"No," she shouted.

"That's good. Ours are very well behaved. They do not bother people at all. Just take no notice of them."

"How many are there?" Marianne asked.

"Let me see." Mrs. Kenney counted on her fingers. "There is the first Duke, of course, but one hardly ever sees him, he only stalks the battlements during thunderstorms. You will not want to go there in bad weather. And his daughter, Lady Lucy, whom he pushed down the stairs one night in a fit of temper. That is why he walks, you understand. And the young gentleman who was poisoned by the second Duke while -"

"Never mind," Marianne yelled. "I shall do just as you suggest and ignore them all."

"None of them come here." Mrs. Kenney stood firmly in the exact center of the room, as if she had taken root there. "This was the bedchamber of the former Duke – Her Grace's husband – and he would never allow that sort of thing."

"Oh." Marianne glanced uneasily at the heavy oak bedstead with its somber hangings of brown velvet. "He… he slept in that bed?"

"Aye, and died in it, God rest his soul," said the housekeeper, confirming Marianne's worst suspicions. "He was a hard man, but a good master."

If such a combination is possible, Marianne thought to herself. She had heard enough horrors; she doubted that she would be able to sleep in that dismal bed. Having tried every other means of dismissing the housekeeper, she calmly began to undress. This had the desired effect. When the old lady had finally backed out, Marianne blew out her breath in a long sigh. She removed her gown and hung it up. Standing in her chemise and petticoats, she began to bathe her face and arms, which were in need of attention after the long ride.

The warm water was soothing. She had begun to relax, even to contemplate the dreadful bed with wry amusement, when something like a small explosion made her gasp and shrink back, the dripping washcloth pressed to her breast. Her door had opened with a resounding crash. Standing in the opening was a child.

Marianne concluded, correctly, that this must be the Duke. He was tall for his age, but rather delicately built. Lank dark hair hung limply around his thin face. Big, wide-set brown eyes regarded Marianne with intense, unchildlike concentration.

The washcloth was dripping down Marianne's front. She tossed it back into the basin and reached for the dress she had taken off.

"How dare you enter without knocking!" she demanded.

"How dare you speak to me that way!" The boy marred the arrogance of his speech by stamping his foot like an angry child. "Don't you know who I am?"

"I assume you are the Duke of Devenbrook," Marianne replied. "If you are, you ought to know that no gentleman would burst into a lady's room uninvited."

"I wanted to see you. They say you are a witch. I have never seen a witch before."

"How absurd." Marianne could not help laughing. "Do I look like a witch?"

"No." The boy shook his head solemnly. "Witches are old and ugly. You are very pretty."

No female could fail to be disarmed by this speech. Marianne realized that the boy was more childish than he appeared. He was undoubtedly badly spoiled, but he seemed to be without malice; she was not confronting another edition of Cyril Pettibone. All the same…

"Really, Your Grace," she said. "You are too old to behave like this. I look forward to meeting you formally, but now -"

A voice was heard from the hall outside.

"Henri! Henri! to where have you gotten yourself? Come to me at once, Henry – tout de suiter

Henry, Duke of Devenbrook did not move or even turn his head; he simply took a deep breath and bellowed, "Here I am!"

Rapid footsteps thudded down the hall, and in the open doorway appeared, momentarily, the form of a thin young man with red hair and extremely large mustaches of the same color – obviously the French tutor in pursuit of his errant charge. Marianne had only a glimpse of this apparition before it let out a shriek of consternation and fell back out of sight.

"Ah, begorra… Er – I should say, mon Dieu, quel contretemps! Mademoiselle, pardon-nez-moi. … This enfant terrible, he has led me into a situation tres maladroit. Henri, remove yourself, immediatement!"

Henry, knowing full well that his tutor would not dare to enter, grinned broadly. He looked like any normal, mischievous ten-year-old boy, and Marianne was tempted to join in his amusement. However, the situation had to be resolved; she could hardly stand there all afternoon in a state of dishabille chatting with Henry while his tutor shouted apologies and imprecations from beyond the door. She solved the problem by putting on her dress.

"Monsieur," she called, "you may enter now. I am… er… I have… That is to say, you have my permission to enter."

The tutor's head appeared around the doorframe. One eye was wide open, the other tightly closed – this, apparently, the best concession to the proprieties he could make. When he saw that Marianne was dressed, the other eye opened.

"Mademoiselle, you forgive -?"

"Certainly, monsieur," Marianne replied graciously. "It was not your fault."

"I will hope for the honor of presenting myself in due course," said the tutor confusedly. "At the present -"

Marianne's patience was wearing thin. "Take him away," she said, gesturing.

"Mais certainement, mademoiselle."

Henry's triumphant smile had faded when he saw himself outmaneuvered. Now his lower lip protruded and his dark brows drew together.

"No! I am not finished talking. Leave me alone, Victor."

The tutor backed off a few steps. Marianne thought that if she were the boy's mother she would prefer to employ a more forceful person. Perhaps dukes were not subject to the rules that governed children of lesser rank. Well, she at least had no intention of putting up with any more of Henry's nonsense.

"This is quite enough, Your Grace," she said firmly. "If you wish me to treat you like a gentleman, then behave like one. If you wish to behave like a child, I will take you by the ear and put you out."

Henry and his tutor gasped, in chorus. M. Victor's face took on a look of such horror that Marianne wondered if she had indeed committed a form of lese majesty, and would be condemned to the castle dungeons.

Then the boy's angry flush faded. He made Marianne a queer little bow.

"You are right, miss," he said gravely. "My apologies. Well, come, Victor, why are you standing there gaping?"

He stalked out, his head held high in a comical assumption of manly dignity. With a shrug and an apologetic gesture the tutor followed his charge. Neither of them bothered to close the door. Marianne did so, with a decided slam. Finding a heavy iron bolt on the inside of the door, she pushed it home. The servants might wonder, but she was past caring. Really, what a household!

She finished her ablutions in peace and put on a clean frock. She was then able to unbolt the door before ringing for assistance in finishing her toilette.

Celeste had been left in London on board wages, like most of the servants. Only the Duchess's personal maid and a few others who were needed to attend them on the journey had been brought along. The Duchess had been apologetic – "We quite rusticate in the country, my dear, I assure you; you will have no need of elaborate toilettes." But Marianne had been relieved to be rid of the French maid, whose sophistication made her feel awkward and immature. However, the fashions of the time necessitated some assistance in dressing; it was impossible for even an agile young woman to reach all the buttons and laces that held her clothes together.

When Marianne rang she was not sure who would answer. She was pleased to find that the respondent was not Mrs. Kenney but one of the young maids who had helped unpack for her. The girl was extremely shy, and her dialect was so thick Marianne could barely understand her, but she was deft and eager to please.