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L eona’s fragile feelings of good-will toward Deveraux saw no obstruction during the next few days. This was from a two-fold cause.

First, she rationalized, a man given to army life—which Deveraux had lived for four years—would naturally come to view action as a uniquely male province.

This was an unfortunate occurrence; however, given time and distance from military life, she was sure such an outlook would fade in his perspective.

The truth was that the women of England had become more independent and aware of their unique capabilities.

Coupled with this circumstance came the expedience for action, particularly in the last generation or two as the sons of the English aristocracy and the landed country gentry became involved in war in far distant locales, thereby ensuring long absences from the mother country.

Thus, when these men returned home to pick up their long-discarded reins, they discovered women handling situations that were usually men’s alone. This was unsettling to the men.

On the one hand, they grudgingly admitted praise should be offered, but on the other hand was that niggling notion that they—men—were becoming virtually superfluous.

Add to this the rise of the industrial and mercantile ranks to the status of wealth, and the propertied men—from whence for centuries wealth was measured—felt pressured that their old social order was changing.

Quite simply, they did not know how to handle the changes—particularly as the specter of the French Revolution continued in memory.

Secondly, Nigel Deveraux was acting under a particularly noisome handicap. He was responsible for the well-being of his family at a time when, for unknown reasons, some people were determined to do the family and estate harm.

It was not, Leona ruefully admitted to herself, the best of circumstances in which to see either the contributions made by women or to recognize their capabilities.

With these realizations, and acknowledging a continuing danger, Leona felt it wise to rethink her position in the Deveraux household and show grace under pressure.

Instead of feeling useless, as she had when she first arrived, it became Leona’s objective to lighten Deveraux’s load by not showing the independence of spirit that was her wont.

Furthermore, she determined to show him a friendly countenance, thereby leading him to rethink his position regarding women.

The poor man currently had enough trouble without adding to them the pressure that he acknowledges women and their new status in society.

What was that adage? You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink?

Thus it was with Deveraux. She could only continue to lead him to water and hope that he would one day decide to drink from the waters of her experience and the experiences of other women.

The truth was—although Leona only peripherally appreciated it—she enjoyed the easy camaraderie and teasing she and Deveraux were capable of achieving. He possessed a ready wit that delighted Leona, for it was something she’d never been able to share with her brothers.

She discovered, much to her surprise, that she could be happy at Castle Marin. In truth, she realized she’d been happy even while vexed with inactivity and boredom. It was puzzling. At first, the days lagged. Not so as of late, yet she was beyond understanding the difference.

She was happy, that is, until the third morning after the fire and aborted horse theft, when an unusually sullen Betsy waited upon her.

“Gracious, Betsy, gently,” Leona admonished when for the fourth time the maid pulled her hair while brushing it.

“Sorry,” mumbled Betsy. She gave it another vicious yank.

“Betsy!” Leona pulled out of her reach and turned on the low stool to face her. “Whatever is the matter with you, my girl?”

Betsy threw the brush on the dressing table. “I don’t hold with traitors.”

“What?”

She stomped over to the cupboard. The door opened with a bang. “Be this dress to your ladyship's likin’?” she asked, drawing out the word ladyship as if it bore a particularly foul stench.

Leona rose and walked toward her. “I remind you I do not have a title, nor do I anticipate gaining one. Now I ask you who is a traitor?”

Betsy rummaged about for a clean chemise, petticoat, and stockings.

She tossed the lot on the bed. “I be thinkin’ it be right odd that ye were the one to rescue Lady Chrissy from yer own house.

” She faced Leona with arms akimbo, hands on her hips, and the light of anger’s fire in her eyes.

“Then, too, it be peaceful enough for weeks till ye come here.”

Leona leaned back against the dressing table and stared at Betsy in wide-eyed astonishment. “Are you daring to accuse me of having a hand in Lady Christiana’s kidnapping?” Betsy lowered her arms and shuffled her feet. “That’s wot they’re all beginnin’ to say.”

“Who’s beginning to say?”

“Everyone!”

“Everyone in the servants’ hall, you mean? To what purpose?” she asked when she saw Betsy mulishly lower her head.

