"I'm sorry. You're right, I should have been more careful. I should have checked to be sure the boy I thought was stealing a valuable horse wasn't the mistress of the house dressed up like a man."

Irritation bubbled through her. It occurred to her the man was amazingly well-spoken for a groom and she wondered vaguely where he might have come from. Wherever it was, he could return, for all she cared. Let him find another job somewhere far distant from Parklands.

"This discussion is over, Mr. Tanner. You may pick up your things when you get back to the barn." Lee turned to reach for Coeur's reins, intending to swing up on his back and ride away. She didn't need a surly head groom. Even if he was one of the best horse handlers she had ever seen, she would manage somehow without him.

Tanner caught her wrist. His hand felt big and warm and a tingle of awareness went through her. "I need this job, Miss Durant. I promise I won't interfere with your riding again."

Lee sighed. She didn't like the man, but he was good at his job. And with Jacob gone, she really did need him. "All right, I suppose that will have to do."

Caleb Tanner smiled and something warm slid into her stomach.

"Thank you for letting me stay," he said. Reaching toward the gray, he caught Coeur's reins and handed them over. "You're a very good rider, by the way. You and the horse performed extremely well together."

"Thank you." She found herself smiling at the compliment and realized it wasn't the usual pasted-on sort but actually sincere. "I enjoyed the chase... all but the end."

His mouth twitched. His lips had a sensuous curve she had noticed the first time she saw him.

"If that is the case," he said, "perhaps I could join you some morning. Maybe you could give me some pointers, help me improve my seat."

As if he needed any help. They both knew he was every bit as competent a rider as she, maybe better.

"Perhaps I could," she said loftily, just to annoy him. Reaching out to catch the reins, she waited while Tanner cupped his hands, then placed her knee in his locked palms and allowed him to lift her up onto the horse. "Good day, Mr. Tanner."

"Good day, Miss Durant."

And then she reined away, she and Coeur running like fire back toward the stable, wishing she didn't have to go, that she could stay outside in the sun and the fresh spring air.

That she didn't have to return to the house and once more become Vermillion.

Caleb watched the girl ride away. He still couldn't believe the fresh-faced young woman he had pulled off the gray was the infamous courtesan Vermillion. Without her face paint, she didn't look nearly as sophisticated as she had through the windows of the house last night, nor nearly as stunningly beautiful. Without the kohl beneath her eyes, they weren't the same too-bold blue-green, nor half as seductive as they had seemed.

She looked young and fresh and innocent. She looked sweet and lovely-and infinitely appealing. If he didn't know who she was, if he didn't suspect she might be involved in selling information to the French, he would have found himself completely enthralled.

As it was, as he rode at a distance behind her back to the stable, he found himself wondering about her, wondering at the life she had chosen, at the men she invited into her bed.

By the time he arrived at the stable, he expected to find her gone. Instead, she was there in the stall with the gray, brushing the horse's dappled coat to a brilliant sheen and currying its mane.

Caleb stepped up behind her, took the currycomb from her hand. She smelled of soap and horses, but he caught the faint whiff of rosewater. She had replaited her hair, he noticed, but the image remained of the way it looked tumbled free, in a riot of fiery curls around her shoulders.

"I'll take care of the horse," he said. "That's what I get paid for."

"Thank you, but I enjoy it." She retrieved the comb from his hand and started pulling it through the animal's mane. Standing behind her, he could feel the warmth of her body and his loins began to fill. He was hard by the time he stepped away, grateful when Arlie Spooner's head appeared over the top of the stall.

"Beg pardon, Miss Lee. Your aunt's askin' after ye, wantin' ta know when ye'll be comin' back ta the house."

Vermillion made a sound that might have been a sigh of regret. "Tell her I'll only be a few more minutes."

"Aye, Miss." Arlie tottered away in his slow, shuffling gait, his back hunched over, making him a full foot shorter than Caleb.

"Why does he call you that?" Caleb asked. "Why does he call you Lee?"

The currycomb paused. "Lee is my middle name. It's the name I prefer. It's what my friends call me."

"And Arlie Spooner is your friend?"

She looked up at him from the shadows of the barn and even without the kohl her eyes were the color of aquamarines. "Of course. Arlie has worked at Parklands since I was a little girl. He loves horses as much as I do. I consider him a very dear friend."

Caleb frowned. She was Vermillion, a seductress, a power-hungry female who took countless lovers and tossed them away like tattered clothes. She wasn't supposed to love horses and claim servants as her friends.

"Did I say something to displease you?"

