Elinor fell back against the tufted seat of the carriage, too shaken to move. The carriage was made for four, and with the five of them crammed in tightly there was scarcely room to breathe. There were tiny silver candles in each corner, encased in glass holders, and they shed enough light that Elinor could see Nanny looking very bad indeed.

She wanted to throw her hands over her face and scream, she wanted to hide and weep. She could do no such thing. This was her family, what was left of them, and she was needed. She straightened her back.

“How is Nanny Maude, Jacobs?” she asked, her voice rough from the smoke she’d inhaled. “Was she burned?”

Jacobs shook his head. “The shock, more like. And the smoke. She’s an old lady—this will be the death of her—”

“It will be no such thing!” she said sharply. “His lordship’s cousin is a doctor, and I expect he’ll be waiting for us as soon as we get there.” Get where? she asked herself. Though she knew the answer.

“She’s not breathing too well,” Jacobs said gloomily. His voice broke. “Her ladyship’s gone, and now Nanny Maude…”

“Stop it!” Elinor said. “We’re not going to lose Nanny Maude.” She turned to Lydia and froze. Perched on the very edge of the narrow seat, Charles Reading held her in his arms, and she was sobbing quietly into the elegant shoulder of his coat, one hand clutching the fabric in a fist.

Elinor reached for her, to pull her away, and then her eyes met Reading’s, and she froze, in shock. She’d never seen such naked pain, naked longing, in anyone’s eyes. She hadn’t even known such depth of emotion existed. He was holding Lydia so tenderly, her curls tucked beneath his chin, and he was murmuring comforting words to her. Words Lydia needed to hear, words that Elinor didn’t have, not then.

She could sort that out in the morning. At the moment she couldn’t begrudge her baby sister any comfort she could find, no matter how unsuitable it might be. Reading was a member of the Heavenly Host, a libertine and a reprobate. He was no fit match for Lydia, but at that moment she couldn’t bring herself to care. Let her take what comfort she could.

“Do you know where we’re going, Mr. Reading?” she asked politely.

He cleared his voice. “I believe we’re heading to Lord Rohan’s town house. It’s quite close, and Dr. de Giverney should be waiting for us when we get there. I know this is not what you want, but if you would accept it for the time being…”

“I have no choice,” she said wearily. “Where else can we go?” The coach was well-sprung, and she was able to slide off the seat and kneel by Nanny Maude, taking one limp hand in hers. Her breathing was labored, and Elinor glanced into Jacobs’s grim face. “She’s going to be fine,” she said fiercely. “We all are.”

“But Miss Elinor, your mother…”

“Is gone. There’s no way we can change that, and she hadn’t much time left as it was. At least we can hope she went quickly, that the falling rafters killed her before…” She stopped talking, realizing what she was about to say.

It was too late. Lydia raised her tearstained face. “Oh, love, you did what you could.”

She considered rising from her knees on the floor of the carriage, but it was as good a place as any. “She wouldn’t come,” she answered simply. “I did everything I could to get her to move, but she just screamed at me. The madness was in full force—I can only assume she set the fire.”

“Must have,” Jacobs said solemnly. “I made sure the hearth fire was banked before I went to bed, and there was no way a stray spark could have escaped. And Nanny was locked in the room with her—I had the devil’s own time getting to her. Begging your pardon, miss.”

Elinor knew if she began to laugh she wouldn’t be able to stop. Her mother’s foul language still rained in her ears, and they were being rescued by the devil himself.

The carriage pulled to a halt, and the door was opened, opposite her, a liveried footman waiting to help them alight. Hands reached out to help Jacobs with his tender burden, and Reading leaped down before he reached for Lydia, holding her close as he guided her into the house. Leaving Elinor alone, on her knees, in the deserted carriage.

For a moment she was tempted to stay there. Just let them take the carriage around to the stables and see to the horses, and no one would know where she was. She could curl up on one of the seats and manage to sleep relatively well….

“Miss Harriman?” Etienne de Giverney stood in the open doorway, looking at her curiously. “May I assist you?”

Too bad, she thought. It had been a lovely idea. “No, you may not,” she said briskly. “You have two patients inside. Nanny Maude collapsed, and she has need of your expertise. And Lydia is understandably shattered—she needs your comfort.” And to get away from Mr. Reading, she added mentally. “Go ahead—I’ll follow in a moment.”

