Tendrils of cold mist coiled around the tombstones and monuments that dotted the small cemetery. The pale glow from the hackney's lamps penetrated only a short distance into the fog. Iphiginia shivered as she collected the canvas bag full of banknotes and a lantern and prepared to descend from the carriage.

The blackmailer could not have chosen a more unnerving setting than this, she thought as she opened the door. It had clearly been a deliberate ploy to frighten his victim.-She wondered if he had even been clever enough to predict the fog.

She stepped down from the carriage, hoisted the lantern, and looked up at the coachman.

"I shall return very shortly."

The coachman's face was heavily shadowed by the broad brim of his hat. "Ye certain ye want to pay yer respects to the dear departed at this unholy hour, ma'am?"

"I promised," Iphiginia said. "It meant a great deal to the poor woman to know that I would carry out her last request."

"She's long past knowin' if ye fulfill her bloody stupid request, if ye ask me. well, go on, then. I'll wait 'ere for ye.

"Thank you."

Iphiginia walked to the gates of the cemetery. She was not certain what she would do if they were locked.

But the heavy iron gates swung slowly inward when she pushed against them.

Iphiginia stepped into the graveyard. She held the lantern aloft and tried to peer through the mist. The fight illuminated the first row of tombstones.

Iphiginia pressed on deeper into the cemetery. She read the names on the stones as she went past.

JOHN GEORGE BINDLE, AGED THREE YEARS, ONE MONTH.

MARY ALICE HARVEY, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.

EDWARD SHIPLEY, 13. 1785, D. 1815. A BRAVE SOLDIER. A GOOD FRIEND.

An oppressive weight settled on Iphiginia. It sent an icy shudder through her soul.

Amelia had been right. This was a considerably different experience than a tour of the ruins of Pompeii.

But there had been no choice. Iphiginia knew that Zoe would not have lasted two minutes in this ghostly place. Her dramatic imagination would have been overcome by the atmosphere. She would not have been able to make the delivery and the result would have no doubt meant steeper demands from the blackmailer.

The yawning entrance of a large stone grotto loomed in the fog directly in front of Iphiginia. The twin halves of an elaborately designed iron gate stood open. The dark, shadowed interior beckoned.

Iphiginia caught her breath and held the lantern higher. She had never thought of herself as possessing melodramatic sensibilities or an impressionable temperament, but this was very nearly too much, even for her.

The flaring lantern light picked out the name that had been carved above the arched doorway.

Elizabeth EATON, B. 1771, D. 1817 ILL-TREATED IN LIFE, MAY SHE REST IN PEACE

Iphiginia hesitated on the brink of the monument's threshold. The lantern illuminated only the first few feet of the stone passageway.

A cold, damp draft seemed to emanate from the depths of the sepulchral grotto.

Iphiginia's pulse raced so swiftly that it made her feel light-headed. Her stomach churned. The urge to turn and flee back to the waiting hackney nearly overwhelmed her.

She clutched the bag of banknotes tightly, took a deep breath, and walked a few paces into the grotto.

It was as though she were walking into a cave. The darkness was so deep that even the lantern light appeared to weaken in the face of it. Iphiginia could see that whoever had built and dedicated the monument had spared no expense. The stone walls were heavily carved. The design was a strange combination of twisting vines and open books.

Iphiginia raised the lantern to read the words that had been engraved on one of the stone books:

The path of vengeance takes many twists and turns but it is sure and certain.

The terrible groan of iron hinges sounded from the open mouth of the grotto. Iphiginia spun around, a scream on her lips. "No."

She dropped the sack of money and ran for the entrance.

She was too late. A cloaked figure appeared briefly in the mist. The iron gates slammed shut. The ominous rasp of a key in a lock echoed down the passageway.

Iphiginia fought back terror as she raced toward the gate. "Wait. Please, wait. I'm in here."

She reached the scaled gates just in time to see the cloaked figure disappear into the fog. She gripped the iron bars of the gates and shoved with all her strength. They did not budge.

She was trapped in the sepulchral grotto.

She opened her mouth to call for help. Surely the coachman who had brought her here would be able to hear her. But even as the thought occurred, she beard the receding clatter of carriage wheels and steel horseshoes on the pavement.

The hackney was leaving.

"Help me," Iphiginia shouted into the dark mist. "I'm here, in the grotto. Please come back."

There was no sound from the graveyard. The mist seemed to thicken at the gates of the grotto as though preparing to invade the interior.

A rush of anger overcame Iphiginia's panic. "Bloody hell."

Then she noticed the small piece of paper lying at her feet. She bent down and picked up the note. The lantern light revealed that the missive was sealed with black wax.

You have been warned. The next time you interfere, the penalty will be far more serious.

"Bloody hell." Iphiginia glanced at the lantern. She wondered how much longer it would continue to burn.

And then she wondered what Marcus was doing and whether or not he had noticed that she had not turned up at the Cheltenham's' ball.

Marcus stopped pacing the length of Iphiginia's library when he heard the door open. He swung around to confront Amelia. She was wearing a nightcap and a chintz wrapper. Her face was pale and strained.

"Where the devil is she, Miss Farley? And before you answer, you had better know that I am in no mood for lies. Iphiginia was to meet me at one o'clock at the Cheltenham's'. It is now nearly two."

"My lord, I will not claim to be your greatest supporter, but I do believe I am rather glad to see you tonight." Amelia closed the door and walked into the room. She glanced at the tall clock. "I have been growing increasingly anxious since midnight."

"Anxious about what?" Marcus clenched his fingers around the edge of the marble mantel. The disturbing sensation he had begun to experience sometime during the past hour was riding him hard now. Something was wrong.

"It is Iphiginia, my lord. I am very worried." "What is she about this time? If you tell me that she has taken it into her head to explore some other man's study in search of black wax and a phoenix seal, I vow I will not be responsible for my actions. I have had enough of her reckless ways."

Amelia clutched the lapels of her prim wrapper and regarded Marcus with somber eyes. "She is at Reeding Cemetery."

Marcus stared at her, dumbfounded. "A cemetery? At this hour? For God's sake, why?"

"Lady Guthrie received another blackmail note." "Damn it to bee."

"The instructions were to leave the money at a new sepulchral monument in Reeding Cemetery, Iphiginia undertook to carry out the task in her aunt's place."

Marcus felt as if he had just stepped off a cliff. For an instant raw fear gripped his gut. And then rage swept through him. "How did she dare to do something like this without telling me?"

"Iphiginia knows that you do not trust her. Why should she trust you with all of her secrets?"

"She goes too far this time." Marcus strode toward the door.

"My lord, where are you going?"

"Where do you think I'm going? Reeding Cemetery." "Thank you," Amelia whispered. "I have been so