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Leona turned almost blindly to face Sharply, the edge of hysteria glittering in her eyes, and her shrill laugh momentarily clouded her sister’s calm countenance.

“And now what would Mama have me do?” she asked no one in particular.

“If you’ll excuse me—” She turned and walked quickly toward the doorway.

“Leona!” her sister called after her.

Leona waved that she was all right but did not look back.

The Marquess of Keirsmyth lounged against a marble column near the musicians’ dais, his long, saturnine face impassive as he watched the dialogue between Miss Leonard and the rotund gentleman with the balding pate who had identified himself at dinner as Miss Leonard’s brother-in-law.

Judging by the man’s manners—or lack thereof—he understood why Deveraux was loath to turn the problem of Miss Leonard over to her nearest relations.

Now it appeared that these relatives, rather than being helpful, had delivered some stunning blow to Miss Leonard.

The woman looked dazed, as if she’d spent too many rounds in the ring. Perhaps she had.

Reluctantly he straightened to follow her as she left the ballroom. Damn Deveraux and friendship, anyway. He was getting too old for intrigue.

Deveraux watched as Leona made her way through the crowded entrance hall and out the manor house door.

She did not appear to be fleeing something specific, rather the world in general.

She went out without even the protection of a wrap, not far behind her followed Keirsmyth who flicked a nod of reassurance in Deveraux’s direction as he passed.

Deveraux gnashed his teeth together as another person came up to shake hands with him.

He’d be in this line for another hour at least. What had sent her scurrying off like that?

Damn. This was not the time to be forced to “do the pretty,” as Keirsmyth said.

He was glad he’d set the blackguard on her tail.

It was the only thing that kept him at his sister’s and mother’s sides.

As the guest he greeted passed on, he glanced over at Fitzhugh, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

He’d also seen Leona’s hurried departure.

Deveraux swore again and silently contemplated how much longer he would be tied to the damned receiving line.

The nearly full moon washed the night landscape in gray and silver hues, leaving only patches of deep blackness for contrast. It was not a threatening darkness, not one to call forth weaving black shadows of bare branches brought to life, nor spectral sounds of sighing ghosts in the wind.

It was far removed from an evil, frightening night. The air was fresh and clean-smelling—a little damp, but full of the promise of spring. It was a night with the sounds of spring beginning to be heard, and the silence of winter something of the past. The night soothed Leona’s battered soul.

In the moonlight, the old keep on the motte shone with a silver brilliance like an old hunched woman decked out for one last time in the family’s jewels. The old woman beckoned, and Leona went.

The path up to the old keep was of large stones cut square and laid like a spiraling stairway up the motte.

The stones were smooth and, in places, covered with moss.

Cold dampness soaked Leona’s fragile dancing slippers, but she ignored it.

It was too late now to save them from ruin.

It didn’t matter anyway. She would not be, could not be a comfortable guest at the ball.

Her mind was too full and yet at the same time, empty.

She couldn’t seem to gather her scattered thoughts.

They ran through her mind like sand through her fingers.

Charlie, married.

She’d long ago shelved that fear. She never thought, never even dreamed he would marry!

He was almost without a feather to fly with, hardly a marriage mart catch of any season!

She thought to have a home at either Rose Cottage or Lion’s Gate, and therefore always have a duty to fill her hours and days, keeping loneliness at bay.

Why had she discounted the possibility of Charlie marrying?

Why did she never make contingency plans?

It was stupidity. Plain, unadorned stupidity. No—worse—it was fear.

That realization stopped her in her headlong flight up the stone steps.

Fear. An emotion she kept buried, refused to acknowledge.

For all her lack of attention, it seemed nonetheless to have acknowledged her.

She felt the first stirring of that fear now, a heaviness in her stomach and a tightness in her chest and throat.

Nonsense. She was stronger than fear. It was fear that made people weak and incapacitated.

She was neither. She merely needed to get her mind functioning again on the problem of her brother and Lion’s Gate.

A solution would present itself if she only concentrated.

She looked up at the keep looming above her.