A footman remained by the open door to attend to her, though Elinor wished he would go. She scrambled forward, pulling herself to the seat. The pain in her feet had passed, and they were blessedly numb. She realized with sudden shock that she wore nothing but her thin cambric night rail, so old that it was practically transparent in places. Lydia had had the presence of mind to grab a wrap and shoes. Elinor had been so distraught that she hadn’t even thought of slippers.

The enormity of their loss hit her like a blow to the stomach. They were penniless, homeless, without even clothes on their backs. What in god’s name was she going to do?

She climbed down from the coach, the snow cool on her bare feet. It was snowing harder now. Why had it waited to do this until all their possessions had burned away? Not that snowflakes would have any effect against a fire like that. It had been an angry, hungry inferno. She could only hope her mother’s madness hadn’t burned anyone else’s home

The fire had come from everywhere. The living room had been ablaze, their mother’s room with a river of flame holding them apart, the flames licking through the kitchen door, Nanny trapped inside. Had her mother done all that while they slept? There could be no other explanation. And yet…

The coach pulled away immediately, heading out into the snow-covered street, and she wondered where it was going. Had they really left Viscount Rohan standing by the ruins of her house? It appeared so. How had he happened to come by their house, just as a fire broke out? Accidents like that simply didn’t happen.

She looked ahead, at the front door of the mansion. Someone had closed the door to keep the storm out, and she moved slowly, wondering if she was going to face the nasty butler from that trip that seemed so long ago. Perhaps he would recognize her as the woman who bit him and not let her in.

But of course the door swung open promptly as soon as she approached, and the servant standing there looked vaguely familiar. She’d seen him before, at least once, and he greeted her by name, his rough Yorkshire accent unmistakable.

They’d taken Nanny to a small room at the back of the house, one that Elinor assumed was used for illness. Nanny lay still in the bed where she’d been placed, her color ashen, her breathing labored, with Lydia sitting on the far side of the bed clutching her hand. Someone had made an effort to clean the old lady up, swaddling her small figure in warm shawls, but she looked like death, and Etienne de Giverney’s face, when he turned to look at her, was grave.

“She’s suffered a great shock,” he said solemnly. “And her heart isn’t strong.”

“She’s not going to die,” Elinor said fiercely, sitting on the bed beside her, taking her other hand.

“I’m afraid she is, but as to when, I cannot say. I’ve done what I can for her—the rest is in the hands of God,” Etienne said, the pompous prig. Elinor wanted to scream at him, but he’d already dismissed both his patient and Elinor, turning to her sister. “Miss Lydia, surely you need to rest. Your sister is here now—she can keep your old nursemaid company.”

“I’m not leaving either of them,” Lydia said in a tear-filled voice.

Elinor looked up at her. “Dearest, he’s right. It wouldn’t do for you to become ill.”

“Come, Miss Lydia,” Etienne said. He took Lydia’s hand in his and drew her away from the bed. “My cousin’s housekeeper will have already seen to a room for you. You’re a frail, sensitive creature and you’ve suffered a great shock. Your sister is far more sturdy—she can keep your nursemaid company with no ill effects.”

“Indeed,” Elinor said with just a hint of dryness. “After all, I’m sturdy.”

“I’m just as strong as my sister, and I’m not leaving her,” Lydia said mutinously, trying to pull back from Etienne’s hands. “Where is Mr. Reading? He accompanied us back here, but I haven’t seen him…”

“Mr. Reading has returned to fetch my cousin,” Etienne said, and there was no missing the disapproval in his voice. “You have no need of him.”

Lydia had tears running down her face, and she made a hiccupping sound. “Of course not,” she said, sounding somewhat hysterical. “No need at all.”

No, Elinor wanted to cry as she looked at her sister. She couldn’t be in love with Charles Reading. It would lead to nothing but disaster.

But now was not the time to deal with it. Elinor pulled herself together. “I will take the first watch, my love, while you rest,” she said gently. “Then you can come and take my place once you’ve regained some of your strength. I couldn’t bear it if you were to become ill from this night’s work. And you needn’t worry about Lord Rohan or his friend. They will return safely.”

Lydia looked at her in mute distress, and then she closed her eyes. “Of course,” she said, calmer now, and this time when Etienne de Giverney took her hand she didn’t pull it away.

He cleared his throat. “Then if Miss Harriman is in no need of my assistance I’ll take you to my cousin’s housekeeper,” Etienne said. “Once she’s settled I’ll return to see if there’s anything that can be done for your servant.”

