Tamsyn scratched her head. Lucy was a year younger than Tamsyn, and it didn't seem that she knew anything at all about anything very much. But that, of course, was only to be expected. She was a virtuous, sheltered English lady. Heaven forbid she should come face-to-face with some of life's grittier realities. “I daresay Spanish men are different,” she said neutrally. “I'll see you downstairs.”

“Oh, no, I must come and see your wardrobe,” Lucy said, dropping the towel and shrugging into a wrapper. “I do so love shopping, don't you? Perhaps Julian will let us borrow the landaulet and we could go into Bodmin, or maybe even down to Truro. We could buy matching outfits.” Linking her arm through Tamsyn's, she ushered her out of the room. “Which bedroom do you have?”

“The corner room in the east tower.”

“Oh, yes, that's such a lovely room.” Chattering gaily, Lucy pranced down the corridor, arm firmly linked in Tamsyn's.

Julian, appearing at the head of the stairs, caught sight of the two disappearing into Tamsyn's apartments, the sound of Lucy's bright prattle hanging in the air.

Tamsyn wouldn't be fool enough to defy him, he reflected, entering his own apartments. They hadn't made up their quarrel, but he couldn't believe she would ruin her own plans just to get back at him.

She was a damnable, manipulative, seductive hellion.

But she was neither a fool nor vindictive. Untying his cravat, he strolled to the window, looking out across the lawns to the sea. Why did he find her so impossible to resist? He wanted to go back to Spain, go back to his men and his friends, fighting and dying in the broiling summer heat. He wanted to forget all about this bloody minded brigand… didn't he?

He tossed the cravat to the floor and shrugged out of his coat. He'd spent the afternoon riding around the estate, visiting his tenants, asking questions of the older ones, the men and women who'd been on Tregarthan land for the last fifty years or so. He'd been asking if anyone remembered the disappearance of a young girl from one of the families of the landed gentry. No one had anything to offer. There'd been a Penhallan daughter who had died in Scotland. An elaborate funeral, the family in mourning for a year. Everyone remembered that. But no disappearances on trips to Spain.

He stepped out of his britches and went to the washstand, splashing cold water on his face. Perhaps Tamsyn was the daughter of some minor landowner from farther south, beyond Truro, toward Penzance.

He buried his face in a towel, scrubbing briskly. He had until October to find them. And if they couldn't be found, then that was Tamsyn's problem. He'd have fulfilled his end of the bargain.

Tamsyn, having finally persuaded Lucy to return to her own apartments, thoughtfully flicked through her own selection of gowns, brushing her hair while Josefa fussed around her.

Her mind was racing as she realized just how Lucy's arrival could be turned to good account. The idea for a party at Tregarthan was ideal for her purposes. It was essential that Tamsyn be accepted in society when she exposed Cedric Penhallan. It was essential that she be seen to be respectable, to be under the protection of a powerful family; otherwise, no one would give credence to her story. But people would listen in horror to the friend and confidante of Lady Fortescue, the protegee of the Duke of Wellington, the unofficial ward of Lord St. Simon.

And once she'd told her story, it would be over.

She'd have to flee the colonel's wrath with all dispatch, abandon this burgeoning love, and return to her old life that now offered only a barren landscape.

“Por Dios!” she muttered, absently walking away from Josefa's fingers busily hooking her gown.

“Ay… ay… ay!” Josefa cried, following her.

“Stand still, nina.”

Tamsyn stood still, staring down at the carpet. If only there was a way she could do what she had come there to do and keep the colonel in ignorance. If she could do that, then just possibly she might be able to change his view of her. Show him another side to the unscrupulous adventuress that he believed her to be. It didn't seem possible that she could feel for him the way she did without there being some reciprocation. Perhaps he just needed to look into his heart, and then all his preconceived prejudices would vanish.

But first they had to make up their quarrel. She examined her reflection in the mirror, putting her head to one side, trying to see herself as the colonel would see her. She saw an insignificant figure in a green muslin gown. He'd teased her about her height often enough, but usually only when he was annoyed. Perhaps she should wear some of the jewels. Maybe the emeralds would give her more stature. Then she shook her head. She was as she was, and she'd never given it a second thought before. But later tonight, when they were at peace with each other again, she would ask Julian exactly what he did see when he looked at her.

Sir Gareth was the only occupant of the drawing room when she entered. He turned from the sideboard where he was pouring himself sherry. “Ah. Good evening Miss…uh, Tamsyn.” He smiled. We’re ahead of the others. But Lucy always takes hours over her toilette.” His eyes ran over her, automatically appraising. “May I offer you a glass of sherry, or Madeira, perhaps.”

“Sherry, please.” Tamsyn was aware of the appraisal.

She'd come across Gareth Fortescue's type before. Lord Pendragon had been a case in point. Such men habitually examined all women who might be considered even vaguely eligible to receive male attentions. It was second nature.

She took the glass he offered. “I understand from the colonel that your family home is in Sussex. I've never been there. Is it as pretty as Cornwall?”

“Softer,” he said. “We have a quieter sea and the South Downs instead of the blasted moors. Bodmin, Exmoor… and of course Dartmoor; that's in Devon, but it's close enough.”

“We crossed Bodmin Moor on our way here. It was certainly a bleak, unfriendly spot.” She sat down, returning his scrutiny. He had a large, sensuous face with fleshy lips topped by a bushy curled mustache, gray eyes under drooping lids, curly dark hair. Attractive in his way… and he knew it.

The frankness· of her gaze startled Gareth. He was accustomed to covert assessments of his charms; women didn't in general make their interest quite so blatant. He stroked his mustache in a habitual gesture and smiled, his eyes narrowing.

Tamsyn supposed he couldn't help this performance.

Kindly, she changed the subject. “You're something of a judge of horseflesh, I gather.”

“I pride myself on being so,” he said, taking a seat opposite her, his inviting lethargy banished by enthusiasm for the topic. “But I've never seen an animal like that beast of yours. You must be a capital rider.”

“The colonel has his reservations on that subject,” she said demurely, taking another sip of sherry.

“On what subject?” Julian inquired from the doorway.

Tamsyn looked up quickly, seeing him now with the eyes of acknowledged love. He was in morning dress, gleaming tasselled Hessians, coat of gray superfine, plain waistcoat, and cream pantaloons, his cravat simply tied. She was so accustomed to seeing him in uniform that it always took her a minute to adjust to his civilian dress. She glanced at Gareth, also informally dressed, but his cravat fell in elaborate folds, and he wore several gold and diamond fobs in his striped waistcoat. His coat didn't sit as well on his shoulders, Tamsyn thought critically, suspecting pads. And his thighs in the skin-tight pantaloons were a mite pudgy.

“My horsemanship, milord colonel,” she replied. “I was about to explain to Sir Gareth that I was permitted to ride Cesar only around the grounds.”