Caleb shook his head. "No, not at all." His fingers brushed hers as he took the currycomb from her hand, and he tried not to notice how soft her skin felt. "You'd better go. Your aunt will be looking for you."

She tossed him a look. "Thank you for reminding me. I suppose for the short duration that you will be employed here, I shall have to get used to taking orders."

Caleb glanced away. "Sorry." He said nothing more but inwardly he cursed. He was too damned used to taking charge, too used to being in command. If he wasn't careful, Vermillion was going to suspect he was more than just a servant.

Vermillion. But the young woman he had seen this morning bore little resemblance to the image conjured by the name. As he finished grooming the gray and started on the tall bay gelding, Caleb found himself wondering about the pretty young woman who called herself Lee.

3.

The horse races at Epsom Downs were attended by patrons from every level of society. From the lowliest ragpicker who stood watching from behind the rail to the royal party in their private boxes above the starting line.

The Durant women, longtime racing aficionados and owners of some of the finest racing stock in the country, sat with their own entourage, guests for the occasion who had traveled behind them in a string of expensive black carriages along the route to the track.

Activity swirled around them: apple sellers cooking on their tiny coal stoves, ale men selling beer at a penny a pot; an organ-grinder making music while one of those silly little monkeys jumped up and down on his shoulder. There were pickpockets and blacklegs, too, lying in wait for the unwary. Lee marveled at all of it, enjoying the cacophony of sights and sounds.

Anxiously awaiting the most important event of the day-the sweepstakes race in which Noir would be running-she sat next to Colonel Wingate, one of the three men most seriously vying for her affections.

A position soon to be filled.

At her aunt's insistence, Vermillion had agreed to announce her choice of lover on her upcoming nineteenth birthday. It was time she made a place for herself in the world, her aunt believed, past time, in fact.

On that particular point, Vermillion agreed. Aunt Gabby had her own life to live. She couldn't be expected to shelter her niece beneath her protective wing forever. For more than a year, Gabriella had scrupulously worked toward the goal of setting her young charge free. Vermillion would choose her first lover and assume her place as the toast of the demimonde.

And Colonel Wingate, Viscount Nash, and Lord Andrew Mondale each believed he was the man she would choose.

Vermillion sighed as she listened to the merry tune of the organ-grinder. She appreciated her suitors' confidence, but even she was not yet certain. Wingate was an attractive, imposing man somewhere near Lord Nash's age, perhaps close to forty, a military officer who had traveled extensively and was worth a goodly sum. He was intelligent and solicitous. He was also gone a great deal, which infinitely suited Vermillion.

Nash she considered a friend. He was in his late thirties, attractive in a genteel sort of way, and always interesting to talk to. The viscount was involved in politics and currently served as an advisor to the Lord Chancellor of England.

She liked Lord Nash. She just wasn't sure she wished to risk destroying the friendship she felt for him by turning it into a more intimate sort of relationship.

And then there was Mondale. Andrew was the youngest of the trio, perhaps seven and twenty, the best-looking of the three, the man she found the most attractive. Lord Andrew constantly professed his grand amour and he had kissed her more than once. They weren't the sort of kisses she had dreamed of, mashing her lips against her teeth and holding her a little too tightly, certainly not the sort her aunt described that made her knees feel weak, but her heart had certainly beat faster and her palms had grown a little damp.

Aunt Gabby's timely arrival in the garden had made certain the kisses were brief. There was no doubt what Mondale would do if he were given the least encouragement, but Vermillion wasn't yet ready to make that sort of commitment. Still, he was probably the man she should choose, being tall, blond, and handsome, and possessed of a passionate nature she imagined would make a good first lover.

He was also a complete and utter rogue where women were concerned, and though he read poetry to her and vowed to be faithful for the duration of their arrangement, she didn't believe for a moment that he would be.

But then, in the world of the demimonde, fidelity wasn't considered important.

"Are you comfortable?" Seated beside her in the grandstand, Lord Andrew cast a look at his competition. "The view might be better a bit farther to the right. I'm sure Colonel Wingate would be happy to give up his seat so that you might better view the race."

"Of course," the colonel said, drilling Mondale with a glare. "I should be happy to move, dearest, if that is your pleasure." Wingate's hair was black and he wore it slicked back and neatly trimmed. His eyes were light green and he had very handsome side-whiskers and a small mustache. "Or perhaps Lord Andrew's seat would better suit."

Used to the men's squabbling attentions, Vermillion simply smiled. "Thank you both for your concern, but I can see perfectly well where I am." She gazed off toward the track, then over to the stables where Noir and other competing horses were being readied for the race. She tried not to wish she were there with them instead of here with her aunt and her friends. "Besides, from here I can watch them leading the horses onto the racecourse."