“Not our servant…” Lydia said beneath her breath, and the look she cast Etienne, the look he missed entirely, was filled with dislike.

Elinor didn’t miss it, and her heart sank. Her sister loving the wrong man was hardly the worst thing that had happened this dismal night, but it was bad enough. Hating the man she should marry was far worse.

But Etienne put a gentle arm around Lydia, leading her carefully from the room, and at the last minute Elinor could see Lydia’s shoulders drop, as the anger left her.

Elinor looked down at herself, at her soot-covered nightgown. At least the room had a hearty fire going, warming it against the cold night air. Her feet had moved beyond hurting her, though she tucked them beneath the hem of her nightdress to make certain no one would notice. For some reason she didn’t want Etienne touching her.

The doctor was far from her favorite person in the world, but if Lydia could learn to accept him he would be an admirable brother-in-law in all the ways that counted. Even if he’d let her drop dead in front of him while he was admiring her sister.

She turned back to Nanny Maude and knew she was looking into the face of death. She rose, ready to call Etienne back, then thought better of it. He had the right of it—there was nothing more he could do for her. Nanny was very old, and the shock of the fire would likely be too much for her to withstand.

Elinor raised her voice slightly. “Jacobs?”

“Yes, miss.” He appeared immediately from his position just outside the door. He looked down at Nanny’s still figure and bowed his head. “May I stay, miss?”

“Of course you can. There’s a chair behind the door. She might like us to hold her hands.”

“Not me, miss. She always said I had the hands of a butcher. Clumsy.”

“I don’t think she’ll mind tonight,” Elinor said gently.

Jacobs brought the chair forward, sitting gingerly and taking Nanny’s other hand in his.

She opened her eyes only once in the next few hours, and her gaze fell on Elinor.

“You’re being quite ridiculous, Nanny Maude,” Elinor said in a voice thick with tears. “Lollygagging in bed when we need you. You must decide to get better this instant or I shall be very cross with you indeed.”

Nanny Maude smiled, squeezing her hand gently. “There’s no need for me to stay any longer, Miss Nell. I’m tired, and more than ready. You’re safe now, lass…Your mama can’t hurt any of you again.” She closed her eyes for a moment, restless. “But I have to tell you something,” she said. “I can’t remember what it was, but it’s important. There’s something I remembered.”

“You can tell us in the morning, Nanny,” she said soothingly.

“Won’t be a morning for me, child,” Nanny said, a trace of her usual asperity in her faint voice. “It’s danger, that’s what it is.” She began coughing again, her small body shaking. “He’s not who you think he is,” she said after a moment.

“Who isn’t, Nanny?” she said.

But her eyes closed, and she fell back, her grip on Lydia’s hands loosening, as she sank into an endless sleep.

Hours later Etienne poked his head in one last time, coming no closer. It was already too late to help Nanny, and she had to trust that there was nothing he could have done if he’d returned sooner. “Your sister’s asleep. I had the housekeeper give her laudanum—she’ll sleep till midday.”

“Thank you, Etienne,” she said. Lydia wouldn’t be as grateful. She would have wanted to be there with them, with Nanny as she slipped away.

And that was what she did, as the beginning of dawn light began to climb over the window, a gray, murky light. Her breathing slowed, with longer pauses between each one, and then finally there were no more.

Jacobs let out a harsh, choking sob, and she went to put her arms around his hulking shoulders, to comfort him. “To lose them both in one night, miss,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “It’s too much.”

“Yes,” she said with unnatural calm. “It is.”

After a moment he lifted his head. “I’m going to go get drunk,” he announced. “I’m going to get so drunk that you won’t find me for days, and then maybe I’ll get drunk again.”

Elinor was too weary to smile, though she was tempted. “That sounds like an excellent idea, Jacobs. Just be certain you remember to find us when you’re done with such a noble activity.”

He didn’t recognize her irony. And indeed, getting roaring drunk was a fitting tribute to her mother, even though Nanny Maude would have abhorred it.

He strode wearily out of the room and was gone, and she was alone. For the first time since she could remember, she was alone. The number of people in her care had suddenly been cut in half, and yet there was no relief, only guilt.

