The rear lanterns on his carriage glowed yellow, a nimbus of light for him to follow in the fine mist. His hair was damp, his coat sparkled with a thousand tiny droplets, yet he still stood there staring at the third-floor light. In Paris he'd done the same, watching the great house of the Comte du Marchand, waiting for dawn and Jeanne. When her signal came, he would meet her at the garden gate.

Now, determinedly, he turned and walked away.

The city matched his mood tonight, everything shuttered and silent. Lantern light would periodically pierce the darkness, but nothing could lighten the gloom for long. Edinburgh sometimes possessed a brooding quality, hunched beneath a dark, cloud-filled sky. Above all, there was the hint of history, as if these hills and narrow cobbled streets had been witness to countless human acts, some kind and compassionate, others malevolent and predatory. Edinburgh's past was replete with a history of plotting and planning. Men had died, monarchs had fallen, and fortunes had been lost or won as a result.

At night, sound carried so well that Douglas could almost imagine the slide of a dirk from its sheath or whispers in the darkness from a hundred furtive meetings, a thousand promises. There were rumors that there was a city beneath the city, whole streets where people lived out their lives in darkness and relative safety. The poor of Edinburgh were periodically rounded up and shunted to another section of the city, and some had, it was said, taken refuge in these places far from sunlight and free from taxes.

In less than fifteen minutes he was on Queen's Place. His red brick home was adorned with a white door and black shutters. Tall windows lined the first and second floors, only two of them now lit by candlelight. The third floor was embellished with half-moon windows that looked like drooping eyelids. On the roof were eight chimneys, one of them still sending tendrils of white smoke into the dark and cloud-filled night sky.

Douglas noted with some satisfaction that his home was much larger than Hartley's.

The were wealthier and more influential than they had ever been. And happier? A question his brother Alisdair had asked him not that many weeks ago. Douglas had responded with a nod, introspection making him impatient. He disliked searching the contents of his soul. There were too many dark corners there to make him entirely comfortable with the task.

He waved to his coachman standing beside the curb and Stephens nodded. A moment later, the carriage was turning the corner and heading for the stables.

As he reached for the door handle, it opened in front of him. His majordomo, attired in his severe black, smiled at him and then stood aside, holding the door ajar.

"Good evening, sir."

"I thought I told you that you needn't wait up for me."

Lassiter merely smiled and closed the door behind Douglas, moving with the lithe grace of a man half his age.

"It's a horrible night outside, sir," he said. "I almost think myself home in London."

"At least it's easier to understand the English," Douglas offered. He spoke French and German and a smattering of Chinese, but occasionally the Scots dialect was more than even he could handle. Unlike his older brothers, he'd never learned Gaelic, and there were times when he felt the lack.

"Did you have an enjoyable evening, sir?"

"I had an interesting one, Lassiter. The past came back to haunt me. And you?" he asked, smiling a little. He doubted he would receive an answer. His majordomo refused any attempt at democratization of their relative positions. Lassiter would not bend from what he thought his place. Tonight, however, he surprised Douglas by replying.

"I began reading this evening after you left, sir. A most elevating book of verse. May I compliment you on your library?"

"Most of the credit goes to my brother James," Douglas said.

"Then if you will convey my thanks as well to him, sir. I must commend him on his most eclectic taste."

He nodded, allowing Lassiter to help him off with his coat.

A spiraling mahogany staircase dominated the foyer of his home. It shot up to the second floor, then divided and wrapped around itself before reaching the third.

The first floor was comprised of the public rooms: his library, the parlor, a more intimate morning room, a large dining room that he used for entertaining, a comfortably appointed kitchen that was well ventilated to prevent the smells of cooking from reaching his guests, and various other chambers he rarely used. The bedroom suites as well as two guest rooms occupied most of the second floor. The third floor was given over to seven chambers for the servants, while above the stable were more quarters for the coachman and grooms.

A bigger home than he needed, possibly, but he'd planned for a larger family one day. Time, however, was passing, and he was no closer to making that nebulous thought a reality than he had been ten years earlier.

Douglas walked into his library, Lassiter following. In a matter of moments, the older man had the fire lit. Lassiter had many talents, all of them honed in service.

"Can I get you a glass of port, sir?" Lassiter asked.

Douglas glanced over at the sideboard and the five crystal decanters with their distinctive silver tops etched with the MacRae crest. His possessions revealed that he was a prosperous man. He was steward of the MacRae fortune in Edinburgh but his personal share of it made him wealthy enough that he'd never have to worry about an income. In addition to this Edinburgh home, he owned a small farm in the country, three ships, and a share in a racing stable. A fortune not yet equal to that of the du Marchands, but he was still young.

Lassiter evidently took his silence for assent, because he poured him a glass and returned to his side. Douglas took it with a smile.

"Go back to bed, Lassiter. I don't need coddling."

His majordomo studied him with a look that indicated he doubted Douglas's words.

"I can do very well on my own."

