So Tibby didn't like the sound of this woman he was courting, eh? A touch of the green-eyed monster perhaps? "I hope so, darlin'. I hope so indeed," he said as he closed the lid of the box.

"She might yet entertain feelings for me after all, Freckles, so what do you think of that?" The dog thumped her tail on the floor.

"Aye, and she reckons I'm intelligent, too. Not bad for a formerly illiterate Irish clod, eh?" And with a jaunty step he headed off to the vicarage.

"Now, Vicar, what can you tell me about some fellow called Lochinvar?" Ethan moved his only remaining knight. "Checkmate," he declared and sat back.

The vicar frowned over the board, then shook his head. "Bless my soul, I never saw that one coming. Excellent, my boy, excellent."

Ethan repressed a grin. He was looking down the barrel of forty years, but the old man still called him "my boy." "Do you know who I mean?"

"Lochinvar? Yes, I know," the vicar said. "This is to do with your lady love, I suppose."

"Yes, I'd never heard of him, but she knows all about him, it seems."

"Then your Miss Tibby has a soft spot for a romantic hero."

"Oh." Ethan frowned. He wasn't a romantic sort himself, and certainly no hero. Romantic sorts were handsome and dashing. He was just a battered old tomcat, looking to settle down with a woman he had no business to love. He was banking on Tibby's fondness for taking in strays.

The vicar quoted, " 'So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war; There never was knight like the young Lochinvar'!"

Ethan sat forward. "A fighter, was he? She told me once that when we first met she'd thought me a young Lochinvar."

The vicar's brows rose. "Good heavens. What did you do?"

"She was bein' held hostage by some villains who were after a princess and her son."

"A princess?"

"The princess was Tibby's former pupil and she was comin' to Tibby in secret, or so they thought. But the villains had got wind of it and got there before the princess. I knocked at the door for directions and there was Tibby, white as a ghost, scared to death, and furious with it." He grinned reminiscently. "A brave little thing, she is. She slipped me a note tellin' about the men who were holding her prisoner, but I never even looked at it. She gave me such a look for being a big stupid-she didn't know then I couldn't read."

"So what did you do?" the vicar asked, as eager as a boy.

"I snatched her from the hold of the blackguards, tossed her on me horse, and galloped off with her to safety."

"Wonderful, wonderful! What an adventure," the old man exclaimed. "No wonder she calls you young Lochinvar. It's Sir Walter Scott, from Marmion, which was all the rage twenty years ago. A long poem," the vicar explained, seeing Ethan's blank expression. He quoted, " 'Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west! Through all the wide border his steed was the best.' "

Ethan brightened. "That's like me. I reckon I've got the best horses in the county."

" 'And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!' "

Ethan sat back. "Nope, the man's a fool. If you're riding alone, you need to be better armed than that. A knife in your boot, at least."

The vicar smiled. He fetched a bound volume from the bookshelves, found the page, and handed it to Ethan. "Read it."

Ethan read it slowly through, stumbling over an unfamiliar word or two, and then sat back, thoughtful. "So, he kidnapped Fair Ellen from her wedding . . ."

The vicar sighed. "Yes. I've never understood the fair sex's fondness for young Lochinvar. I would have thought it would make for a shocking scandal, not to mention a difficult legal problem-getting the first marriage annulled-particularly difficult, I would have thought, when all the bride and groom's relatives were out to kill young Lochinvar. The Scots, you know, take their feuds very seriously. The whole thing was extremely ill-judged. But there is no accounting for female fancies."

Ethan agreed. "If it was me, I'd've grabbed the woman the first time around, right after her pa told me no, instead of waiting till the last minute, then riding in and upsetting the wedding. Women hate that. It's their big day. I bet Fair Ellen gave him an earful about it every day for the rest of his life, poor divil."

The bell jangled on the door handle of Nell's bedchamber sometime after midnight. Harry stumbled from his bed in his smalls and hurried down the hallway after her.

She was half running, muttering in an anguished voice, "Where is she? Where? Must find her, find her, find her."

As always the sight of her distress in her sleep moved him deeply. He caught up with her at the top of the stairs and turned her around, catching her in the circle of his arm. "Hush, sweetheart," he murmured. "Torie is here. She is safe."

This time she struggled with him. "No, no, not her. Not Torie. Not my Torie," she muttered vehemently, pushing his hands away desperately, trying to shove her way past him. She was surprisingly strong.