She looked about her. The house was still and silent—a few candles were burning, enough to light her way into the broad hallway. It didn’t look familiar to her, but then, this house was huge, and she’d only seen a small portion of it. It stood to reason they’d brought Nanny to the servants’ quarters, though the room had been large and comfortable. And this certainly wasn’t a servants’ hallway, with its rich carpets and paintings on the damask-covered walls.

She needed to find someone, to tell them Nanny Maude had died. She would need to be washed and laid out properly, a decent burial seen to. But she had no money. Nanny would end in a pauper’s grave. Unless she asked Rohan to pay for a decent funeral.

Which she would. She would have thought she’d never ask him for anything, but she knew right now she was wrong.

At least she didn’t have to make arrangements for her mother, she thought, half in a daze. She really should try to find some help, but right then her mind couldn’t concentrate. There were stairs to the servants’ quarters somewhere, but she couldn’t remember where they were. If she could just find where Lydia slept she could crawl into bed beside her, filthy, soot-stained clothes and all, and sleep. She’d need none of Etienne’s laudanum to help her. She just needed to find the right place to go.

She moved down the shadowed hallways, her nightgown flowing about her. She was becoming alarmingly light-headed. She ought to sit down before she fell down, but her feet had begun to hurt again, her legs felt weak, and she was afraid that if she sat she would never rise again. And she was…for a moment she couldn’t remember where she was, which was truly absurd, and she ought to laugh, but she wasn’t supposed to laugh, was she? All she could do was keep moving, through the long, endless hallways of this mysterious place.

A door opened, and a young girl backed into the hallway, a tray in her arms. She turned, took one look at Elinor and screamed loud enough to wake the devil, loud enough for reality to come crashing back as she remembered exactly who and where she was.

“It’s a ghost!” the girl babbled in French. “God protect me, it’s a ghost!”

Suddenly the hallway was filled with a great many more people than she could have wished. All she’d wanted was one sensible person to help her find her sister and suddenly there were servants in various stages of dress and undress, holding candelabra, and what must be the housekeeper coming in one direction, and the evil Cavalle coming from the other, a murderous expression on his face, and she suddenly thought she’d better run, and she tried to spin around, but her feet tripped her up, and she felt herself falling toward the heavy carpet, when strong hands caught her. And even without looking up she knew whose strong hands they were. Just as she’d known in the smoke and the darkness who would have snatched her up, no matter how little sense it made.

“I have always had a dislike of screaming servants,” Rohan said in a mild voice that held a note of steel. “Would someone please smother that girl?”

The maid was still screeching about a ghost, and the housekeeper made quick work of her with a harsh slap and an even harsher reprimand.

“Thank you, Madame Bonnard. And could you please tell me why my guest is wandering around the house in rags when I had assumed she’d been properly seen to? Is this the way I wish to have my guests treated? And where is her sister, scrubbing floors in the kitchen?” To a stranger his voice might sound almost genial, but the servants looked uniformly terrified.

He was behind her, still holding her up, and since her feet weren’t working she couldn’t turn and look at him. “It’s not their fault,” she said, and she almost didn’t recognize her own voice. It was raw from the fire, raw from tears, both shed and unshed. “Someone needs to see to Nanny Maude. She’s dead.” The words were so short, so harsh that she couldn’t stand it anymore. She needed to disappear into the darkness, to pull the shadows around her. “I need to sleep…”

And then the blessed darkness folded down around her, and she opened her arms and embraced it.

He caught her as she fell, and when several footmen rushed to assist him he snapped at them like a caged tiger. The thought would have amused him if he weren’t in such a cold, towering rage. He had a tendency to keep his temper and to view things with a distant amusement. But at the moment he would have happily seen all his incompetent servants whipped and turned out into the streets.

This was the third time tonight he’d had to scoop her up in his arms, and the thought of how much she would have hated it brought a smile to his lips. As far as he was concerned she could swoon all she wanted—he was more than happy for an excuse to put his hands on her.

Madame Bonnard had the temerity to approach him. “I will send two of the maids to see to her woman. I am sorry, monseigneur, I had no idea she hadn’t been properly seen to. I promise you, I will dismiss those responsible.”

“And will you dismiss yourself, madame?” He said in a silky voice. “I’m taking her to the green bedroom. I will require hot water, enough for a bath, some clean clothes and some French brandy.”

“Sir, should she be having brandy when she’s fainted?” Madame Bonnard was foolish enough to ask.

“The brandy is for me, you idiot,” he said in his most amiable voice. The one he used before he destroyed someone.

