“Did Prudence put the letters directly into your hand, or did someone else give them to you?”

“Oh.” Audrey looked serene. Sitting on the parlor settee, she took up a small needlework hoop and examined a patch of embroidery. “So you’ve finally realized that Prudence didn’t write them. What gave her away?”

“The fact that she knew the contents of my letters, but nothing of the ones she sent.” Christopher stood over her, glowering. “It was one of her friends, wasn’t it? Tell me which one.”

“I can confirm nothing.”

“Was Beatrix Hathaway part of it?”

Audrey rolled her eyes. “Why would Beatrix want to take part in something like this?”

“Revenge. Because I once said that she belonged in the stables.”

“You denied having said that.”

“You said that I said it! Set that hoop down, or I swear I’ll wrap it around your throat. Understand something, Audrey: I am scarred from neck to foot. I have been shot, stabbed, bayoneted, struck by shrapnel, and treated by doctors so drunk they could barely stay on their feet.” A savage pause. “And none of that hurt like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Audrey said in a subdued tone. “I would never have agreed to any scheme that I thought would cause you unhappiness. It began as an act of kindness. At least that’s what I believe.”

Kindness? Christopher was revolted by the idea that he had been viewed as the object of pity. “Why in God’s name did you help someone to deceive me?”

“I was barely aware of it,” she flared. “I was half dead from caring for John—I wasn’t eating or sleeping—and I was exhausted. I didn’t think much about it at all, other than to decide that it would do no harm for someone to write to you.”

“It did, damn you!”

“You wanted to believe it was Prudence,” she accused. “Otherwise it would have been obvious that she wasn’t the author of the letters.”

“I was in the middle of a bloody war. I didn’t have time to examine participles and prepositions while hauling my arse in and out of trenches—”

He was interrupted by a voice from the doorway. “Audrey.” It was one of her tall, strapping brothers, Gavin. He leaned negligently against the frame, giving Christopher a warning stare. “One can’t help hearing the pair of you quarreling all through the house. Do you need help?”

“No, thank you,” Audrey said firmly. “I can manage this on my own, Gavin.”

Her brother smiled faintly. “Actually, I was asking Phelan.”

“He doesn’t need help, either,” Audrey said with great dignity. “Please allow us a few minutes alone, Gavin. We have something important to settle.”

“Very well. But I won’t go far.”

Sighing, Audrey looked after her overprotective brother and returned her attention to Christopher.

He gave her a hard stare. “I want a name.”

“Only if you swear that you will not hurt this woman.”

“I swear it.”

“Swear it on John’s grave,” she insisted.

A long silence passed.

“I knew it,” Audrey said grimly. “If you can’t be trusted not to hurt her, I certainly can’t tell you who she is.”

“Is she married?” A hoarse note had entered his voice.

“No.”

“Is she in Hampshire?”

Audrey hesitated before giving him a wary nod.

“Tell her that I’ll find her,” he said. “And she’ll regret it when I do.”

In the tense silence, he went to the threshold and glanced over his shoulder. “In the meantime, you can be the first to congratulate me,” he said. “Prudence and I are nearly betrothed.”

Audrey looked ashen. “Christopher . . . what kind of game are you playing?”

“You’ll find out,” came his cold reply. “You and your mysterious friend should enjoy it—you both seem to like games.”

Chapter Fourteen

“What the devil are you eating?” Leo, Lord Ramsay, stood in the family parlor at Ramsay House, viewing his dark-haired twins, Edward and Emmaline, who were playing on the carpeted floor.

His wife, Catherine, who was helping the babies to build block towers, looked up with a smile. “They’re eating biscuits.”

“These?” Leo glanced at a bowl of little brown biscuits that had been placed on a table. “They look revoltingly similar to the ones Beatrix has been feeding the dog.”

“That’s because they are.”

“They’re . . . Good God, Cat! What can you be thinking?” Lowering to his haunches, Leo tried to pry a sodden biscuit away from Edward.

Leo’s efforts were met with an indignant squall.

“Mine!” Edward cried, clutching the biscuit more tightly.

“Let him have it,” Catherine protested. “The twins are teething, and the biscuits are very hard. There’s nothing harmful in them.”

“How do you know that?”

“Beatrix made them.”

“Beatrix doesn’t cook. To my knowledge, she can barely butter her bread.”

“I don’t cook for people,” Beatrix said cheerfully, coming into the parlor with Albert padding after her. “But I do for dogs.”

“Naturally.” Leo took one of the brown lumps from the bowl, examining it closely. “Would you care to reveal the ingredients of these disgusting objects?”