"Come to bed," he said, and when she continued to fight him, he scooped her off her cold, bare feet and held her against his chest.

She stared past him with blank, heartbreaking eyes. "Is she dead, is she? My Torie?" Tears slid down her cheeks.

Her silent, blind grief tore him apart. He carried her back down the hallway and to bed. He held her against him, her face resting on his chest, wet with tears. He kissed them away, tasting the salt and wishing he could take away the pain.

He told himself that in the morning she would remember none of this.

It didn't help. He held her against him, rocking her, murmuring reassurance and comforting lies, soothing her with words and hands until the storm of midnight grief had passed. Finally she lay limp and exhausted in his arms, her breathing slowed, and she slept the sleep of the weary. And Harry, exhausted, slept, too.

In the morning he took her riding in the park, to blow the cobwebs away. Riding helped when you were tense. And Nell was so tense she could snap.

The search had been going on too long.

Masculine voices sounded in the hall as Nell emerged from her bedchamber, washed and changed after her ride in the park. The exercise had done her good.

Curious to see Harry's friends, she came quietly halfway down the stairs and paused.

What would they think of their friend marrying a fallen woman? she wondered. Not that she cared what they thought, as long as they found Torie. But it might matter to Harry.

One was Rafe Ramsey and the other Luke Ripton, but which was which?

The taller of the two men was extremely elegant, with a superbly cut dark blue coat, highly starched shirt points, an intricately tied neck cloth, buff breeches, and gleaming boots. His attire bore all the hallmarks of a dandy. What distinguished him from that fraternity, she thought, was his broad shoulders, not the result of tailor's padding, and his strongly muscled horseman's thighs.

He must be Rafe. She'd got the impression from Harry that Rafe was coolheaded and deceptively indolent. Nonchalant was a word he'd used and this man certainly gave that impression.

Harry had called Luke their "fallen angel" and when she saw his face, she understood why. He was darkly beautiful and somehow tragic-looking, with dark eyes and cheekbones a woman would weep for. His thick dark hair was tousled, and he wore his neck cloth carelessly knotted. He seemed full of restless energy, for he moved the whole time, snapping his whip against his boots, pacing back and forth as they talked, and punctuating his sentences with lively gestures.

The clock chimed in the hall for quarter to eight. Nell took a breath and continued her way down the stairs.

She knew to the second when Harry caught sight of her. Their eyes met and she warmed under his gaze. She was aware of his friends looking but she didn't care. She felt pretty when Harry looked at her like that. Cooper had braided her hair again and this time she'd woven a primrose yellow ribbon through it.

Harry came forward and took her hand as she descended the last few steps. "These are my friends, Nell: Rafe Ramsey and Luke Ripton. Gentlemen, my betrothed, Lady Helen Freymore."

"How do you do, Mr. Ramsey, Mr. Ripton." Nell curtsied, pleased that she'd guessed correctly.

"Delighted to meet you, Lady Helen," Rafe Ramsey said. He had curiously heavy-lidded eyes of a piercing pale blue. They rested on her coolly. Uncomfortable eyes, she thought as he raised her hand to his lips. She wasn't sure she liked Mr. Ramsey.

"Harry told us about your problem," Luke said bowing over her hand. He looked at her with intense, dark eyes. "We'll do our best to find your baby, I promise."

Without warning Nell found herself tearing up. She gave him a wobbly smile, nodded, and squeezed his hand.

Harry stepped forward and put an arm around her waist.

"Let us go into the breakfast room," Rafe suggested. "Harry promised if we got here at this impossible hour, he'd feed us, Lady Helen."

They all went in to the breakfast parlor. Harry's friends seemed to know their way around his aunt's house, she thought, watching them head straight for the array of covered dishes on the sideboard. They seemed very much at home.

"We've known Harry and Gabe since school," Rafe explained. Those uncanny eyes must have noted her surprise. "We've run tame in Lady Gosforth's various homes since we were raw striplings."

"I thought you were in the army together," she said.

"We were," Luke told her. "We all joined up together."

"Couldn't get rid of them," Harry grumbled as he held a chair for Nell to be seated. "Gabe and I tried but they followed us."

"Followed? Interesting word," Rafe drawled. "My father bought me my colors, and then you and Gabe talked Great-aunt Gert into buying yours and then if I recall Luke decided he might as well come, too."

"Mmm, yes, well, someone had to come to keep you lot out of trouble," Luke said, piling a plate with sliced ham, sausages, and eggs. The other two men laughed.

