Lydia narrowed her eyes to slits. “That is even more obvious. It can’t be Addison because the only way he could get the letter back without raising Barham’s suspicions is to honor his IOU-and he can’t because he’s halfway up the River Tick. None of us would dream of trusting Addison to search Barham’s house and retrieve the letter by stealth-he’s a bumbling incompetent. He’d be caught, and the scandal would be even worse.”

“And what of Tabitha?”

Ro’s eyes were a hard, bleak gray, obdurate and unyielding. Lydia looked into them, then drew a deep, resolute breath, and told him the truth knowing full well he wasn’t going to like it. “It can’t be Tab because when I left her she was all but irrational. She was in one of her states-she would strangle Addison if she could lay hands on him, and as for Barham…well, if she came upon him while searching his house, she’d probably try to strangle him, too, purely on principle. You know what she’s like-the idea of her sneaking into his house and retrieving the letter without some major explosion which will result in the scandal of the year is pure fantasy.”

Ro opened his mouth; she raised a hand, silencing him. “Being quiet-getting things done without causing a stir-is not Tabitha’s strong suit.” She held his gaze. “It is, however, mine.”

Eyes like shards of flint pinned her. “And what do you imagine will happen when you’re caught, as you most likely will be? Do you think the scandal will be any less?”

Calmly confident, she let her lips curve. “Actually, I suspect the tale won’t even get an airing.”

He frowned. “Why? What difference-”

When he broke off, understanding dawning in his eyes, she let the curve of her lips deepen. “Precisely. While Tab is widely known as the firebrand of the family, the termagant, I’m equally well-known as the quiet and reserved sister, the always perfectly behaved, decorous sister. What the ton will believe of Tab, they won’t believe of me. If Barham does catch me-and he’ll be much less likely to catch me than Tab, who’s never been any good at subterfuge-even if he does, and he’s stupid enough to try to spread the tale, even and including the contents of Tab’s letter…what are the odds that anyone will believe him?”

Ro sat perfectly still, his eyes locked with hers. Minutes ticked by, then he stirred. “You’re deliberately risking your reputation in order to save Tabitha’s.”

She let her smile fade until her resolution shone clearly. “It’s the sort of thing a sister does.”

Ro held her gaze, his expression unreadable, then he scowled. “Why the devil aren’t you married?”

He felt like running his hands through his hair. And tugging. Why wasn’t she married and safely ensconced before some gentleman’s hearth, said gentleman’s responsibility and not his, protected from all danger-protected most especially from him? He could see where this was leading, and it wasn’t good-especially for her, let alone him.

She blinked at him, then laughed-a sound he’d forgotten, had tried to forget, had almost succeeded in burying in his memories.

It shivered through him like a caress.

“Oh, Ro-surely you don’t imagine I’m risking my chance to make a good match with this?” The look she bent on him was gently patronizing. “I’m twenty-six-I’ve had my time on the marriage mart, and didn’t like any of the offerings.”

That was something he didn’t understand; although he’d kept his distance, he knew she’d been courted by numerous eligibles, gentlemen as handsome and in some cases even wealthier than he. He’d steeled himself to hear of her engagement, expected the blow to fall a number of times, but it had never happened. The most he’d heard were whispers that she was finicky; even in her rejections, Lydia had been reserved, forever discreet.

She was watching him, that same almost-smile playing about her lips. “I had my choices and I made them, and I don’t regret even one. So now I’m all but an ape leader, and thus protecting my reputation is no longer the absolute imperative it once was. If necessary, as it is in this case, I can, and will, put it at risk.”

More than anything else, her calm, even, serenely rational tone convinced him just how set on her chosen path-on retrieving Tabitha’s letter-she was. She’d thought the matter through, weighed the risks and her chances, and was convinced her course was right.

Neither she nor Tabitha was weak-because, as he knew, they were both bone-stubborn.

Arguing directly against her wasn’t going to work.

“Lydia.” He glanced down at his hands clasped on the table, marshaling his arguments, controlling his tone-hiding all evidence of the primitive response her “plan” evoked-then he looked up and met her eyes. “You cannot go waltzing into Barham’s house and search for that letter-not now, while he has guests there. After they leave…it might be possible, but you’re going to have to wait until then.”

She held his gaze; he could read very little in her eyes or expression-no hint of how she would react. But there was that same calmness, a cool, serene steadfastness that he recognized from long ago…for the first time in many years he let himself wonder what she was seeing, what she was thinking, when she looked at him like that.

Then the curve of her lips deepened; she looked down as she pushed back her chair. Then she looked up and met his gaze.

“Tomorrow I’m going to start searching Upton Grange for Tab’s letter.” She tilted her head, studying him still. “If you wish, you can help me.”

She rose, still holding his gaze. “But what you can’t do, Ro, is stop me.” She paused, then added, “That I won’t allow, so please don’t try.”

With a nod, she turned away.

Ro pushed back his chair and rose.

Reaching the door, she waved him back. “No-stay and have some brandy and get warm.” She paused, the door open, looking back through the wavering firelight at him. “Good night. Perhaps I’ll see you in the morning.”

Stepping through the door, she shut it gently behind her.

Ro stared at the wooden panels, then dropped back into his chair, scrubbed his hands over his face, and groaned.

After a moment, he lowered his hands, sat back; spreading his arms wide, palms up, he looked up at the ceiling. “Why?”

No answer came. Disgusted, he reached for the bottle Bilt had left, poured an inch of brandy into his goblet, then pushed his chair around and leaned back, sipping, his gaze on the dying flames.

He couldn’t stop his thoughts from racing back through the years to when he and Lydia had last spoken. To that fateful summer ten years ago.

The daughters of the eccentric branch of the Wiltshire Makepeaces, their father a scholar who although born into it largely shunned the ton, their mother a well-bred matron who juggled her wifely duties with those of a mother as best she could, throughout their childhoods, Lydia and Tabitha had been sent every summer to stay with their mother’s cousin’s family, whose estate shared a boundary with Gerrard Park.

Although six years older than Lydia, he’d noticed her instantly. She’d captured his attention, his eye, his imagination, even when she’d been six years old and he a superior twelve. The difference in ages hadn’t mattered, not then, or later.

Later, when she’d been sixteen, innocent and untouched, and he’d been an already polished, already experienced twenty-two. The polish and experience hadn’t mattered either, not on that day he’d met her in the orchard, as he often had.

They’d walked, talked, as they always had. She’d been full of plans for her come-out the following year, excitedly looking forward to waltzing and being courted by gentlemen-a strange species she’d had little exposure to hidden away in Wiltshire with her reclusive parents.

She’d asked him, playfully innocent, to waltz with her, there under the apple trees. He’d smiled and obliged, humming a tune with her, never dreaming…