"But you don't have to, sir," Lassiter said. The man was English but had the obstinacy of a Scot. An instant later, obviously recognizing that he'd lost this particular battle, the old man bowed. "If you're certain, sir."

"I am."

Douglas took a sip of the port, watched as Lassiter left the room. A moment later he left as well, loosening his cravat as he walked into his library. Putting his glass down on the surface of the desk, he fumbled with the tinderbox, lighting a candle. The flickering light was not enough illumination to read, but he had entered the room only for contemplation.

He returned to the doorway, shutting the door behind him, hearing it close with a satisfying click, a sound as reassuring as a lock. He didn't employ many servants, but those who worked for him knew that his need for privacy was absolute. He was unquestionably the master in his own home.

Until this moment.

The memory of Jeanne floated into the room behind him, an incorporeal spirit that studied him with solemn gray eyes.

"What do you wish of me?"

He smiled at his own whimsy. She would never stand before him so docilely. Her eyes would flash fire, and she'd demand to know why he'd summoned her. But then, ten years stretched between their last meeting and tonight. She'd been a wealthy nobleman's daughter the last time he'd seen her. Now she was a governess and the child standing beside her had possessed more animation.

Drawing open the drapes, he stared out at Edinburgh. The city was never truly quiet, but had a rhythm for both day and night. In the area in which he lived, carriages were encouraged not to travel after a certain hour, and straw was laid down on the road to muffle the sound of their wheels. Wealth brought comfort, including a good night's sleep.

The du Marchand wealth was legendary. What had happened in the intervening years? A story repeated a thousand times, no doubt. The last few years in France had been difficult for aristocrats.

He braced his hands on either side of the window, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders. Anger still coursed through his body. He looked into the night is if his eyes could see past the houses and the large church on the corner directly into her window.

Jeanne. Without a lot of prodding his thoughts could transport themselves back all those years ago to Paris. He'd been seventeen years old, a boy who'd fallen so desperately in love that food, sleep, even air was unnecessary to him. All he needed was the sight of Jeanne. Yet even his love hadn't been enough, had it?

He remembered the moment he'd come to tell her that his parents had arrived from Nova Scotia. He'd wanted her to meet them, prior to his asking the Comte for her hand in marriage.

Instead of Jeanne, he'd been greeted by a tall, slender woman with dark red hair. Justine.

"She isn't here," Justine said, her patrician good looks almost haughty in the dusk light.

"What do you mean, she isn't here? She has to be."

"Arrogant young whelp, aren't you?" Justine smiled at him through the iron grille of the gate. It was not a warm smile, and the amusement it revealed was no doubt at his expense."Where is she, Justine?" He'd held his breath for her reply, anxious in a way that he couldn't quite define."She won't see you," she said, her answer clipped and disinterested."Didn't she leave word?"She'd only shaken her head."No note, no message?"Justine only laughed. "And what message might that be, young sir? That she has nothing but love for you?

That the future looks bright? You know such things are not for the two of you."

"Because I'm not French?" He'd been studying at the Sorbonne for two years, long enough that his command of the language had increased as well as his understanding of the French antipathy for anything

foreign. The residents of Paris simply felt that they were superior to the rest of the world. "My family isfrom Nova Scotia," he'd offered, but Justine had only laughed."I don't care where your family is from, you stupid boy. You're not an equal in rank to Jeanne du Marchand. Not now, not ever."

He'd plunged his hands into his pockets and came up with several coins, which he thrust in Justine'sdirection."Tell me where she's gone," he said, but his demands were only met with that enigmatic smile and Justine 's cool look."It's not worth my life to tell you, young sir. Nor does she wish to see you.""I'd prefer to hear that from her.""You don't believe me?" She'd given him an amused look, one that made him decidedly uncomfortable.

As if she knew a secret that he should have known.

"The Comte can have you taken away," she said. "And no one will ever see you again. Do you wish

that?"

"I want to see Jeanne. I'll stay here until she comes out."

How stubborn he'd been and how idiotically intoxicated with love.

"She isn't even here," Justine said finally. "She's left Paris altogether."

He had a leaden feeling in his stomach, and the almost pitying look on her face told him she might be

telling the truth."Where has she gone?" He'd asked the question slowly, as if to prepare himself for the answer.Justine looked back at the house and then at him as if weighing her words. Finally, she spoke again. "I've been told to tell you that she's been sent home to Vallans. She's with child, and in disgrace."Shock had stripped him of any words."She'll not see you again, young sir. The Comte du Marchand will see to that. Besides, she doesn't want anything to do with you. You've caused her nothing but pain."

Justine turned away from the iron gate, picked up her skirts, and began to walk back to the house.

"Is there nothing you can do?" he'd called out.

Justine turned and smiled at him again, a genuinely amused expression that should have warned him as to her next words. "She'll never return to Paris, young sir. After the child comes, she'll have a new life."

