Carlton, on his part, was not unmoved by her pallor and the coldness of the hand he held. Knowing Bagshot by reputation, he had some comprehension of her feelings. But his sympathy was diluted by his masculine impatience with female vapors and by other antagonistic sentiments of which Marianne knew nothing. He also realized that the quickest way of relieving the girl's fears was to show her what awaited her. In silence, therefore, he led her to the door.

It appeared that they were expected. Before Carlton could ring, the door was opened by a butler of impressive proportions and dignified visage. Carlton delivered his hat into the possession of this personage.

"Her Grace…?"

"Awaits you in the small blue parlor," replied the butler.

A footman in powdered wig and green satin knee breeches opened a door to the right. The entrance hallway, floored in a pattern of green malachite and yellow marble, was so large it seemed to take forever to cross it. Carlton took Marianne's arm, more in the manner of a warder leading a prisoner than that of a gentleman escorting a lady. He propelled her through the door; it closed smoothly behind them.

Marianne found herself in a room even larger than the hall; dazedly, she wondered what the size of the large blue parlor might be. The walls were hung with damask. Chandeliers like frozen waterfalls tinkled in the breeze of the closing door. All the furnishings, from the curved and gilded loveseat upholstered in blue velvet to the innumerable porcelain and crystal ornaments scattered about, were of the lightest and most delicate nature. The pale colors and vast, shimmering expanse of waxed flooring created an impression of cold, though fires blazed at either end of the room.

This vast, chilly expanse was occupied by three living creatures. One was as out of place as a bear in a boudoir; red-faced, corpulent, his wiry gray hair standing up on end, he stroked his bushy mustache with one finger and glared at Marianne through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that had come to rest on the bulbous tip of his nose. The other occupants suited the decor. One was a dog, or so Marianne deduced, though only a blue bow distinguished the front end from the back end of the mop of long white hair.

The lady who held the dog was a larger, living version of the Meissen shepherdess that stood on the mantel beside her. Snowy hair, exquisitely coiffed, framed a face from which all color had fled. Marianne had a confused impression of soft, pale fabrics, rich with lace and embroidery, enfolding her slender frame.

Carlton cleared his throat. Before he could speak the dog let out a sharp, piercing yelp, as if the lady's white hands had contracted around its body. Dropping the animal unceremoniously onto a nearby chair, the lady glided toward Marianne, her arms extended. The color had rushed hectically into her face.

"My darling child," she cried. "Found at last! So long lost, so happily returned to my arms. Found at last!"

It was too much for Marianne. Nervous apprehension, bewilderment – and the more prosaic fact that the Pettibone parsimony and the unpleasant table manners of Cyril had prevented her from eating that day – all combined to bring on an attack of giddiness. The room slipped to one side, the lady's face blurred into a featureless white oval, and she felt herself falling into darkness.

When Marianne came to her senses she did not at first understand where she was. She lay on a surface so soft it felt like floating, surrounded by clouds of the palest rosy pink. It was as if she had been lifted up into the sunset. She tried to raise her hand to her swimming head and found that her wrist was held. Fingers moved and pressed and then released her; a voice said, "Drink this."

A glass was held to her lips; she swallowed automatically. The liquid was thick and rather sweet. Then the same voice said, "She will do. It was merely a swoon – or a pretty counterfeit of one."

The gruff masculine tones assured Marianne that she was still in the land of the living – and that, if she had died, Paradise was not quite what she had expected. The comment was answered by a woman's voice, soft and refined, but thrilling with indignation.

"Horace, how often must I tell you to refrain from such statements? You will strain our friendship if you persist."

This voice was the one Marianne had heard just before she fainted. The details of that amazing encounter came back to her. She opened her eyes and realized she was lying on a bed canopied in pink chiffon, the hangings held back by twists of silk roses. Turning her head, she saw the porcelain lady leaning over her.

"Are you better, my child?" she asked tenderly. "Roger has told me of the dreadful place in which he found you, and of… But I will not speak of that, and you must never recall it. How could I have rushed at you so! I blame myself. Naturally you are bewildered. You can know nothing of your true history."

A growl, so heavy with cynicism that it required no words, came from the tall, stout man standing beside the lady. His gold-rimmed glasses had slipped even farther toward the end of his nose. It required no great effort of intelligence for Marianne to deduce that it was he who had expressed doubt as to the genuineness of her faint. Had his fingers touched her hand? The fact that he was in the act of returning a gold watch to his pocket confirmed her theory that he might be a doctor. Whatever he was, he was plainly hostile toward her. Thankfully she turned her eyes to the gentle face of the lady.

"I don't understand, ma'am," she began.

The doctor – for such, Marianne soon discovered, he truly was – gave another snort of outrage. "Ignorant girl," he exclaimed, "you are addressing the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook. Kindly use the proper -"

"Horace." The Duchess spoke gently but firmly. "One more word and I will ask you to leave."

"Honoria, you know I speak out of concern for you. The state of your health… The feverish excitement of this meeting – of the past few days -"

"But my anxieties are now relieved, in the joy of this meeting," the Duchess assured her. "I appreciate your concern, old friend, but I must insist that you keep still. The poor girl is confused enough. I will enlighten her. But first, a glass of wine – something to strengthen her -"

"A glass of wine will make her sick, or tipsy, or both," said a voice from the other side of the bed. Marianne rolled her eyes in that direction, feeling rather like a bird in a cage surrounded by cats. She was not surprised to see Carlton smiling down at her with his now familiar look of wry amusement. So bewildered was she that this first of her new acquaintances seemed almost like an old friend. She looked at him beseechingly, and he continued, "A bowl of soup might be more to the point. Sit up, Miss Ransom, and assure the Duchess of your good health. Then perhaps we can get on with this – er – discussion. I have an appointment this evening and would like to keep it. No, Duchess," he added, as that lady made a protesting gesture, "I beg you will not suggest that we leave you alone with the young lady. I, as your legal adviser, and Gruffstone, as your medical adviser, owe it to you and to ourselves to be present."

The Duchess agreed to this, but insisted on a brief interval of recuperation for Marianne first. The girl was certainly in need of attention. She had not taken the time to change her gown after the rough and tumble with Cyril, and the long dusty ride had improved neither her complexion nor her attire.

Under the lady's direction she was bathed, brushed, perfumed, and wrapped in a gown of the same delicate shell pink that filled the room. The unobtrusive luxury of her surroundings, from the huge marble bath to the gold-backed hairbrush wielded by the maid, were completely new to Marianne – but she found they were not at all difficult to get used to. She had never seen such a bedchamber. Pink, tulle, mother-of-pearl, and gilt covered every surface, and silk roses spilled in lavish profusion. It was obviously a girl's room, and as Marianne's strength returned she wondered who the lucky young lady could be. The wardrobe from which the maid took the pink tea gown was filled with equally beautiful garments. Though Marianne was too shy to voice the questions that had crowded into her mind, she began to formulate a hypothesis. Perhaps the Duchess had lost a beloved daughter or granddaughter, the original owner of the bedchamber and the lovely clothes.