She was three-quarters of the way up the hill.

She imagined the surrounding countryside's view would be beautiful from up there, especially with the moon's silver brush strokes highlighting the countryside. It was getting colder, though. Up here, it was not so sheltered from the wind as the drive before the house. She shivered slightly, drawing her light decorative shawl more closely about her. No matter. She would not go back down until she’d seen the sights from the keep. Recalling Deveraux’s words of warning that the keep was dangerous, she would be careful.

She silently promised Deveraux she wouldn’t go in.

She didn’t see how anything in this beautiful moonlight could be dangerous.

It was too wrapped in enchantment for harm.

She smiled at her whimsical turn of mind and started on up the hill with a lighter step.

She was near the keep itself when she realized two things. First, someone had been up that way fairly recently, for a man’s cap lay in the tall grass next to the stone stairway. Second, she was followed.

Fear clawed at her chest, making breathing difficult.

She forced herself to relax, to think clearly.

She knew it wasn’t Deveraux following her.

He was in the receiving line greeting guests.

Even if he weren’t, he would never attempt to hide the fact that he was following her.

Deveraux would not move stealthily behind her, keeping to the shadows and stopping when she did.

North? She remembered his expression in the stable courtyard, full of hatred and the wild glitter of vengeance in his eyes.

He was more than a possibility. Her memory sent shivers down her spine and cold clutching at her stomach.

She did not dare turn around. It would warn him of her suspicions.

But what could she do? She stared up at the keep towering above her in the night sky.

If she could make the keep, maybe there she could find a club or rock to use as a weapon—or failing that, a safe hole in which to hide.

She continued up the stairway, moving a little faster, trying to place more distance between herself and North.

An old fall of rock preceded the keep, but the stones were all large boulders toppled from the crumbling walls, too small to offer shelter.

Leona picked her way as quickly as she dared through the fallen rubble amid deep shadows, praying she would not trip and sprain an ankle or worse.

It was colder up here on top of the hill.

Wind whistled around the rocks. Leona shivered, her attention now on the keep and its offer of sanctuary from cold and evil.

She carefully stepped into the keep, its fitted stone floor rustling with dry leaves and twigs.

Moonlight pierced gaps in the walls and the narrow slitted windows, throwing odd patterns of light and shadow across the floor.

She couldn’t stay here. There was nowhere to hide and no weapon at hand.

At the end of the empty hall was a stone staircase leading up into the tower.

She ran toward it, only vaguely aware of the large bundle of cloth in a dark corner by the open hearth.

The stairway was black, unlike any darkness Leona had ever known.

It was enveloping and suffocating in its density.

If it weren’t for the stairs' slope, it would be easy to lose one’s sense of direction.

She went on. Behind her, she thought she heard the sound of a shoe striking stone.

Was her pursuer that close already? Panic threatened to close her throat.

Fool!

The keep was not a safe harbor. It presented more danger and left her more alone and isolated. Bitterly she chastised herself for her impetuousness. Was Charlie’s marriage that horrible that it must thrust her willy-nilly into disaster?

Using her hands to guide herself up the narrow staircase, she plunged on, taking some measure of satisfaction from the fact that the black stairway would be as blinding to her follower as it was to her.

Finally, rounding another part of the steps, she thought she discerned a growing lightness on the stairway.

Yes! There was moonlight streaming in from somewhere.

She hurried forward, anxious to gain some measure of sight back.

The steps stopped at a broad landing facing a heavy oak door on iron hinges.

The door was ajar, spilling the light into the stairwell.

Leona sobbed when she saw it. All she had to do was get behind the door and slam the heavy bolt home.

She looked back over her shoulder down the dark stairwell as she pushed the door wide open, straining to hear the slightest sound.

She turned around to look into the room and stopped cold.

There, lying in the moonlight in the middle of the floor with empty eyes staring out of a white face was Ludlow, the groom.

Leona’s piercing scream echoed off stone walls and out over the countryside. It seemed to reverberate and last forever.

Behind her came a flurry of sound. A man’s hard rough hand clamped across her mouth.