"Drag us into it, more like," Harry said. "Looks like an angel, but he's a demon for trouble, my dear, I warn you." He placed a plate in front of Nell. "Apple fritters. Cook thought you might enjoy them, but if you'd prefer a more standard breakfast . . ."

"No, thank you, these look delicious." And they did, with crisp lacy edges, oozing with apple and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. For once she felt hungry.

Satisfied, Harry heaped his own plate and sat down.

"So, Lady Helen," Rafe said, "My felicitations on your approaching marriage. Though perhaps felicitations is the wrong word. Sympathy, perhaps. It's about time someone came along and civilized this brute."

Nell gave him a sharp look, unsure of whether there was some hidden edge to what he was saying.

"I don't think he needs civilizing at all," she said and took a mouthful of apple fritter. "I am very well satisfied with him the way he is."

Luke fell back with an expression of feigned shock. "Good Lord, a woman who doesn't want to reform a man," he exclaimed. "Do you know how rare you are?"

Rafe Ramsey gave her a long look. "Lady Helen, you can't possibly wed Harry."

She eyed him guardedly and said nothing.

"You must marry me instead," he said.

Nell blinked, unsure of where this was leading. The pale blue eyes regarded her blandly, but she thought she saw a lazy twinkle in them.

"Are you trying to steal my betrothed from me?" Harry said and poured Nell some more hot chocolate, apparently unconcerned.

"Naturally," Rafe responded. "Who wouldn't? A charming lady who has no intention of reforming a husband after marriage? What man wouldn't want to snap her up?"

"Ah, but if I married you," Nell told him seriously, "I'm certain I'd have to change my mind about that."

There was sudden silence, then a roar of masculine laughter. Rafe tried to look affronted, but he soon succumbed to laughter as well. He gave Nell a wink and she smiled shyly back. It seemed Harry's friends had accepted her.

"I'd know that sound anywhere," declared Lady Gosforth, bustling in. "Rafe, my dear boy, and Luke, it's been too long."

They leapt to their feet and made beautiful, elegant bows that Lady Gosforth ignored, kissing them each fondly on the cheek. She waved them back to their seats, firing questions at them about their various relatives and at the same time issuing instructions to Sprotton.

Nell listened quietly, enjoying the exchanges. It was clear this was a routine event. Lady Gosforth treated Harry's friends as if they were her own relatives and they were obviously fond of her, too. For a girl who'd spent so many years without family or the company of people her own age, it was heartwarming to watch.

But as the laughter and the exchanges about people she didn't know continued, Nell's mind wandered. With Rafe and Luke combing the various parish workhouses, they had a better chance of finding Torie. She sneaked a glance at the clock on the overmantel. It was getting late.

She saw a movement outside the door. It was Cooper, bringing Nell's pelisse and bonnet down, as requested, for an eight o'clock departure.

Harry must have seen her, too. He set his cutlery together, drained his coffee, put his napkin to one side, and said, "It's time we were off."

Immediately his two friends did likewise. It was obvious they'd been soldiers, she thought. Immediate attention to the matter in hand.

Lady Gosforth watched in dismay as Nell stood as well.

"You're not taking this girl out all day again today, are you?" she said to Harry. "She has a trousseau to prepare."

"The shopping must wait," Harry said. "There are legal and business matters we must complete first. To do with the estate," he added, when it looked as though his aunt would question him further.

His aunt made a scornful noise. "As if Nell would be interested in that. The girl needs clothes, for heaven's sake. You two boys must agree with me, I'm sure." She looked at Luke and Rafe for support.

Rafe carefully picked a piece of invisible fluff off his immaculate coat, frowning with extreme concentration. Luke had produced a small book from his pocket and consulted it earnestly. Neither appeared to hear her question.

Lady Gosforth snorted. "You boys stick together, as usual, I see. Well, my dear, it's up to us women-"

Nell said urgently, "I'm sorry, Lady Gosforth, but I really must go with him."

"Very loyal of you, my dear," Lady Gosforth said, rolling her eyes. She turned back to Harry with a look that made it clear who she blamed for the ruination of her plans-and it wasn't Nell. "How on earth can I get this girl's trousseau and wedding dress prepared in time if you keep dragging her off all day? The wedding is in less than three weeks!" She gave her nephew a militant look. "I don't care what you say Harry, I've made appointments for Nell with my mantua maker, my milliner, the boot maker-"