so I need not worry overmuch.

But know this: if it should ever come to a matter of your life being in danger, there exists a means of protection for you.

It is in the form of a document, and for caution's sake, I will not reveal here where it will be found.

I cannot be certain these words will be read only by your eyes.

If you think on it long enough, you will soon reckon where I have hidden it.

I will tell you this—only you can know where it is.

Your father, Seagrave.

As was his custom, her father had used a multitude of words to say very little.

Cassia got up from the writing table. She crossed the room.

She took up one of her handkerchiefs and soaked it in the bowl of scented water that stood on the washstand.

She pressed it to her forehead in effort to ease the throbbing that had begun shortly after Mr. Finchley and Geoffrey had taken their leave.

Having now read her father's cryptic and provocative letter, the throbbing had grown to such proportion that she was certain anyone standing near her would be able to hear its pounding quite clearly.

Would it never end? Again, someone was telling her that her life was in danger.

What she wanted to know was, if it was so obvious to everyone else, why didn't she realize it herself?

She did not feel at all threatened. Surely some keen, intuitive sense would tell her if she was in danger.

And what sort of document was her father talking about, this mysterious means of protection for her?

She heard the door to her chamber open and looked as the maid, carrying a tea tray with a small plate of biscuits, came in.

“You may set the tray on the table by the windows, please, Lynette.”

She’d asked for a pot of the cook’s special herbal tea. She didn’t exactly know what it was she put into the flowery concoction, but it had always helped to calm her nerves in the past. She was hoping it would help to ease her disquietude now and allow her some inkling of relief.

“Will there be anything else, milady?”

“No, that will be all for now, Lynette. Thank you.”

The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and turned to quit the room.

“Lynette, a moment, if you please. I thought I heard someone knocking outside earlier. Was someone at the front door?”

Actually, at the time, Cassia hadn't been certain if it had been the door or just the pounding in her head.

“Yes, milady, someone did come to the door. ‘Twas your cousin, Mister Geoffrey, come back. He asked to speak with you, in private, but Lord Ravenscroft told him you were indisposed and asked him to return at a another, more convenient time.”

Cassia frowned. “Lord Ravenscroft sent Geoffrey away, you say?”

“Yes, milady.”

She looked toward the door, wondering when exactly she had given Lord Ravenscroft the right to decide which visitors she should see or not see. She knew he was committed to this task of guarding her, but perhaps it was time she reminded him of just who ran the household.

Cassia started for the door, completely forgetting that moments earlier, her head had been pounding so fiercely even the slightest movement had left her feeling drained. “Where is he?”

The maid, Lynette, looked confused at her mistress's question. “M-mister Geoffrey is gone, milady, he?—”

“No, not Geoffrey. Lord Ravenscroft. Where is he? No doubt stretched out at leisure before the hearth fire, his feet propped upon the tea table?” she sniped.

“I believe Lord Ravenscroft is in the green chamber, milady, but?—”

It was too late. Cassia was already headed out the door. She paused when she saw that a makeshift truckle bed had been set up in the small antechamber outside her bedchamber.

“What is this?”

Lynette looked almost afraid to answer. “’Tis for Lord Ravenscroft, milady.”

“I thought you said he was in the green chamber.”

“He is, milady, right now, but he instructed Quigman to bring the bed up here for him to sleep on so he could keep watch over you at night.”

This was taking things too far.

Cassia spun about and started down the hallway, heading directly for the green chamber.

Duty was one thing, but this complete overtaking of her life was another. She didn't for one minute believe her life to be in danger. Wasn't it obvious? If whoever had killed her father had also wanted her dead, why wouldn't they have just seen to it at the same time they'd murdered her father?

Cassia was growing tired of taking orders from supposedly well-meaning men, tired of playing the proper and passive lady, tired of doing as she was told to do.

First the king with his having appointed Ravenscroft to act as her shadow, then her father with his damnable petition.

And now Ravenscroft himself was directing her life, deciding who came through the door and who didn’t.

What was it that made men think they had the right to arrange the lives of women as if they were pretty pawns on a chessboard?

Cassia stopped before the closed door to the green chamber. She could hear nothing on the other side. She prepared to knock, then stopped herself short of it. This was her house, after all. She grasped the door handle firmly, and turned it.

She froze not two steps into the room. The angry words she'd been prepared to sputter faded into the ether.

Ravenscroft was standing before the windows that faced out onto the western side of the city. His back was to her, and the fading sunset casting a glow around his entire body—his entire naked body.

He was standing in a copper tub that rose to his knees, and at that moment, he was pouring water from a pitcher over his shoulders. He was faced away and was obviously unaware of her having opened the door.

Cassia just stood, unable to move, yet unable to look away from him. She watched mutely as the water from the pitcher sluiced down his back, over the length of his legs.

He reminded her of the statues that stood in the gardens of Whitehall. But unlike the statues, Lord Ravenscroft was not inanimate granite. He was alive and quite real.

She used to tell herself that the sculptor who had made those magnificent creations had surely carved his work from a picture he held in his mind, for no man could be so defined. Standing there now, regarding Ravenscroft's backside, she realized she had been mistaken in that assumption.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed against it.

It was the first time Cassia had ever seen the male body unclothed. She clenched her handkerchief tightly in her hand as she slowly drew breath.

Rolfe started to turn then, and Cassia quickly spun about, whooshing out the door and fleeing back to her own bedchamber.

“Clydesworthe, is that you, man? I’m in need of a drying cloth. If you could?—?”

Rolfe turned toward the door. He was certain he had heard someone come into the room. No one was there now, but he could see that the door was standing slightly ajar in the fading light.

He started to step from the tub, and when he did, he spotted something lying on the floor. It was small and white and wadded into a ball. He walked across the carpet, leaving a dripping trail of water, and bent down to retrieve it.

It was a handkerchief. Delicate and feminine, it was edged with blond Venetian lace. Embroidered in golden thread along its edge was the letter C .

A small smile tugged at Rolfe’s mouth. He lifted the handkerchief to his nose and took in its scent.