Aunt Gabriella shifted on her seat in front of Lee. "Does anyone have the time?" she asked. Gowned in lavender silk with a matching silk bonnet, she sat next to Lord Claymont on her right and the colonel's aide, a young Lieutenant named Oxley on her left, next to the Countess, Lady Rotham.

" 'Tis nearly post time," the young lieutenant said, not bothering to hide his excitement.

Aunt Gabby smiled at Vermillion. "You're looking far too serious, darling. You mustn't worry. Noir is going to win."

"Of course he is," Lord Andrew said firmly. "As a matter of fact, I have placed a goodly wager to that end."

"As have I," the colonel chimed in.

"Oh, dear, that reminds me. I meant to send one of the footmen to the betting shop yesterday to place my wager-I can't imagine how I could have forgot." Seizing on the chance for a moment's escape, Vermillion surged to her feet. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I promise I shan't be gone more than a moment."

"Allow me to escort you," Lord Andrew said, snapping to attention beside her. "It would be highly unseemly for a lady to place such a bet on her own."

"Mondale is right," the colonel grudgingly agreed. "You must allow one of us to escort you." His look said he clearly preferred that she chose him while next to her, Lord Nash merely smiled, his manner, as always, gracious in the extreme.

Perhaps she should reconsider. Mondale might be handsome, but Nash would be gentle and constant.

"Hurry back, luvie. You don't want to miss the start." This from Lisette Moreau, a well-known courtesan and close friend of her aunt's, who sat next to Sir Peter Peasley, another of Gabriella's inner circle of acquaintances.

"The charming Mrs. Moreau is quite correct." Lord Andrew offered Lee his arm. "We had best be off." Accepting defeat, she placed a gloved hand on the sleeve of his saffron kerseymere tailcoat and they started making their way out of the stands.

"Please, pet, allow me to place the wager in your name."

Some of Vermillion's excitement seeped away. Those are the things a man is supposed to do for a woman, her aunt would have said. Charm her, lavish her with money and jewels. Vermillion figured she had enough money and jewelry already and she enjoyed the betting far more when the money at risk was her own.

Knowing it would do no good to argue, she simply smiled. "The betting post is just over there." She pointed in that direction and let him lead her toward their destination.

The day was warm and sunny, the sky an azure blue with just a few wispy clouds floating above the racecourse. As Mondale guided her across the grass to place her wager, Vermillion's gaze strayed toward the horse barns. The first of the Thoroughbreds entered in the sweepstakes were being led out of their stalls and into the sunlight. Her gaze went in search of Noir and she spotted his gleaming black coat emerging through the wide double doors, prancing along beside his trainer.

The horse shied once, but Tanner spoke to him softly and Noir settled back down. Lee watched Tanner control the powerful horse with a skill she had rarely seen, saw the way his big hands slid so gently along the stallion's neck, and her stomach fluttered oddly. Vermillion fixed her eyes on Noir and stood rigidly next to Mondale as trainer and stallion approached.

For an instant, Tanner's dark gaze sliced to Lord Andrew before returning to her, and an expression of disdain appeared on the hard, handsome planes of his face.

"He is really quite something," Mondale said. "Prime horseflesh and no doubt." He reached out to pet the horse's nose. Noir snorted, tossed his beautiful head, and tried to back away.

"Easy, boy," Tanner said in a voice as soft and smooth as honey left out in the sun. He flicked a glance at Lord Andrew. "The color of your coat hurts his eyes. Maybe you'd better not get too close."

Though Mondale's features tightened, Vermillion fought down a laugh. She tried to be offended in Andrew's behalf, but the saffron yellow coat was atrocious. The amazing thing was that Tanner had the audacity to point it out.

"As Lord Andrew was, until now, unaware of Noir's taste in men's fashion," she said, "I'm sure the color of his tailcoat can be overlooked just this once."

The corner of Tanner's mouth edged up.

Andrew fixed the trainer with a warning glare, then returned his attention to her. "Your stallion looks in fine form, pet. I daresay, he's a rare galloper. I think he has a very good chance of winning."

"Chance has little to do with it," Tanner put in from a few feet away. "Noir has by far the best breeding. He's the fastest of the lot and the best prepared."

Andrew's face began to turn red. He wasn't used to receiving setdowns from the servants. Vermillion cast Tanner a look that told him he had better remember his place and stepped into the breach.

