Pedlington continued, "This property is not part of the overall estate. It came to him through his late wife, so it's not entailed."

They walked from dusty room to dusty room, down corridors hung with faded paper dotted with darker patches to show where paintings had once hung and furniture once stood. If this place wasn't entailed, Harry wondered, why hadn't the earl sold it? He'd sold everything else he could lay his hands on.

The fourth Earl of Denton had brought a large and prosperous estate to ruin. He'd mortgaged it to the hilt, sold everything that could be sold, and even then it hadn't been enough to cover his debts. At last, facing debtor's prison, he'd had a heart attack and died. In the middle of the road, Harry heard.

Then the scavengers had moved in; the bailiffs and those the earl had owed money to, picking over the leftovers of the once-great estate, wringing from it every penny that could be wrung. Pedlington had been appointed by the London firm whose task it was to salvage whatever could be retrieved from the mess.

Harry had heard all about it in Bath. He'd cut his social engagements short, much to his aunt's annoyance. There was no point anyway. The middle-class fathers of the girls his aunt had collected had made it clear to him that they aspired higher for their daughters.

So Harry had ridden down here to inspect the property. Before the late earl had acquired Firmin Court, the estate had been renowned for its horses.

"I don't imagine the fifth earl is relishing the task ahead of him," Harry said. Poor bastard.

Pedlington shook his head. "No, indeed. He's the late earl's second cousin-lives in Ireland-and had no idea of how things stood. The poor fellow got quite a shock when he heard the full sum of it. Fainted, I'm told. What use is a title when it comes with an estate that's mostly entailed and crippled with debt?" He gave Harry a hopeful glance. "At least this property can be sold."

Harry ignored it. This house had been stripped bare, and not recently. The rooms smelled of disuse and dust, but there was no odor of damp or decay. They passed from room to room, Harry insisting on being shown everything, though the house mattered least to him.

"What the-" the agent muttered. One of the bedchambers was locked. The agent tried key after key with increasing annoyance. "It's just a bedchamber, sir, of no interest. It is in the same condition as the rest of the house."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And you have no key?"

"No, but I assure you I shall obtain it forthwith," Pedlington said in a tight voice.

Harry, uninterested in a missing key, strolled back along the hallway. "Is that all you have to show me?"

"Would you have any interest in viewing the kitchen regions? Or the attics and servant's quarters?" Pedlington's tone said he did not expect it.

Harry made a dismissive gesture. "I'm not sure if there's much point. The neglect is appalling, as is the dust." He added as if in afterthought, "But perhaps the kitchen, though I expect it'll be hopelessly inadequate. And since I've come all this way I might as well look at the outbuildings."

Pedlington, by now sure his trip had been made in vain, sighed. "Yes, sir. We can reach the outbuildings through the kitchen door." They retraced their steps, their footsteps echoing on the bare wooden floor. A good, solid floor, Harry noted, with no sign of woodworm.

Harry repressed a faint smile at the agent's dejection. In the ragged, empty fields that surrounded the house, the grass grew thick and lush. If the stables were as solid as the house, he'd make an offer.

All this place needed was a little money, a lot of hard work, and good management. His legacy from Great-aunt Gert would provide the money; Harry could provide the rest.

The stable doors were ajar. Pedlington frowned. "I'm sure I locked this the last time I was here."

As they approached, a dog stuck its head out of the door. It growled as they approached.

Pedlington stopped dead and eyed the dog nervously. "Shoo, shoo, dog," he called, flapping his hands. "Go away."

The dog stood in the doorway, curling its lip in a low growl. She was a beautiful animal, a springer spaniel, white, with dappled brown markings.

Harry addressed the dog sternly. "What do you mean, madam, growling at us in that ill-mannered tone? Behave yourself." The dog, recognizing an authoritative voice, gave him a sheepish look, and the tip of her long, feathered tail wagged a little.

"Just as I thought, you're all bluff, aren't you, sweetheart?" Harry squatted down and clicked his finger at the dog. "Come on, introduce yourself."

Squirming in a coquettish manner, the dog edged closer and sniffed Harry's fingers. Her tail wagged harder, she licked his fingers, then rolled onto her back.

"That's better," Harry said as he scratched her stomach. The dog writhed in bliss. Harry straightened and the dog leapt to her feet, her tail swaying gently as she watched him.