“I-I don’t know. That’s wot no one has figured yet.”

Leona sighed heavily. “I swear to you, Betsy, I had nothing to do with that. I never heard of the Deverauxs or Castle Marin until I met Lady Chrissy.”

“Ha! I’ll not swallow that bouncer. The Earl of Nevin, he be known all over England! He’s rich and-and he’s important, too!”

Leona looked up at the ceiling, praying for salvation from the provincial mentality. She looked back at Betsy. “Do you think Mr. Deveraux or Lady Nevin would have me here if they thought I were a threat?”

“I’ll grant ye be mighty innocent actin’. Ye fooled the family, but ye ain’t fooled the staff, so count yerself warned!”

“Betsy!” Leona cried, exasperated. “Oh, never mind. If that is to be your attitude, then I suggest you leave. I’ve done well enough for myself for years. It shall not harm me to do so again.”

She turned her back on her and returned to the dressing table to pick up the discarded brush and pull it through her long, thick hair. She brushed it vigorously with long, rhythmic, angry strokes.

Betsy watched her uncertainly. “Yer not going t’order me to serve ye?”

“No.”

Betsy wrung her hands on her apron. “Yer not going to complain to the master?”

“And say what? ‘Oh, you know that maid you gave me? Well, she is just not going to work out. She thinks me capable of harming that delightful little niece of yours.’ ” Leona said with treacle sweetness.

“ ‘She also thinks I tried to steal your horse and set fire to the dovecote and who knows what else. No, she just is not working out—’ There, is that what you would have me say?”

“N-no.”

She threw up her hands. “Well, maybe, I should. Maybe then he would let me leave and go back home!”

“Ye want to go home?”

“I never wanted to come here! But the great Nigel Deveraux decreed that I come to Castle Marin for my safety. Ha! What a laugh. I am sick with the humor of it!” Leona raged. “Sick—sick—sick!”

“Wot do ye mean, fer yer safety?”

“Two days before I came here, I received a threatening letter vowing revenge for my saving Lady Chrissy. Not that I expect you or your fellows to believe me, for you have me tried and sentenced! But it does not seem as if I am in the most enviable position, does it? Oh, forget it. . .. What am I talking to you for?” She wound her coronet of hair high on her head.

With jerky, angry movements she stuck the pins in to hold it up, scraping her scalp.

Leona stood up to throw off her dressing gown. She looked up to see Betsy still standing by the bed.

“What? Are you here still? Why don’t you run along back to your servants’ hall and make up more tales to paint me blacker still!” She put on her chemise, petticoat and stockings, ignoring the maid. Betsy reached out a hand to help her when she moved to toss her dress over her head.

“Don’t touch me!” Leona shrilled. The eyes she turned toward Betsy glittered with unshed tears, though twin flags of red anger flew high on her cheeks.

“I-I’m sorry, miss.” She licked her lips. “Mayhap we were a mite hasty?—”

“Hasty! Hasty, you call it!” Leona’s chest heaved. “I have never suffered the service of those who would not give it willingly. I do not intend to start. You may leave. Now!”

“Oh, m-miss,” the little maid sobbed. She turned and ran from the room.

Leona slowly sank onto the rumpled bed. She grabbed one of the pillows, cradling it to her chest as the tears began to flow in earnest. Could they believe her guilty?

Yes. And if they did, how far might their tales travel?

Dismally she remembered Deveraux’s account of her heroism among the country people. What were they now saying?

Suddenly she was frightened, more frightened than she’d ever been in her entire life. What was she going to do?

It took more than an hour for Leona to compose herself enough to venture out of her room. She knew that she was helpless against scurrilous rumors. People believed what they wanted to believe and, sad to say, they always tended to believe the worst!

Her best defense—nay, her only defense—lay in not granting importance to the accusations.

She was innocent and she numbered one of the victims. To hide in her room or to leave Castle Marin—with or without Deveraux’s blessing—would be tantamount to admitting guilt.

That she would never do. Though she detested scenes with servants, she was not a quitter.

Before finishing her toilette, she splashed water on her face to ease her puffy eyes and blotchy complexion. She took her time dressing, allowing her face to erase the signs of bitter weeping.