She bit it, and it snapped away only to be replaced by a cloak thrown over her head.

She twisted and turned, struggling against the arms binding the cloth to her body.

She kicked backward with her foot, catching his knee.

He cursed in pain and flung her hard against the wall.

Leona staggered blindly, frantically trying to throw off the cloak before he grabbed her again.

Suddenly she heard a rush of footsteps in the room.

She threw off the cloak in time to see North double up from a sharp blow to the stomach from the tall, fair-haired man.

The Marquess of Keirsmyth? Leona stared at him in shocked surprise.

She heard voices raised from far away, her name, sharp and distinct, floating out above them. She looked toward the window and the sound, then back to the combatants.

North now had a long, wicked-looking knife in his hand.

The two men circled each other, oblivious to anything but themselves.

North’s blade flashed silver once, then twice in the moonlight.

Keirsmyth danced away, his breathing ragged.

North lunged; Keirsmyth caught his knife arm and held it away from him.

Leona watched, frightened and stunned; then some sense within her gathered, and without thought she raced forward to tangle the wicked weapon in the folds of the cloak. Its point pricked through the heavy material but did not cut free.

With incredible strength, North howled in rage and broke free from Keirsmyth, knocking Leona up against him. Keirsmyth stumbled backward, instinctively grasping Leona, but she was unbalanced as well. His heels hit the groom's rigid body, and he tumbled backward, pulling Leona over with him.

Leona’s hands flew out to catch herself, but there was nothing there. She fell heavily across the marquess’s chest, one hand flung out across the dead man’s cold arm.

Horror assailed her. It roiled up through her, closing her throat, threatening to strangle her. She scrambled backwards crablike, landing on her buttocks some five feet away. Her chest heaved, her breathing harsh as she stared with morbid fascination at the groom’s body.

North was gone, his footsteps receding down another hallway. The marquess rolled off the body and extended a hand to help Leona to her feet. “Miss Leonard?”

She flinched away from him, shuddering.

“Miss Leonard!” he repeated, louder now, trying to pierce her shell of horror. Dazed, she turned to look up at him. “Let me help you to your feet.”

Vaguely she nodded and held out her hand. He pulled her up gently, then turned her away from the sight of the man on the floor.

“Leona!”

It was Deveraux’s voice, closer now.

“Nigel!” she cried out but barely heard her own voice on the thread of sound that came out. She pulled away from Keirsmyth and stumbled toward the door.

“Deveraux! Up here!” shouted Keirsmyth, his deep rasping voice cutting through the night.

A clattering of footsteps on the stairs told them he’d heard and was coming. When he burst onto the landing, Leona was already running toward him, throwing herself on his chest, clinging to the fine material of his jacket.

“Take me out of here!” she pleaded as tears ran down her cheeks.

His arms automatically went around her, holding her tightly against him. He looked into the room to see the body on the floor and Keirsmyth standing above it. “Ludlow? He was behind this?”

“If you mean the gentleman on the floor, no. He was dead when we arrived and, I gather, the reason for Miss Leonard’s ear-splitting screams.”

“It was North!” sobbed Leona. “It was North! He followed me up the hill and into the keep!”

"Not quite, dear lady,” contradicted Keirsmyth. “But why don’t we descend out of this hellish room before we talk?”

Deveraux glanced over at the groom's body, then nodded and turned to lead Leona down the dark flight of stairs. Leona did not notice how dark the stairway was this time, for she would not lift her face from where it was buried in Deveraux’s shoulder.

Outside a crowd of grooms, footmen and gentlemen guests gathered.

Deveraux glared at his people over Leona’s head.

“Ludlow’s above, dead. But his murderer is at large.

It is the same man you failed to find the night of the fire because you did not believe he existed.

He does exist. Some of you know what he looks like.

He’s the man who claimed to be a Bow Street Runner. ”

An excited murmur rose among the men.

“I say, Deveraux, what is this all about?” asked one of the guests, eyeing Leona and Keirsmyth curiously.

“Revenge,” Deveraux answered shortly and turned to lead Leona back to the house.