Pedlington looked at the animal with dislike. "That animal is not supposed to be here. There is no dog on the inventory. It's a stray."

"Yes, but quite harmless, as you can see. So, let us look at the stables."

Pedlington didn't move. The man was too nervous of the dog.

"I can inspect the stables by myself," Harry told him. "These doors got opened somehow. You go and check the other exterior locks."

Pedlington eyed the dog, then nodded. "I will then, if you don't mind, sir. It wouldn't do if vagrants got in."

Harry stepped inside. The dog followed him and headed straight for a scarf and what might be gloves lying just inside on the cobbled floor. Harry frowned. The items looked too good to be lying on the cobbles but the dog flopped down, placed her paws on either side of the pile, then lay her muzzle possessively on top of it. She had no intention of moving.

"Very well," Harry told her. "You guard that stuff and I'll look at the stables." Her tail thumped twice, but she didn't move.

Harry looked around him and exhaled slowly. It was exactly what he'd been looking for; stalls for forty horses at least, and the stable buildings looked as solid as a rock-in better condition than the house, in fact. The cobbled floor was clean and well swept, the air inside smelled of fresh hay and-Harry sniffed-horse. Fresh horse.

An oilskin cloak hung from a peg and a hat. Harry frowned. It looked like-a sound caught his attention. What the devil? It was a horse in distress. The sound was followed by a low murmur.

He ran down the central aisle of the stables, checking each stall as he passed. Empty-all but the last. The lower door was shut, but the top part was open. He looked over.

A mare lay on her side on the hay-strewn floor, straining to give birth, her bony flanks wet with sweat. She was in clear distress, rolling from side to side. It was not a good sign. A young woman crouched beside the mare, in perilous proximity to the flailing hooves. Harry couldn't see her face.

He shrugged off his coat. "How long since she went into labor?"

"Nearly fifteen minutes since her waters broke." The woman's voice was grim. She didn't even turn her head. She poured what looked like oil from a small bottle into her palm.

"That's too long." Harry hung his coat on a hook.

"I know." She corked the bottle and set it aside. "The foal is presented wrongly."

Harry could see. The mare's tail had been wrapped in a cloth and her distended entrance was visible. He could see the bubble of the amniotic sac protruding, and within it, the shape of a single tiny hoof.

There should have been two little hooves, followed soon afterward by a nose. "The foal needs to be turned in the womb," he said, rolling his shirtsleeves up.

She finished slathering her hand and right forearm with oil. "I know. I'm about to try."

"I'll help." Harry unlatched the stable door.

"No! Don't come in-you'll upset her!" The woman turned an urgent face toward him.

It was her. The young woman from the cart. He caught only the slightest glimpse of her, a blur of pale skin and worried eyes, but he was certain.

"Stay back! She's nervous of men."

Harry ignored her. "Do you want to be kicked in the head? You can't help her when she's in this state."

As he stepped into the stall the mare's head jerked and her eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Her ears flattened, her lip curled and she made an agitated move as if to stand.

The woman swore and tossed Harry a bright glare as if to say, "You see?"

Harry did see, but it wasn't going to stop him. She needed help and he knew a lot about nervous mares.

She turned to soothe the mare, using her hands and a low, melodic, rhythmical flow of words. It was mesmerizing, he thought. Any creature would be spellbound. He moved quietly closer and joined in.

"Hush now, my lady," he crooned to the horse, "You don't know me but I'm not going to hurt you. You're in a bad way, and frightened, I know, but we'll soon fix that." He took the mare's halter in his hand, patting and soothing her with voice and touch.

The mare's eyes flickered, but after some more eye-rolling, she seemed to accept his presence and calmed a little.

"Thank you," the woman said over her shoulder, and still in that mesmerizing tone. "I have to say I'm surprised. Toffee is usually very nervous around men."

No doubt Toffee had good reason, Harry thought grimly, eyeing the faint scars on the mare's thin flanks. At some stage someone had beaten the mare unmercifully.

But all he said was, "I've spent my whole life around horses. Now, do you want me to try to turn the foal?"

"No, I'll do it" the woman said. "It's supposed to be easier with a small hand."

She was right, and she seemed to know what she was doing, so Harry positioned himself in a way to protect the woman from any flailing hooves and said, "Whenever you're ready."

It was amazing. For the past two weeks he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind and now, here she was, not two feet away from him. What was she doing at Firmin Court, on her own in a deserted stable, assisting a mare giving birth?

