"A fine day for an outing." Marcus surreptitiously toted his cup and casually spilled tea on a copy of the Morning Post which was lying on the end of the desk.

"Oh, dear," Amelia gasped.

"Damnation. How very clumsy of me."

Amelia started to her feet. "It will mar the wood." "Fetch your housekeeper," Marcus ordered in the tone of voice he reserved for those occasions when he wanted instant obedience. It always seemed to work and he had grown to expect the results he invariably got. Except with Iphiginia, he reflected wryly. She was not very good at following orders.

"I'll call Mrs. Shaw." Amelia hurried toward the door.

Marcus yanked a large handkerchief out of his pocket and began blotting up the tea. "I do not believe there will be any great harm done if you hurry.»

"I hope not." Amelia threw him a disapproving look over her shoulder. "Iphiginia is very fond of that desk. Her father designed it." She opened the door. "Mrs. Shaw? Please come quickly. Some tea has been spilled."

Marcus casually lifted the edge of the pattern book and glanced at the top sheet of foolscap. He realized that he was looking at what appeared to be an architectural elevation for a row of town houses. The words " Bright Place " were inscribed beneath the picture.

He lowered the pattern book back into place just as Amelia turned around.

"Mrs. Shaw is on her way," Amelia said. "I believe I have blotted up most of the tea. The newspaper has absorbed the rest." Marcus folded his tea stained handkerchief.

Mrs. Shaw bustled into the room. She carried a cloth in one hand. "Here, now, where's the tea spill?"

"Over here." Marcus stepped back from the desk. "My fault entirely, I fear. I think I got most of it, however."

Iphiginia appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a white pelisse over her white muslin gown. She carried a white straw bonnet in one hand and a large apron in the other.

She frowned in concern at the commotion in the library. "What happened?"

Marcus stared at her for a few brief seconds. She looked as pure and chaste as new fallen snow. What a pity that there was nothing so deceiving as innocence.

He quickly recovered himself. "A small disaster. I spilled some tea. There is no damage to your desk."

"I'm relieved to hear that." Iphiginia put on her bonnet and tied the strings. She smiled cheerfully. "Well, then, shall we be off, my lord? I am eager to see the museum's collection of Greek vases."

"By all means," Marcus said. He glanced at the apron she carried. "What is that for?"

Iphiginia grimaced. "White is a very effective color for some purposes, but it has its disadvantages."

Half an hour later Marcus stood with Iphiginia in the gloom of a vast tomblike museum hall. The high-ceilinged chamber was crammed with broken statuary, chunks of stone, and assorted bits and pieces taken from old ruins. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the upper windows. The hush of antiquity blanketed the scene.

Iphiginia, clad in her apron, moved through the sepulchral atmosphere with cheerful disregard for her oppressive surroundings. Her enthusiasm was contagious, Marcus realized.

Although he had once made a superficial study of the more intriguing construction details of the classical style, antiquities had never been a subject of particular interest for him. He was a man of the modern age. Generally speaking, he preferred to devote his attention to such things as astronomy and steam engines.

Today, however, he found himself consumed by a rare fascination with archaeological matters.

He watched as Iphiginia studied the designs on a row of ancient vases. She was beautiful when she was absorbed in intellectual contemplation, he realized. Almost as beautiful as she had been the other night when she had found her release in his arms in Lartmore's statuary hall.

If he had not known better, he would have thought it was, the first time she had ever been brought to such a sensual peak by a man.

Without any warning, desire, hot, sweet, and urgent, whipped through him. It left him shaken and half-aroused. And ruefully annoyed.

These abrupt, fiery rushes of passion were coming upon him with increasing frequency of late. Each time they crashed through him, they seemed stronger. This morning he had awakened at dawn to discover himself as hard as any marble statue.

This afternoon he was growing heavy with arousal just watching Iphiginia in a museum. It would have been ludicrous if it were not so bloody uncomfortable.

The anticipation growing within him was almost unbearable in its intensity. Soon, he thought. Very soon he would have to make love to her.

It had to have her soon or he would become a candidate for Bedlam.

He forced himself to contemplate the large vase that had caught her attention. "Etruscan, do you think?"

"No. Definitely Grecian." Iphiginia glanced up at another row of dust-laden vases. "Quite spectacular, are they not? The forms are so perfect, so exquisitely right. There is such an impressive combination of intellect and art in the designs."

"Most impressive," Marcus agreed, his gaze riveted to the gentle curves of her breasts.

She turned her head and saw him studying her bosom. Her face grew very pink. "Have you learned anything useful yet, my lord?" "About Greek vases?" "Of course. That is what we are discussing, is it not?" Marcus lounged against a rubble of old stones, folded

his arms across his chest, and contemplated a vase. "I have learned a great deal, my dear Mrs. Bright, but not nearly enough."

She smiled with glowing approval, as though he were a precocious student. "It is your nature to constantly thirst for more, my lord. The passions of the intellect are difficult to satisfy, are they not?"

"Indeed. Fortunately not all passions are impossible to assuage, Iphiginia. Some merely require the proper time and place."

Barclay, Marcus's stout, bespectacled man of affairs, hurried into his employer's library shortly before four o'clock that afternoon. He was out of breath. Sweat headed his balding head.

"You sent for me, sir?" "I did." Marcus looked up from the notes he had been making. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Not at all, m'lord." Barclay sat down gratefully, pulled out a handkerchief, and mopped his brow. "You know that I am always pleased to assist you. What do you wish me to do for you?"

"Two things. First, I want you to make inquiries about a property called Bright Place. I do not know much about it, but I believe that it may be a new speculation venture."

"This is a property here in London?" "I'm not certain. I suppose it could he in Bath." Marcus recalled the elevations he had seen on Iphiginia's desk. "One of the two places, most likely, although I suppose the property could be located in some other large town. The drawings I saw were of buildings that were clearly designed for a city, if you know what I mean."

"I see." Barclay stifled a small sigh, adjusted his spectacles, and made a note.

"Second, I want you to discover whatever information you can about a certain Mr. Bright."

Barclay raised suddenly wary eyes. He cleared his throat cautiously. "Ah, would that be the late Mr. Bright?"

"It would."

"The deceased husband of a certain Mrs. Iphiginia Bright of Morning Rose Square?"

Marcus smiled coolly. "One of the things that makes you so invaluable to me, Barclay, is that you are always possessed of the latest gossip and rumor."

Barclay ignored that. He scowled. "You wish me to discover whatever I can about a dead man, m'lord?"

"Precisely." Marcus leaned back in his chair. He picked up his newly modified hydraulic reservoir pen and examined the steel nib with care. There was no sign of a leak. "You will be discreet, naturally."