He'd stood in the rain for three hours, staring through the iron grille to the window where Jeanne used to signal to him. The curtains were drawn and there was no movement. No smiling face, no wave of a hand. Nothing. He slowly began to believe that she had truly left Paris-and him.

Only when the afternoon turned to night did he move away.

Now Douglas moved to his chair, sat heavily, and propped a boot on the corner of his desk. His mind wasn't occupied with the stack of papers he'd brought from his office. He would look over the agreement to purchase land in London in the morning. Memory still held him in its grasp.

She was a governess now, attired in clothing her servants wouldn't have worn a decade ago. It wasn't enough that she'd only looked at him once and then stared intently at the floor. He wanted her to suffer. Not for anything she'd done to him, but for a greater sin.

Hartley's lascivious intent might ruin his plans. She's a fine morsel. The words rankled, as did the lecherous tone in which they were uttered. Damn Hartley.

Douglas walked out of the library, through the darkened house, and to the back. The coachman's quarters were located above the stable. Douglas mounted the steps and knocked on the door, happy to see that Stephens hadn't begun undressing.

"Forgive me for disturbing you," he said, a comment that made his coachman smile.

"It's no problem, sir."

"I have an errand for one of the stable boys," he said. "I want this sent to Captain Manning," he added, and handed him the address.

"I'll send him right away, sir."

As he returned to the house, Douglas realized that this plan might well prove to be unwise. He had expunged Jeanne du Marchand from his life years ago. Now he should simply ignore the fact that he'd seen her, and pretend that this evening had never happened.

But he wasn't going to do that. Wise or not, he was going to take advantage of this opportunity to avenge an act of cruelty and horror.

Chapter 4.

I n her sleep Jeanne moaned, a slight and almost inaudible protest. She tasted soot in her throat as her night-dimmed mind recalled Vallans. Not as it had been, a majestic sunlit chateau in a sweeping vista of valley, but as it had become. In her dream, she recalled the ruins of some of Vallans' chimneys, standing stark on the landscape like stolid brick giants. Below the ground, visible through gaping holes in the earth, were the dungeons and tunnels of the chateau, curiously untouched.

Gone were the tapestries that had dated back centuries, the gallery of paintings of generations of du Marchands, all the books in the great library as well as the stained-glass windows depicting the stages of the cross, and the chapel itself with its gold altar appointments.

The scene abruptly changed, as if her dream-shrouded mind could not bear the sight of such ruin. Vallans suddenly commanded the night with its hundreds of candles and lanterns. She and Douglas were there, dancing in the ballroom, their smiles intent as they gazed on each other, oblivious to the majesty around them.

Awareness came to Jeanne as she surfaced from the dream. She blinked open her eyes. Gradually, her gaze fixed on the open window. The dawn sky over Edinburgh was now a tapestry of yellow, pink, and gold hues. A new day, a new beginning.

Jeanne realized she didn't particularly want a new beginning. Instead, she wanted to exist the way she'd been living during the past ten years, without any emotion at all. But it was too late for that, wasn't it? She 'd seen Douglas, and the memories would not stop flooding into her mind.

Walking to the window, she felt a heaviness that came from a disturbed night of sleep, and the effort to keep the past at bay. Standing silent, clad in her night rail, her hair arranged in one thick braid, Jeanne stared out at the view she'd seen every morning for three months. Below her were four residential streets and a square formed by their intersection. There was no traffic this early, no wagons carrying provisions to the prosperous homes, no barrow girls or street vendors. But all too soon there would be signs of life on even this affluent street.

Jeanne breathed in the scent of the morning. Flowers had been planted throughout the square, and they were blossoming now, large scarlet and yellow blooms tipping their heads gently in the breeze that swept down from the hills.

Below her, a bird landed on the windowsill and she smiled at its presence. The nine years of her imprisonment in the convent had taught her to take joy in the small things in life-a bird's song, a rainbow, a tree, the sight of a flower in bud, the simple majesty of a dawn sky.

Because she was considered an influence to be avoided, she was kept segregated in a tiny cell with one high window far away from the main structure of the convent. Her days were to be spent in contemplating her sins. On those rare occasions when she was allowed in the company of others she was ignored; an island of silence surrounded her. Talk was prohibited and even smiles were forbidden, punishment being meted out for laughter or lightheartedness as easily as for more severe infractions.

Jeanne had learned strength, however, just when she was expected to be weak. She'd begun to understand that the good sisters of Sacre Coeur were wrong. She was not that great a sinner-if so, she would have taken her own life and ended her misery. But hope, strained and tested all these years, still existed somewhere in her mind and heart.

Somehow, she would get through today and then tomorrow, and a hundred days after that, and however many God decreed she would live.

The bird flew away in a flurry of feathers. Her gaze followed him, traveling to the rooftops that dotted the skyline. Edinburgh was a prosperous city, one in which there always seemed to be some building occurring. Whole sections of the city were undergoing a transformation.

Just as she had.