He watched as she waited for a contraction to finish, took a deep breath, then broke the sac with her fingers. Fluid gushed over her hand as she took the little hoof firmly in her hand and pushed it steadily back, slipping first her hand, then her whole forearm into the mare's entrance.

"Is the foal alive?" he asked.

There was a silence, then, "Yes." She frowned and felt around. "One foot is tucked under him. I'm going to try-ahhh-" She broke off on a gasp as another contraction rippled through the big animal, clamping down on her arm.

Harry winced in sympathy. He'd experienced it himself. It was damned painful. He would have expected a woman to cry out, but she didn't make a sound.

She waited until the contraction was over, then pushed and groped, straining with the mare, as she fought to turn the foal's leg around. It was a delicate process. Forcing it could badly injure the foal or the mare.

She grunted, gave a soft sound, then carefully began to pull back. In a slow, steady movement she drew first her arm, then her hand from the mare. She opened her fingers and Harry saw two tiny, dark forelegs emerge, followed an instant later by a nose.

"You did it!" Harry breathed.

She gave no sign that she'd heard him. She sat back on her heels, a second contraction came and the whole foal came slithering out in a messy gush of fluids.

The mare lifted her head and stared at the wet, dark bundle still partially encased in the sac. She sniffed it carefully, then began to lick her baby clean, starting with the head.

The woman didn't move, so Harry slipped a hand under her elbow to help her to rise. She started at his touch and rose unaided in a swift, graceful movement. "She needs to be alone with her colt," she told him and ushered him out of the stall.

She leaned on the stall half door, wiping her hands on a cloth. She didn't take her eyes off the mare and foal.

Harry didn't take his eyes off the woman.

He could see her properly now she wasn't shrouded in rain and canvas. She was medium height, with a thin, intense face. Her skin, now dry and in the gloom of the stables, was still moonlight pale, soft and pure. He'd imagined her hair would be lighter once it dried, and it was, caramel-colored and streaked with gold. Today she wore it caught back on her nape in a loose knot from which tendrils escaped.

She wore an old brown riding habit, well worn and out-of-date. A hand-me-down, he decided: good quality cloth, but too loose in the chest and too tight in the waist.

She turned abruptly and sank to the cobbles. "Oh God, oh God." She crossed her arms, hugging herself with hands that shook. "I didn't think I could do it. I thought she'd-they'd both-" She broke off and took several deep, jagged breaths. "When I felt that foal inside-" Her head dropped to her knees. "Thank God."

"Had you never done that before?"

A few more deep breaths and she looked up. She shook her head. "No." A tear rolled down her cheek.

Harry wanted to taste it. Instead he passed her his handkerchief.

She jumped when his hand touched her arm, as if she'd forgotten he was there. She stared at the handkerchief. "What's that for?"

"You're weeping."

"No, I'm not," she said quickly. She scrubbed at her cheeks with her hand. "I never weep. There's no point."

Harry raised his brows, but before he could say anything she scrambled to her feet again and turned away to stare at the mare.

She was very thin. And she looked even more exhausted than the last time he'd seen her. He felt a spurt of anger. Someone ought to be taking better care of her.

Who was she? A groom's daughter? A farmer's? Did she live close by?

He couldn't believe his luck finding her again. Fate, giving him a second chance. Harry was not one to waste a second chance; they came rarely enough in this life. But he wasn't going to rush his fences, either. She was tense; he could read it in every line of her body.

"I remember Toffee herself being born," she said after a while.

"She's a beautiful animal. Her Arabian heritage shows. My guess is she's a beautiful mover."

She gave him a thoughtful glance. "Yes, she's fast, too."

Close up, he could see tiny gold flecks in the wide, sherry-colored eyes. Under his gaze they turned wary and self-conscious. She turned back to the stall. "I suppose that's why she's still here. She's impossible to catch."

"You seem to have managed." Harry itched to bury his fingers in those tendrils at her nape, to stroke the tender skin beneath.

"Yes, but she trusts me."

"I'm not surprised. Is she yours?"

"No, no, she's not." She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but closed it again.

Harry said, "From the look of her coat, she hasn't been paid much attention in recent months."

"No."

"Unusual treatment for a valuable animal in foal."

"Indeed."

"On a par with the rest of this estate," Harry said. "The whole place has been neglected for years. Only the stables are fit to be used."

She sighed. "I know."