The servants immediately scattered in every direction. His way was lit to the green room, and lights were placed all around the elegant bedchamber. The first pails of hot water appeared almost before he’d set her down on the high bed, and a moment later Madame Bonnard read his mind and presented him with a basin and a cloth. Perhaps he might let her live after all.

He took the wet cloth and began to clean the soot from Elinor’s face. There were salt trails of tears there, which oddly surprised him. She was such an Amazon, he didn’t expect her to ever cry or show weakness, even at the loss of her mother. That old bitch was well and truly gone, and he could only view that circumstance with relief. The glowering nurse/housekeeper he could have dealt with—after all, he’d managed to fend off Mrs. Clarke’s efforts to reform him for all these many years—and for Elinor’s sake he was sorry she was dead. It was too much a burden for one night.

He was gentle with the cloth. The filth was on her clothes, down her neck, and he unfastened her chemise as he absently ordered the footmen from the room. “My lord,” Mrs. Bonnard began, scandalized. “Let me do that.”

He looked up at her. “How long have you served me, Madame Bonnard?”

She flushed. “Seven years, my lord.”

“And did anything ever give you the impression that I wasn’t entirely capable of undressing young ladies on my own?”

“No, Monsieur le Comte,” she said. “It wasn’t your capability I was questioning. It was the young lady’s feelings on the matter.”

His housekeeper was treading dangerously close to disaster. “Ah, Bonnard,” he said in a silken voice. “You remind me of my better self. Unfortunately, I have no interest in listening to that part of me, and I’m much more interested in taking care of my own best interests than the young lady in question. If you’re so worried about her, go see to her dead nursemaid. When Miss Harriman wakes she’ll be distraught if her friend hasn’t been seen to.”

A moment later the door closed, and he was alone with his awkward poppet.

She looked like hell. It was interesting washing the soot off her face, discovering the creaminess of her skin, admiring once again the faint tracing of freckles across the Harriman Nose. It really was a lovely nose. Narrow and elegant, it made her much more striking than her pretty little sister. By the time she was forty she’d be magnificent, and he couldn’t wait…

He pulled back. He might not even be alive when she was forty. He’d be fifty-six, an old man, and even if he were still alive he was unlikely to be anywhere near her. He wouldn’t even remember her existence.

He rinsed out the cloth and drew it down the side of her neck. She was in a deep, untouchable sleep, shock and exhaustion and grief having overwhelmed her. He hated seeing her defeated, but he had no doubt whatsoever that she’d be ready to fight back tomorrow. To fight him. She was like an angry Roman goddess—nothing could defeat her for long.

He set the cloth down and put his hands on either side of her thin nightgown, pulling it apart to look at her. He was a degenerate bastard to do so, but he had no illusions as to who and what he was. He was surprised Madame Bonnard still did.

Her breasts were quite lovely. Small and perfect, and the nipples were pleasingly dark, not insipid pink. He’d always had a weakness for dark nipples. He should have known she’d be hiding such a treasure.

He stared at them, and he could feel the beginnings of arousal stir in his cynical body. What other treasures might her flesh provide? He reached out to tear the gown down to its hem, and something stopped him.

It was hardly decency, he told himself, pulling the gown back together, covering her breasts reluctantly. He was finding himself quite stimulated at the sight of her, and at the moment there was no one he was interested in…er…spending that stimulation on. He’d have to do something about that.

And he was hardly likely to make love to her while she was unconscious. It would be like making love to a corpse, something that had never appealed to him.

He rang the bell. Bonnard appeared immediately, which annoyed him. “You didn’t think I meant what I said?” he said in a silken voice.

“Of course you did, monseigneur. I was merely counting on the fact that you’re easily bored.”

He found he could laugh. “You know me rather better than I thought,” he said. “I’m not sure how comfortable that makes me.”

“Monsieur?”

“Bonnard, you know as well as I do that it wouldn’t be boredom that stopped me, and that I’d need some shallow excuse to salve my wounded amour propre. Which you have done admirably. Send chambermaids to finish taking care of Mademoiselle Harriman while I go get drunk.”

Bonnard didn’t argue. “Oui, Monsieur le Comte,” she said, dipping into a curtsy.

Rohan took one last look at Elinor, lying still and silent on the bed. Not for him, he thought. And taking his glass of brandy, he left the room, closing the door behind him.