It tormented Beatrix, wondering how Christopher was, if Albert was with him, if his wounds had healed properly . . . but it was no longer her right to ask questions of him.

It never had been.

To the jubilation of all England, Sebastopol fell in September 1855, and peace negotiations began in February of the next year. Beatrix’s brother-in-law Cam remarked that even though Britain had won, war was always a pyrrhic victory, as one could never put a price on each life that had been damaged or lost. It was a Romany sentiment that Beatrix agreed with. All totaled, more than one hundred and fifty thousand of the allied soldiers had died of battle wounds or disease, as well as over one hundred thousand Russians.

When the long-awaited order was given for the regiments to return home, Audrey and Mrs. Phelan learned that Christopher’s Rifle Brigade would arrive in Dover in mid-April, and proceed to London. The Rifles’ arrival was keenly anticipated, as Christopher was considered a national hero. His picture had been cut out of newspapers and posted in shop windows, and the accounts of his bravery were repeated in taverns and coffeehouses. Long testimonial rolls were written by villages and counties to be presented to him, and no fewer than three ceremonial swords, engraved with his name and set with jewels, had been struck by politicians eager to reward him for service.

However, on the day the Rifles landed at Dover, Christopher was mysteriously absent from the festivities. The crowds at the quay cheered the Rifle Brigade and demanded the appearance of its famed sharpshooter, but it seemed that Christopher had chosen to avoid the cheering crowds, the ceremonies and banquets . . . he even failed to appear at the celebration dinner hosted by the queen and her consort.

“What do you suppose has happened to Captain Phelan?” Beatrix’s older sister Amelia asked, after he had gone missing for three days. “From what I remember of the man, he was a social fellow who would have adored being the center of so much attention.”

“He’s gaining even more attention by his absence,” Cam pointed out.

“He doesn’t want attention,” Beatrix couldn’t resist saying. “He’s run to ground.”

Cam lifted a dark brow, looking amused. “Like a fox?” he asked.

“Yes. Foxes are wily. Even when they seem to head directly away from their goal, they always turn and make it good at the last.” Beatrix hesitated, her gaze distant as she stared through the nearby window, at the forest shadowed by a harsh and backward spring . . . too much easterly wind, too much rain. “Captain Phelan wants to come home. But he’ll stay aground until the hounds stop drawing for him.”

She was quiet and contemplative after that, while Cam and Amelia continued to talk. It was only her imagination . . . but she had the curious feeling that Christopher Phelan was somewhere close by.

“Beatrix.” Amelia stood beside her at the window, laying a gentle arm across her shoulders. “Are you feeling melancholy, dear? Perhaps you should have gone to London for the season as your friend Prudence did. You could stay with Leo and Catherine, or with Poppy and Harry at the hotel—”

“I have no interest whatsoever in taking part in the season,” Beatrix said. “I’ve done it four times, and that was three times too many.”

“But you were very sought after. The gentlemen adored you. And perhaps there will be someone new there.”

Beatrix lifted her gaze heavenward. “There’s never anyone new in London society.”

“True,” Amelia said after a moment’s thought. “Still, I think you would better off in town than staying here in the country. It’s too quiet for you here.”

A small, dark-haired boy charged into the room on a stick horse, letting out a warlike cry as he brandished a sword. It was Rye, Cam and Amelia’s four-and-a-half-year-old son. As the boy sped by, the end of the stick horse accidentally knocked against a floor lamp with a blue glass shade. Cam dove reflexively and caught the lamp before it smashed against the floor.

Turning around, Rye beheld his father on the floor and leaped on him, giggling.

Cam wrestled with his son, pausing briefly to inform his wife, “It’s not that quiet here.”

“I miss Jàdo,” Rye complained, referring to his cousin and favorite playmate. “When is he coming back?”

Merripen, Amelia’s sister Win, and their young son Jason, nicknamed Jàdo, had left a month earlier for Ireland to visit the estate that Merripen would someday inherit. As his grandfather was ailing, Merripen had agreed to stay for an indeterminate time to become familiar with the estate and its tenants.

“Not for a while,” Cam informed him regretfully. “Perhaps not until Christmas.”

“That’s too long,” Rye said with a wistful sigh.

“You have other cousins, darling,” Amelia pointed out.

“They’re all in London.”

“Edward and Emmaline will be here in the summer. And in the meantime, you have your little brother.”

“But Alex is hardly any fun,” Rye said. “He can’t talk or throw a ball. And he leaks.”

“At both ends,” Cam added, his amber eyes sparkling as he looked up at his wife.

Amelia tried, without success, to stifle a laugh. “He won’t leak forever.”

Straddling his father’s chest, Rye glanced at Beatrix. “Will you play with me, Aunt?”

“Certainly. Marbles? Jackstraws?”

“War,” the boy said with relish. “I’ll be the cavalry and you be the Russians, and I’ll chase you around the hedgerow.”