Eleanor did not wish to go out that night; the wind had heightened, tossing the clouds around the sky, and a homely fire in the front parlour beckoned.

      Still, with the arrangements made and Sophie and Margaret speaking of nothing else all afternoon, she felt trapped into it.

      The gown she wore was of sapphire-blue silk, the pelisse having a chenille fringe skirt and a ruffled underskirt in cream. She had had the dress made the previous summer, but the style had not yet slipped from fashion and she enjoyed wearing the garment. On her wrist she wore a pearl bracelet and at her neck a matching strand that had been her mother’s. Her hair had been fashioned with corkscrewed curls around her face, the length braided and pinned at the back.

      All in all she thought she looked passable, the colour of her eyes deepened by the shade in the dress, though the same disquiet that had visited her earlier had returned again.

      She breathed out hard, chastising herself for worrying. She was twenty-three years old and the catastrophe that might have been her life had settled into a pattern that was … comfortable. Her family was safe and happy, she kept good health and lived in a discreet neighbourhood.

      She needed nothing more, so when the tiny worm of denial flared she stomped on it hard. ‘Nothing,’ she said and made certain that she had change in her reticule and a handkerchief should she need it before leaving the quiet of her chamber to join the others downstairs.

      Cristo walked into the Theatre Royal Haymarket, late. He had missed the first gathering, he knew, but Milne had caught his foot on a corner of the carpet and the physician had been called to make certain that nothing was broken.

      One night, he thought, to scotch the rumours of a Wellingham family feud and then that would be the end to it. One night to mingle and smile and then he would be left alone to pursue what it was he needed from England.

      Peace.

      Solitude.

      A place to breathe without the fear of a knife in his back or a secret around the next corner!

      As he pushed aside the curtains of the family box, the darkness kept him still whilst his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light. After a moment he could see his brothers and the seat they had left between them.

       For him.

      He slipped in without apology and acknowledged Asher to his left. Three women sat in a tight row in front, one dark-haired, one blonde and one … Lucinda. She turned to gaze at him with eyes that had not changed one bit in ten years and blew him a kiss.

      He could not help but smile at her joie de vivre.

      Across the theatre in the boxes at the same level he saw others watching, their eyes barely glancing at the comedy on the stage. Below, too, a good deal of the patrons looked up.

      The prodigal son or the black sheep? Cristo was pleased Milne had made such a fuss with his clothes, the frock and waistcoat he wore of the highest quality. Criticise me at your peril, they seemed to say, and as he adjusted his cravat he caught the eye of the dark-haired woman sitting directly in front of Taris. She did not smile or move, yet he felt a rapport that was unmistakable. Beatrice-Maude Wellingham, his middle brother’s wife. A woman of substance and intelligence and pure, clear wit! He had read her writings in the London Home and admired her views. She looked away as he failed to and he felt himself tense. When the lights came up again for the interval, he was pleased to stand and stretch.

      Lucinda, his sister, was the first at his side.

      ‘You are long overdue, Cristo, and it is said that you are looking for a place to stand your bevy of bloodstock. I have heard that the Graveson property is on the market for the first time in a century. Perhaps that would do.’

      He had forgotten the way she approached things so directly, though interest was piqued as she mentioned the land that stood on the Falder boundary. He wished that his brothers had told him of it, but dismissed the chagrin quickly for the tall woman with turquoise eyes had come to stand beside him and she took all of his attention. When Ashe moved towards them Cristo surmised her to be his wife, Emerald Wellingham.

      She did not introduce herself, but took his hand into her own and held it. The silence lengthened.

      ‘My brother might appreciate his hand back, Emmie.’

      ‘Well, he cannot have it just yet, my love, for I am not quite finished.’ With a jolt Cristo realised that she was reading his palm.

      ‘Long life, great wealth and fine bloodstock?’ he quipped as she remained silent.

      ‘And the unexpected end to a journey,’ she added finally, closing his fingers and letting go.

      ‘She has a great gift for it.’ The dark-haired woman joined them, Taris at her side, one arm threaded through hers. ‘And if I could give you a word of warning, it might be that Emerald’s predictions are never wrong.’

      ‘Indeed, it must take great skill to deduct that I have just travelled back to England.’ The sarcasm in his voice was not becoming, but he had had dealings with others reading his fate and none had come anywhere near close to his demons.

      ‘It is not that journey I am speaking of,’ Asher’s wife added. ‘There is a woman who was important once …?’ Her eyes bored into his and for a moment Cristo felt almost light-headed. He was glad when Lucy pushed between them, voicing her wish to stretch her legs.

      Eleanor thought the play was lovely and yet the feeling of tension seemed magnified with each passing moment of the interval. Standing with Martin’s nieces and his sister Diana, taking in the cooler air of the lobby, the pillar behind her was a welcome place to lean against.

      She felt scared. The word surprised her. Scared? Of what? Inherent suspicions ruffled the hairs on her arms and neck. Margaret beside her suddenly stood on tiptoes, peering towards the other end of the room.

      ‘There he is! I knew that he would come tonight.’

      When Eleanor made no effort to look, Sophie nudged her forcibly. ‘The youngest Wellingham brother, Lainie. The one we told you about.’

      The crowd before them thinned a little as people moved forwards and in the space that was left she saw the back of a tall blond man, his hair caught in a short queue at his nape.

      All breath left her body. There was something about the shape of his head and the colour of his hair and the tall strength of him—something familiar.

       No. No. No. Don’t let it be him!

      He began to turn, smiling at the fair woman on his arm, and his dark eyes came up to her own, falling through the distance to a château in Paris, naked, brandy-soused and ruined. The lamplights blurred and the floor, once solid beneath her feet, began to sway, dizzy arcs of denial and horror and something else that she could never have admitted.

      She was glad to feel Diana’s hand beneath her elbow as her knees simply gave way, and the floor was cold beneath her face.

      Stark and utter disbelief kept Cristo still as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. His virgin whore from the Château Giraudon was here, dressed in deep blue finery, her hair pinned in a series of elaborate loops and knots, the blonde wig she had worn in Paris hiding a treasure of russet, chestnut and chocolate.

      ‘My God, it is Eleanor Westbury, Emerald.’ Beatrice-Maude’s voice was concerned. ‘She has fainted. Where is her husband?’

      Husband? The world began to get stranger as Cristo stopped the urge to simply move forwards and pick her up in his arms, the paleness in her face obscured now by others who had hurried to her side.

      A sofa behind them proved to be a godsend and