She turned to Clayton, intending to leave him and try to divert her uncle. "Will you excuse me, I-" She turned her head as a harried-looking footman approached and said that they were running low on champagne. He was immediately followed by another servant requesting instructions about supper. After handling both minor calamities, Whitney turned apologetically to Clayton and saw him frowning as he looked about the room. "Where is your aunt this evening? Why isn't she helping you attend to these details?"

"She's feeling a trifle indisposed," Whitney explained lamely, watching his piercing gaze rivet on Anne, who was clutching a wine goblet and staring trancelike out a window.

"Please excuse me," Whitney said, tipping her head toward Uncle Pinkerton. "I have to rescue those people from my Uncle Hubert. He will bore everyone to distraction talking about prehistoric rock formations, and they already look antagonized enough to do him an injury."

"Introduce me to your uncle," Clayton said. She looked so astonished that he added, "I will divert him so that you can took after the rest of your guests."

Whitney gratefully brought him over and performed the introductions, then watched in fascinated admiration as Clay-ton bowed to the elderly man and said smoothly, "I was just now telling Miss Stone how much I would enjoy discussing our mutual interest in the rock formations of the Mesozoic period." Positively emanating enthusiasm, Clayton turned to Whitney and said, "Will you excuse us, Miss Stone? Your uncle and I have much to discuss."

He carried off his flagrant deception with such skill that Whitney could hardly tear her eyes from him as he guided Uncle Hubert off to a deserted corner and appeared to become instantly absorbed in whatever her uncle was saying to him.

The long day of undiluted tension and anxiety as Whitney waited for her father to return had taken its toll. By half past ten, as she gently urged the stragglers into the dining room, Whitney could think of nothing as inviting as finding a quiet comer where she could relax. The guests were making their way along the banquet table, filling their plates from the sumptuous array of foods, when Elizabeth Ashton's father's sudden exclamation halted the line and stopped conversations in mid-sentence. "You say the Duke of Claymore is missing?" he demanded of a visiting relative from London. "You mean Westmoreland?" He clarified as if unable to believe he'd heard right.

"Yes, I thought everyone knew," the relative replied, raising his voice for the benefit of the people who had turned to stare at him. "It was in the papers yesterday, and London is buzzing with speculation over where he is."

The level of conversation in the room soared to a fever pitch. Whitney's neighbors picked up their plates and crowded together at tables where better informed guests from out of town could impart their news. After supper, it was impossible to thread one's way through the people who were clustered between the tables, speculating over the Duke of Claymore's disappearance. Whitney was standing with a large

group which included her aunt, Lady Eubank, and Clayton Westland, while Paul was hopelessly trapped across the room, wedged between Elizabeth Ashton and Peter Redfern, unable to make his way to her.

"Claymore's in France this time of year, if you want my guess," someone said.

"Oh? Do you think so?" Lady Anne asked, her face flushed with a vivacious interest that Whitney attributed to too much wine. At the first mention of the Duke of Claymore, her aunt's distraction and lethargy had vanished. But while her aunt was obviously enjoying the gossip and speculation about the man, the subject made Whitney's father fidgety and nervous, and he was periodically slaking an uncharacteristic thirst for whiskey.

Personally, Whitney found the subject excessively boring and she stifled a yawn.

"Tired, little one?" Clayton whispered beside her.

"Yes," Whitney admitted as Clayton drew her hand through the crook of his arm, covering it with his own strong fingers as if he were trying to infuse some of his stamina into her. He shouldn't call her "little one," she thought, and he shouldn't be holding her hand in such a familiar way, but she was too grateful for his assistance tonight to cavil over such trifles.

"I heard that his mistress took her own life in Paris last month," Margaret Merryton said, turning to address her stunned audience. "Apparently Claymore cast her aside, and she went all to pieces. She cancelled her European tour, went into seclusion, and-"

'-And," Amelia Eubank put in frigidly, "she is now spending a fortune renovating a country estate she just purchased. Do you expect us to believe she's a ghost, you henwitl"

Rushing furiously under the assault of Lady Eubank's sharp tongue, Margaret wedged herself around and looked appealingly to Clayton. "Mr. Westland has lately been in Paris and London. Surely you've heard the news of her suicide?"

"No," Clayton replied curtly. "I've heard nothing of the kind."

Margaret's papa's thoughts had taken another twist. Stroking his goatee, he said thoughtfully, "So St. Allermain's bought a country estate and is spending a fortune renovating it, is she?" Laughter rumbled in his belly as he turned a slow, knowing leer on the gentlemen. "It sounds to me as if Claymore has pensioned her off-with a bit extra for good behavior!"

Beneath her fingertips, Whitney felt the muscles in Clayton's forearm harden. Tipping her head to see his face, she found him looking at Mr. Merryton and the others with an expression of such excruciating distaste and cold boredom that she almost flinched. Unexpectedly, his gaze slid to her and his expression softened into a faint smile.

Inwardly, however, Clayton was not smiling. He was furious at his secretary for failing to put a stop to the speculation over his whereabouts by giving out the story that he was somewhere! He was mentally dictating a sharp note of reprimand to the man when he realized, to his infinite disgust, that the guests were now wagering on the identity of his next mistress.

"I'll wager Ј5 on the Countess Dorothea," Mr. Ashton put in. "Do I have a taker?"

"Indeed you do, sir," Mr. Merryton declared with a sty laugh. "The countess is old news! She's been dangling after Claymore these past five years, even followed him to France with the poor old earl still on his deathbed. And what happened? I'll tell you what: Claymore cut her dead in front of half of Paris. Lady Vanessa Standfield will be his next choice, but the duke will marry her. She's been waiting patiently for him since her come-out. My Ј5 says his grace's attention will next turn to Lady Standfield and that he'll marry the young woman. Can I interest anyone in that sporting wager?"

The entire conversation was excessively improper in the presence of ladies and, with great relief, Whitney saw that her aunt was going to intervene at last. "Mr. Merryton," Aunt

Anne said, waiting until she had his full attention. "Would you care to make it Ј10?"

A shocked silence followed her aunt's unladylike proposition, and Whitney was grateful when Clayton's choked laugh made it seem as if it was all in good fun. Aunt Anne then turned to Clayton. "And you, Mr. Westland?" she asked brightly. "Would you care to wager on Lady Standfield being the future Duchess of Claymore?"

Clayton's lips twitched with amusement. "Certainly not. I have it from an unimpeachable source that Clayton Westmoreland has decided to wed an enchanting brunette he met in Paris."

Whitney caught the sly, piercing look that Lady Eubank passed over Clayton, then forgot about it when someone else said, "There's a remarkable similarity in your names, Mr. Westland. Are you by chance related to the duke in some way?"

"We're closer than brothers," Clayton answered promptly, with an arch grin to make it seem an outrageous jest. From there, the conversation drifted to inaccurate descriptions of the duke's lavish estates, to the horses in his famous stables, and inevitably returned to more tales of his mistresses and conquests.