"You are no blood relation to him," Nicholas said, voice hard, dangerous.

An eyebrow shot up, but she said nothing, merely eyed him. Did she want to shoot him, or kiss him? She wasn't sure what to make of him. Was this an example of a man's possessiveness?

Rein in, rein in. Nicholas said, "I mean to say I heard Ry-der Sherbrooke call you his ward."

"That too. It's all rather complicated and really none of your business, my lord."

"No, I suppose not. At least not yet."

Now, what do you mean by that? she wondered. You thrive m mysteries and secrets, don't you?

She ducked past a small boy running full speed toward a pasty vendor. "I am very glad my aunt and uncle didn't real-ize the beautiful weather would unleash the population of London into the park. This has turned into quite an affair. Oh, look, there are boys performing acrobatics. Let's go watch."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the edge of a cir-cle to watch the three boys. "Oh, one of them is really a little girl. Would you look at how she leaps onto that boy's shoulders-so smooth and graceful, and she stands so tall on lis shoulders-it looks easy, doesn't it?"

After he dutifully tossed several pennies into a large top hat, Nicholas bought her lemonade that tasted remarkably our, and a hot half pie. They walked away from the crowd to the far side of Hyde Park and sat on a small stone bench in front of a narrow, still pond.

"No ducks," Rosalind said.

"They're probably alarmed by all the bustle, hiding under hose bushes over there."

"You're probably right. 'But I'll tell you, these ducks are great performers. They quack and leap about, knowing they'll get bread and biscuits. Hmm, I hope they're not in any of the vendors' pies."

"I wager they're also fast."

Rosalind bit into her beef pie, chewed, took another quick bite. "Here, have a bite. A small bite."

She fed him a bit of her pie. Nicholas looked at her while he chewed. Her hair was mussed, her color high; she was smiling and looked utterly pleased with herself and her world. Suddenly four young men, all dressed in red, came bursting through the trees to form a half circle around them. Nicholas was an instant away from having his derringer in his hand when they began to sing. Sing! And in lovely harmony. He settled back to listen. He realized soon enough they were singing to Rosalind. They knew her and she them. Now, this was interesting. He didn't like it, but-when they finished a lilting Scottish ballad about a bonny girl who loved a one-armed highwayman called Rabbie McPherson, Rosalind clapped and said, "That was lovely, gentlemen, do give Lord Mountjoy another."

Another song filled the sweet air, this one sounding like a tragic song from an Italian opera. So she knew them, did she? He didn't know if that was odd or not. It probably was.

When they had finished, each of them bowed low, and a short, plump young man with lovely blue eyes said, "Rosalind, we have sung for you. We have sung for your compan ion. It is your turn now. Come, we will blend our voices with yours."

Her turn?

She laughed, handed Nicholas the rest of her beef pie- telling him to hold it carefully and not eat it-then went to stand with them. She cleared her throat, looked straight at him, and began to sing. The men's voices came in under hers, harmonizing beautifully, never overpowering.

See the flight of the moon Through the dark stretch of night Bathing the earth in its radiant light. All those in love who look to the sky Fear not the death of the night's final sigh.

When she sang the final haunting word, she dropped her head a moment, then raised her eyes to his face. It was the voice that made you weep deep inside where you didn't even know tears resided. It wasn't the child's voice, but it was still the same voice. The men applauded her even as he sat there stunned, mute, unable to move. Even though he'd known, still he trembled at the knowledge of what she was. And what he was to her.

She asked after a moment, "Ah, did you like it?" He nodded, still without words.

He watched the young men move away and he still sat there on the bench, the rest of the beef pie clutched in his hand. He said slowly, looking up at her, "You spoke of Grayson's talent. Your voice, it is something one can scarce imagine. It sinks deep." He simply hadn't realized how deep.

"What a lovely thing to say." Rosalind laughed, suddenly uncertain. "But I am nothing compared to Grayson."

"You are different from Grayson, more powerful."

"Oh, well-" She laughed as she reached into her small reticule and scooped out some pennies. He watched her race after the young men. He heard laughter, then the first line of another familiar song, this one faintly Germanic.

When she came skipping back to him, he handed her the rest of her beef pie.

She ate it. "Gerard thanks you for the money."

"They were your pennies."

She shrugged. "Yes, but it is always the gentleman who must pay. It's some sort of ritual, so I suppose you must pay me back."

"You are temporarily short of funds?"

"Actually, those four pennies were the last of my fortune until my allowance next Wednesday. It is difficult, but I must give up a pound of my allowance for the collection plate." She sighed. "It is the right thing, of course, but when one is in London and visits the Pantheon-" She sighed, looking at him beneath her lashes.

He said nothing, his eyes still brooding, resting on the bushes behind her.

"What is wrong, my lord? You look fair to gut-shot. Are you temporarily penniless as well?"

That brought him back. This smiling girl was not a haunting vision of another time with a siren's voice to bring a man to his death-no, at least in this moment, she was a young lady who'd spent all her allowance. "Fair to gut-shot? I don't believe I have ever before heard a young lady say that."

"On the other hand you have been gone from England for many years. What do young ladies in Macau say?"

"The young ladies in Macau are mostly Portuguese, and there isn't an equivalent in Portuguese for 'gut-shot.' But in Patua-that is a local language developed by the Portuguese settlers who came in the sixteenth century-" He paused, leaned down, picked up a skinny branch, and tossed it. Who cared about a language spoken by very few people in a settlement on the other side of the world?

"Patua-what a lovely name. Do you speak the language?"

"One must."

"Say something in Patua to me." "Well, there is a Patua poem a friend of mine turned into a song I've always believed very pretty-"

Nhonha na jinela Co fula mogarim Sua mae tancarera Seu pai canarim.

He shook his head at her. "No, I will not attempt to sing it. You would run away, your hands clapped over your ears."

"Not I. I have great fortitude. Now, I don't have the least idea what you said, but the sounds are nice, like soft music."

"I'll translate it for you:

"Imagine, you left England when you were only a boy and you went to this place where there are Chinese fisher-women and Portugese Indians-a place so very different from England. Were you treated well there-a foreigner?"

No one had ever asked him that. Slowly, he nodded. "I was fortunate enough to do a good deed for a rich Portuguese merchant in Lisbon. He gave me a flattering introduction to the governor of Macau, who happened to be his brother-in-law. I was treated well because of him, even though I was English."