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Lord Jonathan Travers stepped directly in her path, neatly trapping her. Two large trees flanked them on either side, making it impossible to go around him. After a fractional hesitation, Meredith returned the young man’s greeting.

Though the number of her male admirers had dwindled during the Season, there were still those who thought her a challenge. Or a curiosity.

She had yet to decide Lord Travers’s motivation. He was a rather serious young man who put far too much stock in the opinion of others and could always be counted upon to supply the dullest of conversations.

Still, Meredith could think of worse things than spending a few moments in his company. She resolved to be pleasant and took comfort knowing she could escape in an hour and meet Lavinia by the water. With a glazed eye and a contrived expression, she turned her attention to Lord Travers.

“Are you enjoying the afternoon, Lord Travers?”

“All the more now that I have found you, Lady Meredith.”

Meredith gave him a distant smile, not wanting to encourage him in any way. She and Lavinia might have joked about it earlier, but the very last thing Meredith wanted was another marriage proposal.

Resolved to keep the attention away from herself, Meredith found she had little difficulty getting her escort to speak of other subjects—or offer his opinion. She wisely declined to offer hers, since it so seldom agreed with his.

With her fingers resting lightly on his arm, the pair strolled amiably in the sunshine.

The scream pierced the glib conversation with alarming suddenness—high pitched, female, and drenched in sheer terror.

“My God,” Meredith whispered. She turned in the direction of the sound, then back to her male companion. “What was that horrible noise?”

Lord Travers blanched under his tan. “It sounded like an animal caught in a trap.”

“It couldn’t be.”

Without conscious thought, Meredith moved forward, following the crowd that hurried across the lawn, then through the large cluster of trees. Men were yelling and running about, shouting questions and instructions with equal excitement.

Most of the women were staying deliberately out of the fray, though a few were bold or curious enough to follow the ever growing crowd. As they reached the small clearing and veered left, Meredith at last realized where they were heading. The lake.

Her step quickened as her heart began to pound with fear. She was to meet Lavinia at the lake in less than fifteen minutes’ time. A eerie vision slipped into Meredith’s head, weaving through the fear in her mind. A body, lying prone on the bank. Still. Unmoving.

Meredith gasped. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She dropped her parasol, lifted her gown above her ankles and quickened her pace.

Dodging the slower walkers, she weaved among the crowd, gaining speed with each step.

By the time she reached the muddy edge of the lake perspiration dampened her skin and her gasping breathing burned in her lungs.

“What has happened?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

A colorfully garbed dandy she did not recognize tried to block her view. “There appears to have been an accident.”

“Who is it?” another man cried out. “Do you know who has been hurt?”

“The Marchioness of Dardington,” a third man replied. “Her husband is with her.”

No! Meredith began shaking with a terror that ran all the way down her body to her toes. For an instant she could not move, could not think, could not feel. Then, with strength born of primal fear, Meredith pushed her way through the men ringing the edge of crowd.

She dimly felt the touch of a hand trying to hold her back, but she shook it forcefully off and emerged but a few feet from a waking nightmare.

A moan escaped her lips. There, on the edge of the grass near the Grecian temple lay a body. A female body, clothed in lavender. It was not moving.

Meredith swallowed a shriek and fought to control her breathing. Stumbling forward, she came closer to the inert form. There were three men surrounding the body.

They were as still and silent as the form that lay at their feet.

Meredith struggled to master her emotions. Lavinia needed her to be calm. An hysterical female would only be in the way. But a cool, composed lady would be an asset. Resolutely she stepped forward. Saying nothing, the three men allowed her to pass.

Trevor Morely was kneeling beside his wife. His head was bent, yet Meredith could almost feel his whole being vibrating with suppressed emotion.

Her lips pressed stubbornly tight, Meredith knelt on the other side of Lavinia, facing the marquess. She tried to gaze down at the body, but could not bring herself to look. She did notice, however, that the marquess held his wife’s hand gently in his own.

They stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity. At last, he raised his head, but he did not release his wife’s hand.

Meredith watched him in silence, the muscle flexing and unflexing in his jaw. He said nothing as the speculative conversation surrounding them grew in volume and intensity.

“What a tragic accident! Her neck’s broken. She must have tripped and fell and fatally injured herself when she hit the ground.”

“Perhaps she was frightened by something,” a male voice muttered. “Why else would she have screamed?”

“A good fright would explain both the scream and the fall,” the third man interjected. “It might have been an animal. But what?”

“There are no wild beasts in the duchess’s folly. It wouldn’t be allowed.”

The speculation and muttering continued, but Meredith turned her attention away from it.

She looked again at the marquess and the grief inside her returned, stifling in its intensity. His face mirrored her own emotions of shock and pain, and she could see the faint trace of tears shimmering in his eyes.

Trembling, Meredith reached out to offer him comfort, but her hand faltered. Instead she grasped the fringed edge of the shawl that now draped Lavinia’s lifeless body.

Mesmerized, she slowly moved her hand, gliding it along the delicate silk, remembering how her friend had not wanted to wear the garment, saying there was no need.

The baby! Stillness gripped her as she recalled Lavinia’s joking and laughing about being extra careful of her health. Merciful God, that tender little life was gone now too.

Tearful, Meredith raised her chin. The marquess was no longer staring at his wife but looking straight at her. She couldn’t avoid his eyes.

Questioning, hollow, lifeless.

Meredith’s composure shattered. She lifted the edge of the shawl and stuffed it in her mouth, struggling to quiet her heaving sobs.

From the covering of trees, the man watched in silence. His breath blew out in panting gasps. His heart raced with a strange rush of exhilaration. He pressed his damp palms together and cast an approving glance at the scene before him.

He was close enough to hear their conversation, their speculation.

He had done his job well. They were convinced it was an accident, a cruel stroke of fate.

It had been difficult, but he had not demonstrated any savagery when he performed his task.

The young woman barely had time to be frightened before his hands had stolen around her neck.

Her soft eyes had widened in surprise, then panic and finally pain. She had lost consciousness quickly and it had taken only a quick snap to break her neck.

For him, killing was a compulsion. A necessity, like food and water and air for other men. He had long ago ceased trying to understand it, for it had always been a part of him, cleverly and successfully concealed from the world.

This woman was unlike his usual victims. Female, of course, but of a far different class. He preferred the young assistants in the shops on Bond Street or the fresh-faced serving wenches at the taverns, working girls who fought with fear and determination to escape their fate.

Yet this particular woman had been chosen for a reason. A very personal reason.

His senses gradually began returning as the rush of excitement and exhilaration began to ease. He peered again through the leaves to savor the death scene one last time and became aware of a woman kneeling beside the body. She lifted her head, and he sucked in his breath in astonishment.

It was impossible! He had just killed this woman! He blinked vigorously, then carelessly pushed aside a branch for a better view.

There was no mistake. The woman sobbing so pitifully beside the body was Lady Meredith Barrington.

Cursing soundly, he realized he had not taken full measure of his victim’s face.

He had seen the distinctive shawl and stalked his victim patiently.

The moment she was alone, he had sprung, attacking from behind, turning her to face him only at the last instant, so he could relish the final moments of her life as he hastened its end.

Lady Meredith bowed her head. Her hands stole around her waist and she clutched at her stomach as if in great pain.

His anger began to ease. She was suffering. Horribly. Perhaps this was better. Her death would have been a swift punishment for her sins. The death of someone she clearly cared for would bring her years of pain and anguish.

He dragged in a breath, his chest swelling. His skin began prickling with enjoyment as he savored this strange twist of fate.

Perhaps all had not gone precisely according to his original plan, yet he was pleased with the final result.

For now.