"He is definitely facing a difficult field of competitors," she said to Lord Andrew, "but Noir loves to race and he's going to win. Which is why we must hurry, my lord, and get our bets in place before the race begins."

Mondale cast a last disdainful glance at Tanner. "Exactly so." He extended his arm. "Come, my beauty."

Lee felt Tanner's eyes on her the moment she took Andrew's arm. She didn't miss the disapproval on his face as they walked away. She tried to smile, but it wasn't that easy to do.

Noir won the race, beating the next two horses, both top competitors in the field, by more than three lengths. Caleb kept his job and even received a faintly grudging compliment from the stallion's pretty owner, who hadn't spoken to him since.

By day he continued his work with the horses. As the youngest son of the Earl of Selhurst, he had been raised at the family estate in York. At Selhurst Manor, his father owned and bred some of the finest racing stock in England. Love of horses and racing were the two things he and his father had in common.

Horses had led him to a commission in the cavalry and a decision to make the service his career. Now, in a strange, unexpected way, he was enjoying his simple day's work in the stable, enjoying the thrill of seeing an animal he had worked with pit itself against a field of the very best livestock-and win.

It was the nights that left him tense and edgy, frustrated with the lack of progress he was making in his assignment.

On top of that, watching Vermillion with her endless string of wilting admirers left a bad taste in his mouth. At Epsom, she had spent most of her time with Mondale. Having lived only briefly in London and rarely moving about in Society, Caleb had never met the man, but gossip about him was rampant. Mondale was one of the most notorious rakes in London.

Caleb couldn't imagine what Vermillion saw in the simpering fop. He was a swaggering boor, as far as Caleb was concerned, and just thinking about the two of them together made a knot form in his stomach. He tried not to think of the man's pale hands on Vermillion's luscious breasts, tried not to imagine him lying next to her in bed. Determinedly he shoved the unwelcome image away and forced himself to concentrate on the job he had come there to do.

It was almost midnight. Darkness had settled over the fields and meadows around the house and quiet enveloped the landscape. Caleb moved away from the window at the rear of the mansion. With a dense growth of leafy foliage surrounding the mullioned panes, it was a safe place to view the drawing room and the stairwell leading to the second floor. The house was quiet tonight-an unusual occurrence-the Durant women retired upstairs to their respective bedchambers.

Earlier, he had seen Lord Claymont arrive, an imposing man in his late forties, and watched him make his way to the rear of the mansion to a private entrance heavily overgrown with ivy. There was a staircase just inside the door, Caleb saw, presumably to the room occupied by his mistress, Gabriella Durant.

Word was, for the past four years, Gabriella had forsaken her other lovers in favor of a long-term liaison with Claymont. From Caleb's observations thus far, the gossip appeared to be true. The woman was getting older, her looks very subtly beginning to fade. Perhaps she felt it was time to fix her interest on an individual. Whatever the reason, Gabriella was in bed with her lover and Vermillion had gone upstairs as well, and as she had done each night since his arrival, she had retired alone.

Caleb still wasn't certain what that meant. During the briefing he had received on his arrival in London, Colonel Cox had relayed a rumor that Vermillion meant to end her string of affairs. On the occasion of her birthday, she had vowed to choose a protector from one of her current lovers. Perhaps she had decided to remain celibate until then.

Whatever the reason, there was little he could discover tonight. Caleb turned away from the house and made his way across the courtyard to the stable, determined to get some long-overdue sleep. Expecting the barn to be dark, he slowed when he noticed the glow of a lantern burning in one of the stalls and heard the soft sound of straw being shuffled about.

Entering quietly, Caleb approached the stall. It was the empty one, he saw, the one the fat yellow cat had commandeered for herself. The animal was stretched out on a bed of fresh hay, her insides heaving in and out as if she had just finished a race. Five tiny yellow kittens lay beside her, and stroking the cat's striped fur, Vermillion bent over, giving Caleb a glimpse of her thick red braid. Dressed in a simple brown skirt and white blouse, she looked more like a servant than an occupant of the house.

He must have made some sound. Her head jerked up and her gaze turned toward him. He saw that her face was free of paint. Her expression was bleak, her aqua eyes luminous with tears. This woman was Lee, not Vermillion, and her obvious distress bothered him in a way he hadn't expected.

"What's wrong?" His stride lengthened as he walked toward her. "What's happened?"

She swallowed, shook her head. "It's Muffin. I came out to check on her and found her in labor. It must have been going on for hours. She's had five kittens so far, but there's still one more. It think it may be breached or something. She can't push it out. I think she's dying."